32685	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. COLD GHOST by Chester S. Geier All Hager had to do was slow the dogsled to a walk, and his partner died. A perfect crime--no chance to get caught! * * * * * In the valley, with the sheltering hills now behind them, the bitterly cold wind drove at the sled with unchecked ferocity. Gusts of snow came with the wind, thick and dry, the separate particles of it stinging on contact. [Illustration: Hager huddled before the fire, trembling with cold that filled him with terror.] The dogs made slow progress through the deep drifts. Hager's smoldering irritation blazed into abrupt rage. From his position at the rear of the sled, he lashed out with the driver's whip that he held in one heavily mittened hand, shouting behind the wool scarf covering the lower half of his face. The dogs lunged in their traces, whining. A couple floundered in the powdery footing and were immediately snapped at by their companions behind them. The snow was falling swiftly and with a sinister steadiness. It seemed to hang like a vast white curtain over the valley, obscuring the hills and the fanged outline of mountains beyond. The wind seized portions of the curtain and twisted it into fantastic shapes--the shapes of demons, Hager thought suddenly. For the scene through which he moved was a kind of hell, a white and frozen hell, with the howl of the wind like the despairing shrieks of tormented souls. Hager pictured himself as one of them. And Cahill, huddled in furs on the sled, another. He cursed behind the scarf as he thought of Cahill. This was Cahill's fault, their being out here in the storm. If it weren't for Cahill, he would be back at the cabin, snug and warm, logs blazing cheerfully in the fireplace. It was a rotten time for Cahill to have taken sick, Hager fumed. But it had happened. And it had left him with nothing else to do but pack their catch of furs, harness up the sled, and start out with Cahill for the doctor in Moose Gulch. He almost regretted having taken the furs. With Cahill an added burden on the sled, it was too large a load for the dogs to pull with the necessary speed and endurance. But he hadn't dared to leave the entire season's catch unguarded at the cabin. If some wanderer appeared in his and Cahill's absence, the furs would be an irresistible temptation. Fearing, thus, to leave the furs behind, and now endangered by their weight, Hager found the situation maddening. And the storm was making matters worse. It was near the end of winter, but the climate had chosen this moment to be at its most unco-operative. Hager muttered blackly against the storm, wondering why he had allowed his trapper's dream of wealth to lure him to this far northern corner of Alaska. It was a cold, bleak and hostile country. Tiny settlements, like Moose Gulch were few and far between. Of course, furs were at their best and most plentiful here. He and Cahill had proved that, for their catch was a large one. Hager's thoughts soared briefly above his bitter mood as he thought of the money the furs would bring. And of the things that the money would bring back in civilization. Added to what he had so far managed to save, his share would make almost enough to start a fox breeding ranch. Or a mink ranch. Almost enough--but not quite. That meant he would have to spend another winter in this location, and Hager flinched at the thought. He hated loneliness and the bitter, subzero cold. Most of all he hated the cold. Only a fur breeding ranch, with large, warm living quarters, would have made it bearable. Hager didn't know when the idea came to him. It must have been lying dormant for a long time in a far, dark corner of his mind, only now surging to the fore. Subconsciously he must have prepared himself for this moment of inspiration. He wasn't sure. He was aware only of an interval while he plodded behind the sled, drawn by the struggling and panting team, cursing the dogs, cursing Cahill and the fierce cold that mischievously searched out the most tender portions of his face beneath the hood of his parka. There was that moment, and then-- * * * * * And then he found himself toying with the thought of murdering Cahill. With the other out of the way, the entire proceeds from the sale of furs would be his. There would be no necessity to split. He could start the fur ranch at once. He wouldn't have to spend another winter in this vicious cold. He-- A dozen fascinating new possibilities opened up to Hager. It was as though he had been blind and was able to see only now. Breath-taking vistas blossomed before his awakened eyes. There was music in what he visioned, music and the voices of women, bright lights, color, movement, and the warmth of gentler climes. The brightest part of the picture was that Cahill's death need not be outright murder. The man was sick. His life depended on getting him into the hands of the doctor in Moose Gulch as quickly as possible. If Hager were simply to delay in reaching the settlement, Cahill would die as surely as though from the thrust of a knife or the impact of a bullet. Exposure to the biting cold would finish him. And nobody would know. Hager could always claim that he had hurried as best he could under the difficult, hampering circumstances of the storm, but that Cahill had died on the way. As easy as that. If Marshal Art Maddox stuck his long nose into the matter, Cahill's unmarked body would be proof that there had been no foul play. Hager felt satisfied that his scheme was without loopholes. The idea had become a definite plan. And now his square lips hardened with determination behind the scarf. He looked at Cahill, dozing feverishly on the sled, with deep-set gray eyes that were bleak and implacable. Cahill would never reach Moose Gulch alive. With his grim purpose giving new drive to his actions, Hager glanced about him. It was difficult to see through the curtain of snow that hung between him and the landscape, but by squinting steadily through momentary rifts made by the frigid, lashing wind, he was able presently to discern that they were near the pass leading out of the valley. Beyond the pass, he knew, was a forest, dipping down to the banks of a frozen stream. The stream ran for several miles until it branched into a river, which in turn led directly into Moose Gulch. With these landmarks to guide him, a traveler through the snow-bound wilderness could reach the settlement easily and quickly. But Hager didn't intend to do that. He now had time to kill. He chuckled darkly over the accuracy of the phrase. Plodding toward the pass, he deliberately slowed his steps. He no longer used the whip or shouted at the dogs for greater speed. The animals were grateful for the respite. They slackened their pace, tongues lolling and bushy tails waving as they bobbed in their plowed path through the white drifts. Cahill dozed on. Once or twice he moved restlessly amid the furs piled about him. It was as though some deep, vague instinct warned him that something was wrong. Hager watched the other sharply for a time, then desisted to give his attention to maneuvering the sled through the pass. The forest appeared, the trees wraith-like under their thick, white mantles of snow. Hager didn't follow the dip in the land that led toward the frozen stream. He guided the dogs in the opposite direction and began watching Cahill again. He hoped that the man would not awake until less familiar territory surrounded them. Cahill didn't awake. He dozed and tossed, his lips moving occasionally in a soundless mutter. His gaunt, leathery face was pale under its growth of grizzled whiskers. The snow-covered land rose, became rocky and difficult. The dogs began laboring with increasing weariness in their efforts to keep pulling the heavy sled. Hager realized he couldn't go in this direction much longer. When a ravine suddenly presented itself, relatively free of snow, he decided to call a halt. * * * * * Unfastening the dogs, he left the ravine and began searching through the snow for brushwood. It took time, but Hager was in no hurry. He gathered an armful and finally returned to the sled. Cahill was awake. He had propped himself feebly among the furs, his gaunt face blank and drab with sickness. His filmed blue eyes fastened on Hager. "Water," he whispered. "Water, Matt." "Coming up," Hager said. "Just you wait a minute, Ben, and you'll get all the water you want." Cahill fell back among the furs, and Hager leisurely shaved kindling and stacked the wood and then set it ablaze. The ravine was shielded from the wind, and the wood ignited without difficulty. At last Hager went to the sled and removed the small pack he had fortunately thought to bring along. His experience with the wilderness had trained him never to overlook the smallest precautions. Hager took a handled pan from the pack. He filled it with snow and then held the pan over the flames. When the snow melted, he filled a tin cup with the liquid and went over to Cahill. He had to steady the cup as the other drank. Finally Cahill nodded. His eyes seemed to clear. He glanced about him, and a dim worry moved in his face. "Matt, where are we?" "Somewhere near Boot Valley." "You ... you mean we're lost?" "I sort of got mixed up in the storm. Nothing to worry about." Cahill shivered suddenly. "We got to reach town, Matt. Got to see the doctor." Hager nodded. "How do you feel?" "It's getting worse. I can feel it getting worse. I'm cold now, Matt. Before ... before I was...." Cahill's voice trailed off. He had to make an effort before he was able to speak again. "Got ... got to see the doctor, Matt. Can't waste any time." "I know," Hager said. "But the team needs a little rest. They've had a lot of heavy hauling, and there's still a distance to go." Cahill nodded miserably, shivering. He burrowed into the furs, still shivering, breathing rapidly through parted lips. Slowly the chill left him. His eyes clouded again. Then his lids fell, and he dozed once more. Hager brewed tea and drank it slowly, squatting before the fire. Then he packed and lighted his pipe. He stared into the flames with narrowed eyes, seeing his dreams pictured there. They were pleasant dreams. Hager remained in the ravine until the supply of wood was gone. Then he fastened the dogs back into their traces and resumed his position behind the sled. With shouts and cracks of the whip, he guided the animals out of the ravine, following the downward slope of the land this time. The snow stopped falling after a while, but the wind and the cold increased. The cold hung on the air like an enormous, transparent weight. Somehow it seemed to give an impossible crystalline purity to the snow blanketing the trees and the land. In doing so, it emphasized and magnified its very presence. It made itself something almost alive and sentient, icily malignant, overbearing, utterly cruel and without mercy. Hager cursed the cold with redoubled venom. Despite the thickness of his fur parka and the layers of clothing beneath the cold seemed to soak into him like an all-penetrating liquid. He had to wave his arms and stamp his feet to fight back a creeping numbness. * * * * * But the terrible chill could not subdue the flame of purpose burning in Hager's mind. That part of him remained keenly alert. The sled was moving in the direction of the stream, and he was careful to judge the distance carefully. He didn't want to approach too close. At just the right moment he turned the sled at angle back toward the way from which it had come. It was his plan to keep zigzagging, approaching the stream and then retreating, always at a tangent. A great deal of time would be consumed in this way, with very little actual forward progress toward Moose Gulch. He repeated this maneuver again and again. Cahill roused a few times to inquire weakly about their progress. Always Hager gave the same answer. "We're getting there, Ben. It won't be long now. Don't you worry." After that Cahill was silent. It seemed evident to Hager that the man was sinking rapidly. But not as rapidly as Hager wished. He knew he couldn't bear the paralyzing cold much longer, and his hatred of it grew. The sled reached a group of slab-like rock outcroppings that offered shelter from the slashing wind. Hager stopped the sled behind their protection for a short rest. The additional delay suited his plans. While the dogs huddled together in the snow, Hager went around the sled to get the pack. He glanced at Cahill's face--and his muscles became tense. Cahill's eyes were open. Cahill was watching him with a terrible steadiness and a soul-searing clarity. Cahill ... _knew_. Hager realized that Cahill must have been awake for quite some time, watching the actions of the sled. The man had clearly discovered Hager's deception. Hager felt transfixed by the accusing brightness in the other's eyes. He sensed that his guilt was written vividly and unmistakably in his face. He fumbled for words that would form an excuse, an apology, some sort of plausible lie--anything that would remove the dreadful knowledge in Cahill's eyes. But no words came. After a strained, bitter moment Cahill spoke. His voice was low, yet somehow curiously distinct. "You're trying to kill me, Matt. I see it now. You aren't going straight toward Moose Gulch. You're tracking back and forth to waste time. You ... want me to die!" "That isn't true," Hager blurted. "I ... I got lost. The storm and cold got me mixed up." Cahill went on as though he hadn't heard. "It's the furs, isn't it, Matt? You want all the money for yourself. With me out of the way, you won't have any trouble." "I got mixed up, I tell you," Hager insisted. Cahill said nothing further. With a burst of energy as sudden as it was amazing, he gripped the sides of the sled and began pushing himself erect. His strangely clear eyes were fixed on Hager. Mastering a brief surge of panic, Hager threw himself forward, forcing Cahill back into the sled. Cahill struggled a moment, but the reserve strength he had managed to summon quickly gave out. He fell back into the sled and lay limp and quiet, his eyes closed, breathing harshly and rapidly. Hager watched for several minutes, the cold creeping slyly into him with the inactivity. Then, assured that Cahill would make no further trouble, he obtained the pack. He fed the dogs this time, tossing them pieces of dried meat. They would need renewed strength and energy to take him the remaining distance to Moose Gulch. Finally, gathering brushwood, Hager built a small fire and brewed tea. He ate a couple of thick sandwiches as he drank the tea, chewing with methodic slowness and glancing at Cahill. * * * * * The other hadn't stirred since making his accusation. But when Hager finished eating, Cahill's eyes opened once more. He looked at Hager for a long, breathless moment. Only a vestige of the unnatural brightness that had been in his eyes remained now. With what must have required a tremendous effort, he spoke. "You aren't going to get away with this, Matt. I ... I'm going to get you. I'm going to make you pay." A moment longer Cahill looked at Hager. And then the last remnant of brightness left his eyes. His lids fell slowly. He looked exhausted and seemed to be resting. But several minutes later, acting on a sudden realization, Hager felt for Cahill's pulse and found that the man was dead. Triumph spread through Hager like a heady warmth. It was over. The money from the furs would be his alone. He would have the fur ranch, now. But there was no hurry about that. He would travel a little first and have some fun. The best part of it was that he would never have to worry. Cahill's body was completely unmarked. It was very obvious that he had died of illness. There couldn't possibly be any suspicions. Then Hager recalled the threat Cahill had made before dying. Cahill had promised revenge, but there was nothing he could do now. Hager shrugged the memory away. The dead were dead. They could do no harm. Hager now lost no time in reaching Moose Gulch. He drove the dogs relentlessly, trotting behind the sled. Elation gave him a strength that took him easily over the miles. A short time before he entered the settlement it began to snow again. Hager was pleased. The snow would cover up the tracks he had left in the event that Art Maddox did any snooping. He went directly to the doctor's home, carrying the body of Cahill inside. He cleverly played the part of a man reluctant to believe that his partner had died. "Isn't there something you can do, Doc?" he asked anxiously. "Maybe it isn't too late." The other straightened from his examination of Cahill and shook his white thatch. His round, ruddy features were sympathetic. "I'm afraid it's all over. Ben Cahill's as dead as he'll ever be. Most likely he passed away some time before you were able to reach town. Nothing left to do now but turn him over to the undertaker. That's me, in case you don't know. In Moose Gulch it takes two, three jobs to keep a man fairly busy." Hager sighed and looked properly grief-stricken. "Well, I'll leave you to take care of things, Doc. Do a good job--nothing but the best, you know. Ben was the finest partner a man could ever have." Hager left and proceeded to visit acquaintances in the settlement, spreading the news of Cahill's death. He was showered with condolences, which he accepted with a suitable air of melancholy. Later, eating supper in the tiny dining room of Moose Gulch's small, frame hotel, he was joined at the table by Art Maddox. The marshal was a tall, raw-boned man with a long nose and protruding eyes that looked deceptively mild. His presence filled Hager with a vague dread. "Heard Ben Cahill took sick and died while you were bringing him into town," Maddox began. "Sure is too bad. How did it happen?" Hager explained, adhering closely to essential facts, though he omitted certain others and stretched a point here and there. He finished, "I tried to get Ben into town as fast as I could, but it was snowing hard and I almost got lost a couple of times. Ben was sick bad, and with the cold and all, he died on the way." "It kind of looks like you expected that to happen," Maddox said. Hager grew tense. "What do you mean?" "The way you took the furs along kind of makes it look like you expected Ben Cahill to die. Besides, you ought to have known that the furs would slow you down on the trip to town." "I was afraid to leave the furs at the cabin," Hager defended. "Suppose somebody stole them while me and Ben were gone? A whole season's catch. I just couldn't take a chance." Maddox nodded with evident reluctance. "That's true enough, I guess. I was just sort of wondering about it." He stood up. "Well, sorry to have bothered you." * * * * * Hager made a generous gesture. "No bother at all." He watched as Maddox left the room, grinning inwardly. Maddox apparently suspected something in his snooping, suspicious way, but the only point of attack he'd been able to find was one for which Hager had a satisfactory explanation. Hager felt certain that he wouldn't be questioned again. And with the snow blotting out the erratic trail the sled had left, he was confident that he had nothing to fear from Maddox any longer. The grin crept out around his square lips. He was safe. He had committed the perfect crime. Hager checked in at the hotel, and after a pleasant evening spent at one of Moose Gulch's two saloons, he returned and went to bed. He had a restless night. The hotel was warm enough, and the covers on the bed thick, but a strange feeling of cold seemed to envelop him. And though he emptied the bottle of whisky he had brought with him, the cold persisted. He slept fitfully. Once he dreamed that he was tied, naked, to the sled and being driven by Cahill through a terrific snow storm. The cold was so intense it seared him like fire. He awoke, shivering, a vivid recollection of Cahill's gaunt, accusing features in his mind. Again he seemed to hear Cahill's dying promise. "_You aren't going to get away with this, Matt. I'm going to get you. I'm going to make you pay._" And now, shuddering with that weird cold that seemed to enclose him like a huge, vengeful fist, Hager wondered. The cold remained with him in the days that followed. It not only remained. It grew more unbearable. Hager began to have a persecuted feeling. The cold stayed with him wherever he went. Even near hot stoves, or in heated rooms, he felt chilled. No one else seemed to notice it. The cold seemed intended for him alone. More and more, he wondered about Cahill's threat. He was materialistic. He didn't believe in ghosts. But he knew that he was being haunted by an unnatural cold that nobody else seemed able to feel. He cast about for a method of escaping the cold. The obvious solution was to leave Moose Gulch, as he had intended all along. In his mind the cold was somehow connected with the settlement, through Cahill, who was buried there. A trip to one of the warm, southern regions in the States, he decided, should bring relief. He sold the furs and with the money took passage on a plane that operated between the settlement and a large town some distance away. Continuing to travel by plane, he presently arrived in Seattle. Still the cold remained with him. The miles he had put between Moose Gulch and himself hadn't done any good. Nothing seemed to help. Heavy clothes, nourishing foods, whisky, vigorous exercise--nothing brought him the warmth he was beginning to crave as an addict craves dope. Desperately, he resumed his trip, traveling by air and then by train, and finally grasping at any means of transportation that happened to be most convenient. The cold traveled with him. It enveloped him like a shell. It was an invisible prison, shutting him away from the world of warmth. The climate grew increasingly mild and balmy as he progressed southward. But the chill that always surrounded him grew worse. More often, now, he thought of Cahill's grim promise. "_I'm going to get you. I'm going to make you pay._" It repeated itself over and over in his mind. It was emphasized by the invisible blanket of cold wrapped inescapably about him. Once, in a hotel room where he had been drinking steadily, Hager's despair rose in him to the point of madness. He leaped from the bed, hurling an empty whisky bottle against the wall, screaming mingled curses and entreaties. "Damn you, Cahill, leave me alone! Haven't you had enough? How much longer are you going to keep torturing me? Leave me alone, do you hear? Leave me alone!" Cahill didn't seem to hear. Or if he did, he paid no attention. The cold stayed. * * * * * Hager began to lose weight. His stocky figure became gaunt, his cheeks sunken. Dark hollows cupped his feverishly bright eyes. His hands trembled. He jerked nervously at sudden noises. In Los Angeles he yielded to a wild impulse and visited a doctor. He explained his symptoms, omitting their true cause, and pleaded for help. The doctor gave him a complete physical examination, though it was evident from the man's expression of perplexity that he had learned nothing. "I can't understand it," he told Hager. "There's nothing seriously wrong with you. All you need is plenty of food and rest. You're probably just imagining things." Hager groaned, paid his bill, and fled. Several days later found him in Mexico. It was warm--but he didn't feel it. He knew with a terrible certainty that he would never feel warmth again. And he was tired of futilely trying to escape something from which there was no escape. He rented a small house on the outskirts of a town far from the Border and hired an elderly Mexican named Pancho to attend to his needs. Pancho was a good servant. But he was evidently greatly puzzled by Hager. According to the stories Pancho told his cronies in the town, his _gringo_ master insisted that a hot fire be kept going constantly in the fireplace. And in this warm weather, too! As if that alone wasn't enough, the _gringo_ also kept himself wrapped thickly in blankets. It was all very strange. The _gringo_, he said, was being tormented by a demon. The people of the town, a simple folk to whom the supernatural was as real as the sun in the sky, were sympathetic. A priest at the church promptly volunteered his aid. He had, as Pancho subsequently explained to Hager when he appeared with the man, an enviable reputation for his skill in exorcizing devils and evil spirits. Hager seized at the hope. He clutched at the priest eagerly. "Try it! Pray for me! Do something--anything!" The priest nodded gravely and began his task. It worked. Hager felt warm again. A wild delight filled him. For the first time he became aware that the room was stifling, but the mere fact that he was able to feel it seemed the most wonderful thing in the world. He had a sense of freedom as complete as though he had been released into the sunlight after long confinement in a lightless dungeon. He wrung the priest's hand, forced money on him, and then told Pancho he was throwing a _fiesta_ for the entire town that evening. Pancho was to take care of the details immediately. No expense was to be spared. For the rest of the day, Hager soaked himself in the sunlight, reveling in the delicious warmth. And when evening came he attended the _fiesta_ in high spirits. He ate _tortillas_, drank wine, and danced with innumerable dark-eyed _senoritas_. It was late when he returned to the house with Pancho. He found a robed figure waiting patiently at the door. It was the priest. Something about the man's solemn expression filled Hager with dread. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "Has something happened?" In his halting English, Pancho translated the gist of the priest's explanation. "The _padre_ say he no can help you, _senor_. He say he have how you call vision. It tell him you must pay." There was more. But Hager didn't need any more to know that he was being refused further help for the crime he had committed. A short while after the priest left he felt the cold again. Pancho built a fire in the fireplace, and Hager crouched before it, huddled in blankets and shivering. He was still there when Pancho went to bed. And he was still there when Pancho awoke in the morning. But he was no longer shivering. He no longer felt the cold. He was dead. It had been a warm night. The fire had been, hot, the blankets numerous and thick. Yet Hager had _frozen_ to death. * * * * * 
21491	----	The Trapper's Son, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ A very short book, set in North America some time in the nineteenth century, at a time when Indian tribes were still hunting over the land--Crees, Dacotahs, Peigans. An old trapper and his son are preparing for the winter, when their horses are found dead, killed either by wolves or by Indians. So they have to cache most of the skins they were planning to take to a nearby fort, and set off on their journey there. Michael Moggs, the trapper, had fathered the boy, Laurence, with an Indian woman, who had brought Laurence up to the point where Michael comes to collect him. The boy had never been taught the principles of Christianity, and his father never knew them either. So most of the book deals with the conversion of the boy and his father to true religion, by people they meet at the fort. ________________________________________________________________________ THE TRAPPER'S SON, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. THE TRAPPER'S CAMP--BEAVERS CAUGHT--THE HORSES KILLED BY WOLVES--TRAPS TO CATCH THE WOLVES. In the far western wilds of North America, over which the untutored red-skinned savage roams at liberty, engaged throughout life in war or the chase, by the side of a broad stream which made its way towards a distant lake, an old man and a boy reclined at length beneath a wigwam, roughly formed of sheets of birch-bark placed against several poles stuck in the ground in a circular form, and fastened together at the top. The sun was just rising above a wood, composed of maple, birch, poplar, and willow, fringing the opposite bank of the river; while rocky hills of no great elevation formed the sides of the valley, through which the stream made its way. Snow rested on the surrounding heights, and the ground was crisp with frost. The foliage which still clung to the deciduous trees exhibited the most gorgeous colours, the brightest red, pink, yellow, and purple tints contrasting with the sombre hues of the pines covering the lower slopes of the hills. "It's time to look to the traps, Laurence," said the old man, arousing his young companion, who was still asleep by the side of the smouldering embers of their fire. The boy sat up, and passed his hand across his eyes. There was a weary expression in his intelligent and not unpleasing countenance. "Yes, father, I am ready," he answered. "But I did not think the night was over; it seems but just now I lay down to sleep." "You have had some hard work lately, and are tired; but the season will soon be over, and we will bend our steps to Fort Elton, where you can remain till the winter cold has passed away. If I myself were to spend but a few days shut up within the narrow limits of such a place, I should soon tire of idleness, and wish to be off again among the forests and streams, where I have passed so many years." "Oh, do not leave me among strangers, father," exclaimed the boy, starting to his feet. "I am rested now, and am ready." They set out, proceeding along the side of the stream, stopping every now and then to search beneath the overhanging bushes, or in the hollows of the bank, where their traps had been concealed. From the first the old trapper drew forth an animal about three feet in length, of a deep chestnut colour, with fine smooth glossy hair, and a broad flat tail nearly a foot long, covered with scales. Its hind feet were webbed, its small fore-paws armed with claws, and it had large, hard, sharp teeth in its somewhat blunted head. Hanging up the beaver, for such it was, to a tree, they continued the examination of their snares. "Who would have thought creatures so easily caught could make such a work as this?" observed the old man, as they were passing over a narrow causeway which formed a dam across a smaller stream falling into the main river, and had created a back water or shallow lake of some size. The dam was composed of innumerable small branches and trunks of trees, laid horizontally across the stream, mixed with mud and stones. Several willows and small poplars were sprouting up out of it. "What! have the beavers made this?" asked Laurence. "Ay, every bit of it, boy; each stem and branch has been cut down by the creatures, with their paws and teeth. No human builders could have formed the work more skilfully. And observe how they thus have made a pond, ever full of water, above the level of the doorways to their houses, when the main stream is lowered by the heats of summer. See, too, how cleverly they build their houses, with dome roofs so hard and strong that even the cunning wolverine cannot manage to break through them, while they place the doorway so deep down that the ice in winter can never block it up inside. How warm and cozy, too, they are without the aid of fires or blankets." "How comes it, then, that they have not the sense to keep out of our traps, father?" inquired Laurence. "If you had ever been to the big cities, away to the east, you would not ask that question, boy," answered the old trapper. "You would there have seen thousands of men who seem wonderfully clever, and yet who get caught over and over again by cunning rogues who know their weak points; just as we bait our traps with bark-stone, [see Note] for which the foolish beaver has such a fancy, so the knaves bait their snares with promises of boundless wealth, to be gained without labour or trouble. To my mind, nothing is to be gained without working for it, and pretty hard work too, if the thing is worth having." This conversation passed between the old man and his son as they proceeded along the bank of the pond where some of their traps had been set. Some had failed to catch their prey, but after the search was ended, they returned to their camp with a dozen skins as the result of their labour. One of the animals which had been skinned having been preserved for their morning meal, it was soon roasting, supported on two forked sticks, before the freshly made-up fire. This, with some maize flour, and a draught of water from the stream, formed their repast. "Now, Laurence, go and bring in the horses, while I prepare the skins and do up our bales, and we will away towards the fort," said the old man. Laurence set off in search of their horses, which had been left feeding during the night in a meadow at some distance from the camp. The well-trained steeds, long accustomed to carry them and their traps and furs, were not likely to have strayed away from the ground. Laurence went on, expecting every moment to find them, but after proceeding some way, they were nowhere visible. Near at hand was a rocky height which overlooked the meadow. He climbed to the top; still he could not see the horses. Becoming somewhat anxious at their disappearance, he made his way across the meadow, hoping to find that they had discovered a richer pasturage farther on. As he looked round, he saw, to his dismay, two horses lying motionless on the ground. He hurried towards them. They were dead, and fearfully torn and mangled. "The wolves have done this, the savage brutes. We will be revenged on them," he exclaimed as he surveyed the dead steeds. "Father and I must have slept very soundly during the night not to have been awoke by their howling. It will be a sore grief to the old man, and I would that he had found it out himself, rather than I should have to tell him. However, it must be done." Saying this, he set off on his return to the camp. "The brutes shall pay dearly for it," exclaimed the old trapper, when Laurence brought him the intelligence of what had happened. "Whether Injuns or wolves wrong him, Michael Moggs is not the man to let them go unpunished;" and his eyes lighted up with a fierce expression which made the young boy instinctively shrink back from him. "We have three strong traps which will catch the biggest wolf on the prairies; and if they fail, I'll lie in wait till I can shoot the savage brutes down with my rifle. We shall have to tramp it on foot, boy, with the furs on our backs. That's bad for you, but we can leave the traps hidden away _en cache_; and as the snow will soon cover the ground, the cunning Injuns are not likely to find them. It's not the first adventure of the sort I have met with; and though I am sorry for your sake, and for the loss of our poor horses, I am not going to be cast down." Some time was spent in scraping the skins, and in repacking the most valuable of those already obtained in a compass which would enable the old man and his son to carry them. Not wishing to leave such valuable property in the hut, which might be visited during their absence by some wandering Indian, they then strapped the bales on to their backs, the old man carrying his rifle and the steel traps, and set out towards the meadow where their horses had been killed. Having planted the traps round the carcases of the slaughtered animals, and concealed them carefully, so that they could not be seen by the savage wolves, they returned to their hut. "The brutes will pay another visit to the poor horses, unless they fall in with other prey in the meantime, and that they are not likely to find about here," observed Moggs, as he sat down and struck a light to rekindle the fire. Laurence had collected a supply of dried branches, of which there was an abundance in the surrounding woods. "We must keep the fire burning during the night, or the savage creatures may chance to pay us a visit; and if they find us napping, they may treat us as they have our horses," continued the old man. "To-morrow morning, we shall have our revenge, and I shall be vexed indeed if we do not find two or three of the brutes in the traps." The day was spent, as many before had been passed when they were not travelling or setting their snares, in scraping furs, greasing their traps, and cleaning the old man's highly-prized rifle. Their conversation related wholly to the occupation in which they were engaged; of other matters young Laurence knew nothing. He was a true child of the desert. His early days had been spent in the wigwam of an Indian squaw, who had taught him the legends and faith of her people. Beyond that period his recollections were very faint. He had remained with her until Michael Moggs, who called himself his father, came for him and took him away. He had almost forgotten his native tongue; but from that time, by constantly associating with the old trapper, he soon again learned to speak it. Of the Christian faith he knew nothing, for Moggs and himself were utterly ignorant of its truths; while they had imbibed many of the superstitions of the savage Indians, the only human beings with whom they had for long years associated. Laurence believed firmly in the Great Spirit who governs the destinies of the Red men of the desert--in the happy hunting-grounds, the future abode of brave warriors who die fighting on the battle-field--in the existence of demons, who wander through the forests in search of victims--and in the occult powers of wizards and medicine men. He had been taught that the only objects in life worthy of the occupation of men were war and the chase--that he should look with contempt on those who, he had heard, spent their time in the peaceful business of agriculture and commerce; that revenge and hatred of foes were the noblest sentiments to be cultivated in the human breast; and that no act was more worthy than to kill a foe, or a feeling more delightful than to witness his suffering under torture. Yet the heart of young Laurence was not hardened, nor altogether debased. Occasionally yearnings for a different life to that he led rose in his bosom. Whence they came he could not tell. Still he could not help thinking that there might be a brighter and better state of existence in those far-off lands away beyond where he saw the glorious sun rise each morning, to run its course through the sky, and to sink again behind the snow-capped range of the Rocky Mountains, to the base of which he and his father had occasionally wandered. Whenever he had ventured even to hint the tenor of his thoughts to the old trapper, the scornful rebuke he had received kept him for many a day afterwards silent. As evening approached, the old man made a wide circuit round the camp to ascertain that no lurking foes lay hid in the neighbourhood. Having satisfied himself on that score, a large supply of fuel was piled up on the fire, when, after a frugal supper, he and the boy lay down to rest. Although Laurence slept soundly, Michael awoke constantly to put more wood on the fire, and not unfrequently to take a survey around the wigwam, knowing well that their lives might depend on his vigilance. No sooner did the first faint streaks of dawn appear in the sky than he aroused the boy. A hurried meal was eaten, and then they strapped on their packs and several bundles of furs, which, with their traps, Moggs intended to conceal till he could return for them. The remaining articles, and a few of the least valuable of their furs, were then thrown on the fire, and the wigwam being pulled down on the top of it, the whole mass of combustible material soon burst up into a flame, leaving in a short time no other trace of their abode on the spot than a pile of blackened cinders. They then made their way by a wide circuit into a neighbouring wood, beyond which a rocky hill afforded, in the old trapper's opinion, a secure place for concealing their goods. The old man stepped cautiously along, avoiding even brushing against any of the branches on either side, Laurence following in his footsteps. A small cave or hollow, which he had before observed, was soon found. In this the articles were deposited, and the mouth was closed up with stones brought from the hill-side, they again being concealed by a pile of broken branches and leaves, which, to the eye of a passer-by, might appear to have been blown there by the wind. "It is the best place we can find," exclaimed Moggs. "But if a strange Injun was to come this way before the snow covers the ground, our traps would soon be carried off. Most of the Crees, however, know that they are mine, and would think it wiser to leave them alone. We will hope for the best; and now, Laurence, let us go and see what the wolves have been about." Saying this, he and the boy commenced their retreat from the wood in the same cautious way by which they had approached it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. The bark-stone of which the old trapper spoke is the Castoreum, a substance secreted in two glandular sacs near the root of the beaver's tail, which gives out an extremely powerful odour, and so strangely attracts beavers that the animals, when they scent it at a distance, will sniff about and squeal with eagerness as they make their way towards it. The trapper, therefore, carries a supply in a bottle, and when he arrives at a spot frequented by the animals, he sets his traps, baiting them with some of the substance. This is done with a small twig of wood, the end of which he chews, and, dipping it in the Castoreum, places it just above water, close to the trap, which is beneath the surface, and in such a position that the beaver must pass over it to get at the bait. CHAPTER TWO. PURSUIT AND CAPTURE OF A WHITE WOLF--LAURENCE'S DREAM--JOURNEY TO THE FORT OVER THE SNOW--FRIENDLY RECEPTION AT THE FORT--LAURENCE FALLS SICK. The old trapper and his son crept cautiously among the rocks and shrubs towards the spot where the traps had been set around their slaughtered steeds. Moggs cocked his rifle as his keen eye fell on a large white wolf, which, caught by the leg in one of the traps, was making desperate efforts to free itself, and appeared every instant on the point of succeeding. As they drew near, the ferocious animal, with its mouth wide open, its teeth broken in its attempts to gnaw the iron trap, and its head covered with blood, sprang forward to reach them, but the trap held it fast. "Keep behind me, Laurence," said Michael. "If the creature gets loose, it will need a steady aim to bring it to the ground." Not for a moment did the wolf turn round to fly, but again and again it sprang forward as far as the chain would allow it. Although old Michael knew nothing of the humanity which would avoid allowing any of God's creatures to suffer unnecessary pain, he was preparing to put an end to its agonies, when the creature, by a frantic effort, freeing itself, sprang towards him. Laurence uttered a cry of terror; for he expected the next moment to see its savage jaws fixed in his father's throat; but the old man, standing calm and unmoved, fired, and the animal fell dead at his feet. "Did ye think, Laurence, that I could not manage a single wolf," he said, half turning round with a reproachful look towards the boy, who had not yet recovered from his alarm. "This is a prize worth having, though. It has not often been my luck to kill a white wolf, and we may barter this skin with the Crees for six of the best mustangs they have got. While I skin the varmint, see what the other traps have been about." Laurence went forward to examine them. "Here is a foot in one of them," he exclaimed. "The creature must have gnawed it off, and got away. The other trap has been pulled up. I can see the tracks it has left, as the animal dragged it away." "We will be after it, then," cried Moggs. "If it is another white wolf we shall be well repaid indeed for the loss of our steeds, though we have to carry our packs till we can reach the fort. Come, Laurence, help me to finish off this work." The skin was added to the already heavy load which old Moggs carried, and the traps hid in a spot which, with his experienced eye, he could without difficulty find. "Now Laurence," he exclaimed, "we will be after the runaway." The keen sight of the old man easily distinguished the marks left on the ground by the heavy trap as the animal trailed it behind him. The creature, after going some way along the valley, had taken to the higher ground, where its traces were still more easily distinguished upon the crust of the snow which lay there. The white wolf had got some distance ahead, when at length, to the delight of old Moggs, he discovered it with the trap at its heels. It seemed to know that its pursuers were close behind. Off it scampered at a rapid trot, now over the rugged and broken surface of rocks, now descending into ravines, now going north, now south, making numerous zigzag courses in its efforts to escape and deceive the hunters. Still old Moggs pursued, regardless of fatigue, though Laurence had great difficulty in keeping up with him, and often felt as if he must drop. His father encouraged him to continue the chase, promising soon to overtake the creature. At length, however, Laurence could go no further, and sank down on a hill, over which they had just climbed, and were about to descend to a valley below them. "Rest there till I come back, then, boy," exclaimed the hardy old trapper, a slight tone of contempt mixed with his expression of pity. "The wolf I must have, even though he leads me a score of miles further. Here, take the tinder-box and axe, and make a fire; by the time I come back we shall need some food, after our chase." Having given Laurence the articles he mentioned, with a handful of pemmican from his wallet, he hastened down the hill, in the direction the wolf had taken along the valley. Young Laurence was too much accustomed to those wilds to feel any alarm at being left alone; and as soon as he had somewhat rested, he set to work to cut a supply of dried branches from the surrounding shrubs, with which he quickly formed a blazing fire. The pemmican, or pounded buffalo meat, further restored his strength, and he began to think that he would follow in the direction his father had taken, to save him from having to ascend the hill. When he began to move, however, he felt so weary that he again sank down by the side of the fire, where in a short time he fell asleep. Wild dreams troubled his slumbers, and long-forgotten scenes came back to his mind. He was playing in a garden among flowers in front of a neat and pretty dwelling, with the waters of a tranquil lake shining far below. He heard the gentle voice of one he trusted, whose fair sweet face ever smiled on him as he gambolled near her. The voice was hastily calling him, when suddenly he was lifted up and carried away far from her shrieks and cries. The rattle of musketry echoed in his ears, then he was borne down a rapid stream, the waters hissing and foaming around. Now numberless Indians, in war-paint and feathers, danced frantically before his eyes, and huge fires blazed up, and again shrieks echoed in his ears. Then a monstrous animal, with glaring eyeballs, burst into their midst, putting the Indians to flight, and scattering their fires far and wide, yelling and roaring savagely. He started up, when what was his horror to see the fierce white wolf his father had been pursuing rushing towards him with the chain and trap still trailing at his heels. Spell-bound, he felt unable to rise. In another moment the enraged wolf would be upon him, when a rifle shot rang through the air, and the wolf dropped dead close to where he lay. "Art safe, Laurence, art unhurt, boy?" exclaimed the old trapper, who came, breathless, hurrying up the side of the hill. "The brute doubled cunningly on me, and thinking, from the way he was leading, that he would pass near where I left you, I took a short cut, in hopes of being before him. I was nearly too late, and twice before I had fired, shouting to you to be on your guard. It's not often my rifle has failed to kill even at that distance." Laurence relieved his father's anxiety by showing him that he was unhurt; and greatly to the old trapper's satisfaction, on examining the wolf, three bullet holes were found in the skin, showing that his favourite rifle had not missed, although the first shots had failed to kill. The prized skin having been secured, as it was too heavy to carry, in addition to their previous loads, it was hidden, as the traps had been, in a hollow in the rocks. "Little chance of its escaping from Indians or wolverines, though I am loath to abandon it," observed the old man, as he placed the last of a large pile of stones in front of the cave. "But the snow will be down, may be this very night, and then it will be safe." They now proceeded down the valley, and continued on till they reached the edge of a small wood, where they encamped for the night. For several days they journeyed on towards the south and east, not meeting, as they passed over those desert wilds, a single human being. "Once, when I first knew this region, many thousand warriors, with their squaws and children, were masters here," observed old Moggs. "But they are all gone; the white man's gunpowder, and his still more deadly fire-water, have carried off the greater number. Famine visited them when they themselves had slaughtered most of the creatures which gave them food, without having learned other means for obtaining support. Before that time, neither white nor red trappers had to go more than a few days' journey from the forts to obtain as many skins as they needed." "I wish those times would come back again," said the boy. "For my legs feel as if they would soon refuse to carry me further." "Cheer up, lad, we will camp soon, and in a few days more we shall be at the fort, when you shall have the rest I promised you." "But you will not quit me then, father, will you?" asked Laurence. "Well, well, I must buy fresh horses to bring in the skins and traps, and to prepare for the next season," answered Michael. "I have no wish to leave you, lad; so don't let that trouble you just now." The first fall of snow for that winter had now come down, and thickly covered the ground. For several days it compelled the trapper and his son to keep within the shelter of their wigwam. Once more they set out. After travelling severe days, young Laurence, though he had partially recovered, again felt ready to give way. Still he trudged with his load by his father's side. The cold had greatly increased; but though he had hitherto been indifferent to it, he felt that he would rather lie down and die than proceed further. The old man took his arm, and did his utmost to encourage him. They at length reached a wood of birch and firs. "Oh, father, let us camp here, for I can move on no longer," cried Laurence, in a piteous tone. "Cheer up, cheer up, boy," said the old trapper, repeating the expression he had frequently of late uttered. "A few steps farther, and we shall see the fort." The poor lad struggled on. The sun was sinking low in the sky, when, just as they doubled the wood, its beams fell on the stockaded sides of a fort, situated on slightly elevated ground out of the prairie. "There's our resting place at last," exclaimed the old man, pointing with his hand towards the fort. "Keep up your courage, and we shall reach it before dark. The peltries we bring will ensure us a welcome; and though I trust not to the white men who live in cities, the chief factor there calls me his friend, and has a heart which I doubt not will feel compassion for your youth. He will treat you kindly for my sake, though most of the traders such as he care little for the old trapper who has spent his whole life in toiling for them." Michael continuing to support the tottering steps of his son, they at last reached the gates of the fort, which were opened to give them admittance, their approach having been observed from the look-out towers on the walls. The stockade surrounded an area of considerable size, within which were the residences of the factor and clerks, several large storehouses, and huts for the accommodation of the garrison and hunters, and casual visitors. Altogether, to Michael's eyes, it appeared a place of great importance. A number of voyageurs and half-breeds, in their picturesque costumes, were strolling about; multitudes of children were playing at the doors of the huts; and women were seen going to and from the stores, or occupied in their daily avocations. Laurence felt somewhat awe-struck on finding himself among so many strangers, and kept close to his father. At their entrance they had been saluted by a pack of savage-looking sleigh-dogs, which came out barking at the new-comers, but were quickly driven back to their quarters by their masters. "Don't mind them, Laurence," said Michael. "As soon as they find that we are treated as friends, they will cease their yelping, and come humbly to our feet to seek our favour." Michael inquired for Mr Ramsay, the chief factor. "There he comes from his house," answered the man to whom he had addressed himself. "What! old friend! I am right glad to see you again," exclaimed Mr Ramsay, advancing, and with frank cordiality shaking the old trapper by the hand. "I was afraid, from your long absence, that you would never find your way back to the fort. And who is this lad? He seems very young for the life of a trapper." Michael then introduced Laurence, and narrated how they had lost their horses and been compelled to tramp the whole distance on foot, not having met any Indians from whom they could purchase fresh steeds, or obtain assistance in carrying their bales. "He looks worn out and ill," said the kind-hearted factor. "Come in to my house, and we will have him seen to. A comfortable bed and a quiet night's rest will, I hope, restore him; and you, friend, will, I suspect, be glad to get that heavy pack off your shoulders." "The boy has not been much accustomed to beds or houses, and the change may, as you say, do him good," observed Michael. "But my old sinews are too tough to feel the weight of this pack, heavy as it is, I'll allow. However, for the boy's sake, I'll accept your hospitality; and, if you'll look after him till he is recovered, the best peltries I have shall be at your service without any other payment." "Nay, nay, friend; I come frae the Hielands, and have not so far forgotten the customs of the old country as to receive payment for entertaining a guest, and as such your son is welcome. However, come in, and get rid of your packs; and to-morrow, when you have rested, we will examine their contents and calculate their value." Poor Laurence tottered on, but scarcely had he reached the entrance of the house than he sank to the ground. His pack was quickly taken off, and kindly hands lifted him to a room, where he was undressed and put to bed--a luxury he had not, as his father had said, for many years enjoyed. Restoratives were applied; but kind Mrs Ramsay and those of her household who watched him, as they observed his pale cheeks and slowly-drawn breath, feared that nature was too far exhausted by the fatigue he had undergone to recover. The old man's alarm and grief, when he heard of the dangerous state of his son, was excessive. Kind Mrs Ramsay did her best to console him, and her young daughter, a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl, Jeanie, climbed up on his knee, and stroked his rough hair, as he hung down his head, utterly overcome. "We will pray to our merciful Father in heaven to take care of the young boy, and to make him strong and well again," she whispered. "You know that God hears our prayers; and oh, how good and kind He is, to let us speak to Him, and to do what we ask Him in the name of His dear Son Jesus Christ." The old man gazed earnestly at the child for a few seconds, and, a look of anguish passing over his countenance, he shook his head; and then turning away from her, he put her gently down, as if he was afraid of being thus again addressed, and answered, "Thank you, thank you, little damsel; I hope my boy will get well. It will go pretty nigh to finish me if he does not," he murmured to himself. "I ought to have known that his strength was not equal to the task I put upon it. If he dies, men will say, and justly, that I am his murderer." The old man partook but sparingly of the abundant repast spread before him, and declining the luxury of a bed, rolled himself up in a blanket, and took his post in the hall, near the door of the room where Laurence had been placed, that he might hear from those who were attending on his boy how it went with him. At every footstep which passed he started up and made the same inquiry, and then with a groan lay down again, his desire to keep on the watch in vain struggling with his fatigue. CHAPTER THREE. ANXIETY OF THE TRAPPER ABOUT HIS SON--JEANIE TELLS LAURENCE ABOUT THE BIBLE AND GOD'S LOVE TO MAN--LAURENCE OUT OF DANGER--THE TRAPPER LEAVES LAURENCE WITH HIS FRIENDS--JEANIE TRIES TO TEACH LAURENCE TO READ-- HISTORY OF MRS. RAMSAY. The following morning, the old trapper was sitting on the floor, where he had passed the night, with his head bent down on his knees, when Mrs Ramsay came out of his son's room. "Is he better? Will he live?" he asked in a low, husky voice, gazing up anxiously at her countenance. "The issues of life and death are in God's hands," she answered. "Your young son is very ill; but our merciful Father in heaven can restore him if He thinks fit; we can but watch over him, and minister to his wants as may seem best to us. Lift up your heart in prayer to that Great Being through Him who died for us, sinning children as we are that we might be reconciled to our loving Parent, and He will assuredly hear your petition, and grant it if He thinks fit." The old man groaned as she ceased speaking, and again dropping his head on his breast made no reply to her, though he muttered to himself, "She tells me to pray. The Great Spirit would strike me dead in his anger were I to dare to speak to Him." The kind lady, seeing he did not speak, passed on. Old Michael could with difficulty be persuaded to eat anything, or to quit his post during the day. Little Jeanie was at length sent to him with some food, to try if he would receive it at her hands. "Here," she said, placing her hand on his arm. "You must take some of this, or you will become weak and ill. God, you know, gives us food to support our bodies, just as He sends His holy spirit to strengthen our souls. It is very wrong not to eat when we require food, and so it is when we refuse to receive the aid of the Holy Spirit, which we so much need every moment of our lives." "Who told you that, little damsel?" asked the old man, looking up in the child's sweet face. "Mamma, of course," she answered. "And Mr Martin, the missionary, who came here some time ago, says she is right, and told me never to forget what she says to me. I try not to do so; but when I am playing about, and sometimes when I feel inclined to be naughty, I am apt not to remember as I ought; and then I ask God to help me and to forgive me, through Jesus Christ, and all those things come back again to my memory." "You naughty!" said the old man, gazing still more intently at the young fair countenance. "I don't think you ever could be naughty." "Oh yes, yes, I am, though," answered the child. "I feel sometimes vexed and put out, and so do all sorts of naughty things; besides, you know that God says, `there is none that doeth good, no, not one;' and even if I did not think I was naughty, I know that I must be in His sight, for He is so pure and holy that even to Him the heavens, so bright to us, are not pure." The old man apparently did not understand what the child was saying to him, but the sound of her soft voice soothed his troubled heart. She little knew how dark and hard that heart had become. "What is it you want, little damsel?" he asked, in a tone as if he had been lost in thought while she was speaking. "I came to bring you this food," she said. "I shall be so glad to see you eat some." The old man, without further remonstrance, almost mechanically, it seemed, consumed the food she offered him. For several days Laurence hung between life and death, but the constant and watchful care of his new friends was blessed with success; and once more he opened his eyes, and was able to understand and reply to what was said to him. As soon as he was considered out of danger, old Michael regained his usual manner. Though he expressed his gratitude to his hosts in his rough, blunt way, he uttered no expression which showed that he believed that aught of thanks were due to the Giver of all good for his son's recovery. With his ordinary firm tread he stalked into the room where Laurence lay. "I am glad to see thee coming round, boy," he said. "Food and quiet is all that is now required to fit thee for work again. Dost not long to be once more wandering through the forest, or trapping by the side of the broad stream? I am already weary, as I knew I should, of this dull life, and must away to look after our traps and such of our peltries as may have escaped the claws of the cunning wolverines." "Stay for me but a few days, and I shall be ready to go with you, father," said the boy, trying to raise himself up. "Nay, nay, boy; but you're not yet strong enough for travelling. The snow lies thickly on the ground, and the winter's wind whistles keenly through the forest and across the plain. Stay a while with your good friends here, and I'll come back for thee, and then we will hie away to lead the free life we have enjoyed so long." Old Michael spoke in a more subdued tone than usual. "You speak truth, father, when you say our friends are kind; if it were not for you I should not wish to leave them. Sometimes, when Mrs Ramsay and her little daughter have been tending me, my thoughts have been carried back to the days when I was a young child, or else to some pleasant dreams which have visited me in my sleep." "Speak not again of those times, Laurence," exclaimed the old trapper in an angry tone. "They are mere foolish fancies of the brain. You are still weak and ill, but you will soon recover," he added in a more gentle voice. "And when I come for you, promise me that you will be ready to go forth once more to be my companion in the free wilds." "Yes, father, yes; I promise, whenever you come and summon me away, I will go with you." "Farewell, then, boy," said the old trapper, taking his son's hand. "We will look forward to the time when we may enjoy our free roving life together again." On the entrance of Mrs Ramsay and Jeanie, who came with some nourishing food for Laurence, the old trapper silently left the room. When, a short time afterwards, Mrs Ramsay inquired for him, she found that he had quitted the fort, leaving behind him his bales of peltries, with the exception of the white wolf-skin. "He has taken it to trade with the Indians," observed the factor. "He knows that they value it more than we do." "I am so sorry that your father has gone away, Laurence," said Jeanie, as she sat by the bedside of the young invalid, trying to console him for the grief he showed when he heard of the old trapper's departure. "But remember you are among friends, and we will do all we can to make you happy. Still, it is a great thing to know that your father loves you. I should be miserable if I could suppose that my father and mother did not love me. But do you know, Laurence, I have often thought how much more wretched I should feel if I did not know that our Heavenly Father loves me also even more than they do. Mamma has often told me that His love is so great that we cannot understand it. It always makes me feel so happy when I think of it, and that He is always watching over us, and that His eye is ever upon us." "Do you speak of the Great Spirit, little girl?" said Laurence, raising himself on his elbow, and gazing inquiringly at her. "I have heard that He is the Friend of brave warriors and those who obey Him, and that He is more powerful than any human being; but still I cannot fancy that He cares for young boys and girls, and women and slaves, or cowards who are afraid to fight." "Oh, yes, yes; He cares for everybody," exclaimed Jeanie. "He loves all the creatures He has made, to whom He has given souls which will live for ever and ever. He wants them all to live with Him in the glorious heaven He has prepared for all who accept the gracious offer of mercy which He makes to us. You know that we are by nature rebels and disobedient children; and consequently Satan, the great rebel chief, has power to do evil, and to tempt us to sin, and to rebel against God, as he tempted our first parents; but God sent His Son Jesus Christ into the world, to suffer the punishment which, for our disobedience and sin, we ought to suffer, and to tell us that, if we trust Him and believe that He has so suffered for our sins, and thus taken them away, and will love and obey Him, and follow the laws which He established, we shall be received back again into favour, and when our souls quit this world, that they will go and dwell with Him in that glorious and happy land where He will reign for ever and ever." Laurence continued his fixed gaze at the young girl as she spoke. "These are very wonderful words you speak. They are so wonderful that I cannot understand them," said Laurence very slowly. "What I speak of is indeed very wonderful, for even the angels in heaven wonder at it; but if you seek the aid of the Holy Spirit, He will make it clear to your mind, for He it is who alone can teach us what Christ is, and what He has done for us. My mamma often told me about these things, and I did not understand them; but when I prayed that the Holy Spirit would help me to know the love of Jesus, and all He has done for me, then what appeared so dark and mysterious became as clear as the noonday; and, oh, I am sure that there is no joy so great as that of knowing that Jesus Christ loves us." "I don't think I shall ever understand that," said the boy, sinking back on his couch. "My father has never told me anything about those things and I am sure He is very, very wise, for the Indians say so; and every one owns that he is the best white trapper between the Rocky Mountains and the Red River. When he comes back, I'll talk to him, and learn what he thinks of the matter." "Oh, but God tells us that He has `hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them unto babes,'" observed Jeanie. "Your father is all you say, I am sure; but does he read the Bible, the book which God has given to us, to tell us about Jesus, and to let us know His will?" "I never heard of such a book," answered the boy. "But then I know nothing about books; I could not understand its meaning if I had one." "What! cannot you read?" asked the little girl, in a tone of astonishment. "No, of course not," answered Laurence. "The only books I have seen are those in the hands of the white traders, when they have been taking notes of the peltries they have bought from us or our Indian friends. Then I have observed that they make marks with the end of a stick in their books, and that is all I know about the matter." "Oh, then, I must show you some books, and you must learn to read. It is a sad thing not to be able to read the Bible." "I have no wish to learn, though you are very kind to offer to teach me," answered the boy, in a somewhat weary tone. "When I am well enough, I should like to be following my father, or chasing the buffalo with the brave hunters of the prairie. Still, I should be sorry to go away from you and those who have been so kind to me." "But it will be a long time before you are able to sit on horseback, or to endure the wild camp-life of a hunter, and until that time comes you must let me teach you." "My head would ache if I were to try to learn anything so strange as reading," said Laurence, closing his eyes. "Even now I cannot bear to think. But you are very kind, very kind," he added, as if he felt the little girl would consider him ungrateful for refusing her offer. Mrs Ramsay, who had just then come in unperceived, had heard the last part of the conversation, and understanding better than her daughter did the boy's still weak state, saw that it was not the time to press the point, and that it would be better just then to allow Laurence to fall asleep, as she judged from his heavy eyes he was inclined to do. She, therefore, smoothing his pillow, and bestowing a smile on him, led Jeanie from the room. Mrs Ramsay had gone through many trials. She had been brought up among all the refinements of civilised society in Scotland, and had been early brought by her pious parents to know and love the Lord Jesus. She had married Mr Ramsay, then employed in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, dining a short visit he paid to his native land; but she had been little aware of the dangers and hardships she would be called on to endure in the wild region to which he was to take her. He had been so accustomed to them from his earliest days that, when describing the life he had led, he unconsciously made light of what might otherwise naturally have appalled her. For his sake she forbore from complaining of the perils and privations to which she had been exposed; and she had ever, by trusting to the aid and protection of God, borne up under them all. Two of her children had been taken from her, and Jeanie alone had been left. Famine, and the small-pox and measles, which has proved so fatal to the inhabitants of those northern wilds, had on several occasions visited the fort, which had also been exposed to the attacks of treacherous and hostile natives; while for years together she had not enjoyed the society of any of her own sex of like cultivated mind and taste. Yet she did not repine; she devoted herself to her husband and child, and to imparting instruction to the native women and children who inhabited the fort. She went further, and endeavoured to spread the blessings of religion and civilisation among the surrounding Indian population. By her influence her husband had been induced to take an interest in the welfare of the Indians, and no longer merely to value them according to the supply of peltries they could bring to trade with at the fort. He endeavoured also to instruct them in the art of agriculture, and already a number of cultivated fields were to be seen in the neighbourhood. He had introduced herds of cattle, which the Indians had been taught to tend and value, and numerous horses fed on the surrounding pastures. His great object now was to obtain a resident missionary, who might instruct the still heathen natives in the truths of Christianity; for when he had learned to value the importance of his own soul, he of necessity felt deeply interested in the salvation of the souls of his surrounding fellow-creatures. He had been warned that, should the natives become Christians and civilised, they would no longer prove useful as hunters and trappers, and that he was acting in opposition to trade. "When that occurs it will be time enough, if you think fit, to complain, my friends," he answered. "At present I see innumerable immortal souls perishing in their darkness; and am I to be debarred, for fear of future consequences, in offering to them the blessings of the gospel?" Most of those to whom he spoke were unable to comprehend him, but he persevered; and as the native trappers, certain of being fairly dealt with, resorted in greater numbers than before to the fort, and the amount of peltries he collected not falling off, no objection was taken at headquarters to his proceedings. CHAPTER FOUR. DANGERS IN THE FORT--THE WINTER SETS IN--SCARCITY OF FOOD--MR. RAMSAY'S ACCOUNT OF HIS FIRST MEETING WITH THE OLD TRAPPER--HIS JOURNEY ACROSS THE PRAIRIES--ATTACKED BY DACOTAHS--DEATH OF HIS COMPANIONS--RESCUED BY THE OLD TRAPPER--PRAIRIE ON FIRE--RIDE FOR LIFE. The remote forts, as the trading posts of that region are called, were exposed at that period to numerous vicissitudes. When the buffalo, in large herds, came northward from the wide prairies in the south, and fish could be caught in the neighbouring lakes and rivers, provisions were abundant. But at other times, as all articles of food had to be brought many hundred miles in canoes, along the streams which intersect the country, or overland by carts or sleighs, notwithstanding all the forethought and precaution of the officers in charge, they were occasionally hard pressed for means of supporting life. At the period we are describing, the frost had set in earlier than usual, and the neighbouring streams and lakes had been frozen over before a supply of fish could be caught for the winter store. Grasshoppers, or locusts, as they should be more properly called, coming in vast hordes from the south, had settled on the fields, and destroyed the crops of maize and barley; while the buffalo had not migrated so far to the northward as in other years. The hunters who had gone forth in chase of the moose, elk, bears, and other animals, had been less successful than usual. Mr Ramsay, as the winter drew on, dreaded that famine would visit the fort. He had sent for supplies to headquarters, which he was daily expecting to arrive by a train of dog-sleighs, and had again despatched his hunters in all directions, in the hopes that they might bring in a sufficient number of wild animals of the chase to provision the garrison till their arrival. Laurence slowly recovered his strength. Mrs Ramsay took care that he, at all events, should be well supplied with nourishing food. "For his father's sake, I wish you to do all you can for the poor lad," said Mr Ramsay to his wife. "I owe him a debt of gratitude I can never repay, though he appears unwilling to be my creditor, by speaking of the matter as an every-day occurrence. I was travelling some years back, with a small party of half-breed hunters and Crees from the Red River to Chesterfield House, when, a fearful storm coming on, we were compelled to encamp in the open prairie. A short time before we had passed a small stream, on the banks of which grew a few birch and willows. The country was in a disturbed state, and we had heard that several war parties of Dacotahs were out, with the intention of attacking the Crees, their hereditary enemies. Thinking it possible we might be attacked, should our trail have been discovered, we arranged our carts in a circle, to enable us to resist a sudden onslaught of the foe. We were, however, without water or fuel. To obtain a supply of both these necessaries, we sent back several of our men to the stream I mentioned, hoping that they would return to the camp before dark. "The shades of evening were already coming on when we caught sight, in the far distance, of a large party of horsemen scouring over the prairie. We had little doubt that they were Dacotahs, but we hoped that our small encampment, at the distance we were from them, might escape detection. The keen eyes of the red-skin warriors, however, ere long found us out, and we saw them galloping towards us, flourishing their spears and uttering their savage war-cries. Except the plumes in their hair and girdles round their waists, they were destitute of clothing, though their bodies and faces were covered thickly with paint, making them look more like demons than human beings. Had our whole party been together, we might have been able, with our rifles, to drive them back; but divided as we were, had we fired, although we might have shot some of those in advance, the remainder would have dashed forward and speared us before we could have had time to reload. "The warriors, on getting near the camp, and discovering the preparations we had made for their reception, those in advance waited till the remainder of their party came up. Just then they caught sight of our friends returning across the open plain bringing the wood and water. With wild and fearful shouts the savages dashed forward to cut them off. They had no means of defending themselves, and terror seizing them, they took to flight, hoping to escape to the river and lie concealed under its banks. The horsemen, however, overtook them before they could reach it, and in a short time we saw the Dacotahs returning with the scalps of their victims at the end of their spears. Like savage beasts who have once tasted blood, their rage and fury increased, and they seemed resolved, at all risks, to destroy us, as they had our companions, and to obtain the rich booty they expected to find in our camp. On they came, shrieking and howling more fearfully than before. I called on my few remaining men to fight bravely in defence of our lives, reminding them that should they yield they would be cruelly tortured, and ultimately put to death. "Although at first driven back by our fire, again and again they rushed forward, surrounding our camp, and breaking through our imperfect fences. Most of my little garrison were speared, and I had received two wounds; but I scarcely felt them, and still retained my strength and energy. The rest of the survivors, although much more hurt, and bleeding at every pore, fought bravely; for all of us knew that we could expect no mercy from our savage foes. "Night was coming on, and we had little hopes of ever seeing another sun rise. "Among the stores we were conveying were several casks of gunpowder. As a last resource, I seized one of them which I managed to reach, and placing it before me, shouted out to our enemies that if they approached nearer, I would fire my rifle into it, and blow them and the whole camp into the air. They were well acquainted with its power, and held it, as I knew, in great dread. My example was followed by the rest of my party who had yet strength to move. The Dacotahs retired to a short distance, and held a consultation, after which they galloped round and round us, shrieking and shouting, when one of them advanced somewhat nearer, and, in a derisive tone, told us that we were welcome to remain where we were, for escape was impossible, as they intended to keep near us, and that in a short time we should be starved to death, when they would have our scalps, and take possession of our goods. We knew too well that they spoke the truth; but we replied that we were determined not to yield, and that if they approached, we would carry our threat into execution. "Darkness had now come on, but we distinguished them still hovering around us in the distance. That was the most dreadful night I ever passed. The groans and cries of the wounded, as they lay on the ground around me, continued without intermission. I could do but little to relieve them; for we had no water to quench our burning thirst, and had I placed them in the carts they might have been speared, should the enemy have made a sudden attack, as they were very likely to do, hoping to catch us unprepared. "When morning dawned, the Dacotahs again dashed forward, yelling as before, and approached sufficiently near to survey our condition. All day long they continued the same system, hoping apparently to wear us out, which, indeed, there appeared every probability of their doing. "Several of my unfortunate companions had sunk from loss of blood and thirst, and my sufferings had become so great that I envied them their fate, when, as I cast my eyes around to watch the movements of our foes, I saw them gathering together in a body, while in the far distance appeared a single horseman, who, galloping at full speed, was coming towards the camp. He stopped short as he approached the Dacotahs, as if to ascertain who they were; he then rode boldly forward towards them. I saw that he was a white man, and knew by his gestures that he was haranguing the savages. Several of their chiefs appeared to be replying to him. He then waved his hand, and galloped up to the camp. "`I know all about it,' he exclaimed in English, and his words sounded pleasantly in my ears. `I made them promise to give me one of my countrymen instead of a debt they owe me, and I wish that I could save more of your lives. What!' he exclaimed, on seeing me rise to move towards him, `are you the only one left alive?' "I had no need to reply, but pointed to the bodies of my companions on the ground; for by that time nearly all were dead, while those who still remained alive were too weak to move, and it was evident that in a short time they also would be numbered with the dead. It grieved me much to leave them in their sad condition; but yet by remaining I could do them no good. The stranger lifted me up on his horse with as much ease as if I had been a child, and bore me off in the direction from whence he had come. "`We have no time to lose, for I don't trust the red-skins, friends though they are of mine,' he said. `They may in a few minutes change their minds.' "We had gone but a short distance when I saw my preserver turn his head to look behind him. There was an expression of anxiety in his countenance. "`What is the matter?' I asked. "`The red-skins have set the prairie on fire,' he answered. `I don't think they did it on purpose, for they will chance to suffer more than we do; but we must push onwards, or the flames will anon be close at our heels.' "I raised my head as he spoke, and saw dense wreaths of smoke rising up to the southward, below which I could distinguish a broad red line, extending for a mile or more from east to west. "The hunter, holding me in his firm grasp, put spurs to his horse, and, slackening his rein, galloped at full speed over the ground. The motion caused my wounds to bleed afresh, but it was no time to stop to bind them up. I felt very weak, and the dreadful thought came across me that, should I faint, my new friend would suppose me dead, and naturally leave me to my fate. Might he not even do so, at all events, should the fire come rapidly after us, for the sake of preserving his own life? He seemed to divine my thoughts. "`I will not desert you, lad,' he said. `Cheer up; we have but a few leagues to go to reach a river, on the further side of which we shall be safe. My good steed has been well accustomed to carry a heavy weight, and he makes nothing of what he has now on his back.' "While he was speaking, a loud dull roar like thunder was heard, and a dense column of smoke rose upward from the spot where we had been encamped. "`Ah! ah! the red-skins have lost the booty they were so eager to secure,' he exclaimed with a peculiar laugh. "The fire had reached the camp, and the casks of powder had ignited and blown the carts and the rest of their contents into the air. "`We shall be safe from them, at all events,' observed the stranger; `for they will not pull rein for many a long league from this, if they should escape the effects of their own carelessness.' "The raging fire had now extended from east to west as far as the eye could reach, and came on even faster than we could move. Still the dauntless hunter showed no signs of fear or intention of abandoning me, that he might insure his own safety. The love of life was strong within me, but I felt that it was almost unjust to allow him to risk his for the sake of saving mine. Away we went, scouring the prairie, the hunter urging on his steed with slackened rein and spur, and by word of mouth. Already I could hear the ominous crackling and hissing of the flames as they made their way over the long dry grass, and caught the bushes which here and there were scattered over the plain. Every now and then the hunter looked behind him. Nearer and nearer came the long line of fire and smoke; the sky overhead was darkened; the air was hot and stifling. Still he cheered on his steed. Fast as we went, the fire came faster. "On and on we galloped, the dense smoke surrounding us. I gasped for breath; already it seemed that the flames were close at the horse's heels. The animal appeared to know his danger as well as his rider, and sprang frantically forward. I saw no more. I only felt that the horse had made a desperate plunge, and soon afterwards there was the sound of water in my ears, and instead of the violent movements of the galloping horse I felt myself borne smoothly forward. Then I was lifted in the strong arms of the hunter and placed on the ground. I opened my eyes, and found myself seated on a narrow strand, on the opposite side of a river, with a high bank rising above my head. Across the stream the fire raged furiously, devouring the trees which fringed its shores; while close above our heads hung a black canopy of smoke, though a cool current of air, which blew up the stream, enabled me to breathe freely. The hunter, holding the bridle of his horse, was seated by my side. "`We have done it, friend,' he said. `I knew we should. It's not the first time I have had to ride for my life; but I never had a harder gallop, that I'll allow. The Dacotahs will have had a narrow escape if they managed to get clear. Let me look to your hurts. You are hungry, it may be.' "`Water, water,' were the only words I could utter. He produced a leathern cup from his ample pouch, and, filling it with water, poured the contents down my throat. I felt as if I could have drunk the stream dry, but he would give me no more. "`Wait a bit; you shall soon have another draught,' he said. `And now let me see to your hurts.' He brought more water, and having bathed my wounds, bound them skilfully up with a handkerchief which I fortunately had in my pocket. After I had taken another draught of water, I quickly began to revive under his careful treatment. When he thought that I had sufficiently recovered to be removed, he bore me up a bank, and then led his horse round another way up to where I lay. He carried me on till we reached a wood near a stream. Here, finding from my weak state that I was unable to travel further, he built a hut and tended me with the greatest care till I had recovered sufficiently to sit on horseback. He often, I found, deprived himself of food that I might be amply supplied. As soon as I was able to bear the journey he placed me on the horse, and walking by my side, we set out for the fort. We had many weary leagues to go, and frequently we fell in with traces of the savage and treacherous Sioux or Dacotahs, evidently out on expeditions against the Crees. Occasionally, to avoid our foes, we had to remain in concealment for several days together, and at other times it was necessary to halt while my companion went in search of game, and to obtain provisions. Ultimately, after many adventures, when he often exposed his own life to preserve mine, we reached the fort in safety. "Such was the commencement of my acquaintance with Michael Moggs, the old trapper. We have met occasionally since, but he has always refused to receive any recompense for the service he rendered me, declaring that he was deserving of none, as he would have done the same for any other white man who might have needed his assistance. I have vainly endeavoured to induce him to remain in the fort, or to take service with the company; but he invariably replies that he prefers the life of a free trapper, and that he will not bind himself to serve any master." "I wish we could induce him to stop with us, both for his own sake, and for that of his young son," observed Mrs Ramsay. "He is an intelligent youth, with a mind capable of cultivation. It is sad to see him so utterly ignorant of religious truth; and I fear that his strength will give way if he continues the hard life he has shared with his eccentric father. I cannot but think that the old man is greatly to blame for bringing him up as he has done." "We must hope for the best," said Mr Ramsay. "We have no right to hope unless we pray and strive, dear husband," said Mrs Ramsay. "God will hear our prayers, both for father and son. After the account you have just given me, I feel that we are doubly bound to pray for them. How greatly ought we to value that glorious privilege of prayer, which allows us sinful creatures, trusting to the all-cleansing blood of Jesus, to go boldly to the throne of grace, knowing that our petitions will be heard and granted by the all-pure, all-seeing, and all-just God, who does not look upon us as we are in ourselves, but as clothed with the righteousness of Christ. Let us pray this night that the dark mind of our poor friend may be enlightened, and that the Holy Spirit may bring home the truths of the gospel to that of his young son." "You are right; you are right, wife," said Mr Ramsay, taking her hand. "I have hitherto thought only how I could benefit his temporal condition. It did not occur to me how much more important it was to seek the good of his soul." Little did the old hunter think, as he was wandering across the snowy waste, that the hearts of friends were lifted up for him in prayer to that God from whom he had so long obstinately turned away; yet though we must be assured that God overhears the prayers of those who come to Him in His Son's name, He takes His own good time and way to answer the petitions he receives; and we must be prepared to wait patiently for the result, and not expect always to see it brought about in the manner we in our ignorance may have desired. CHAPTER FIVE. STOCK OF PROVISIONS AT THE FORT STILL FURTHER DECREASED--REPORTS OF SIOUX BEING IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD--PREPARATIONS FOR DEFENCE--CHILDREN'S AMUSEMENT OF "COASTING"--SIOUX SEEN IN THE DISTANCE--THE HUNTERS CAUGHT BY THEM--CAMP-FIRES OF INDIANS SEEN IN THE DISTANCE--FRESH BANDS JOIN THEM. The trials to which the inhabitants of the fort were exposed were becoming greater every day. The store of potatoes and other vegetables in the root-house, where they were secured from the frost, deep down below the surface, was rapidly lessening. Mr Ramsay had lately inspected the meat pit, in which the carcases of the buffaloes and other animals shot during the previous fall were preserved, and found it nearly empty. Meat is preserved in that region in a peculiar manner. A deep pit is dug, and while the frost is still in the air, and the snow covers the ground, all the animals killed are placed in it. The bottom is lined with a coating of snow beaten hard, and then a layer of meat is placed on it. On the top of this more snow is beaten, when an additional layer of meat is placed in the pit, and so on till the whole is full. It is then covered over with snow, and a thickly-thatched roof is erected over it. The meat-cellar, indeed, resembles an English ice-house. The meat thus remains in a fit condition to be eaten throughout the year. Fish is preserved in the same way. During the winter, however, the fish, when caught, become frozen, and can be kept in an open shed. This year, as we have said, in consequence of the early frost, but a small supply of fish had been caught. Mr Ramsay was looking out anxiously for the arrival of the expected supplies, but no news of their coming had yet readied him. The hunters had returned unsuccessful from the chase, and had again gone out with the intention of proceeding to a greater distance than before. News came also which caused the small remaining garrison some anxiety. It was reported that, contrary to their usual custom, for they seldom travel during winter, a large body of Sioux had been seen moving northward on a warlike expedition. Although their destination was unknown, it was feared, as they had long threatened to attack the fort, should they discover how small was its present garrison, and how greatly pressed for food, they might put their evil intentions into execution. Mr Ramsay accordingly made every preparation for defence in his power, and few as were the numbers with him, he hoped to repulse the foe. His fears were rather on account of the hunters scattered at a distance from each other, and who, should they fall into the hands of the Sioux, might be cut off in detail. To call them back was now impossible, as, should he send out to search for them, he would have had still further to lessen the number of defenders. Constant watch was kept day and night, and he determined, at all events, not to be taken by surprise. Meantime Laurence had greatly recovered his strength, and, clad in a warm fur dress, was able to move about, both inside and for a short distance outside the fort. The chief amusement of the younger portion of the inhabitants was "coasting," or sliding down the steep side of the hill on which the fort stood seated on small boards placed on runners, called "toboggins." Descending from the height, the impetus they gained carried them for a considerable distance over the level plain, till they were finally brought up by a heap of snow at the end of a long path they had thus formed. The toboggin was then drawn up to the top of the hill, when the young coaster again went sliding down, followed in succession by his companions, shouting and cheering with delight, especially when any of the toboggins went off the line, and their companions were half-buried in the heap of snow below. This amusement Laurence infinitely preferred to learning to read the books which Jeanie brought him, although she offered to be his instructress. He would sit, however, very patiently during the long winter evenings while she read to him. He told her frankly that the only books which interested him were those of adventures and hairbreadth escapes in various parts of the world. He listened attentively, however, when she read the Bible, but seemed far more interested in the narratives it contained than in any other portion. Its Divine truths had as yet, it seemed, made no impression on his mind. "Now, Jeanie, I have been a good boy, and listened with my ears open to all you have been reading about, and I think it is but fair that you in return should come and coast with me to-morrow," he said one day, after she had read to him for some time. "I have had a beautiful new toboggin made for you, and I am sure it will run faster and straighter than any in the fort." "I shall be very glad to come, if mamma will let me, though you are so very bad a scholar that you do not deserve to have your way," she answered. "If I promise to learn better in future, will you ask leave to come?" urged Laurence. "I should like to be able to read about the wonderful things you tell me of in your books." "If you promise, I'll ask mamma to let me do as you wish," answered Jeanie. "But, remember, God hears every word you say, and knows everything you think, and the promise made to me is really made to God, and it will grieve Him if you break it." "Oh, but I mean to keep my promise, though I cannot fancy that the Great Spirit cares for what a young boy like me may think or say," answered Lawrence. "Oh, yes, yes, He cares for young and old alike," exclaimed Jeanie. "He tells us that the very hairs of our head are numbered, and He knows every sparrow that falls to the ground. That is to make us understand that He is interested in all we think about, and in even the very smallest thing we do. It always makes me very happy when I reflect that God cares for me, and loves me even more than my father and mother can do, though they love me a great deal, because He is so much more powerful than they are, and He can help me and keep me out of temptation when I am inclined to be naughty, which they, with all their love and interest in me, cannot do." "I wish that I could think as you do, Jeanie," said Laurence. "I must try to do so, though; then you will ask your mamma's leave to come and coast on the new sleigh?" "Yes, I will ask her," said Jeanie. "And you must show that you are in earnest, by trying to say your alphabet this evening. You missed out a great many of the letters yesterday, and I felt ashamed of you." Laurence had hitherto made but very slow progress in his studies. His head and eyes ached, he said, whenever he looked at a book, though he really was anxious to learn for the sake of pleasing Jeanie. Mrs Ramsay did not object to allow Jeanie to try the new sleigh, and the next morning, accompanied by several other girls, she set out in high glee with Mrs Ramsay, who went to look on at the sport. Laurence carried the sleigh on his shoulders, a number of other boys being similarly provided. Proceeding round outside the fort, they soon reached the steep part of the hill. In another minute, a merry laughing party were gliding down the side, one after the other, with headlong speed, the impetus sending them several hundred yards over the smooth hard surface of the snow beyond. Laurence, who sat in front, guiding Jeanie's sleigh, was delighted to find that it went further than any of the others. Up the hill again they soon came, the boys carrying the sleighs, and the girls scrambling up by their sides. Laurence and Jeanie had coasted down the side of the hill, followed by their companions, and had been carried some distance from the fort, when they heard a shout from the watch-tower nearest them. It was repeated again and again in more urgent tones, calling them back to the fort. "What can it mean?" asked Jeanie. "We must go, at all events; and, see, there's mamma on the top of the hill beckoning to us." Laurence proposed to make another trip, saying he was sure there was no necessity to be in a hurry. "If we are called, we ought to go, we must go," said Jeanie. "It would be very wrong to delay a minute." Thus urged, Laurence took up the sleigh, and the whole party reached the top of the hill, where they found Mrs Ramsay, who told them to hurry back with her to the fort. On reaching the gate, they were informed that a large party of Indians had been seen in the far distance, and were still hovering just within sight of the fort. At first it was hoped that they were the hunters returning; but from their numbers and the way they were moving it was suspected that they must be a band of Sioux said to be out on a war-path, and that it was very probable they would attack the fort. The gates were accordingly shut, a drawbridge over a deep cutting in front of them was drawn up, arms and ammunition were placed on the platform inside the stockade, ready for use, and every other preparation made for the reception of the foe. Mr Ramsay urged his little garrison to fight bravely in defence of their wives and children, and the property committed to their charge. For some time the Indians had not approached nearer than when they were first seen, and hopes were entertained that they would not venture on an attack. Mr Ramsay had always endeavoured to avoid hostilities with the natives, and had on several occasions succeeded in gaining over and securing the friendship of those who came with the intention of attacking the fort. Under ordinary circumstances he would have felt confident, even should he be unable by diplomacy to pacify the Indians, of easily keeping them at bay, as the fort was sufficiently strong to resist any ordinary attack. Having, however, now but a very small garrison, and being hard pressed for provisions, he felt more anxious than usual as to the result should the fort be attacked; for of the savage character of the Sioux he had already had too much experience not to know the fearful cruelties they would practise should they gain the victory. He examined every part of the fort, and showed his men those points most likely to be assailed, and which it was necessary to guard with the greatest vigilance. It might, however, have damped their spirits had he told them of the scanty supply of provisions which remained. Still he hoped to hold out till the enemy were driven away, when the expected relief might arrive, or the hunters return with a supply of game. Mrs Ramsay was fully aware of the state of things. She had before been exposed to similar dangers. "We must not faint, dear husband," she said, "but continue to put our trust in God. He will relieve us if he thinks fit. At all events, let us have faith in His protecting love, and know that He does all for the best." Several hours passed by, and still the strange Indians did not approach. "There's a man coming towards the fort," shouted the look-out from the tower. "He drags himself but slowly over the snow, and appears to be wounded. He is one of our own people," added the sentinel, in a short time, "and seems to be signing to us to send him assistance." Mr Ramsay, on hearing this, despatched two of the garrison to bring in the wounded hunter. They lifted him along, looking every now and then behind, as if they expected to be followed. At length they arrived at the gate, but the poor fellow Jaques Venot, was so exhausted from loss of blood that he could not at first speak. On reviving, after his wounds had been bound up, and a cordial given him, he had a sad tale to tell. He and three other hunters were returning to the fort with the flesh of a moose and bear which they had shot, when they were set upon by a band of Sioux. His three companions were shot down, he himself being wounded and taken prisoner by them. Instead of killing him, they led him to their camp, as he supposed, that they might employ him to negotiate with the garrison, and gain their object without the danger of attacking the fort. They knew from experience that in such an exploit many of them would lose their lives. "I found that I was right in my conjectures," continued Jaques. "I was at once carried before the Sioux leader, who was holding a council of war with several other chiefs, and being placed in their midst, I was asked whether I preferred torture and death to life and liberty. I replied that if they chose to torture me they should see that I could surfer like a man, and that the hunters of the prairies always carried their lives in their hands; but as I had no wish to die, I should be glad to hear on what terms they offered me freedom." "`You choose wisely,' said the chief. `Tell us, then, what number of men defend the fort. Are they well armed? Have they a good supply of ammunition? Are there many women and children? And have they an abundance of provisions?'" "I smiled as the chief spoke. `You ask many questions,' I said, `but they are not difficult to answer. The fort is strong, and there are men enough within to defend it against twice the number of warriors I see around me, whose bones will whiten the prairie if they make the attempt. There are great guns which can send their shot nearly as far as this camp, and each man has as many rifles as he can fire, while the women and boys load them. As to provisions, the whites are not like the improvident red-skins, who gorge themselves with food one day and starve for many afterwards. I have spoken. What is it you would have me do?'" "The chiefs, on hearing my reply, consulted together. `Listen,' said their leader at length. `You will go back to the fort and persuade the white-skins within that we are their friends. We want shelter and food while the snow covers the ground; and if they give us that, we will go forth and fish and hunt for them, and bring them more peltries than they have ever before received in one season.' "`But if I fail to persuade them, I asked, wishing to learn the designs of the Sioux, what am I then to do?' "`You will try to win some of the people with such promises as you well know how to make. Tell them they will be received among us as friends, and that we will give them all that their hearts desire. Then wait till our warriors collect around the fort, and seek an opportunity at night to open the gates and admit us. You and those who will thus assist us will gain our friendship, and all you ask shall be given you.' "`The great Sioux chief speaks wise words,' I answered. `Let me go free, and I'll do your bidding. I have long served the white-skins, and it is time that I should seek new friends.' On hearing my reply the chief seemed satisfied. "`You shall go, then,' he said; `but remember, should you fail to carry out our wishes, you will learn that the Sioux know how to punish those who play them false.' On this the chief, bidding me hasten to the fort, ordered some of his braves to conduct me through the camp and let me go free. "The Sioux are very numerous," continued the hunter, "and there are not only warriors, but women and children among them. They have lately received a severe defeat from the Americans, and have been driven from their hunting-grounds, and have vowed vengeance against all white-skins and their friends. They are expecting the arrival of another large band, and I fear that they will fall in with the trails of the other hunters and cut them off. Even should our friends escape them, they will find it difficult to return to the fort." Laurence, who was present, listened eagerly to what Jaques said, and made several inquiries about the appearance of the Sioux chief and others of his followers. He said nothing, however, but for some time afterwards appeared lost in thought. Night came on. The garrison was kept constantly on the alert. In the far distance the camp-fires of the Indians could be seen blazing up near a wood, under shelter of which they had pitched their skin tents, and where, the snow being of less depth than on the open plain, their horses could more easily get at the grass below it. They on that account had probably chosen the spot, instead of camping nearer the fort. No one during the night was seen to approach, although any object might easily have been distinguished moving across the surrounding white field of snow. It was remarked, however, that the fires had increased in number since they had at first been lighted in the evening, and it was consequently surmised that a fresh body of Sioux had arrived. Frequently during the day Mr Ramsay anxiously looked out from the watch-tower towards the east, in the hopes of seeing the expected train with provisions. He feared, however, that it might be perceived by the Sioux before it could reach the fort. To prevent this, he sent out a couple of scouts to intercept the train, and lead it by a circuitous route to the north, where it could not be seen from the camp of the Sioux. The day went slowly by, and another night came on. Again the distant camp-fires were seen blazing up, showing that the savages had not abandoned their designs. What prevented them from at once attacking the fort it was difficult to say, unless they were better informed with regard to its scanty supply of provisions than Jaques had supposed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. In the markets in Canada, not only fish, but animals of all sorts, frozen hard, are brought for sale, and it is curious to see deer and hares and pigs standing in rows, like stuffed animals in a museum, on the market people's stalls; while fish are placed upright on their tails in the baskets, and look as if they were endeavouring to leap out of them. CHAPTER SIX. THE INDIANS BLOCKADE THE FORT--LAURENCE RECOGNISES THE SIOUX AS OLD FRIENDS--OBTAINS LEAVE TO GO OUT AND MEET THEM--INDUCES THE SIOUX CHIEF TO RETIRE--OBTAINS PRESENTS FOR THE INDIANS--ACCOMPANIES THEM--LAURENCE FINDS HIS OLD NURSE--LAURENCE BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FRIENDS AT THE FORT. Several days had passed by; the provision sleighs had not arrived; none of the hunters had returned to the fort; and already the garrison were feeling the pangs of hunger. Mr Ramsay had placed the people on the smallest possible allowance of food, and yet, on examining the remaining store, he found to his grief that it could not last many days longer. There were horses and cattle feeding in a sheltered valley some miles away, and had it not been for the besieging bands of Sioux, they might easily have been brought in; and unwilling as he would have been to kill them, they would have afforded an ample supply of food. The fort, however, was narrowly watched, and had any people been sent out to bring in the cattle, they would have been pursued and cut off, or had they succeeded, in getting away, they and the cattle would have been to a still greater certainty captured on their return. Mr Ramsay, therefore, unwilling to risk the lives of any of his people, resolved not to make the attempt till they were reduced to the last extremity. He feared, from the conduct of the Sioux, that they must have become acquainted with the condition of the fort, probably from one of the hunters, who, under torture, might have confessed the state of the case. The early part of the morning had passed quietly away, when a movement was observed in the camp of the Sioux. The white sheet of snow which intervened was soon clotted over with their dark forms as they advanced towards the fort in a long line, extending from east to west, the extreme ends moving at a more rapid rate than the rest, as if they purposed to surround it. On they came, increasing their speed as they drew near, shrieking, and shouting, and frantically brandishing their weapons. Their cries and gestures were terrific in the extreme. They seemed to be working themselves up into a fury, as if preparing to attack the fort, and to destroy the hapless defenders. Mr Ramsay again urged those under his command to die at their posts rather than yield, or to trust to any terms the savages might offer. Mrs Ramsay and her daughter, though pale from hunger, showed no signs of alarm. Their usual morning avocations having been performed, they sat together with the Bible before them, and then kneeling down, with calm confidence offered up their prayers for protection to that merciful God whom they well knew heard all their petitions. Laurence, now perfectly recovered, was on the platform, where most of the garrison were stationed. He there stood, with several guns by his side, prepared to fire on the advancing savages. Mr Ramsay had given orders that not a shot should be discharged till the last moment. Although the men had hitherto shown no lack of courage, when they saw the overwhelming numbers of the expected assailants some of them cried out that it would be impossible to defend the fort against their assaults. Mr Ramsay rebuked them severely, and charged them not again to express such an idea. Their courage, was, however, put to a great test; for the savages, rushing on, fired their rifles, sending showers of bullets rattling against the stockades. Happily, none of the defenders were struck. Still, not a shot was discharged in return, and the savages, surprised at this, instead of continuing to rush on, halted. They had now got so near that even their faces as well as their head-dress, by which the different tribes are distinguished, could clearly be discerned. Mr Ramsay, though unwilling to shed blood, was about to give the order to fire should they again advance, when Laurence exclaimed, "I know them. They are my friends. I am a child of their tribe. They love me; and if I go forth to them, they will listen to what I say." His whole manner seemed changed. As he spoke, his eye brightened. He looked a different being to the careless boy he had hitherto seemed. "How can you influence them, Laurence?" asked Mr Ramsay. "They are not likely to abandon their designs for anything you can say." "Oh, yes, yes, I am sure they will," answered Laurence. "Let me go forth at once. I'll tell them that you are my father's friend, that you preserved my life, and that, if they love me as they say, they must not hurt you or any of your people." "But I am afraid that they will shoot you before they know who you are," said Mr Ramsay. "Oh, I'll run the risk," exclaimed Laurence. "Let me go forth at once, before it is too late. I will tell them how unwilling you were to injure any of them, and that you are good and kind, and wish to be the red man's friend." Mr Ramsay, thinking that Laurence might be the means of preserving the fort, no longer opposed his proposal. Laurence, however, agreed to take a white flag in his hand, with the meaning of which most of the tribes accustomed to trade at the forts were well acquainted. Slipping out at a small postern gate, he let himself down into the trench unseen by the Sioux, and climbing up the opposite bank, the next instant was bounding down the slope of the hill, waving his flag. In a few minutes he had reached the chief who had led the assailants. He uttered a few words, and the next moment the savage warrior stood grasping his hands and gazing in his countenance. "My second father, though your child has long been away from you, he has not forgotten you," he exclaimed; "but he would ere this have been in the world of spirits had not the good white chief, commander of yonder fort, saved his life; and you cannot, knowing this, desire to injure his kind friends. No, my father; you and my brothers promised to be the friend of your son's friends. I knew you even afar off, and my heart yearned towards you, and I felt sure that you would listen to my prayers. You know not the power and generosity of my white friends. Even at this moment their far-reaching guns are pointed towards you, and had they desired to take your life, they would have fired and laid you and many of my brothers low." Laurence continued for some minutes in the same strain. The chief seemed troubled. He was unwilling to lose the booty he expected to find in the fort, at the same time that he remembered his promise to his adopted son, and was struck also by what he had said about his white friends. Laurence thus went on eloquently to plead his cause; at the same time, he took care not to acknowledge how unable the garrison were to hold out much longer. "You have conquered, my son," exclaimed the chief. "I will speak to your brothers; your friends should be our friends. Had blood been shed, our people would have been unwilling to listen to my counsels; but now all will be well. Show the flag you carry, that no one may fire at us as we retire. We will return to our camp, and you will there see many who will welcome you joyfully again among them." Laurence, rejoiced at the success of his mission, stood waving his flag, while the Sioux retired from around the fort. He then quickly followed, and overtook the chief. Inquiries were made for his father, who had been received into the tribe and long resided among them. Laurence replied that he hoped he would soon return, and that he was sure he would be well pleased to hear that they had refrained from injuring his white friends. On reaching the camp, Laurence was received with warm greetings from his red-skinned brothers and sisters, for he was looked on as a brother by all the tribe. He soon found his way to a lodge in which was seated an old woman with shrivelled features, her long white locks hanging down over her skeleton-like shoulders. No sooner did she see him than, uttering a wild shriek of delight, she seized him in her withered arms, and pressed him to her heart. "My child!" she exclaimed; "and you at length have come back to visit the mother who has been yearning for long years to see you; and you have not forgotten her?" "No, indeed," answered Laurence; "from the day my white father took me away I have ever thought of you, and recollected the happy times I passed under your care." "You have come, then, once more to be a brother of our people!" exclaimed his old nurse. "You will not go away again; but you will stay and live in our lodges, and grow up and become a brave hunter of the buffalo and moose, and gladden the eyes of one who loves you better than any white mother." "I have white friends who love me, and have treated me kindly; I should be loath not to see them again. And there is my white father, who may come for me, and I am bound to follow him," answered Laurence. "Your white friends and your white father cannot care for you as we do. Your heart cannot be so hardened towards those who brought you up as to wish again to quit them." Much more his old nurse said in the same strain. Laurence thought of all the kindness he had received from Mrs Ramsay. He was very unwilling also to part from little Jeanie; but old feelings revived within him, the new principles which he had of late heard in the fort had taken no strong hold of him, and he became once more the wild Indian boy of former years. The chief sent for him, and used further powerful arguments to induce him to remain. Laurence at length promised to continue with his old friends, unless his father should claim him; but he begged first to be allowed to go back to the fort to bid farewell to his white friends. The wily Sioux had had no intention of losing altogether the share of the prized articles which he supposed the fort to contain. He consented, therefore, to allow Laurence to return, on condition that he would obtain from the white chief, as he called Mr Ramsay, a certain number of guns, ammunition, blankets, knives, and numerous other things which he named. "If he sends them, we will be his friends; but if not, we shall know that he looks upon us as enemies, and we will take by force what we now only ask as a gift." Laurence, accompanied by a small band of Sioux, set out as the bearer of this message to the fort. The Indians remained outside while he made his way to the gates. He was welcomed warmly by Mr Ramsay. He was thankful to find that the train with the provisions had arrived, and that several of the hunters had also made their way round by the north into the fort, with two bears and several deer and other animals. Mr Ramsay, notwithstanding this, wishing to establish, if possible, friendly relations with the Sioux, agreed to send the articles the chief demanded as a gift, though he still thought it prudent not to put himself or any of his people in their power. "You and your red-skinned friends who have come with you shall, therefore, convey them to the chief, and you will then return and remain with us. I wish to show you how much I value the service you have rendered us; for had the Sioux assailed the fort--as not only had the provisions, but our ammunition run short--they very probably would have entered and put every one within to death." Laurence hung down his head. "I should like to remain, sir," he said, "but I have promised to return, and live with the Sioux, unless my father comes for me. I am at home with them, and know all their ways, and shall become some day, so they say, a great chief among them." "Their ways, I fear, are bad ways," said Mr Ramsay. "And though I cannot tell you to break your promise, you will, I am sure, some day grieve bitterly that you made it. However, go in and see Mrs Ramsay and Jeanie. You would not wish to go without bidding them farewell." "I dare not face them; they might make my heart melt," answered Laurence, doubting his own resolution; but Mr Ramsay led him to the house. Jeanie burst into tears when she heard of his intentions. "Oh, Laurence, and can you, after you have heard about Jesus, have been told of His love, and how He wishes you to be ready to go and live with Him for ever and ever, in glory and happiness, again go back to dwell among heathen savages, who do all sorts of things contrary to His will, merely for the sake of enjoying what you call liberty for a few short years, and thus risk the loss of your soul?" said Mrs Ramsay, taking him kindly by the hand. "The Sioux, in their dark ignorance, may wish you well, so far as this world is concerned, though the life they would induce you to lead is full of danger and hardships; but here you have friends, who desire not only to benefit your mind and body, but to show you how you may obtain blessings which no earthly power can take away, and which will endure throughout eternity. Think of that, Laurence. Would you barter your soul for the sake of a few years of wild excitement, and what you suppose to be enjoyment, and die as a poor ignorant savage, forgetting God and His mercy and loving-kindness, as shown to us in giving His Son to die for our sins, that we may be received again as favoured children, to live with Him in unspeakable happiness for ever and ever?" "But if I become a warrior, and die bravely fighting, I shall go to the happy hunting-grounds with my Indian friends," answered Laurence. It was too evident that all which had been said to the poor lad had fallen upon barren ground. Laurence was still a heathen. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE LIFE OF LAURENCE AMONG THE INDIANS--SHOOTING THE BUFFALO--THE HUNTERS' CAMP AND FEAST--LAURENCE IN THE WOOD--THE SIOUX HUNTERS SHOT BY CREES--LAURENCE LIES CONCEALED--HIS FIRST PRAYER--PASSES A FEARFUL NIGHT--HIS ENCAMPMENT ATTACKED BY WOLVES--JOURNEY OVER THE SNOW--FALLS INTO A SNOW-DRIFT. Laurence was once more with his Indian friends. They were delighted with the presents they had received, and he found himself treated with respect and attention by all the tribe. A horse and arms were provided for him; he was clothed in a dress of skins, ornamented with feathers and beads, and was looked upon as the son of their chief. Still he could not forget the kindness he had received at the fort, and he very often regretted that he had been persuaded by the Sioux to abandon his white friends. Mr Ramsay would, he knew, inform his father where he had gone, should he return to the fort. He sometimes hoped that the old trapper would come and claim him, although the life he was compelled to lead with him was even harder and more full of danger than his present existence with the Sioux. The tribe had moved to a considerable distance from the fort, where they again took up their winter quarters. Hence they sent out parties of hunters to capture buffalo, which, in small herds, pasture, even while the snow lies on the ground, by digging beneath it to reach the dry grass. Laurence, whose mind was ill at ease, endeavoured to banish thought by joining on every opportunity these expeditions. They were, he knew, full of danger. Sometimes the powerful buffalo would turn on their assailants, and broken limbs and wounds, and not unfrequently death, was the consequence. Snow storms might come on, and before the shelter of a wood could be gained horses and men might be overwhelmed. They were also on the borders of the country of the Crees, the deadly enemies of the Sioux, who would without fail put to death any who might fall into their hands. In the summer, when large herds of buffaloes appear, the hunters, on swift horses, and armed with rifle, or bows and sharp arrows, gallop fearlessly in among them, shooting them down, again managing dexterously to extricate themselves from amid the concourse of animals. Sometimes also a large enclosure is formed with a narrow entrance, and having a road lined with trees leading to it, broad at the outer end, and gradually decreasing in width towards the mouth of the pound. The hunters, forming a wide semicircle in the distance, drive the animals towards it, while people with flags stationed on either side of the road prevent the buffalo breaking through, which are thus induced to rush on till they become entrapped in the pound, where they are shot down with bullets or arrows. In the winter, however, buffaloes can only be approached by stalking, the hunter creeping cautiously on till he gets within range of his victim. Sometimes also a cruel stratagem is employed. Laurence had gone out with three hunters on horseback. They had proceeded a considerable distance without meeting any animals; still, eager to obtain some meat, of which the camp was greatly in want, they pushed onwards. At length they descried, in the far distance to the north, several buffalo feeding near the banks of a broad stream. As they approached, they discovered that they were cows, and had two young buffaloes among them. The wary animals had espied them, and were making slowly off. Each of the hunters carried on his saddle the skin of an animal with the hair on. Laurence had that of a young buffalo calf, as also had one of the others, while the remaining two were provided with skins of wolves. Securing their horses to some trees near the banks of the river, the hunters covered their backs with the skins. Trailing their rifles along the ground, Laurence and his companion with the calf skin cautiously crept towards the buffalo, while the men in wolves' clothing followed at a distance. As they advanced, the animals stopped to watch them, uncertain what they were. Thus they were enabled to make their way towards the generally cautious monsters of the prairie. The seeming wolves now crept on at faster speed, when the buffaloes, believing that some of their young were in danger of destruction from the savage foes they were accustomed to dread, dashed forward to rescue them. The wolves now hastened on, and made as if they were about to spring on the calves. As the buffaloes rushed up, the hunters sprang to their feet, and firing at the heads of the confiding and faithful animals, brought three of them to the ground. The rest, astonished at finding themselves face to face with human foes, turning round, bellowing with rage, galloped away. The unfortunate animals were quickly despatched with the hunters' knives. The bodies were then dragged by the horses to the wood which bordered the stream. As much of the meat as the horses could carry was then packed, ready to be transported to the camp the following morning, while the remainder was hung up on the higher branches of the neighbouring trees. The hunters next lighted a fire, putting up a screen of birch bark to keep off the wind, while they sat down to regale themselves on the humps and other prize portions of the animals. Here, while their horses were left to pick up their food from beneath the snow, the hardy hunters purposed, without seek any other shelter, to pass the night. The sky had been for some time overcast, and snow began to fall heavily; but their fire blazed up brightly, and as they sat close round it, enjoying its warmth, they cared little for the thick flakes which passed by them. Steak after steak of the buffalo meat disappeared, as they sat eating and boasting of their deeds of war and the chase, and fully giving themselves up to savage enjoyment. Laurence listened to their tales, wondering whether he should ever perform similar brave deeds. Unaccustomed for so long to the ways of his wild companions, he had soon satisfied his hunger, and in spite of the fire, feeling the cold severely, he had gone a short distance into the wood to bring some large pieces of birch-bark with which he could form an additional shelter for himself, by putting up a small wigwam. Having found the pieces of bark, he was on the point of returning when the sharp report of several rifles rang through the air, and looking towards the fire, he saw two of his companions stretched on the ground, while the other was in vain struggling to rise. A fierce yell followed, and directly afterwards the light of the fire fell on a party of Cree warriors, who came springing out of the darkness towards the spot. He stopped to see no more, but, urged by the instinct of self-preservation, he made his way through the wood till he reached a thick mass of bushes, into the midst of which he threw himself, in the hopes that he might escape the search of the savages. He lay there, expecting every instant to be discovered, and put to death. He could hear the shouts of the victors as they hastily partook of the feast prepared by those they had slaughtered, and having caught their horses, loaded them with the buffalo meat. He judged by the sounds of their voices that his enemies were moving from the spot; and as they got further and further away, he began to entertain the hope of escape. Still fearing that they might come back, he dared not move. He felt very cold and wretched, yet the horror of the scene he had witnessed kept him from going to sleep. Poor Laurence, as he lay there almost frozen to death, not for the first time perhaps repented of his folly in having quitted the protection of his kind friends in the fort. The recollection, too, of the many things Mrs Ramsay and Jeanie had said to him came back to his mind. "I wonder if I was to pray to the great God they told me of, He would take care of me, and lead me back to them," he thought. "They told me He hears prayers, and would listen to those which so careless and foolish a boy as I have been may make to Him; but then they said I must pray through Jesus Christ; that He is good and merciful, and loves me, and died for me too. I am sure they spoke the truth, for they would not deceive me; and so I'll pray through Jesus Christ, and ask God to protect me; for I am sure I shall never get back to the camp of the Sioux by myself without my horse, and that, of course, the Crees have carried off." Poor Laurence did pray with all his heart, ignorant half-heathen that he was in many respects. He soon fell asleep, and the snow came down and nearly covered up the bushes among which he lay. He awoke at length, finding a thick canopy over him, which, had he not been well clothed in furs, would probably have formed his shroud. He easily made his way out. The spot where the fire had been was covered with snow. He could distinguish the bodies of his companions beneath it, but he dared not disturb them. Some of the buffalo meat which the Crees had not discovered still hung on the trees; he loaded himself with as much as he could carry, and then hastened away from the fatal spot. At first he thought of attempting to reach the camp of the Sioux, but it was a long distance off, and all the tracks had disappeared. So had those of the Crees. Should they be on the watch for their enemies, he would very probably fall into their hands. Then, again, the desire to be once more with his friends at the fort came strong upon him; but how could he hope to reach it across miles and miles of snow? It was somewhere away to the north-east, that was all he knew; and although the son was gaining power when the sky was bright, the wind often blew bitterly cold at night. Yet to stay where he was would be certain death, and so the hardy boy, making up his mind to try and reach the fort, and trusting to his strength and courage, began his hazardous journey. He had lived among the Indians long enough to learn something of their cunning; and as he went along he stripped off from his dress all the ornaments and other signs which might show that they had been manufactured by the Sioux, and hid them away in a hole beneath the snow. He had a tinder-box and powder-horn in his pouch, so that he was able to light a fire. As night approached, he made his way towards a wood, near the bank of a stream, where he could procure fuel. Here he built himself a hut with birch-bark, banking it up thickly with snow. He had not forgotten the fate of his companions on the previous night; but he hoped that the Crees were by this time far away, and he knew that, without a fire, he should run the risk of being destroyed by wolves prowling about. He therefore made it inside the hut, where it was also well sheltered from the wind, and he hoped that the light would not be seen at a distance; his chief fear was that, should he sleep too long it might go out. Closing the entrance of his hut with a sheet of bark, he made up his fire, and sat down to sup on a piece of meat which he cooked before it. There was but little space in his hut to allow him to go to sleep without the risk of burning his clothes, though he had drawn himself as far away from it as he could, and leaned back against the wall of the hut. Fatigue at length, however, overcame his desire to keep on the alert. He was awoke by hearing a wild howling around him: he knew the sound full well; it was that of a pack of wolves. His fire had almost gone out; he hurriedly scraped the embers together, and drew in from the front of the hut some fuel which he had kept in store. The voices of the wolves came nearer and nearer. He had just time to light a bundle of sticks when he heard the savage animals close to his hut. He boldly went out and waved his torch around, shouting and shrieking with all his might. The wolves, alarmed at the sudden glare of the light and the sound of a human voice, took to flight. He once more closed the entrance of his hut and sat down. It did not occur to him that it was his duty to return thanks to God for his deliverance. He fancied that it was his cleverness and boldness that had saved him. He had been ready to ask that unknown Great Spirit to preserve him. How many daily receive blessings from the Giver of all good, and yet ungratefully forget to acknowledge them and refuse to do His will! Fear of the wolves prevented Laurence from sleeping soundly, and he started up constantly, expecting to hear their savage howlings. Daylight came at last, and he once more pushed forward over the snow. He had cooked a piece of buffalo meat, which he ate beneath the shelter of a bank, when he saw the sun high in the sky. It restored his strength for a time; but as night again approached he felt far more weary than on the previous day. He built a hut as before, and lighted a fire, and scarcely had he eaten his supper before he dropped off to sleep. He awoke, feeling very cold, though somewhat refreshed; and great was his surprise to find the sun already high in the sky. He had been preserved from danger during the hours of darkness; but, alas! he did not kneel down to pray, but thought only that it was very fortunate the wolves had not come near him, and he hoped to have the same good luck, so he called it, the next night. "I daresay I shall be able to reach the fort, notwithstanding my fears, in a few days," he said to himself. "I must try to avoid the Crees, though; but I fancy that I am clever enough to do that." He trudged bravely on, hour after hour. The sky was clear, and the sun enabled him to direct his course with tolerable accuracy. Still his feet, inured though he was to fatigue, felt very weary, and he longed to arrive at the end of his journey. Sometimes he regretted that he had not tried to make his way to the Sioux camp; he might have reached it sooner. No wood was in sight, where he might build his hut and light a fire as usual for the night. He gnawed, as he walked on, a piece of the hard frozen meat, a small portion of which now only remained. Still he was afraid to stop. A level plain, covered with snow, lay before him; he looked around in vain for some sheltering hill or wood. The sun was sinking low on his left. He must try, before darkness set in, to make his way across that wide plain. He did his utmost to exert his remaining strength. Darkness at last came on. He fancied he could distinguish a wood and a range of hills in the distance. He would make a desperate effort to reach it. Suddenly he found himself sinking in the snow. He struggled to get out, but sank lower and lower. He had fallen into a gully or water-course, now filled up by drift-snow. At length, finding his efforts vain, he gave himself up for lost, every moment expecting that the snow wreath would overwhelm him. As he lay there, he could see the stars come out and shine brightly over his head, and thus he knew that there was an opening above him; but he was afraid to move lest he might bring the snow down upon his head. Sheltered from the wind, he felt tolerably warm, and at last, in spite of his perilous position, he fell fast asleep. CHAPTER EIGHT. LAURENCE IN THE SNOW--DISCOVERED BY CREES--RESCUED--CONVEYED TO THE CHIEF'S TENT--KINDNESS OF THE OLD CHIEF--ESCORTED TO THE FORT--FEARS AS TO HIS RECEPTION--KINDLY WELCOMED BY MR. RAMSAY--LAURENCE AGAIN FALLS SICK--MRS. RAMSAY EXPLAINS THE GOSPEL TO HIM--LAURENCE BEGINS TO UNDERSTAND IT. Daylight came again. Laurence, on opening his eyes, found himself surrounded by a high wall of snow. He was hungry, but he had consumed every particle of food. His strength was almost gone. He somewhat assuaged his thirst by eating a little snow, though that gave him but momentary relief. Again he made an attempt to get out, hoping by beating down the snow to form steps in the side of the wall up which he might climb, but the snow came sliding down in vast masses upon him, and by the time he had struggled out of it he felt so weak that he was unable to make any further effort. With a cry of despair he fell back on the heap which had been formed by the snow slipping down, and out of which he had just made his way. For some minutes he was unconscious. Then the barking of dogs once more aroused him. The sound of human voices struck his ear. He listened with breathless anxiety to hear the language they spoke. They drew near. "I am lost if they find me," he said to himself. "They are Crees." Directly afterwards, several dogs poked their noses over the edge of the pit and barked to attract the attention of their masters. He waited, expecting in a few minutes to be put to death. Then, casting his eyes upwards, he saw the faces of two savages looking down upon him. He knew them at once to be Crees. He tried to speak--not to ask their pity, for that he believed would be useless, but, after the Indian fashion, to dare them to do their worst. His tongue, however, refused its office. Presently he saw them beginning to scrape away the snow; and as they commenced at the top, they were soon able to form some rough steps in the side of the pit, down which one of them descended. Laurence closed his eyes, expecting to have the scalp cut from his head. Instead of that the Cree lifted him in his arms, and, with the assistance of his companion, soon brought him to the surface. Making a wide circuit, to avoid the gully, together they bore him across the plain. They were directing their course towards some lodges which were erected close to a wood, and under the shelter of a high hill. On reviving, Laurence found himself in a large roomy hut, by the side of a fire, near which sat a tall Indian somewhat advanced in years. A squaw was chafing his feet, while another, bending over the fire, was cooking a mess of broth. She soon came round to him, and poured some of the warm mixture down his throat, which greatly revived him. He tried to sit up, but again fell back on the pile of skins on which his head had been resting. "Do not try to move, young pale face," said the chief. "Your strength has gone for a while, but the Great Spirit will soon restore it. You shall then tell me whence you come, and how you happened to be where my sons found you. We are friends of the pale faces, and would gladly aid you to the best of our power." These words greatly revived Laurence's spirits. The chief, however, insisted on not letting him speak until he had taken some rest. The kind squaw had put on his feet some warm dry socks, and then began chafing his hands, and in a short time he again fell asleep. When Laurence awoke there was no one in the tent. This gave him time to consider what he should say. He would speak truly, and tell the Cree chief that he wished to make his way to the fort, and would be grateful to him if he would assist him in reaching it. He soon found, however, when he attempted to rise, that he was utterly unable to do so. The chief smiled when he heard his account. "You speak but partly the truth," he said. "Still, you are a pale face, and I regard the pale faces with affection. When you are restored to strength I'll conduct you thither; for it is some way off, and unaided, without horses, or weapons to defend yourself or obtain food, you would not have been able to find your way there. I know with whom you have been, though you have pulled off the ornaments. That dress was manufactured by the Sioux. However, though you were foolish to consort with such people, you are wisely making your escape from them. So speak no more about it." Laurence felt ashamed of himself at having been so easily detected. He at once acknowledged that the chief was right in his conjectures. For several days he was kept in the tent of the friendly chief, and treated by his squaws as if he had been a son. When he had sufficiently recovered to sit on horseback, the chief, covering him with a thick cloak of furs, set out with a party of his people towards the fort. Even although they formed a strong party, as it was possible that bands of Sioux might attack them, scouts were sent out in all directions to feel their way as they advanced. In what a wretched state is man who knows not God, and loves not the Saviour! Instead of peace, goodwill, and friendly intercourse existing in that savage land, every man's hand is against his neighbour, and in each stranger he expects to find a foe. The party, however, reached the neighbourhood of the fort without meeting any enemies. Laurence had left his friends, proud of his recovered strength, and fancying that he was about to enjoy the liberty of a savage life. He was now returning sick and weak, and a feeling of shame and doubt of the reception he might meet with stole over him. He kept behind the chief and his party, and hung down his head as they drew near the gates. They were recognised from the fort, and several of the garrison came out to give them a friendly greeting. The old chief related how his sons had found and rescued the white-skin boy, and Laurence was brought forward just as Mr Ramsay, followed by his wife and daughter, appeared from their house. Jeanie recognised him in a moment, and running forward, took his hand, exclaiming, "Oh, Laurence, is it you? I am so glad you have come back. We all thought harm would befall you among those savage Sioux. You look pale and ill. Oh papa! mamma! it is Laurence," she added, looking towards her parents, who were advancing. Laurence was silent. It was so long since he had spoken English that he could not for some seconds find words to express himself. Mr Ramsay warmly shook him by the hand, and his wife welcomed him with the same cordiality, while not a syllable of reproach did they utter. "He does indeed look ill," said Mrs Ramsay. "Come to the house, my poor boy," she said. "Your old room shall be prepared for you, and you can tell us all that has happened by-and-by." Laurence burst into tears. The reception he met with was so different from what he had expected that it overcame him. He had borne up during the journey, but his strength now gave way; and he required almost the same attention and care that he had before received. "I was indeed wicked and foolish in choosing to go and live with my old savage friends, instead of remaining with you, good Christian people, who are so kind to me," he said at length to Mrs Ramsay, as she sat by his bedside. "Can you forgive me?" "Yes, indeed we can; and we are very thankful that you have been brought back to us," she answered. "God himself shows that we ought to receive those who have done wrong when they repent and desire to return to the right way. He himself in His mercy is always thus ready to receive repentant sinners who desire to be reconciled to Him. I'll read to you the parable of the prodigal son, and you will then understand how God the Father, as He in His goodness allows us to call Him, receives all His children who come back to Him, acknowledging their sins and transgressions. He not only does this, but He has pointed out a way by which the sinner can be reconciled to Him, and have all his sins completely blotted out, or put out of remembrance and done away with. That way is by simple faith in the atoning blood of Jesus; in other words, God desires us to believe that Jesus, His own well-beloved Son, pure and holy and sinless, became man, and was punished by death on the cross instead of us; and thus His justice, which can by no means overlook or forgive sin, is perfectly satisfied with that punishment, and He considers the debt we owe Him fully paid. Can you understand this, Laurence?" "I will try to do so," answered the boy. "But I do not understand it yet." "Then you must pray for the aid of God's Holy Spirit to enable you to understand it; for He alone has the power of doing that. All that one person can do for others is simply to explain the truth to them, and to read God's Word to them, or urge them to read it if they can. You, Laurence, must learn to read it without delay." "Oh, yes, I will try now," he said, "if you and Jeanie will teach me. I was very idle before." "That we will gladly," answered Mrs Ramsay. "But, recollect, you must not only try to read, but you must ask God's Holy Spirit to enable you to understand it also. It is not sufficient to know that Christ died on the cross to reconcile sinners to God; but you must believe that He died for you, and to reconcile you to God; for without that, whatever you may do or profess, you are still in your sins, an outcast from God, and deserving, as you will assuredly receive, punishment for your sins." "Tell me, Mrs Ramsay, how am I to believe that Christ died for me? I feel that I am wicked, and very unlike what you, and Mr Ramsay, and Jeanie are, who are Christians; but I cannot think that the Son of God should have suffered death for a poor miserable boy like me." "It's very simple. God does not give us a very difficult task," answered Mrs Ramsay. "All He requires of us is to take Him at His word: `God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' You understand, Laurence, that God does not say, only people who have have been generally well behaved, and are supposed to be good, but _whosoever_, which includes every human being, however bad and abandoned they may have been. The prodigal son had been very ungrateful and very wicked, but his father received him as soon as he came back. That parable was told by Christ himself, to show that His Father in heaven gladly receives all sinners returning to Him. When God says, `He so loved the world,' He means the people in the world, and we know that the world lies in wickedness. Oh, trust God, for He is loving and merciful, and without doubt or fear accept His offers of reconciliation." CHAPTER NINE. ARRIVAL OF MR. MARTIN, THE MISSIONARY--HE PREACHES THE GOSPEL TO THE INDIANS--LAURENCE LISTENS WITH ATTENTION--LEARNS MORE OF THE TRUTH, AND EXPRESSES HIS WISH TO MAKE IT KNOWN TO OTHERS--THE SPRING RETURNS. A keen, strong wind was blowing, driving the heavy snow which fell in small sharp flakes over the ground, when, one evening shortly after the arrival of Laurence, a dog sleigh was seen approaching the fort. The sleigh, which was simply a narrow board turned up in front, a slight iron frame forming the sides and back, and lined with buffalo skins, was drawn by six dogs, harnessed two and two, while the driver ran behind, with a long whip guiding the animals. On it came, in spite of the snow storm, at rapid speed, for the sagacious dogs knew that they had nearly reached the end of their journey. The traveller, who had faced the dangers of a long journey over the trackless wintry waste, was welcomed by Mr Ramsay, who conducted him to the house. Some time elapsed, however, before he could venture near a fire, after the bitter cold to which he had been exposed. "We have been long looking for you, Mr Martin," said Mrs Ramsay, as she came out to greet him; "and thank Heaven that you have arrived in safety." "We should thank the God of heaven and earth for all the blessings we receive," answered Mr Martin, who was the missionary Mrs Ramsay had been so anxious should come to form a station near the fort. "I shall be amply repaid if I am permitted to win souls to Christ in this neighbourhood." "It will be a hard task, for they are deeply sunk in heathen ignorance," observed Mr Ramsay. "An impossible task, if man alone were to engage in it," said Mr Martin. "Man, however, is but the humble instrument; God the Holy Spirit is the active agent, and with Him nothing is impossible. Let us labour on, confident in that glorious fact; and whatever may appear in the way, we may be sure that the victory will be won, not by us, but by Him, who is all-powerful." Such was the faith in which the new missionary commenced his labours among the savage Crees of the woods and plains who frequented the neighbourhood of the fort. The glad tidings of salvation by faith in the blood of the Lamb, shed for sinful man, sounded strange in their ears. Strange, too, it seemed to them, when they were told of His great love, which made Him willingly yield himself up as an all-atoning sacrifice of His abounding goodwill; and stranger still seemed His law, that man should not only love his neighbours himself, but should love his enemies; should do good to those who despitefully use and abuse him, and should willingly forgive all who offend him, as he hopes to be forgiven by God for his offences. Among his most earnest hearers on the first day he preached the gospel to the Indians assembled in the fort was young Laurence. He had sufficiently recovered to leave the house, though he was now always unwilling to be absent from it longer than he could help. All the time he was within doors he was endeavouring to learn to read that wonderful Book, which God in His mercy has given to man, that he may know His will and understand His dealings with mankind. Laurence, however, as yet had made little progress in reading, but he could listen to Jeanie and her mother read to him without ever growing weary. Still as yet his mind did not comprehend many of the more glorious truths, and he held to the idea that he himself had some great work to do, to merit the love of God and the glory of Heaven. He asked Mr Martin how he was to set about the work. "I want to be very good," he said, "and to do something with which God will be highly pleased, and then I am sure I shall go to heaven when I die." "My dear young friend," answered Mr Martin, "had you read the Bible, you would have found that `there are none that do good, no, not one;' and that `God came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' God will certainly be well pleased with you, not from any good works which you can do, but simply if you banish all thoughts of your own merits, and put faith in His well-beloved Son; then He will assuredly fulfil His promise to make you heir with Him of eternal life, and receive you into that glorious heaven he has prepared for all those who love Him." "But I am afraid, sir, that I can never have faith enough or love enough to satisfy God." "You certainly, my young friend, can never have too much faith or too much love," said Mr Martin. "But God does not say that He will measure our faith or our love, or our sorrow for sin, but He simply tells us to take him at His word, to show our love by our obedience; and then Jesus Christ tells us what He would have all those who love Him to do, namely, to follow His example--to make known His Gospel among those who do not know it. Have you read the account of the thief on the cross?" "I have heard it," said Laurence. "Jeanie read it to me yesterday." "Did it not occur to you that, when Christ told that dying thief that he should be with Him in paradise, it was not on account of his burning faith, still less because he had performed any works, or because of obedience, but simply because he believed that He who hung like himself on the cross was the Messiah who should come into the world to die for sinful men. But though He saves all who come to Him, simply if they will but trust Him, He desires these to remain in the world, as He desired His disciples, to make His Gospel known among their companions, to tell them what great things the Lord has done for their souls; while to some He gives the command to go forth with the glad tidings throughout all lands; and thus He has put it into my heart, and enabled me to come here to win souls for Him." Day after day Laurence listened to these and other glorious truths which Mr Martin unfolded to him from God's Word, and when the missionary was otherwise engaged, Jeanie or Mrs Ramsay read to him, or assisted him in learning to read. He felt himself becoming, as he was indeed, a new creature; his old habits of thought were passing away. He wondered sometimes how he could have thought as he had done. "Ah, then I was in darkness," he said to himself. "I knew nothing of the love of God I knew not how sinful I was, and how He hates sin, though He loves the sinner. I knew not that God is so pure and holy that even the heavens are not clean in His sight; and I had no idea how sinful sin is, how contrary in every way to God. I had little thought that God, my loving Father, would hear the prayers of so wicked, wayward a child as I was, and as I am indeed still, if left to myself in my own nakedness; but I know now that He does not look at me as I am in myself, but as I am clothed with Christ's righteousness. Trusting in Him, I am no longer naked, but dressed in His pure and spotless robe, at which God will alone look when I offer up my prayers; and that, for the sake of His son, He listens to all who are thus clothed. Oh how thankful I ought to be that God has made known these joyous things to me!" When, some days afterwards, Laurence expressed the same thoughts to Mr Martin, the missionary replied, "Now these things are yours, can you be so selfish as not to desire to make them known to others?" "Oh, indeed, I do wish to make them known," exclaimed Laurence. "I should like to tell every one I meet of them, and to go forth and find people to whom to tell them." "Before you do that, you must prepare yourself, you must be armed for the battle you will have to fight; for a severe battle it is, and you will find Satan, the great enemy to the truth, ever ready to oppose you. The thought of this, however, will stimulate you to make the necessary preparations, by study and prayer; and I trust, Laurence, that some day God will employ you as His missionary among the savage Indians of this long-benighted land." CHAPTER TEN. LAURENCE LEARNS WHAT IT IS TO BE A CHRISTIAN--GETS LEAVE TO SET OUT IN SEARCH OF HIS FATHER--STARTS ON AN EXPEDITION WITH PETER, A CHRISTIAN CREE--DISCOVERS TWO OF MICHAEL'S TRAPS--A PARTY OF BLACKFEET--BLACKFEET WOUND OLD MICHAEL--BLACKFEET CAPTURED--LAURENCE GOES TO HIS FATHER'S ASSISTANCE--PETER PREACHES TO THE BLACKFEET, AND INVITES THEM TO THE FORT--THE BLACKFEET SET AT LIBERTY--HEARING LAURENCE EXPLAIN THE GOSPEL TO HIM--LAURENCE CONVEYS THE OLD TRAPPER TO THE FORT--NARRATES TO MR. MARTIN HIS FORMER LIFE--MR. MARTIN TELLS HIM THAT THE QUEEN HAS PARDONED HIM--THE OLD TRAPPER AT LENGTH BELIEVES THE TRUTH--RETURNS WITH LAURENCE TO CANADA--LAURENCE RESTORED TO HIS PARENTS--REVISITS THE FORT AS A MISSIONARY. Spring was now advancing. Laurence was anxiously looking out for the return of his father. He would, at all events, have longed to see him; but his desire to do so was greatly increased by his wish to impart to him a knowledge of the glorious truths he himself possessed. Having learned the priceless value of his own soul, he could now appreciate that of others. Laurence's faith was simple, and he enjoyed a clear view of the gospel truth. From every Indian who came to the fort he made inquiries for the old trapper, who was known to many of them. At length several brought tidings of his death. Laurence refused to believe them; and when Mr Ramsay came to cross-question his visitors, he found that they had only heard the report from others. Laurence, therefore, begged that he might be allowed to go out and search for the old man. "I know all his haunts so well," he said, "that I am sure I shall find him better than any one else; he may be sick in some distant place, and unable to come as he promised." So earnestly did he plead that Mr Ramsay, hoping that his old friend might still be alive, could no longer refuse to let him go. A Cree who had become a Christian, and was named Peter, offered to accompany him; and Laurence thankfully accepted his assistance. The only provision they took with them was a good supply of pemmican; but they had an abundance of ammunition, knowing that they might depend for their support on the animals they might shoot. "You will come back, Laurence, when you have found your father?" said Jeanie, as, with tears in her eyes, she wished him good-bye. "If God spares me, and I have the means to do so, I will come back, whether I find him or not; I promise you that," answered Laurence. "That object alone would have induced me to quit the fort. I have no longer any wish to roam or lead the wild life of a trapper; and when I return, my great desire will be to go on with the study of that blessed Book which you first taught me to read and love." "I taught you to read it, but God's Holy Spirit could alone have taught you to love it," answered Jeanie. Laurence and Peter, followed by the prayers of many in the fort, set out on their expedition. The appearance of the country was now completely changed from the stern aspect it had worn but a few weeks before. Trees and shrubs were clothed with a livery of green of varied hues, the grass was springing up in rich luxuriance, and flowers exhibited their gem-like tints in the valleys and woods; full streams flowed with rapid currents, sparkling along; numberless birds flew through the air, swarmed on the lakes, or perched on the boughs of the forest-trees. Laurence led the way towards the spot where he and his father had concealed their traps before they set out to visit the fort, believing that old Michael would to a certainty have visited them, and hoping to find some traces beyond showing the direction he had afterwards taken. Peter agreed with him that this was the best course to pursue. The journey would take them many days. Although so long a time had elapsed, from habit Laurence recollected the various landmarks, and was able to direct his course with great accuracy. They arrived at length at the spot where the white wolf-skin had been concealed. It was gone; and from the tracks near it, which an Indian alone would have observed, Peter was of opinion that Michael must have removed it. On they went, therefore, over hill and dale, camping at night by the side of a fire, the warm weather enabling them to dispense with any shelter, towards the next spot where the wolf traps had been concealed. These also had been taken, and Peter found the tree to which the old man had tied his horse while he fastened them on their backs. They soon reached the wood within which Laurence had assisted to hide the beaver traps. They also had been removed. "Now I know that my father intended to begin trapping as soon as the spring commenced," observed Laurence. "See, he took his way onward through the wood towards the north, instead of returning by the road he came." Laurence and Peter's keen eyes easily distinguished the twigs which the horses had broken as the old trapper led them through the wood. Probably he intended to spend the remainder of the winter in a wigwam by himself, as he often had done, or else in the lodges of some friendly Crees. Laurence and Peter now went confidently on, expecting before long to meet with further traces of the old trapper. The borders of all the neighbouring lakes and streams were visited, but no signs of his having trapped there were discovered. Many leagues were passed over, till at last an Indian village was reached. It consisted not of neat cottages, but of birch-bark wigwams of a sugar-loaf form, on the banks of a stream, a few patches of Indian corn and some small tobacco plantations being the only signs of cultivation around; fish sported in the river; and the wild animals of the forest afforded the inhabitants the chief means of subsistence. They welcomed the travellers. Peter was of their tribe. They gave them tidings of old Michael. He had been seen to pass just before the snow had begun to melt in the warmer valleys. Peter did not fail to tell his red-skinned brothers of the wonderful tidings the white-face missionary at the fort had brought. "The great God of the white-faces loves us as much as He does them," he exclaimed. "He wishes us to go and dwell with Him in a far better land than the happy hunting-grounds we have hitherto heard of. He says that we are wicked, and deserve punishment; but He has allowed another, His own well-beloved Son, to be punished instead of us; and all He wants us to do is to believe that His dutiful and well-beloved Son was so punished, and to follow the example which He set while He was on earth." "These are wise things you tell us," cried several of the Crees; "but how do you know that it is so?" "Because it is all written in a book which He has given to us. He sends His Holy Spirit to all who seek for His aid to understand that book." Laurence assured the Crees that he had thought us they then did a short time ago, but that now he knew that all Peter said was true. So earnestly did Peter plead the cause of the gospel, that many of the Crees promised to visit the fort, to hear from the missionary himself further on the subject. Several of the inhabitants offered to accompany Laurence and his friends to assist them in their search, and to spread the strange tidings they had heard among others of their tribe whom they might fall in with. For several days they journeyed on, lakes and streams being visited as before. At last they found a broken trap. Laurence, on examining it, decided that it belonged to his father. Still he must have gone further to the west. Laurence began to fear that he might have wandered into a part of the country frequented by Blackfeet and Peigans, among the most savage tribes of the Sioux. "He is friendly with many of the Sioux, among whom, indeed, I was brought up," observed Laurence, "and fears none of them. Still, I know how treacherous many of them are; and he may, I fear, have fallen into their power. This will account for his not returning to the fort." "He may, however, have escaped them, and be still trapping about here, as it is a rich country for the beaver," observed Peter. "We may then hope ere long to find him." The party now advanced more cautiously than before. They had certain proof that old Michael was in the neighbourhood; for Laurence discovered, by the side of a beaver pond, another of his father's traps. Why it was deserted he could not tell. Peter was of opinion that he had hurried away from the spot, probably on account of the appearance of enemies, and had been unable to return. This increased Laurence's anxiety. They now advanced according to Indian custom, concealing themselves behind every bush and rock, and climbing each height or tall tree whence they could obtain a view of the surrounding country. It was towards evening, and they were looking out for a sheltered place for their camp. Peter had gone to the summit of a hill and gazed around for the purpose mentioned, when he came hurrying down. "There are Blackfeet at the further end of the valley," he said, "and by their movements they are evidently watching for some one. If it is your father, we have no time to lose. We outnumber them, and may hope easily to come off victorious." "Oh, let us not delay a moment, or we may be too late to save him," exclaimed Laurence; and they and their allies pushed on as before in the direction where Peter had seen the Blackfeet. By carefully keeping among the thick underwood and trees they hoped to take their enemies by surprise. "Remember, my friends," said Laurence, "that though we conquer them, we are to endeavour to spare their lives, and by no means to injure them." With stealthy steps Laurence and his friends advanced towards the Blackfeet, of whom they now discovered there were but five, while his party numbered eight. They were so eager in tracking whatever they were in pursuit of that, notwithstanding their usual wariness, they did not discover the approach of Laurence and the Crees. Presently the Blackfeet were seen to draw their bows, and several arrows winged their flight through the air. At the same time Laurence caught sight of the figure of a man, who sprang up from where he had been seated near a fire to seek shelter behind a rock, firing his rifle as he did so. Laurence recognised his father, and to his horror saw that two arrows had pierced his body. The moment he fired, one of the Blackfeet fell to the ground. The old man stood as if uninjured, calmly reloading his weapon; while the Indians, with their bows ready drawn to shoot should he reappear, sprang towards the thick trunks of some neighbouring trees to escape his fire. They were thus separated from each other, and brought nearer to where Laurence and his party lay concealed. Peter now made a sign to his companions, and in a few bounds they were up to the Blackfeet, who, thus taken unawares, were pinioned and brought to the ground before they could turn round and shoot their arrows or draw their hatchets from their belts. Laurence, leaving his companions to guard their prisoners, who, expecting instant death, had assumed that stoic indifference of which Indians boast, hastened to the assistance of his father. He shouted as he ran, "Father, father, I am coming to you." The old man, who had sunk on one knee, with rifle ready prepared to fight to the last, fortunately recognised his voice. "What have become of the Blackfeet, boy?" were his first words. "I saw the Crees spring from under cover to attack them. Have they killed the treacherous vermin?" "No, father," answered Laurence. "Our friends made them prisoners. We will spare their lives, and pray God to soften their hearts." "What is that you say?" asked Michael. "The Crees will surely kill them, and take their scalps, unless they wish to carry them to their lodges, that their wives and children may torture them as they deserve. But I feel faint, Laurence; their arrows have made some ugly wounds in my flesh; help me to get them out." Laurence saw with grief that his father was indeed badly hurt; and as he supported him, he shouted to Peter to come to his assistance. Peter, having helped to secure their prisoners, soon appeared. The old trapper, notwithstanding his hardihood, had fainted from pain and loss of blood. Peter's first care was to extricate the arrows, which, though they had inflicted severe injuries, had mercifully not reached any vital part. He and Laurence then, having bound up his wounds, carried him to his little wigwam, which stood close by. Within it were a large supply of skins, several traps, and articles for camp use, to obtain which probably the treacherous Blackfeet had attacked old Michael. In the meadow hard by his horses were also found. Laurence sat by his side, supporting his head, and moistening his parched lips. He soon sufficiently recovered to speak. "I was about to return, Laurence," he said, "but I wished to bring a good amount of skins to pay for your charges, should you wish to remain longer at the fort, and learn the ways of the white man; or if not, to fit you out, that you might come back and trap with me. We might have had some pleasant days again together, boy; but had you and our friends not appeared the moment you did, the Blackfeet would have put an end to all my plans." "Father," said Laurence, "I never wished to desert you; but it would have been a sore trial to me to leave the fort; and if God in His mercy spares your life, I pray that you may return there with me, and that we may employ our time in a better way than in trapping beaver." "No, no! God cannot have mercy on such a one as I am," groaned Michael; "and it's hard to say whether I shall ever get back to the fort." "Oh, but God is a God of love and mercy," cried Laurence. "He delights in showing mercy and forgiveness. You must hear what Mr Martin, the missionary, will tell you about Him; then I am sure you will wish to stop and hear more, and to serve and love Him." Peter now came back with the old trapper's horses to the camp, near to which his friends had dragged their prisoners. He had had much difficulty in persuading the Crees not to put to death the Blackfeet. He had still a harder task to perform. "Friends," he said, "according to Indian custom you might kill them; but I have learned a new law, which is just and true--given me by an all-powerful, kind, and merciful Master, who commands His servants to forgive their enemies, and to do good to those who injure them. Our prisoners were doing a wicked thing, and have been severely punished, for one of their number lies dead. I would that he were alive again, that he might hear what I have to say. I must pray you, therefore, to let these men go. We will take their arms, that they may do us no further injury; but we will give them food, that they may return to their friends, to tell them about the love of our great Father; that He desires all His children to serve Him, and to be at peace with each other." Peter then, in a simple way, suited to the comprehension of his hearers, unfolded to them the gospel plan of salvation. The Blackfeet listened with astonished ears, and could scarcely believe the fact that they were allowed to go free and uninjured. Peter then invited them to the fort, and promised to receive them as friends, and to tell them more of the wonderful things of which he had spoken. The coals of fire which he heaped on their heads appeared really to have softened their hearts. Having, with the assistance of the Crees, buried their companion, by Peter's desire their arms were unbound, and they were set at liberty. Uttering expressions of gratitude such as rarely fall from an Indian's lips, they took their departure, promising ere long to pay him a visit at the fort. A night's rest sufficiently restored old Michael to enable him to commence his journey on one of the horses to the fort, while the other carried his peltries and traps. Laurence walked all the way at the head of his steed, endeavouring by his conversation to keep up the spirits of his father, and never failing, at every opportunity, to introduce the subject nearest his heart. The old man listened to what he said; but he seldom made any answer. He offered, however, no opposition to his remarks. Frequently Laurence feared that he would sink from the effects of his wounds; but his life was mercifully preserved, and at length the fort was reached. There was sincere rejoicing as Laurence was seen leading his father's horse up to the gate. The old trapper was carried into Mr Ramsay's house, and there received that watchful care he so greatly needed. He gradually recovered his strength. One of his first visitors was Mr Martin. His object, as may be supposed, was not to talk of temporal affairs, but to unfold to him, as he perceived that his mind was capable of comprehending it, God's merciful plan of salvation. The old man's heart, unlike that of his young son, appeared so hardened and seared, from having long rejected Divine truth, that some people might have given up the attempt in despair; but Mr Martin had too much knowledge of the human heart, and too firm a faith of the all-powerful influence of God the Holy Spirit, to relax his efforts. From no idle curiosity, he endeavoured to draw from Michael some account of his early life. He was, he found, an Englishman, and that he had been for some time married and settled in Canada, when he had joined the rebellion which broke out many years ago against the authority of the British Government. Having acted as a leader in some of the more desperate enterprises in which a few of the misguided inhabitants engaged at that time, a price was set on his head. He escaped, however, to the wilds of the Far West, where, both from inclination and necessity, he had taken to the pursuit of a trapper. He quickly learned the language both of the Crees and Sioux, and other tribes among whom he wandered. He gained their confidence and friendship;--he believed, indeed, that he could lead them to any purpose he might entertain, and all sorts of wild plans passed through his mind. One enterprise he was, unfortunately, able to carry out. One of his daughters had married a gentleman of some property who had been a firm adherent of the Government, and Moggs had, in consequence, conceived a bitter hatred against him, which time in no way had lessened. Several years passed by, when he heard that his daughter had a son, then about four years of age; and he formed the barbarous idea of carrying off the child. He had little difficulty in obtaining the assistance of a band of Indians; and, disguising himself as one of them, he led an attack on the place, and succeeded too well in his nefarious project. As the country was in a disturbed state at the time, the attack was supposed to have been instigated by American sympathisers, and the real culprit was not suspected. Making good his retreat, he did not stop till he had got many hundred miles away from the borders of Canada; and believing that he might still be traced, he placed the child under charge of an old squaw belonging to a tribe of Sioux, with whom he had formed a friendship. Strangely inconsistent as it would seem, an affection for the boy grew up in his hard heart; and in time, oppressed with the solitary life he had doomed himself to lead, he determined to make him his companion in his trapping expeditions. "Has no remorse ever visited you?" asked Mr Martin, when the old man had finished his narrative. "Yes, sometimes my thoughts have been terrible," groaned Michael. "Then pray God that it may be a repentance to salvation not to be repented of. With regard, however, to your temporal affairs, my friend, I can assure you that, through the clemency of the Queen of England, all the rebels in Canada at the time you speak of have been forgiven." "Ah, sir," exclaimed Michael Moggs, "the Queen may have forgiven some, but she cannot have forgiven me. You must, I am sure, be mistaken." "But, my friend, if I can show you her proclamation, in which she declares that she overlooks and pardons all those rebellious subjects who rose against her authority, and allows those who have fled the country to return under her rule, would you then believe me?" "I suppose I could not help it," said Michael. "Let me see the paper." Mr Martin went to his room, and returned with the document he spoke of. "I have preserved it," he said, "for I am pleased with the gracious terras in which it is couched." Old Michael read the paper with intense interest. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "I can no longer doubt the fact. Had I not kept away from those who knew of this, I might long ago have been enjoying the comforts and pleasures of the home I abandoned, and have again become a member of civilised society." "Then, my friend, if an earthly sovereign can be so merciful and gracious, do you suppose that the King of Heaven, who has so wonderfully manifested his love to man, is less merciful and gracious in forgiving those who sin against Him?" said Mr Martin, feeling the importance of not allowing so practical an illustration of the great truth to pass unemployed. "Here is God's proclamation to sinful, rebellious man," he added, lifting his Bible before the eyes of the old trapper. "He declares in this--not once, but over and over again--that He forgives, freely and fully all who come to Him; that their sins and iniquities are blotted out and remembered no more; that `though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool;' that His pardon is a free gift, without money and without price! You have seen the Queen's proclamation, and you believe it, and you know that you may return to your home with perfect safety, provided you take back your grandson, and restore him to his long-bereaved parents. That they will forgive and welcome you I know; for they belong to Christ's flock, and I am well acquainted with them. Now, my friend, let me entreat you to believe God's proclamation, to trust to the gracious plan He has designed, whereby you can obtain free pardon, perfect reconciliation, and life eternal." "But can He ever pardon such a wretch as I am? Oh! tell me, sir, what shall I do to be saved?" "I'll answer, as Paul answered the jailor at Philippi, who was, we have reason to believe, a cruel and bad man, or he was very unlike others in his occupation in those days: `Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' Paul, who certainly knew what God requires, did not tell him to go and do anything, he was simply to believe with a living faith. That, my friend, is all you have to do; and, be assured, the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, will be yours; and however you may bewail the effects of your sins, still you will know that they are all put out of God's remembrance; for He sees you not as you are, but clothed with the righteousness of Christ, with the white spotless robes of the Lamb." Many days passed by, and at length the old trapper could say with confidence, as he clasped the hand of the missionary, "I rejoice in the blood of my risen Saviour." Young Laurence had long before been able to say the same. They together soon afterwards set out for Canada. Mr Martin had not wrongly estimated the character of his Christian friends. While they rejoiced at the return of their long-lost son, they truly heaped coals of fire on the head of the old man by their kindness and attention. A few years afterwards he died, in perfect peace, in their midst. Laurence's thoughts had ever been fixed on the far-off fort and its beloved inmates. He made rapid progress in his studies, and with the entire concurrence of his parents, at an early age he returned to act as a Catechist under Mr Martin. He was soon placed in a more important position, when Jeanie Ramsay became the devoted sharer of his labours in making known the unspeakable goodness of Christ to the red men of the woods and prairies. 
21694	----	THE PRAIRIE CHIEF, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE ALARM. Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies. Though not a chief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the estimation of his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which are highly esteemed among all savages--such as courage, strength, agility, and the like--he was a deep thinker, and held speculative views in regard to the Great Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary affairs of life, which perplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and induced the younger men to look on him as a profound mystery. Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost to veneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the most fearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of the northern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modest and retiring--never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the principle of revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a duty, and refused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the scalp-locks of his enemies. Indeed he had been known to allow more than one enemy to escape from his hand in time of war when he might easily have killed him. Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his fellows, and much beloved by many of them. The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of a ptarmigan. Hence his name. This symbol of purity was bound to his forehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of the porcupine. It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name was an Indian word signifying "light heart." But let it not be supposed that Lightheart's head was like her heart. On the contrary, she had a good sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, and raillery among her female friends, would listen with unflagging patience, and profound solemnity, to her lover's soliloquies in reference to things past, present, and to come. One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women as mere slaves or inferior creatures. His own mother, a wrinkled, brown old thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with a tenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom have a tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish rather than be burdened with them. Whitewing also thought that his betrothed was fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was not far wrong. At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to the Indian camp of Lightheart's tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose of claiming his bride. His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warrior Bald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance from the camp referred to. There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time. One was a Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with a longing desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to the red men of the prairie. The other was a nondescript little white trapper, who may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions. He was small in stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in the face, and misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweet smile, a hearty manner, and a kindly disposition. With the courage of the lion, Little Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of the monkey and the laziness of the sloth. Strange to say, Tim and Whitewing were bosom friends, although they differed in opinion on most things. "The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day," said the Indian, referring to the missionary's intention to preach, as he and Little Tim concluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been allotted to them. "It's little I cares for that," replied Tim curtly, as he lighted the pipe with which he always wound up every meal. Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being probably unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as nearly as possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough Backwoods' style of the other. "It seems strange to me," returned the Indian, "that my white brother thinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks much of his gun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, but cares not for Manitou, who gave him all these--all that he possesses." "Look 'ee here, Whitewing," returned the trapper, in his matter-of-fact way, "there's nothing strange about it. I see you, and I see my gun and these other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't know nothin' about Manitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o' thinkin' about him?" Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up into the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the wigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subdued but earnest tones, "I see him in the clouds--in the sun, and moon, and stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the singing waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him here." Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's face. "But," he continued sadly, "I do not understand him, he whispers so softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder why this is so." "Ay, that's just it, Whitewing," said the trapper. "We can't make it out nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o' thing to the parsons, and give my mind to the things that I understand." "When Little Tim was a very small boy," said the Indian, after a few minutes' meditation, "did he understand how to trap the beaver and the martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzly bear?" "Of course not," returned the trapper; "seems to me that that's a foolish question." "But," continued the Indian, "you came to know it at last?" "I should just think I did," returned the trapper, a look of self-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the celebrity as a hunter to which he had attained. "It took me a goodish while, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be--well, you know what, an' I'm not fond o' blowin' my own trumpet." "Yes; you came to it at last," repeated Whitewing, "by giving your mind to things that at first you _did not understand_." "Come, come, my friend," said Little Tim, with a laugh; "I'm no match for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't understand Manitou, an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no use tryin'." "What my friend knows not, another may tell him," said Whitewing. "The white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from him. Three times I have listened to his words. They seem the words of truth. I go again to-day to hear his message." The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose. "Well, well," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "I'll go too, though I'm afeared it won't be o' much use." The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those who listen. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merely to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirring incidents which followed. Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of Jesus to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready to believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For the benefit of the former, he had this day chosen the text, "Let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus." Whitewing had been much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring, was also very sceptical. It was not that he would not--but that he could not-- receive anything unless _convinced_. With a strong thirst after truth, he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix his attention. Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: "It is the Spirit that quickeneth." The text itself also made a profound impression on him. The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in prayer, when a shout was heard in the distance. It came from a man who was seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperate haste of one who runs for his life. All was at once commotion. The men sprang up, and, while some went out to meet the runner, others seized their weapons. In a few seconds a young man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst into their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he was one of that old chief's braves, and was hasting to give his tribe timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or beg them to send on a fresh messenger. "_I_ will go," said Whitewing, on hearing this; "and my horse is ready." He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where his steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so as to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion. He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well the red man's staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised to see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually excited. "Whitewing is anxious," he said, as they ran together. "The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle's camp," was the brief reply. "Oho!" thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friend to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart. For some time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ. "Now," thought he, "I know it." "Little Tim will go with me?" asked the Indian, as they turned into the hollow where the horses had been left. "Ay, Whitewing," answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm; "Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as--" An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got rid of their hobbles and galloped away. A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would _run_ home. Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundred yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up. "Pooh! It's useless," he exclaimed. "I might as well run after a streak o' greased lightnin'. Well, well, women have much to answer for! Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that? It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the nags." While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away. Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the distance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently--so much so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few moments to rest. While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one utterly worn out, part of the missionary's text flashed into his mind: "the race that is set before us." "Surely," he murmured, looking up, "this race is set before me. The object is good. It is my duty as well as my desire." The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his young blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the race had only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell, producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil. Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement in the pace, and the night was now closing in. This however mattered not, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve guard with the sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely in thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat down. This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while running, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself to consider it, and the word "patience" arrested his attention. "Let us run with patience," he thought. "I have not been patient. But the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was the whole race of life. Well, if so, _this_ is part of that race, and it _is_ set before me. Patience! patience! I will try." With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly. For some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of his race his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well the rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing the exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reach the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The very thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down altogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he was on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt that the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank upon the turf. It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the preacher's text came to his mind: "looking unto Jesus." Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviour with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him. He was roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses' hoofs. The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hid behind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw horsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could not make out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might be his friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should turn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe be sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better than remaining helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry. It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the bridle. "Well, now, this is good luck," cried the trapper, as he rode up. "No," replied the Indian gravely, "it is not _luck_." "Well, as to that, I don't much care what you call it--but get up. Why, what's wrong wi' you?" "The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount." "Well, now I come to think of it," said the trapper, as he sprang to the ground, "you have come a tremendous way--a most awful long way--in an uncommon short time. A fellow don't think o' that when he's mounted, ye see. There now," he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, "off we go. But there's no need to overdrive the cattle; we'll be there in good time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh." Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico. Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the break of day. The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength rapidly as they advanced. "There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here," murmured the Indian. "No, all safe!" replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain below. CHAPTER TWO. THE SURPRISE AND COMBAT. How frequently that "slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is observed in the affairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronounced the words "All safe," when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloud of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between the wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on its westward side. The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although Bald Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy. Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up, and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even time to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in the midst of the village. The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is not our purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to say here that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too much for their enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive them back towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled together in terror. Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were galloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance on the part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallop straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as they sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who, observing the look, said:-- "I'm with 'ee, Whitewing, niver fear." "Does my brother know that we ride to death?" asked the Indian in an earnest tone. "Yer brother don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied the trapper, "and, considerin' your natur', I'd have expected ye to think that Manitou might have some hand in the matter." "The white man speaks wisely," returned the chief, accepting the reproof with a humbled look. "We go in His strength." And once again the latter part of the preacher's text seemed to shoot through the Indian's brain like a flash of light--"looking unto Jesus." Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in action. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and, having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to speak. He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its utmost speed, for every moment of time was precious. The said hunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It had been presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in saving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extreme danger. It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore some resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans. "It'll do some execution before I go down," thought Tim, as he regarded the bright blade with an earnest look. But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day. In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which had concealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast as possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the combatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts and yells of battle. For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him. His companion's horse was also nearly unmanageable. "My brother's voice is strong. Let him use it well," said the chief abruptly. "Ay, ay," replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; "go ahead, my boy. I'll give it out fit to bu'st the bellows." Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on his prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe. Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it intensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatants heard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards them with furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death. The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a band just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken in rear. A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim repeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he styled his "little carving-knife." The Blackfeet turned and fled right and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups, as being the best way of baffling pursuit. With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle's men yelled and gave chase. Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back. At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said-- "My braves, you are a parcel of fools." Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh and appreciate the compliment, he continued-- "You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases the leaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim-- whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knife is biggest of all--have come to our rescue _alone_. Whitewing tells me there is no one at their backs. If our foes discover their mistake, they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour on themselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on _our_ heads, and overwhelm us by their numbers--for who can withstand numbers? They will scatter us like small dust before the hurricane. Waugh!" The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed "Waugh!" by which they meant to express entire approval of his sentiments. "Now it is my counsel," he continued, "that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we should all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say." Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose. There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the young chief on this occasion. "Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom," he said, stretching forth his right hand, "has told you the truth, yet not quite the truth. He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I have come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone. It is true that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitou behind us--in front--around? It was Manitou who sent us here, and it was He who gave us the victory." Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes directly to their Creator. "And now," he continued, "as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore take up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Our band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends, and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without delay." The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief address, and the old chief again rose up. "My braves," he said, "have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun stands there." He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky. As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure. "Follow me," said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief. "Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her," said Tim, with something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly through the camp. "Well, well," soliloquised the trapper as he followed, "I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind. He's or'narily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you've much to answer for!" Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's steed. Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily read. With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog. "I say, Whitewing," whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval--for Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend's welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty--"I say, is that her?" Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend. "Is that _her_--_the_ girl, you know?" said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning. "She is my sister--Brighteyes," replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work. "Whew!" whistled the trapper. "Well, well," he murmured in an undertone, "you're on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life'll turn up soon enough, no doubt. But I'm real sorry for the old 'un," he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. "She'll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin' o' the nags 'ud shake her old bones a'most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewing'll niver do that. I know him better. Now then"--aloud--"have ye anything more for me to do?" "Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses." "Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes." With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam. Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief's reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity. "Mother," he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, "we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?" "I am always ready to do the bidding of my son," replied this pattern mother. "But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones." "The young ones can take care of themselves," replied the chief somewhat sternly. "We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to live as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Often you have carried me when I could not ride." It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language, and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at once. The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition was not favourably received, began to obey her son's directions by throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet, wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the wood fire, and awaited her son's pleasure. Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight carried into effect. "We're all ready," said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam. "Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an' a lot o' youngsters lookin' after them. All you want now is to get hold o' her, and be off; an' the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don't take long to get over scares an' find out mistakes. But I'm most troubled about the old woman. She'll niver be able to stand it." To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised, having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable. "Is my horse at hand?" asked Whitewing. "Ay, down by the creek, all ready." "And my brother's horse?" "Ready too, at the same place; but we'll want another good 'un--for _her_, you know," said Tim suggestively. "Let the horses be brought to my wigwam," returned Whitewing, either not understanding or disregarding the last remark. The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before the door, holding the bridles of the two horses. Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him. "Ha! that's it at last. The horse for _her_," said the trapper to himself with some satisfaction; "I knowed that Whitewing would have everything straight--even though he _is_ in a raither stumped condition just now." As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the door. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his own mind, set aside for "_her_," and vaulted into the saddle as a young deer might have done, had it taken to riding. Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the scent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin curtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a bundle in his arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted his somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware--from certain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the folds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his arms! "I say, Whitewing," he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle, which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, "most of the camp has started. In quarter of an hour or so there'll be none left. Don't 'ee think it's about time to look after _her_?" Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression--a look which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was riding through the half-deserted camp beside him. "Now, Whitewing," said the trapper, with some decision of tone and manner, "I'm quite as able as you are to carry that old critter. If you'll make her over to me, you'll be better able to look after _her_, you know. Eh?" "My brother speaks strangely to-day," replied the chief. "His words are hidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by `_her_'?" "Well, well, now, ye are slow," answered Tim; "I wouldn't ha' believed that anything short o' scalpin' could ha' took away yer wits like that. Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to 'ee than life." "That woman is here," replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glance down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast--"my mother." "Whew!" whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed. For the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had been thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, he was no better than a "squawkin' babby." But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have been after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother, maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyes over the rolling prairie. CHAPTER THREE. THE MASSACRE AND THE CHASE. The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale. The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the road, or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which effectually concealed the village from their sight. At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the surprise at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time reduced him to silence. Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a little in advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he accosted him thus-- "I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle you are to me. I thowt I'd got about at the bottom o' all yer notions an' ways by this time, but I find that I'm mistaken." As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was understood and appreciated. "One thing that throws me off the scent," continued Little Tim, "is the way you Injins have got o' holdin' yer tongues, so that a feller can't make out what yer minds are after. Why don't you speak? why ain't you more commoonicative?" "The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in silence," answered Whitewing gravely. "They leave it to their women and white brothers to chatter out all their minds." "Humph! The children o' the prairie ain't complimentary to their white brothers," returned the trapper. "Mayhap yer right. Some of us do talk a leetle too much. It's a way we've got o' lettin' off the steam. I'm afeard I'd bust sometimes if I didn't let my feelin's off through my mouth. But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on wrong tracks when there's no need to. Didn't I think, now, that you was after a young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw--and after all it turned out to be your mother!" "My white brother sometimes makes mistakes," quietly remarked the Indian. "True; but your white brother wouldn't have made the mistake if ye had told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad grizzly wi' its pups in danger. Didn't I go tearin' after you neck and crop as if I was a boy o' sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin' ye in a love affair?" "It _was_ a love affair," said the Indian quietly. "True, but not the sort o' thing that I thowt it was." "Would you have refused to help me if you had known better?" demanded Whitewing somewhat sharply. "Nay, I won't say that," returned Tim, "for I hold that a woman's a woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an' I'd scorn the man as would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the wrinkled old critter _is_ your mother, I've got a sneakin' sort o' fondness for her; but if I'd only known, a deal o' what they call romance would ha' bin took out o' the little spree." "Then it is well that my brother did not know." To this the trapper merely replied, "Humph!" After a few minutes he resumed in a more confidential tone-- "But I say, Whitewing, has it niver entered into your head to take to yourself a wife? A man's always the better of havin' a female companion to consult with an' talk over things, you know, as well as to make his moccasins and leggin's." "Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?" asked the Indian quickly. "Ha! that's a fair slap in the face," said Tim, with a laugh, "but there may be reasons for that, you see. Gals ain't always as willin' as they should be; sometimes they don't know a good man when they see him. Besides, I ain't too old yet, though p'raps some of 'em thinks me raither short for a husband. Come now, don't keep yer old comrade in the dark. Haven't ye got a notion o' some young woman in partikler?" "Yes," replied the Indian gravely. "Jist so; I thowt as much," returned the trapper, with a tone and look of satisfaction. "What may her name be?" "Lightheart." "Ay? Lightheart. A good name--specially if she takes after it, as I've no doubt she do. An' what tribe does--" The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept out of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly beheld the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a smoking ruin. It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had ridden so far and so fast to join their friends. And how shall we speak of the state of poor Whitewing's feelings? No sound escaped his compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark eyes, as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left arm, he grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed. Little Tim was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in his right hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close behind. The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but Whitewing's sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up with the men of war. The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed terrible. Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning, and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful massacre that had so recently taken place. It was evident that the camp had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were spared had been carried off into slavery. In every direction outside the camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had fallen in unavailing defence of home. The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound silence, because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those who had been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to restrain and hide their feelings. Only the compressed lip, the heaving bosom, the expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires that raged within. In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble, tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing. It need scarcely be said that the young chief acted with vigour. He with the trapper having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party--evidently a different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle's camp--and ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his tribe. Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to protect the women and children. Having made his dispositions and given his orders, Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance on the enemy's trail; followed by his faithful friend. Reining up suddenly, he said-- "What does my brother counsel?" "Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer own devices. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and know what's best." "Manitou knows what is best," said the Indian solemnly. "He directs all. But His ways are very dark. Whitewing cannot understand them." "Still, we must act, you know," suggested the trapper. "Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it may be that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of the white man." "Well, I don't know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice, whatever it's worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in front and rear at the same time, and that you and I should go out in advance to scout." "Good," said the Indian; "my plan is so arranged." Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper exclaiming, "Hold on? here's some one coming after us." A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp. It turned out to be Brighteyes. "What brings my sister?" demanded Whitewing. The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany them. Her brother sternly refused. "It is not woman's part to fight," he said. "True, but woman sometimes helps the fighter," replied the girl, not venturing to raise her eyes. "Go," returned Whitewing. "Time may not be foolishly wasted. The old ones and the children need thy care." Without a word Brighteyes turned her horse's head towards the camp, and was about to ride humbly away when Little Tim interfered. "Hold on, girl! I say, Whitewing, she's not so far wrong. Many a time has woman rendered good service in warfare. She's well mounted, and might ride back with a message or something o' that sort. You'd better let her come." "She may come," said Whitewing, and next moment he was bounding over the prairie at the full speed of his fiery steed, closely followed by Little Tim and Brighteyes. That same night, at a late hour, a band of savage warriors entered a thicket on the slopes of one of those hills on the western prairies which form what are sometimes termed the spurs of the Rocky Mountains, though there was little sign of the great mountain range itself, which was still distant several days' march from the spot. A group of wearied women and children, some riding, some on foot, accompanied the band. It was that which had so recently destroyed the Indian village. They had pushed on with their prisoners and booty as far and as fast as their jaded horses could go, in order to avoid pursuit--though, having slain all the fighting men, there was little chance of that, except in the case of friends coming to the rescue, which they thought improbable. Still, with the wisdom of savage warriors, they took every precaution to guard against surprise. No fire was lighted in the camp, and sentries were placed all round it to guard them during the few hours they meant to devote to much-needed repose. While these Blackfeet were eating their supper, Whitewing and Little Tim came upon them. Fortunately the sharp and practised eyes and intellects of our two friends were on the alert. So small a matter as a slight wavering in the Blackfoot mind as to the best place for encamping produced an effect on the trail sufficient to be instantly observed. "H'm! they've took it into their heads here," said Little Tim, "that it might be advisable to camp an' feed." Whitewing did not speak at once, but his reining up at the moment his friend broke silence showed that he too had observed the signs. "It's always the way," remarked the trapper with a quiet chuckle as he peered earnestly at the ground which the moon enabled him to see distinctly, "if a band o' men only mention campin' when they're on the march they're sure to waver a bit an' spoil the straight, go-ahead run o' the trail." "One turned aside to examine yonder bluff," said the Indian, pointing to a trail which he saw clearly, although it was undistinguishable to ordinary vision. "Ay, an' the bluff didn't suit," returned Tim, "for here he rejoins his friends, an' they go off agin at the run. No more waverin'. They'd fixed their eyes a good bit ahead, an' made up their minds." "They are in the thicket yonder," said the Indian, pointing to the place referred to. "Jist what I was goin' to remark," observed the trapper. "Now, Whitewing, it behoves us to be cautious. Ay, I see your mind an' mine always jumps togither." This latter remark had reference to the fact that the Indian had leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Brighteyes. Placing his horse also in charge of the Indian girl, Tim said, as the two set off-- "We have to do the rest on fut, an' the last part on our knees." By this the trapper meant that he and his friend would have to creep up to the enemy's camp on hands and knees, but Whitewing, whose mind had been recently so much exercised on religious matters, at once thought of what he had been taught about the importance of prayer, and again the words, "looking unto Jesus," rushed with greater power than ever upon his memory, so that, despite his anxiety as to the fate of his affianced bride and the perilous nature of the enterprise in hand, he kept puzzling his inquiring brain with such difficulties as the absolute dependence of man on the will and leading of God, coupled with the fact of his being required to go into vigorous, decisive, and apparently independent action, trusting entirely to his own resources. "Mystery," thought the red man, as he and his friend walked swiftly along, taking advantage of the shelter afforded by every glade, thicket, or eminence; "all is mystery!" But Whitewing was wrong, as many men in all ages have been on first bending their minds to the consideration of spiritual things. All is _not_ mystery. In the dealings of God with man, much, very much, is mysterious, and by us in this life apparently insoluble; but many things--especially those things that are of vital importance to the soul--are as clear as the sun at noonday. However, our red man was at this time only beginning to run the spiritual race, and, like many others, he was puzzled. But no sign did he show of what was going on within, as he glided along, bending his keen eyes intently on the Blackfoot trail. At last they came to the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where it was rightly conjectured the enemy lay concealed. Here, as Tim had foretold, they went upon their knees, and advanced with the utmost caution. Coming to a grassy eminence they lay flat down and worked their way slowly and painfully to the top. Well was it for them that a few clouds shrouded the moon at that time, for one of the Blackfoot sentinels had been stationed on that grassy eminence, and if Whitewing and the trapper had been less expert in the arts of savage war, they must certainly have been discovered. As it was, they were able to draw off in time and reach another part of the mound where a thick bush effectually concealed them from view. From this point, when the clouds cleared away, the camp could be clearly seen in the vale below. Even the forms of the women and children were distinguishable, but not their faces. "It won't be easy to get at them by surprise," whispered the trapper. "Their position is strong, and they keep a bright lookout; besides, the moon won't be down for some hours yet--not much before daybreak." "Whitewing will take the prey from under their very noses," returned the Indian. "That won't be easy, but I've no doubt you'll try, an' sure, Little Tim's the man to back ye, anyhow." At that moment a slight rustling noise was heard. Looking through the bush, they saw the Blackfoot sentinel approaching. Instantly they sank down into the grass, where they lay so flat and still that it seemed as if they had vanished entirely from the scene. When the sentinel was almost abreast of them, a sound arose from the camp which caused him to stop and listen. It was the sound of song. The missionary--the only _man_ the Blackfoot Indians had not slain-- having finished supper, had gathered some of the women and children round him, and, after an earnest prayer, had begun a hymn of praise. At first the Blackfoot chief was on the point of ordering them to cease, but as the sweet notes arose he seemed to be spell-bound, and remained a silent and motionless listener. The sentinel on the mound also became like a dark statue. He had never heard such tones before. After listening a few minutes in wonder, he walked slowly to the end of the mound nearest to the singers. "Now's our chance, Whitewing," said the trapper, rising from his lair. The Indian made no reply, but descended the slope as carefully as he had ascended it, followed by his friend. In a short time they were back at the spot where the horses had been left in charge of Brighteyes. Whitewing took his sister aside, and for a few minutes they conversed in low tones. "I have arranged it all with Brighteyes," said the Indian, returning to the trapper. "Didn't I tell 'ee," said Tim, with a low laugh, "that women was good at helpin' men in time o' war? Depend upon it that the sex must have a finger in every pie; and, moreover, the pie's not worth much that they haven't got a finger in." To these remarks the young chief vouchsafed no answer, but gravely went about making preparations to carry out his plans. While tying the three horses to three separate trees, so as to be ready for instant flight, he favoured his friend with a few explanations. "It is not possible," he said, "to take more than three just now, for the horses cannot carry more. But these three Brighteyes will rescue from the camp, and we will carry them off. Then we will return with our braves and have all the rest--if Manitou allows." The trapper looked at his friend in surprise. He had never before heard him make use of such an expression as the last. Nevertheless, he made no remark, but while the three were gliding silently over the prairie again towards the Blackfoot camp he kept murmuring to himself: "You're a great puzzle, Whitewing, an' I can't make ye out nohow. Yet I make no doubt yer right. Whativer ye do comes right somehow; but yer a great puzzle--about the greatest puzzle that's comed across my tracks since I was a squallin' little babby-boy!" CHAPTER FOUR. CIRCUMVENTING THE BLACKFEET. On reaching the neighbourhood of the Blackfoot camp, Whitewing, and his companions crept to the top of the eminence which overlooked it, taking care, however, to keep as far away as possible from the sentinel who still watched there. Brighteyes proved herself to be quite as expert as her male companions in advancing like a snake through the long grass, though encumbered with a blanket wrapped round her shoulders. The use of this blanket soon became apparent. As the three lay prone on their faces looking down at the camp, from which the sound of voices still arose in subdued murmurs, the young chief said to his sister-- "Let the signal be a few notes of the song Brighteyes learned from the white preacher. Go." Without a word of reply, the girl began to move gently forward, maintaining her recumbent position as she went, and gradually, as it were, melted away. The moon was still shining brightly, touching every object with pale but effective lights, and covering hillocks and plains with correspondingly dark shadows. In a few minutes Brighteyes had crept past the young sentinel, and lay within sight--almost within ear shot of the camp. Much to her satisfaction she observed that the Indians had not bound their captives. Even the missionary's hands were free. Evidently they thought, and were perhaps justified in thinking, that escape was impossible, for the horses of the party were all gathered together and hobbled, besides being under a strong guard; and what chance could women and children have, out on the plains on foot, against mounted men, expert to follow the faintest trail? As for the white man, he was a man of peace and unarmed, as well as ignorant of warriors' ways. The captives were therefore not only unbound, but left free to move about the camp at will, while some of their captors slept, some fed, and others kept watch. The missionary had just finished singing a hymn, and was about to begin to read a portion of God's Word when one of the women left the group, and wandered accidentally close to the spot where Brighteyes lay. It was Lightheart. "Sister," whispered Brighteyes. The girl stopped abruptly, and bent forward to listen, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her pretty brown face. "Sister," repeated Brighteyes, "sink in the grass and wait." Lightheart was too well trained in Indian ways to speak or hesitate. At once, but slowly, she sank down and disappeared. Another moment, and Brighteyes was at her side. "Sister," she said, "Manitou has sent help. Listen. We must be wise and quick." From this point she went on to explain in as few words as possible that three fleet horses were ready close at hand to carry off three of those who had been taken captive, and that she, Lightheart, must be one of the three. "But I cannot, will not, escape," said Lightheart, "while the others and, the white preacher go into slavery." To this Brighteyes replied that arrangements had been made to rescue the whole party, and that she and two others were merely to be, as it were, the firstfruits of the enterprise. Still Lightheart objected; but when her companion added that the plan had been arranged by her affianced husband, she acquiesced at once with Indian-like humility. "I had intended," said Brighteyes, "to enter the Blackfoot camp as if I were one of the captives, and thus make known our plans; but that is not now necessary. Lightheart will carry the news; she is wise, and knows how to act. Whitewing and Leetil Tim are hid on yonder hillock like snakes in the grass. I will return to then, and let Lightheart, when she comes, be careful to avoid the sentinel there--" She stopped short, for at the moment a step was heard near them. It was that of a savage warrior, whose sharp eye had observed Lightheart quit the camp, and who had begun to wonder why she did not return. In another instant Brighteyes flung her blanket round her, whispered to her friend, "Lie close," sprang up, and, brushing swiftly past the warrior with a light laugh--as though amused at having been discovered-- ran into camp, joined the group round the missionary, and sat down. Although much surprised, the captives were too wise to express their feelings. Even the missionary knew enough of Indian tactics to prevent him from committing himself. He calmly continued the reading in which he had been engaged, and the Blackfoot warrior returned to his place, congratulating himself, perhaps, on having interrupted the little plan of one intending runaway. Meanwhile Lightheart, easily understanding her friend's motives, crept in a serpentine fashion to the hillock, where she soon found Whitewing-- to the intense but unexpressed joy of that valiant red man. "Will Leetil Tim go back with Lightheart to the horses and wait, while his brother remains here?" said the young chief. "No, Little Tim _won't_," growled the trapper, in a tone of decision that surprised his red friend. "Brighteyes is in the Blackfoot camp," he continued, in growling explanation. "True," returned the Indian, "but Brighteyes will escape; and even if she fails to do so now, she will be rescued with the others at last." "She will be rescued with _us_, just _now_," returned Little Tim in a tone so emphatic that his friend looked at him with an expression of surprise that was unusually strong for a redskin warrior. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence broke from his black eyes, and with the soft exclamation, "Wah!" he sank flat on the grass again, and remained perfectly still. Brighteyes found that it was not all plain sailing when she had mingled with her friends in the camp. In the first place, the missionary refused absolutely to quit the captives. He would remain with them, he said, and await God's will and leading. In the second place, no third person had been mentioned by her brother, whose chief anxiety had been for his bride and the white man, and it did not seem to Brighteyes creditable to quit the camp after all her risk and trouble without some trophy of her prowess. In this dilemma she put to herself the question, "Whom would Lightheart wish me to rescue?" Now, there were two girls among the captives, one of whom was a bosom friend of Lightheart; the other was a younger sister. To these Brighteyes went, and straightway ordered them to prepare for flight. They were of course quite ready to obey. All the preparation needed was to discard the blankets which Indian women are accustomed to wear as convenient cloaks by day. Thus unhampered, the two girls wandered about the camp, as several of the others had occasionally been doing. Separating from each other, they got into the outskirts in different directions. Meanwhile a hymn had been raised, which facilitated their plans by attracting the attention of the savage warriors. High above the rest, in one prolonged note, the voice of Brighteyes rang out like a silver flute. "There's the signal," said Little Tim, as the sweet note fell on his listening ear. Rising as he spoke, the trapper glided in a stooping posture down the side of the hillock, and round the base of it, until he got immediately behind the youthful sentinel. Then lying down, and creeping towards him with the utmost caution, he succeeded in getting so near that he could almost touch him. With one cat-like bound, Little Tim was on the Indian's back, and had him in his arms, while his broad horny hand covered his mouth, and his powerful forefinger and thumb grasped him viciously by the nose. It was a somewhat curious struggle that ensued. The savage was much bigger than the trapper, but the trapper was much stronger than the savage. Hence the latter made fearful and violent efforts to shake the former off; while the former made not less fearful, though seemingly not quite so violent, efforts to hold on. The red man tried to bite, but Tim's hand was too broad and hard to be bitten. He tried to shake his nose free, but unfortunately his nose was large, and Tim's grip of it was perfect. The savage managed to get just enough of breath through his mouth to prevent absolute suffocation, but nothing more. He had dropped his tomahawk at the first onset, and tried to draw his knife, but Tim's arms were so tight round him that he could not get his hand to his back, where the knife reposed in his belt. In desperation he stooped forward, and tried to throw his enemy over his head; but Tim's legs were wound round him, and no limpet ever embraced a rock with greater tenacity than did Little Tim embrace that Blackfoot brave. Half choking and wholly maddened, the savage suddenly turned heels over head, and fell on Tim with a force that ought to have burst him. But Tim didn't burst! He was much too tough for that. He did not even complain! Rising again, a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, for he began to run towards the camp with his foe on his back. But Tim was prepared for that. He untwined one leg, lowered it, and with an adroit twist tripped up the savage, causing him to fall on his face with tremendous violence. Before he could recover, Tim, still covering the mouth and holding tight to the nose, got a knee on the small of the savage's back and squeezed it smaller. At the same time he slid his left hand up to the savage's windpipe, and compressed it. With a violent heave, the Blackfoot sprang up. With a still more violent heave, the trapper flung him down, bumped his head against a convenient stone, and brought the combat to a sudden close. Without a moment's loss of time, Tim gagged and bound his adversary. Then he rose up with a deep inspiration, and wiped his forehead, as he contemplated him. "All this comes o' your desire not to shed human blood, Whitewing," he muttered. "Well, p'raps you're right--what would ha' bin the use o' killin' the poor critturs. But it was a tough job!"--saying which, he lifted the Indian on his broad shoulders, and carried him away. While this fight was thus silently going on, hidden from view of the camp by the hillock, Whitewing crept forward to meet Brighteyes and the two girls, and these, with Lightheart, were eagerly awaiting the trapper. "My brother is strong," said Whitewing, allowing the faintest possible smile to play for a moment on his usually grave face. "Your brother is tough," returned Little Tim, rubbing the back of his head with a rueful look; "an' he's bin bumped about an' tumbled on to that extent that it's a miracle a whole bone is left in his carcass. But lend a hand, lad; we've got no time to waste." Taking the young Blackfoot between them, and followed by the silent girls, they soon reached the thicket where the horses had been left. Here they bound their captive securely to a tree, and gave him a drink of water with a knife pointed at his heart to keep him quiet, after which they re-gagged him. Then Whitewing led Lightheart through the thicket towards his horse, and took her up behind him. Little Tim took charge of Brighteyes. The young sister and the bosom friend mounted the third horse, and thus paired, they all galloped away. But the work that our young chief had cut out for himself that night was only half accomplished. On reaching the rendezvous which he had appointed, he found the braves of his tribe impatiently awaiting him. "My father sees that we have been successful," he said to Bald Eagle, who had been unable to resist the desire to ride out to the rendezvous with the fighting men. "The great Manitou has given us the victory thus far, as the white preacher said he would." "My son is right. Whitewing will be a great warrior when Bald Eagle is in the grave. Go and conquer; I will return to camp with the women." Thus relieved of his charge, Whitewing, who, however, had little desire to achieve the fame prophesied for him, proceeded to fulfil the prophecy to some extent. He divided his force into four bands, with which he galloped off towards the Blackfoot camp. On nearing it, he so arranged that they should attack the camp simultaneously at four opposite points. Little Tim commanded one of the bands, and he resolved in his own mind that his band should be the last to fall on the foe. "Bloodshed _may_ be avoided," he muttered to himself; "an' I hope it will, as Whitewing is so anxious about it. Anyhow, I'll do my best to please him." Accordingly, on reaching his allotted position, Tim halted his men, and bided his time. The moon still shone over prairie and hill, and not a breath of air stirred blade or leaf. All in nature was peace, save in the hearts of savage man. The Blackfoot camp was buried in slumber. Only the sentinels were on the alert. Suddenly one of these--like the war-horse, who is said to scent the battle from afar--pricked his ears, distended his nostrils, and listened. A low, muffled, thunderous sort of pattering on the plain in front. It might be a herd of buffaloes. The sentinel stood transfixed. The humps of buffaloes are large, but they do not usually attain to the size of men! The sentinel clapped his hand to his mouth, and gave vent to a yell which sent the blood spirting through the veins of all, and froze the very marrow in the bones of some! Prompt was the reply and turn-out of the Blackfoot warriors. Well used to war's alarms, there was no quaking in their bosoms. They were well named "braves." But the noise in the camp prevented them from hearing or observing the approach of the enemy on the other side till almost too late. A whoop apprised the chief of the danger. He divided his forces, and lost some of his self-confidence. "Here comes number three," muttered Little Tim, as he observed the third band emerge from a hollow on the left. The Blackfoot chief observed it too, divided his forces again, and lost more of his self-confidence. None of the three bands had as yet reached the camp, but they all came thundering down on it at the same time, and at the same whirlwind pace. "Now for number four," muttered Little Tim. "Come boys, an' at 'em!" he cried, unconsciously paraphrasing the Duke of Wellington's Waterloo speech. At the some time he gave utterance to what he styled a Rocky Mountain trapper's roar, and dashed forward in advance of his men, who, in trying to imitate the roar, intensified and rather complicated their own yell. It was the last touch to the Blackfoot chief, who, losing the small remnant of his self-confidence, literally "sloped" into the long grass, and vanished, leaving his men to still further divide themselves, which they did effectually by scattering right and left like small-shot from a blunderbuss. Great was the terror of the poor captives while this brief but decisive action lasted, for although they knew that the assailants were their friends, they could not be certain of the issue of the combat. Naturally, they crowded round their only male friend, the missionary. "Do not fear," he said, in attempting to calm them; "the good Manitou has sent deliverance. We will trust in Him." The dispersion of their foes and the arrival of friends almost immediately followed these words. But the friends who arrived were few in number at first, for Whitewing had given strict orders as to the treatment of the enemy. In compliance therewith, his men chased them about the prairie in a state of gasping terror; but no weapon was used, and not a man was killed, though they were scattered beyond the possibility of reunion for at least some days to come. Before that eventful night was over the victors were far from the scene of victory on their way home. "It's not a bad style o' fightin'," remarked Little Tim to his friend as they rode away; "lots o' fun and fuss without much damage. Pity we can't do all our fightin' in that fashion." "Waugh!" exclaimed Whitewing; but as he never explained what he meant by "waugh," we must leave it to conjecture. It is probable, however, that he meant assent, for he turned aside in passing to set free the Blackfoot who had been bound to a tree. That red man, having expected death, went off with a lively feeling of surprise, and at top speed, his pace being slightly accelerated by a shot--wide of the mark and at long range--from Little Tim. Three weeks after these events a number of Indians were baptised by our missionary. Among them were the young chief Whitewing and Lightheart, and these two were immediately afterwards united in marriage. Next day the trapper, with much awkwardness and hesitation, requested the missionary to unite him and Brighteyes. The request was complied with, and thenceforward the white man and the red became more inseparable than ever. They hunted and dwelt together--to the ineffable joy of Whitewing's wrinkled old mother, whose youth seemed absolutely to revive under the influence of the high-pressure affection brought to bear on a colony of brown and whitey-brown grand-children by whom she was at last surrounded. The doubts and difficulties of Whitewing were finally cleared away. He not only accepted fully the Gospel for himself, but became anxious to commend it to others as the only real and perfect guide in life and comfort in death. In the prosecution of his plans, he imitated the example of his "white father," roaming the prairie and the mountains far and wide with his friend the trapper, and even venturing to visit some of the lodges of his old foes the Blackfoot Indians, in his desire to run earnestly, yet with patience, the race that had been set before him--"looking unto Jesus." Full twenty years rolled by, during which no record, was kept of the sayings or doings of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far. At the end of that period, however, striking incidents in their career brought the most prominent among them again to the front--as the following chapters will show. CHAPTER FIVE. THE MOUNTAIN FORTRESS. In one of those numerous narrow ravines of the Rocky Mountains which open out into the rolling prairies of the Saskatchewan there stood some years ago a log hut, or block-house, such as the roving hunters of the Far West sometimes erected as temporary homes during the inclement winter of those regions. With a view to render the hut a castle of refuge as well as a home, its builder had perched it close to the edge of a nearly inaccessible cliff overhanging one of those brawling torrents which carry the melting snows of the great rocky range into one of the tributaries of the Saskatchewan river. On what may be called the land side of the hut there was a slight breastwork of logs. It seemed a weak defence truly, yet a resolute man with several guns and ammunition might have easily held it against a considerable band of savages. One fine morning about the time when the leaves of the forest were beginning to put on their gorgeous autumnal tints, a woman might have been seen ascending the zigzag path that led to the hut or fortress. She was young, well formed, and pretty, and wore the Indian costume, yet there was something in her air and carriage, as well as the nut-brown colour of her hair, which told that either her father or her mother had been what the red men term a "pale-face." With a light, bounding step, very different from that of the ordinary Indian squaw, she sprang from rock to rock as if in haste, and, climbing over the breastwork before mentioned, entered the hut. The interior of the little fortress was naturally characteristic of its owner. A leathern capote and leggings hung from a nail in one corner; in another lay a pile of buffalo robes. The rough walls were adorned with antlers of the moose and other deer, from the various branches of which hung several powder-horns, fire-bags, and bullet-pouches. Near the rude fireplace, the chimney of which was plastered outside and in with mud, was a range of six guns, of various patterns and ages, all of which, being well polished and oiled, were evidently quite ready for instant service. Beside them hung an old cavalry sabre. Neither table nor chairs graced the simple mansion; but a large chest at one side served for the former, and doubtless contained the owner's treasures, whatever these might be, while three rough stools, with only nine legs among them, did service for the latter. The action of the young woman on entering was somewhat suggestive of the cause of her haste. Without a moment's delay, she seized a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and began to charge the guns, some with ball, others with slugs, as fast as she could. There was a cool, quiet celerity in her proceedings which proved that she was accustomed to the handling of such weapons. No one looking upon the scene would have guessed that Softswan, as she was poetically named, was a bride, at that time in the midst of the honeymoon. Yet such was the case. Her husband being the kindliest, stoutest and handsomest fellow in all that region had won her heart and hand, had obtained her parents' consent, had been married in the nearest settlement by a travelling missionary, and had carried off his pretty bride to spend the honeymoon in his mountain fortress. We can scarcely call it his home, however, for it was only, as we have said, a temporary residence--the Rocky Mountains, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic Circle, being his home. While the Indian bride was engaged in charging the firearms, a rifle-shot was heard to echo among the surrounding cliffs. It was followed by a cry, as if some one had been wounded, and then there arose that terrible war-whoop of the red men which, once heard, can never be forgotten, and which inspires even the bravest with feelings of at least anxiety. That Softswan was not free from alarm was pretty evident from the peculiar curl of her pretty eyebrows, but that the sounds did not unnerve her was also obvious from the quiet though prompt way in which she gathered up all the loaded firearms, and bore them swiftly to the breastwork in front of the cabin. Arranging the guns in a row at her side, so as to be handy, the girl selected one, laid it on the parapet, and carefully examined the priming. Having satisfied herself that it was all right, she cocked the piece, and quietly awaited the issue of events. The weapon that Softswan had selected was not picked up at haphazard. It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, the charge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt to kill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest was gentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for blood and revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives. After a time the poor girl's anxiety increased, for well she knew that a whoop and a cry such as she had heard were the sure precursors of something worse. Besides, she had seen the footprints of Blackfoot Indians in the valley below, and she knew from their appearance that those who had made them were on the war-path, in which circumstances savages usually dismiss any small amount of tender mercies with which they may have been naturally endowed. "Oh why, why you's not come home, Big Tim?" she exclaimed at last, in broken English. It may be well to explain at once that Big Tim, who was the only son of Little Tim, had such a decided preference for the tongue of his white father, that he had taught it to his bride, and refused to converse with her in any other, though he understood the language of his mother Brighteyes quite as well as English. If Big Tim had heard the pathetic question, he would have flown to the rescue more speedily than any other hunter of the Rocky Mountains, for he was the swiftest runner of them all; but unfortunately he was too far off at that moment to hear; not too far off, however, to hear the shot and cry which had alarmed his bride. From the position which Softswan occupied she could see and command every portion of the zigzag approach to the hut so that no one could reach her without being completely exposed to her fire if she were disposed to dispute the passage. As we have said, the hut stood on a cliff which overhung the torrent that brawled through the gorge, so that she was secure from attack in rear. In a few minutes another rifle-shot was heard, and the war-whoop was repeated, this time much nearer than before. With compressed lips and heightened colour, the solitary girl prepared to defend her castle. Presently she heard footsteps among the thick bushes below, as if of some one running in hot haste. Softswan laid her finger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might be her husband. Oh why did he not shout to warn her? The poor girl trembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of the danger and the necessity for immediate action. Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside, peeped from among them. He was a savage, in the war-paint and panoply of a Blackfoot brave. The spot to which he had crept was indeed the nearest to the hut that could be reached in that direction, but Softswan knew well that an impassable chasm separated her from the intruder, so she kept well concealed behind the breastwork, and continued to watch him through one of the peep-holes made in it for that purpose. She might have easily shot him, for he was within range, but her nature revolted from doing so, for he seemed to think that the hut was untenanted, and, instead of looking towards her place of concealment, leaned over the cliff so as to get a good view of the lower end of the zigzag track where it entered the woods. Could he be a foe to the approaching Indians, or one of them? thought the poor girl, rendered almost desperate by doubt and indecision. Just then a man burst out of the woods below with a defiant shout, and sprang up the narrow track. It was Big Tim. The savage on the cliff pointed his rifle at him. Indecision, doubt, mercy were instantly swept away, and with the speed of the lightning flash the girl sent her charge of slugs into the savage. He collapsed, rolled over the cliff, and went crashing into the bushes underneath, but instantly sprang up, as if unhurt, and disappeared, just as a dozen of his comrades burst upon the scene from the woods below. The echoing report of the gun and the fall of their companion evidently disconcerted the aim of the savages, for their scattering fire left the bounding Tim untouched. Before they could reload, Softswan sent them a present of another charge of slugs, which, the distance being great, so scattered itself as to embrace nearly the whole party, who thereupon went wounded and howling back into the forest. "Well done, my soft one!" exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leap over the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even in that moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy and thankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected to find her dead and scalped, if he found her at all. Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining the firearms and ready for action. "Fetch the sabre, my soft one," said Big Tim, addressing his bride by the title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day. The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually light and joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attacked by overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to the eccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfect confidence in him. Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word or look, she obeyed the order. Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and a slight smile played on his features as he said-- "I have good news for the soft one to-day." The soft one looked, but did not say, "Indeed, what is it?" "Yes," continued the youth, sheathing the sabre; "the man with the kind heart and the snowy pinion has come back to the mountains. He will be here before the shadows of the trees grow much longer." "Whitewing?" exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her bright black eyes. "Just so. The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now a preacher." "Has the pale-face preacher com' vis him?" asked the bride, with a slightly troubled look, for she did not yet feel quite at home in her broken English, and feared that her husband might laugh at her mistakes, though nothing was further from the mind of the stout hunter than to laugh at his pretty bride. He did indeed sometimes indulge the propensity in that strange conventional region "his sleeve," but no owl of the desert was more solemn in countenance than Big Tim when Softswan perpetrated her lingual blunders. "I know not," he replied, as he renewed the priming of one of the guns. "Hist! did you see something move under the willow bush yonder?" The girl shook her head. "A rabbit, no doubt," said the hunter, lowering the rifle which he had raised, and resuming his easy unconcerned attitude, yet keeping his keen eye on the spot with a steadiness that showed his indifference was assumed. "I know not whether the pale-face preacher is with him," he continued. "Those who told me about him could only say that a white man dressed like the crows was travelling a short distance in advance of Whitewing, but whether he was one of his party or not, they could not tell. Indeed it is said that Whitewing has no party with him, that he travels alone. If he does, he is more reckless than ever, seeing that his enemies the Blackfeet are on the war-path just now; but you never know what a half-mad redskin will do, and Whitewing is a queer customer." Big Tim's style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature-- sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that of his Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-fact style of his white sire. "Leetil Tim vill be glad," said Softswan. "Ay, daddy will be pleased. By the way, I wonder what keeps him out so long? I half expected to find him here when I arrived. Indeed, I made sure it was him that tumbled yon Blackfoot off the cliff so smartly. You see, I didn't know you were such a plucky little woman, my soft one, though I might have guessed it, seeing that you possess all the good qualities under the sun; but a man hardly expects his squaw to be great on the war-path, d'ye see?" Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended in these words. "Me loves not to draw bloods," she said gravely, with a pensive look on the ground. "Don't let that disturb you, soft one," said her husband, with a quiet laugh. "By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harm than if you'd gin him an overdose o' physic. But them reptiles bein' in these parts makes me raither anxious about daddy. Did he say where he meant to hunt when he went off this morning?" "Yes; Leetil Tim says hims go for hunt near Lipstock Hill." "Just so; Lopstick Hill," returned Tim, correcting her with offhand gravity. "But me hears a shote an' a cry," said the girl, with a suddenly anxious look. "That was from one o' the redskins, whose thigh I barked for sendin' an arrow raither close to my head," said the young man. "But," continued his bride, with increasing anxiety, "the shote an' the cry was long before you comes home. Pr'aps it bees Leetil Tim." "Impossible," said Big Tim quickly; "father must have bin miles away at that time, for Lopsuck Hill is good three hours' walk from here as the crow flies, an' the Blackfeet came from the opposite airt o' the compass." The young hunter's prolonged silence after this, as well as the expression of his face, showed that he was not quite as easy in his mind as his words implied. "Did the cry seem to be far off?" he asked at last quickly. "Not far," returned his wife. Without speaking, Big Tim began to buckle on the cavalry sabre, not in the loosely-swinging cavalry fashion, but closely and firmly to his side, with his broad waistbelt, so that it might not impede his movements. He then selected from the arms a short double-barrelled gun, and, slinging a powder-horn and shot-pouch over his shoulders, prepared to depart. "Now listen, my soft one," he said, on completing his arrangements. "I feel a'most sartin sure that the cry ye heard was _not_ daddy's; nevertheless, the bare possibility o' such a thing makes it my dooty to go an' see if it was the old man. I think the Blackfeet have drawed off to have a palaver, an' won't be back for a bit, so I'll jist slip down the precipice by our secret path; an' if they do come back when I'm away, pepper them well wi' slugs. I'll hear the shots, an' be back to you afore they can git up the hill. But if they should make a determined rush, don't you make too bold a stand agin 'em. Just let fly with the big-bore when they're half-way up the track, an' then slip into the cave. I'll soon meet ye there, an we'll give the reptiles a surprise. Now, you'll be careful, soft one?" Soft one promised to be careful, and Big Tim, entering the hut, passed out at a back door, and descended the cliff to the torrent below by a concealed path which even a climbing monkey might have shuddered to attempt. Meanwhile Softswan, re-arranging and re-examining her firearm, sat down behind the breastwork to guard the fort. The sun was still high in the heavens, illuming a magnificent prospect of hill and dale and virgin forest, and glittering in the lakelets, pools, and rivers, which brightened the scene as far as the distant horizon, where the snow-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose grandly into the azure sky. The girl sat there almost motionless for a long time, exhibiting in her face and figure at once the keen watchfulness of the savage and the endurance of the pale-face. Unlike many girls of her class, she had at one period been brought for a short time under the influence of men who loved the Lord Jesus Christ and esteemed it equally a duty and a privilege to urge others to flee from the wrath to come and accept the Gospel offer of salvation--men who themselves had long before been influenced by the pale-face preacher to whom Softswan had already referred. The seed had, in her case, fallen into good ground, and had brought forth the fruit of an earnest desire to show good-will to all with whom she had to do. It had also aroused in her a hungering and thirsting for more knowledge of God and His ways. It was natural, therefore, as she gazed on the splendid scene spread out before her, that the thoughts of this child of the backwoods should rise to contemplation of the Creator, and become less attentive to inferior matters than circumstances required. She was recalled suddenly to the danger of her position by the appearance of a dark object, which seemed to crawl out of the bushes below, just where the zigzag track entered them. At the first glance it seemed to resemble a bear; a second and more attentive look suggested that it might be a man. Whether bear or man, however, it was equally a foe, at least so thought Softswan, and she raised one of the guns to her shoulder with a promptitude that would have done credit to Big Tim himself. But she did not fire. The natural disinclination to shed blood restrained her--fortunately, as it turned out,--for the crawling object, on reaching the open ground, rose with apparent difficulty and staggered forward a few paces in what seemed to be the form of a drunken man. After one or two ineffectual efforts to ascend the track, the unfortunate being fell and remained a motionless heap upon the ground. CHAPTER SIX. A STRANGE VISITOR. Curious mingling of eagerness, hope, and fear rendered Softswan for some minutes undecided how to act as she gazed at the fallen man. His garb was of a dark uniform grey colour, which she had often heard described, but had not seen until now. That he was wounded she felt quite sure, but she knew that there would be great danger in descending to aid him. Besides, if he were helpless, as he seemed to be, she had not physical strength to lift him, and would expose herself to easy capture if the Blackfeet should be in ambush. Still, the eager and indefinable hope that was in her heart induced the girl to rise with the intention of descending the path, when she observed that the fallen man again moved. Rising on his hands and knees, he crept forward a few paces, and then stopped. Suddenly by a great effort, he raised himself to a kneeling position, clasped his hands, and looked up. The act sufficed to decide the wavering girl. Leaping lightly over the breastwork, she ran swiftly down until she reached the man, who gazed at her in open-mouthed astonishment. He was a white man, and the ghastly pallor of his face, with a few spots of blood on it and on his hands, told that he had been severely wounded. "Manitou seems to have sent an angel of light to me in my extremity," he gasped in the Indian tongue. "Come; me vill help you," answered Softswan, in her broken English, as she stooped and assisted him to rise. No other word was uttered, for even with the girl's assistance it was with the utmost difficulty that the man reached the breastwork of the hut, and when he had succeeded in clambering over it, he lay down and fainted. After Softswan had glanced anxiously in the direction of the forest, and placed one of the guns in a handy position, she proceeded to examine the wounded stranger. Being expert in such matters, she opened his vest, and quickly found a wound near the region of the heart. It was bleeding steadily though not profusely. To stanch this and bind it up was the work of a few minutes. Then she reclosed the vest. In doing so she found something hard in a pocket near the wound. It was a little book, which she gently removed as it might interfere with the bandage. In doing so she observed that the book had been struck by the bullet which it deflected, so as to cause a more deadly wound than might otherwise have been inflicted. She was thus engaged when the patient recovered consciousness, and, seizing her wrist, exclaimed, "Take not the Word from me. It has been my joy and comfort in all my--" He stopped on observing who it was that touched his treasure. "Nay, then," he continued, with a faint smile, as he released his hold; "it can come to no harm in thy keeping, child. For an instant I thought that rougher hands had seized it. But why remove it?" Softswan explained, but, seeing how eager the man was to keep it, she at once returned the little Bible to the inner pocket in which it was carried when not in use. Then running into the hut she quickly returned with a rib of venison and a tin mug of water. The man declined the food, but drained the mug with an air of satisfaction, which showed how much he stood in need of water. Much refreshed, he pulled out the Bible again, and looked earnestly at it. "Strange," he said, in the Indian tongue, turning his eyes on his surgeon-nurse; "often have I heard of men saved from death by bullets being stopped by Bibles, but in my case it would seem as if God had made it a key to unlock the gates of the better land." "Does my white father think he is going to die?" asked the girl in her own tongue, with a look of anxiety. "It may be so," replied the man gently, "for I feel very, _very_ weak. But feelings are deceptive; one cannot trust them. It matters little, however. If I live, it is to work for Jesus. If I die, it is to be with Jesus. But tell me, little one, who art thou whom the Lord has sent to succour me?" "Me is Softswan, daughter of the great chief Bounding Bull," replied the girl, with a look of pride when she mentioned her father, which drew a slight smile from the stranger. "But Softswan has white blood in her veins," he said; "and why does she sometimes speak in the language of the pale-face?" "My mother," returned the girl in a low, sad tone, "was pale-face womans from the Saskatchewan. Me speaks English, for my husban' likes it." "Your husband--what is his name!" "Big Tim." "What!" exclaimed the wounded man with sudden energy, as a flush overspread his pale face; "is he the son of Little Tim, the brother-in-law of Whitewing the prairie chief?" "He is the son of Leetil Tim, an' this be hims house." "Then," exclaimed the stranger, with a pleased look, "I have reached, if not the end of my journey, at least a most important point in it, for I had appointed to meet Whitewing at this very spot, and did not know, when the Blackfoot Indian shot me, that I was so near the hut. It looked like a mere accident my finding the track which leads to it near the spot where I fell, but it is the Lord's doing. Tell me, Softswan, have you never heard Whitewing and Little Tim speak of the pale-face missionary--the Preacher, they used to call me?" "Yes, yes, oftin," answered the girl eagerly. "Me tinks it bees you. Me _very_ glad, an' Leetil Tim he--" Her speech was cut short at this point by a repetition of the appalling war-whoop which had already disturbed the echoes of the gorge more than once that day. Naturally the attention of Softswan had been somewhat distracted by the foregoing conversation, and she had allowed the Indians to burst from the thicket and rush up the track a few paces before she was able to bring the big-bore gun to bear on them. "Slay them not, Softswan," cried the preacher anxiously, as he tried to rise and prevent her firing. "We cannot escape them." He was too late. She had already pressed the trigger, and the roar of the huge gun was reverberating from cliff to cliff like miniature thunder; but his cry had not been too late to produce wavering in the girl's wind, inducing her to take bad aim, so that the handful of slugs with which the piece had been charged went hissing over the assailants' heads instead of killing them. The stupendous hissing and noise, however, had the effect of momentarily arresting the savages, and inducing each man to seek the shelter of the nearest shrub. "Com queek," cried Softswan, seizing the preacher's hand. "You be deaded soon if you not com queek." Feeling the full force of this remark, the wounded man, exerting all his strength, arose, and suffered himself to be led into the hut. Passing quickly out by a door at the back, the preacher and the bride found themselves on a narrow ledge of rock, from one side of which was the precipice down which Big Tim had made his perilous descent. Close to their feet lay a great flat rock or natural slab, two yards beyond which the ledge terminated in a sheer precipice. "No escape here," remarked the preacher sadly, as he looked round. "In my present state I could not venture down such a path even to save my life. But care not for me, Softswan. If you think you can escape, go and--" He stopped, for to his amazement the girl stooped, and with apparent ease raised the ponderous mass of rock above referred to as though it had been a slight wooden trap-door, and disclosed a hole large enough for a man to pass through. The preacher observed that the stone was hinged on a strong iron bar, which was fixed considerably nearer to one side of it than the other. Still, this hinge did not account for the ease with which a mere girl lifted a ponderous mass which two or three men could not have moved without the aid of levers. But there was no time to investigate the mystery of the matter, for another ringing war-whoop told that the Blackfeet, having recovered from their consternation, had summoned courage to renew the assault. "Down queek!" said the girl, looking earnestly into her companion's face, and pointing to the dark hole, where the head of a rude ladder, dimly visible, showed what had to be done. "It does not require much faith to trust and obey such a leader," thought the preacher, as he got upon the ladder, and quickly disappeared in the hole. Softswan lightly followed. As her head was about to disappear, she raised her hand, seized hold of a rough projection on the under surface of the mass of rock, and drew it gently down so as to effectually close the hole, leaving no trace whatever of its existence. While this was going on the Blackfeet were advancing up the narrow pathway with superlative though needless caution, and no small amount of timidity. Each man took advantage of every scrap of cover he could find on the way up, but as the owner of the hut had taken care to remove all cover that was removable, they did not find much, and if the defenders had been there, that little would have been found to be painfully insufficient, for it consisted only of rugged masses and projections of rock, none of which could altogether conceal the figure of a full-grown man. Indeed, it seemed inexplicable that these Indians should have made this assault in broad day, considering that Indians in general are noted for their care of "number one," are particularly unwilling to meet their foes in fair open fight, and seldom if ever venture to storm a place of strength except by surprise and under the cover of night. The explanation lay partly in the fact that they were aware of the advance of friends towards the place, but much more in this, that the party was led by the great chief Rushing River, a man possessed of that daring bulldog courage and reckless contempt of death which is usually more characteristic of white than of red men. When the band had by galvanic darts and rushes gained the last scrap of cover that lay between them and the little fortress, Rushing River gave vent to a whoop which was meant to thrill the defenders with consternation to the very centre of their being, and made a gallant rush, worthy of his name, for the breastwork. Reaching it in gasping haste, he and his braves crouched for one moment at the foot of it, presumably to recover wind and allow the first fire of the defenders to pass over their heads. But no first fire came, and Rushing River rolled his great black eyes upward in astonishment, perhaps thinking that his whoop had thrilled the defenders off the face of the earth altogether! Suspense, they say, is less endurable than actual collision with danger. Probably Rushing River thought it so, for next moment he raised his black head quickly. Finding a hole in the defences, he applied one of his black eyes to it and peeped through. Seeing nothing, he uttered another whoop, and vaulted over like a squirrel, tomahawk in hand, ready to brain anybody or anything. Seeing nobody and nothing in particular, except an open door, he suspected an ambush in that quarter, darted round the corner of the hut to get out of the doorway line of fire, and peeped back. Animated by a similar spirit, his men followed suit. When it became evident that no one meant to come out of the hut Rushing River resolved to go in, and did so with another yell and a flourish of his deadly weapon, but again was he doomed to expend his courage and violence on air, for he possessed too much of natural dignity to expend his wrath on inanimate furniture. Of course one glance sufficed to show that the defenders had flown, and it needed not the practised wit of a savage to perceive that they had retreated through the back door. In his eagerness to catch the foe, the Indian chief sprang after them with such a rush that nothing but a stout willow, which he grasped convulsively, prevented him from going over the precipice headlong--changing, as it were, from a River into a Fall--and ending his career appropriately in the torrent below. When the chief had assembled his followers on the limited surface of the ledge, they all gazed around them for a few seconds in silence. On one side was a sheer precipice. On another side was, if we may so express it, a sheerer precipice rising upward. On the third side was the steep and rugged path, which looked sufficiently dangerous to arrest all save the mad or the desperate. On the fourth side was the hut. Seeing all this at a glance, Rushing River looked mysterious and said, "Ho!" To which his men returned, "How!" "Hi!" and "Hee!" or some other exclamation indicative of bafflement and surprise. Standing on the trap-door rock as on a sort of pulpit, the chief pointed with his finger to the precipitous path, and said solemnly-- "Big Tim has gone down _there_. He has net the wings of the hawk, but he has the spirit of the squirrel, or the legs of the goat." "Or the brains of the fool," suggested a follower, with a few drops of white blood in his veins, which made him what boys call "cheeky." "Of course," continued Rushing River, still more solemnly, and scorning to notice the remark, "of course Rushing River and his braves could follow if they chose. They could do anything. But of what use would it be? As well might we follow the moose-deer when it has got a long start." "Big Tim has got the start, as Rushing River wisely says," remarked the cheeky comrade, "but he is hampered with his squaw, and cannot go fast." "Many pale-faces are hampered by their squaws, and cannot go fast," retorted the chief, by which reply he meant to insinuate that the few drops of white blood in the veins of the cheeky one might yet come through an experience to which a pure Indian would scorn to submit. "But," continued the chief, after a pause to let the stab take full effect, "but Softswan is well known. She is strong as the mountain sheep and fleet as the mustang. She will not hamper Big Tim. Enough! We will let them go, and take possession of their goods." Whatever the chief's followers might have thought about the first part of his speech, there was evidently no difference of opinion as to the latter part. With a series of assenting "Ho's," "How's," "Hi's," and "Hee's," they returned with him into the hut, and began to appropriate the property, commencing with a cold haunch of venison which they discovered in the larder, and to which they did ample justice, sitting in a circle on the floor in the middle of the little room. Leaving them there, we will return to Softswan and her new friend. "The place is very dark," remarked the preacher, groping cautiously about after the trap-door was closed as above described. "Stan' still; I vill strik light," said Softswan. In a few moments sparks were seen flying from flint and steel, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts a piece of tinder was kindled. Then the girl's pretty little nose and lips were seen of a fiery red colour as she blew some dry grass and chips into a flame, and kindled a torch therewith. The light revealed a small natural cavern of rock, not much more than six feet high and ten or twelve wide, but of irregular shape, and extending into obscurity in one direction. The only objects in the cave besides the ladder by which they entered it were a few barrels partially covered with deerskin, an unusually small table, rudely but strongly made, and an enormous mass of rock enclosed in a net of strong rope which hung from an iron hook in the roof. The last object at once revealed the mystery of the trap-door. It formed a ponderous counterpoise attached to the smaller section of the stone slab, and so nearly equalised the weight on the hinge that, as we have seen, Softswan's weak arm was sufficient to turn the scale. The instant the torch flared up the girl stuck it into a crevice in the wall, and quickly grasping the little table, pushed it under the pendent rock. It reached to within half an inch of the mass. Picking up two broad wooden wedges that lay on the floor, she thrust them between the rock and the table, one on either side, so as to cause it to rest entirely on the table, and thus by removing its weight from the iron hook, the slab was rendered nearly immovable. She was anxiously active in these various operations, for already the Indians had entered the hut and their voices could be distinctly heard overhead. "Now," she whispered, with a sigh of relief, "six mans not abil to move the stone, even if he knowed the hole is b'low it." "It is an ingenious device," said the preacher, throwing his exhausted form on a heap of pine branches which lay in a corner. "Who invented it--your husband?" "No; it was Leetil Tim," returned the girl, with a low musical laugh. "Big Tim says hims fadder be great at 'ventions. He 'vent many t'ings. Some's good, some's bad, an' some's funny." The preacher could not forbear smiling at this account of his old friend, in spite of his anxiety lest the Indians who were regaling themselves overhead should discover their retreat. He had begun to put some questions to Softswan in a low voice when he was rendered dumb and his blood seemed to curdle as he heard stumbling footsteps approaching from the dark end of the cavern. Then was heard the sound of some one panting vehemently. Next moment a man leaped into the circle of light, and seized the Indian girl in his arms. "Thank God!" he exclaimed fervently; "not too late! I had thought the reptiles had been too much for thee, soft one. Ah me! I fear that some poor pale-face has--" He stopped abruptly, for at that moment Big Tim's eye fell upon the wounded man. "What!" he exclaimed, hastening to the preacher's side; "you _have_ got here after all?" "Ay, young man, through the goodness of God I have reached this haven of rest. Your words seem to imply that you had half expected to find me, though how you came to know of my case at all is to me a mystery." "My white father," returned Big Tim, referring as much to the preacher's age and pure white hair as to his connection with the white men, "finds mystery where the hunter and the red man see none. I went out a-purpose to see that it was not my daddy the Blackfoot reptiles had shot and soon came across your tracks, which showed me as plain as a book that you was badly wounded. I followed the tracks for a bit, expectin' to find you lyin' dead somewheres, when the whoops of the reptiles turned me back. But tell me, white father, are you not the preacher that my daddy and Whitewing used to know some twenty years agone?" "I am, and fain would I meet with my former friends once more before I die." "You shall meet with them, I doubt not," replied the young hunter, arranging the couch of the wounded man more comfortably. "I see that my soft one has bandaged you up, and she's better than the best o' sawbones at such work. I'll be able to make you more comfortable when we drive the reptiles out o'--" "Call them not reptiles," interrupted the preacher gently. "They are the creatures of God, like ourselves." "It may be so, white father; nevertheless, they are uncommon low, mean, sneakin', savage critters, an' that's all that I've got to do with." "You say truth, Big Tim," returned the preacher, "and that is also all that I have got to do with; but you and I take different methods of correcting the evil." "Every man must walk in the ways to which he was nat'rally born," rejoined the young hunter, with a dark frown, as the sound of revelry in the hut overhead became at the moment much louder; "my way wi' them may not be the best in the world, but you shall see in a few minutes that it is a way which will cause the very marrow of the rep--of the _dear_ critters--to frizzle in their bones." CHAPTER SEVEN. BIG TIM'S METHOD WITH SAVAGES. "I sincerely hope," said the wounded man, with a look of anxiety, "that the plan you speak of does not involve the slaughter of these men." "It does not" replied Big Tim, "though if it did, it would be serving them right, for they would slaughter you and me--ay, and even Softswan there--if they could lay hold of us." "Is it too much to ask the son of my old friend to let me know what his plans are? A knowledge of them would perhaps remove my anxiety, which I feel pressing heavily on me in my present weak condition. Besides, I may be able to counsel you. Although a man of peace, my life has been but too frequently mixed up with scenes of war and bloodshed. In truth, my mission on earth is to teach those principles which, if universally acted on, would put an end to both;--perhaps I should have said, my mission is to point men to that Saviour who is an embodiment of the principles of Love and Peace and Goodwill." For a few seconds the young hunter sat on the floor of the cave in silence, with his hands clasped round his knees, and his eyes cast down as if in meditation. At last a smile played on his features, and he looked at his questioner with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. "Well, my white father," he said, "I see no reason why I should not explain the matter to my daddy's old friend; but I'll have to say my say smartly, for by the stamping and yells o' the rep--o' the Blackfeet overhead, I perceive that they've got hold o' my case-bottle o' rum, an' if I don't stop them they'll pull the old hut down about their ears. "Well, you must know that my daddy left the settlements in his young days," continued Big Tim, "an' took to a rovin' life on the prairies an' mountains, but p'r'aps he told you that long ago. No? Well, he served for some time at a queer sort o' trade--the makin' o' fireworks; them rediklous things they call squibs, crackers, rockets, an' Roman candles, with which the foolish folk o' the settlements blow their money into smoke for the sake o' ticklin' their fancies for a few minutes. "Well, when he came here, of course he had no use for sitch tomfooleries, but once or twice, when he wanted to astonish the natives, he got hold o' some 'pothicary's stuff an' wi' gunpowder an' charcoal concocted some things that well-nigh drove the red men out o' their senses, an' got daddy to be regarded as a great medicine-man. Of course he kep' it secret how he produced the surprisin' fires--an', to say truth, I think from my own experience that if he had tried to explain it to 'em they could have made neither head nor tail o't. For a long time arter that he did nothin' more in that way, till one time when the Blackfeet came an' catched daddy an' me nappin' in this very hut and we barely got off wi' the scalps on our heads by scrambling down the precipice where the reptiles didn't like to follow. When they left the place they took all our odds an' ends wi' them, an' set fire to the hut. Arter they was gone we set to work an' built a noo hut. Then daddy-- who's got an amazin' turn for inventin' things--set to work to concoct suthin' for the reptiles if they should pay us another visit. It was at that time he thought of turnin' this cave to account as a place o' refuge when hard pressed, an' hit on the plan for liftin' the big stone easy, which no doubt you've obsarved." "Yes; Softswan has explained it to me. But what about your plan with the Indians?" said the preacher. "I'm comin' to that," replied the hunter. "Well, daddy set to work an' made a lot o' fireworks--big squibs, an' them sort o' crackers, I forget what you call 'em, that jumps about as if they was not only alive, but possessed with evil spirits--" "I know them--zigzag crackers," said the preacher, somewhat amused. "That's them," cried Big Tim, with an eager look, as if the mere memory of them were exciting. "Well, daddy he fixed up a lot o' the big squibs an' Roman candles round the walls o' the hut in such a way that they all p'inted from ivery corner, above an' below, to the centre of the hut, right in front o' the fireplace, so that their fire should all meet, so to speak, in a focus. Then he chiselled out a lot o' little holes in the stone walls in such a way that they could not be seen, and in every hole he put a zigzag cracker; an' he connected the whole affair--squibs, candles, and crackers--with an instantaneous fuse, the end of which he trained down, through a hole cut in the solid rock, into this here cave; an' there's the end of it right opposite to yer nose." He pointed as he spoke to a part of the wall of the cavern where a small piece of what seemed like white tape projected about half an inch from the stone. "Has it ever been tried?" asked the preacher, who, despite his weak and wounded condition, could hardly restrain a laugh as the young hunter described his father's complicated arrangements. "No, we han't tried it yet, 'cause the reptiles haven't bin here since, but daddy, who's a very thoroughgoin' man, has given the things a complete overhaul once a month ever since--'cept when he was away on long expeditions--so as to make sure the stuff was dry an in workin' order. Now," added the young man, rising and lighting a piece of tinder at the torch on the wall, "it's about time that we should putt it to the test. If things don't go wrong, you'll hear summat koorious overhead before long." He applied a light to the quick-match as he spoke, and awaited the result. In order that the reader may observe that result more clearly, we will transport him to the scene of festivity in the little fortress above. As Big Tim correctly surmised, the savages had discovered the hunter's store of rum just after eating as much venison as they could comfortably consume. Fire-water, as is well known, tells with tremendous effect on the excitable nerves and minds of Indians. In a very few minutes it produced, as in many white men, a tendency to become garrulous. While in this stage the savages began to boast, if possible, more than usual of their prowess in chase and war, and as their potations continued, they were guilty of that undignified act--so rare among red men and so common among whites--of interrupting and contradicting each other. This condition is the sure precursor of the quarrelsome and fighting stage of drunkenness. They had almost reached it, when Rushing River rose to his feet for the purpose of making a speech. Usually the form of the chief was as firm as the rock on which he stood. At this time, however, it swayed very slightly to and fro, and in his eyes--which were usually noted for the intensity of their eagle glance--there was just then an owlish blink as they surveyed the circle of his braves. Indeed Rushing River, as he stood there looking down into the upturned faces, observed--with what feelings we know not--that these braves sometimes exhibited a few of the same owlish blinks in their earnest eyes. "My b-braves," said the chief; and then, evidently forgetting what he intended to say, he put on one of those looks of astonishing solemnity which fire-water alone is capable of producing. "My b-braves," he began again, looking sternly round the almost breathless and expectant circle, "when we left our l-lodges in the m-mountains this morning the sun was rising." He paused, and this being an emphatic truism, was received with an equally emphatic "Ho" of assent. "N-now," continued the chief, with a gentle sway to the right, which he corrected with an abrupt jerk to the left, "n-now, the sun is about to descend, and w-we are _here_!" Feeling that he had made a decided point, he drew himself up and blinked, while his audience gave vent to another "Ho" in tones which expressed the idea--"waiting for more." The comrade, however, whose veins were fired, or chilled, with the few drops of white blood, ventured to assert his independence by ejaculating "Hum!" "Bounding Bull," cried the chief, suddenly shifting ground and glaring, while he breathed hard and showed his teeth, "is a coward. His daughter Softswan is a chicken-hearted squaw; and her husband Big Tim is a skunk--so is Little Tim his father." These remarks, being thoroughly in accord with the sentiments of the braves, were received with a storm of "Ho's," "How's," "Hi's," and "Hee's," which effectually drowned the cheeky one's "Hum's," and greatly encouraged the chief, who thereafter broke forth in a flow of language which was more in keeping with his name. After a few boastful references to the deeds of himself and his forefathers, he went into an elaborate and exaggerated description of the valorous way in which they had that day stormed the fort of their pale-face enemies and driven them out; after which, losing somehow the thread of his discourse, he fell back on an appallingly solemn look, blinked, and sat down. This was the signal for the recurrence of the approving "Ho's" and "Hi's," the gratifying effect of which, however, was slightly marred when silence was restored by a subdued "Hum" from the cheeky comrade. Directing a fierce glance at that presumptuous brave, Rushing River was about to give vent to words which might have led on to the fighting stage, when he was arrested, and, with his men, almost petrified, by a strange fizzing noise which seemed to come from the earth directly below them. Incomprehensible sounds are at all times more calculated to alarm than sounds which we recognise. The report of a rifle, the yell of a foe, could not have produced such an effect on the savages as did that fizzing sound. Each man grasped his tomahawk, but sat still, and turned pale. The fizzing sound was interspersed with one or two cracks, which intensified the alarm, but did not clear up the mystery. If they had only known what to do they would have done it; what danger to face, they would have faced it; but to sit there inactive, with the mysterious sounds increasing, was almost intolerable. Rushing River, of all the band, maintained his character for reckless hardihood. He sat there unblenched and apparently unmoved, though it was plain that he was intensely watchful and ready. But the foe assailed him where least expected. In a little hole right under the very spot on which he sat lay one of the zigzag crackers. Its first crack caused the chief, despite his power of will and early training, to bound up as if an electric battery had discharged him. The second crack sent the eccentric thing into his face. Its third vagary brought it down about his knees. Its fourth sent it into the gaping mouth of the cheeky one. At the same instant the squibs and candles burst forth from all points, pouring their fires on the naked shoulders of the red men with a hiss that the whole serpent race of America might have failed to equal, while the other zigzags went careering about as if the hut were filled with evil spirits. To say that the savages yelled and jumped, and stamped and roared, were but a tame remark. After a series of wild bursts, in sudden and violent confusion which words cannot describe, they rushed in a compact body to the door. Of course they stuck fast. Rushing River went at them like a battering-ram, and tried to force them through, but failed. The cheeky comrade, with a better appreciation of the possibilities of the case, took a short run and a header right over the struggling mass, _a la harlequin_, and came down on his shoulders outside, without breaking his neck. Guessing the state of things by the nature of the sounds, Big Tim removed the table from under the ponderous weight, lifted the re-adjusted trap-door, and, springing up, darted into the hut just in time to bestow a parting kick on the last man that struggled through. Running to the breastwork, he beheld his foes tumbling, rushing, crashing, bounding down the track like maniacs--which indeed they were for the time being--and he succeeded in urging them to even greater exertions by giving utterance to a grand resonant British cheer, which had been taught him by his father, and had indeed been used by him more than once, with signal success, against his Indian foes. Returning to the cavern after the Indians had vanished into their native woods, Big Tim assisted the preacher up the ladder, and, taking him into the hut after the smoke of the fireworks had cleared away, placed him in his own bed. "You resemble your father in face, Big Tim, but not in figure," said the missionary, when he had recovered from the exhaustion caused by his recent efforts and excitement. "My white father says truth," replied the hunter, with slightly humorous glances at his huge limbs. "Daddy is little, but he is strong--uncommon strong." "He used to be so when I knew him," returned the preacher, "and I dare say the twenty years that have passed since then have not changed him much, for he is a good deal younger than I am--about the same age, I should suppose, as my old friend Whitewing." "Yes, that's so," said the hunter; "they're both about five-an'-forty or there-away, though I doubt if either o' them is quite sure about his age. An' they're both beginning to be grizzled about the scalp-locks." "Your father, although somewhat reckless in his disposition," continued the preacher, after a pause, "was a man of earnest mind." "That's a fact, an' no mistake," returned Big Tim, examining a pot of soup which his bride had put on the fire to warm up for their visitor. "I doubt if ever I saw a more arnest-minded man than daddy, especially when he tackles his victuals or gets on the track of a grizzly b'ar." The missionary smiled, in spite of himself, as he explained that the earnestness he referred to was connected rather with the soul and the spiritual world than with this sublunary sphere. "Well, he is arnest about that too," returned the hunter. "He has often told me that he didn't use to trouble his head about such matters long ago, but after that time when he met you on the prairies he had been led to think a deal more about 'em. He's a queer man is daddy, an' putts things to ye in a queer way sometimes. `Timmy,' says he to me once--he calls me Timmy out o' fondness, you know--`Timmy,' says he, `if you comed up to a great thick glass wall, not very easy to see through, wi' a door in it, an' you was told that some day that door would open, an' you'd have to go through an' live on the other side o' that glass wall, you'd be koorious to know the lie o' the land on the other side o' that wall, wouldn't you, and what sort o' customers you'd have to consort wi' there, eh?' "`Yes, daddy,' says I, `you say right, an' I'd be a great fool if I didn't take a good long squint now an' again.' "`Well, Timmy,' says he, `this world is that glass wall, an' death is the door through it, an' the Bible that the preacher gave me long ago is the Book that helps to clear up the glass an' enable us to see through it a little better; an' a Blackfoot bullet or arrow may open the door to you an' me any day, so I'd advise you, lad, to take a good squint now an' again.' An' I've done it, too, Preacher, I've done it, but there's a deal on it that I don't rightly understand." "That I do not wonder at, my young friend; and I hope that if God spares me I may be able to help you a little in this matter. But what of Whitewing? Has he never tried to assist you?" "Tried! He just has; but the chief is too deep for me most times. He seems to have a wonderful grip o' these things himself, an' many a long palaver he has wi' my daddy about 'em. Whitewing does little else, in fact but go about among his people far an' near tellin' them about their lost condition and the Saviour of sinners. He has even ventur'd to visit a tribe o' the Blackfeet, but his great enemy Rushin' River has sworn to scalp him if he gets hold of him, so we've done our best to hold him back--daddy an' me--for it would be of no use preachin' to such a double-dyed villain as Rushin' River." "That is one of the things," returned the preacher, "that you do not quite understand, Big Tim, for it was to such men as he that our Saviour came. Indeed, I have returned to this part of the country for the very purpose of visiting the Blackfoot chief in company with Whitewing." "Both you and Whitewing will be scalped if you do," said the young hunter almost sternly. "I trust not," returned the preacher; "and we hope to induce your father to go with us." "Then daddy will be scalped too," said Big Tim--"an' so will I, for I'm bound to keep daddy company." "It is to be hoped your gloomy expectations will not be realised," returned the preacher. "But tell me, where is your father just now?" "Out hunting, not far off," replied the youth, with an anxious look. "To say truth, I don't feel quite easy about him, for he's bin away longer than usual, or than there's any occasion for. If he doesn't return soon, I'll have to go an' sarch for him." As the hunter spoke the hooting of an owl was distinctly heard outside. The preacher looked up inquiringly, for he was too well acquainted with the ways of Indians not to know that the cry was a signal from a biped without wings. He saw that Big Tim and his bride were both listening intently, with expressions of joyful expectation on their faces. Again the cry was heard, much nearer than before. "Whitewing!" exclaimed the hunter, leaping up and hastening to the door. Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the pot on the fire. Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men conversing in low tones. Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged Indian stood in the doorway. With an expression of profound sorrow, he gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt beside him and grasped his hand. "My white father!" he said. "Whitewing!" exclaimed the preacher; "I little expected that our meeting should be like this!" "Is the preacher badly hurt?" asked the Indian in a low voice. "It may be so; I cannot tell. My feelings lead me to--to doubt--I was going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear. `He doeth all things well.' If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is finished, I shall die." CHAPTER EIGHT. NETTING A GRIZZLY BEAR. As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have been no mystery at all in Little Tim's prolonged absence from his fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at latest. Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the memory of his oldest friend been known to break it. Thus it came to pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then anxious. The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have just related, prevented the son from going out in search of the father; but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing's party, it was resolved that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour's delay. "Leetil Tim," said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old friend's unaccountable absence, "must be found." "So say I," returned Big Tim. "I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven't got him. Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet. Anyhow, we must go at once. You won't mind our leaving you for a bit?" he added, turning to the missionary; "we will leave enough o' redskins to guard you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable." "Think not of me," replied the preacher. "All will go well, I feel assured." Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any mystery connected with the missionary's name or Little Tim's surname, we think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none. In those outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour. They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic. Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and prairies with his real name, which was--and is--a matter of no importance whatever. Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of "Little Tim" with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally becoming "Big Tim" when he outgrew his father. A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and Big Tim. In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim's absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search party, and explain a few matters as we go. It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural ingenuity of mind. This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man. As he grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active, until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising something new became almost a passion. Hence he was perpetually occupied in scheming to improve--as he was wont to say--the material condition of the human race, as well as the mental. Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and also their dwellings. He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence failed. His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country, and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he set his mind to. Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red friends as it was in his own mind. One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere. Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing. He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim. "I want a grizzly b'ar," he said, on being introduced to the hunter. "There's plenty of 'em in these parts," said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time. "But I want a full-grown old 'un," said the agent. "Well," remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, "I should say there's some thousands, more or less, roamin' about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness--from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin' o' the old gentlemen; but you'll find most of 'em powerful sly an' uncommon hard to kill." "But I don't want to kill 'em; I want one of 'em alive," said the agent. At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man. "You wants to catch one alive?" he repeated. "_Yes_, that's what's the matter with me exactly. I want it for a show, an' I'm prepared to give a good price for a big one." "How much?" asked the hunter. The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear. Little Tim raised his eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling. "But," said he, after a few moments' vigorous knife-work, "what if I should try, an' fail?" "Then you get nothing." "Won't do," returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head. "I'm game to tackle difficulties for love _or_ money, but not for nothin'. You'll have to go to another shop, stranger." "Well, what will you _try_ it for?" asked the agent, who was unwilling to lose his man. "For quarter o' the sum down, to be kep' whether I succeed or fail, the balance to be paid when I hand over the goods." "Well, stranger," returned the agent, with a grim smile, "I don't mind if I agree to that. You seem an honest man." "Sorry I can't return the compliment," said Little Tim, holding out his hand. "So cash down, if you please." The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars. The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise. Meanwhile the agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result. After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam, Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength. He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference, that he could draw it together like a purse. With this gigantic affair on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains. He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the village. "What! goin' out alone, Little Tim?" he said. "Yes; b'ars don't like company, as a rule." "Don't you think I might help you a bit?" "No, I don't. If you stop where you are, I'll very likely bring the b'ar home to 'ee. If you go with me, it's more than likely the b'ar will take you home to her small family!" "Well, well, have it your own way," returned the agent, laughing. "I always do," replied the hunter, with a grin. Proceeding a day's journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly large one. Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles into the ground, under one of its largest branches. Over these he spread his net, arranging the closing rope--or what we may term the purse-string--in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the tree referred to. This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground. Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it, directly above his net. There, seating himself comfortably among the branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below. The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed a lean to the hunter's back, and another branch, doubling round most conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow. At the same time an abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun. Thus he reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy, and a good supper before him. "What could a man wish more?" he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded: "Roast prairie hen. Capital grub, with a bit o' salt pork, though rather dry an' woodeny-like by itself. Buffalo rib. Nothin' better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain't just parfection unless hot, an' this is bound to be a cold supper. Hunk o' pemmican. A safe stand-by at all times. Don't need no cookin', an' a just proportion o' fat to lean, but doesn't do without appetite to make it go down. Let me be thankful I've got that, anyhow." At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree. After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene. "It has always seemed to me," muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit--for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them--"It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race. Pity we hasn't all got it!" Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on--"Of course I don't mean that lazy sort o' contentment that makes a man feel easy an' comfortable, an' quite indifferent to the woes an' worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full. No, no. I means that sort o' contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn't got champagne an' taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an' jam at every blow-out; that sort o' contentment that takes things as they come, an' enjoys 'em without grumpin' an' growlin' 'cause he hasn't got somethin' else." Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring. A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near. Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited. He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight must have deceived him. "Sartinly it's the biggest that I've ever clapped eyes on," he thought but he did not speak or move. So anxious was he not to scare the animal, that he hardly breathed. Bruin seemed to entertain suspicions of some sort, for he sniffed the tainted air once or twice, and looked inquiringly round. Coming to the conclusion, apparently, that his suspicions were groundless, he walked straight up to the lump of buffalo-meat and sniffed it. Not being particular, he tried it with his tongue. "Good!" said the bear--at least if he did not say so, he must have thought so, for next moment he grasped it with his teeth. Finding it tethered hard and fast, he gathered himself together for the purpose of exercising main force. Now was Little Tim's opportunity. Slipping a cord by which the net was suspended to the four stakes, he caused it to descend like a curtain over the bear. It acted most successfully, insomuch that the animal was completely enveloped. Surprised, but obviously not alarmed, Bruin shook his head, sniffed a little, and pawed the part of the net in front of him. The hunter wasted no time. Seeing that the net was all right, he pulled with all his might on the main rope, which partly drew the circumference of the net together. Finding his feet slightly trammelled, the grizzly tried to move off, but of course trod on the net, tripped, and rolled over. In so doing he caught sight of the hunter, who was now enabled to close the mouth of the net-purse completely. Being by that time convinced, apparently, that he was the victim of foul play, the bear lost his temper, and tried to rise. He tripped as before, came down heavily on his side, and hit the back of his head against a stone. This threw him into a violent rage, and he began to bounce. At all times bouncing is ineffectual and silly, even in a grizzly bear. The only result was that he bruised his head and nose, tumbled among stones and stumps, and strained the rope so powerfully that the limb of the tree to which it was attached was violently shaken, and Little Tim was obliged to hold on to avoid being shaken off. Experience teaches bears as well as fools. On discovering that it was useless to bounce, he sat down in a disconsolate manner, poked as much as he could of his nose through one of the meshes, and sniggered at Little Tim, who during these outbursts was naturally in a state of great excitement. Then the bear went to work leisurely to gnaw the mesh close to his mouth. The hunter was not prepared for this. He had counted on the creature struggling with its net till it was in a state of complete exhaustion, when, by means of additional ropes, it could be so wound round and entangled in every limb as to be quite incapable of motion. In this condition it might be slung to a long pole and carried by a sufficient number of men to the small, but immensely strong, cage on wheels which the agent had brought with him. Not only was there the danger of the bear breaking loose and escaping, or rendering it necessary that he should be shot, but there was another risk which Little Tim had failed at first to note. The scene on which he had decided to play out his little game was on the gentle slope of a hill, which terminated in a precipice of considerable height, and each time the bear struggled and rolled over in his network purse, he naturally gravitated towards the precipice, over which he was certain to go if the rope which held him to the tree should snap. The hunter had just become thoroughly alive to this danger when, with a tremendous struggle, the bear burst two of the meshes in rear, and his hind-quarters were free. Little Tim seized his gun, feeling that the crisis had come. He was loath to destroy the creature, and hesitated. Instead of backing out of his prison, as he might easily have done, the bear made use of his free hind legs to make a magnificent bound forward. He was checked, of course, by the rope, but Tim had miscalculated the strength of his materials. A much stronger rope would have broken under the tremendous strain. The line parted like a piece of twine, and the bear, rolling head over heels down the slope, bounded over the precipice, and went hurling out into space like a mighty football! There was silence for a few seconds, then a simultaneous thud and bursting cry that was eminently suggestive. "H'm! It's all over," sighed Little Tim, as he slid down the branch to the ground. And so it was. The bear was effectually killed, and the poor hunter had to return to the Indian village crestfallen. "But hold on, stranger," he said, on meeting the agent; "don't you give way to despair. I said there was lots of 'em in these parts. You come with me up to a hut my son's got in the mountains, an' I'll circumvent a b'ar for you yet. You can't take the cart quite up to the hut but you can git near enough, at a place where there's a Injin' friend o' mine as'll take care of ye." The agent agreed, and thus it came to pass that at the time of which we now write, Little Tim was doing his best to catch a live bear, but, not liking to be laughed at even by his son in the event of failure, he had led him and his bride to suppose that he had merely gone out hunting in the usual way. It was on this expedition that Little Tim had set forth when Whitewing was expected to arrive at Tim's Folly--as the little hut or fortress had come to be named--and it was the anxiety of his friends and kindred at his prolonged absence which resulted, as we have seen, in the formation and departure of a search expedition. CHAPTER NINE. A DARING EXPLOIT. To practised woodsmen like Whitewing and Big Tim it was as easy to follow the track of Little Tim as if his steps had been taken through newly-fallen snow, although very few and slight were the marks left on the green moss and rugged ground over which the hunter had passed. Six picked Indians accompanied the prairie chief, and these marched in single file, each treading in the footsteps of the man in front with the utmost care. At first the party maintained absolute silence. Their way lay for some distance along the margin of the brawling stream which drained the gorge at the entrance of which Tim's Folly stood. The scenery around them was wild and savage in the extreme, for the higher they ascended, the narrower became the gorge, and the masses of rock which had fallen from the frowning cliffs on either side had strewn the lower ground with shapeless blocks, and so impeded the natural flow of the little stream that it became, as it were, a tormented and foaming cataract. At the head of the gorge the party came to a pass or height of land, through which they went with caution, for, although no footsteps of man had thus far been detected by their keen eyes save those of Little Tim, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that foes might be lurking on the other side of the pass. No one, however, was discovered, and when they emerged at the other end of the pass it was plain that, as Big Tim remarked, the coast was clear, for from their commanding position they could see an immeasurable distance in front of them, over an unencumbered stretch of land. The view from this point was indeed stupendous. The vision seemed to range not only over an almost limitless world of forests, lakes, and rivers--away to where the haze of the horizon seemed to melt with them into space--but beyond that to where the great backbone of the New World rose sharp, clear, and gigantic above the mists of earth, until they reached and mingled with the fleecy clouds of heaven. To judge from their glittering eyes, even the souls of the not very demonstrative Indians were touched by the scene. As for the prairie chief, who had risen to the perceptions of the new life in Christ he halted and stood for some moments as if lost in contemplation. Then, turning to the young hunter at his side, he said softly-- "The works of the Lord are great." "Strange," returned Big Tim, "that you should use the very same words that I've heard my daddy use sometimes when we've come upon a grand view like that." "Not so strange when I tell you," replied Whitewing, "that these are words from the Book of Manitou, and that your father and I learned them together long ago from the preacher who now lies wounded in your hut." "Ay, ay! Daddy didn't tell me that. He's not half so given to serious talk as you are, Whitewing, though I'm free to admit that he does take a fit o' that sort now an' again, and seems raither fond of it. The fact is, I don't quite understand daddy. He puzzles me." "Perhaps Leetil Tim is too much given to fun when he talks with Big Tim," suggested the red chief gravely, but with a slight twinkle in his eyes, which told that he was not quite destitute of Little Tim's weakness--or strength, as the reader chooses. After a brief halt the party descended the slope which led to the elevated valley they had now reached, and, having proceeded a few miles, again came to a halt because the ground had become so rocky that the trail of the hunter was lost. Ordering the young men to spread themselves over the ground, Whitewing went with Big Tim to search over the ridge of a neighbouring eminence. "It is as I expected," he said, coming to a sudden stand, and pointing to a faint mark on the turf. "Leetil Tim has taken the short cut to the Lopstick Hill, but I cannot guess the reason why." Big Tim was down on his knees examining the footprints attentively. "Daddy's futt, an' no mistake," he said, rising slowly. "I'd know the print of his heel among a thousand. He's got a sort o' swagger of his own, an' puts it down with a crash, as if he wanted to leave his mark wherever he goes. I've often tried to cure him o' that, but he's incurable." "I have observed," returned the chief, with, if possible, increased gravity, "that many sons are fond of trying to cure their fathers; also, that they never succeed." Big Tim looked quickly at his companion, and laughed. "Well, well," he said, "the daddies have a good go at us in youth. It's but fair that we should have a turn at _them_ afterwards." A sharp signal from one of the young Indians in the distance interrupted further converse, and drew them away to see what he had discovered. It was obvious enough--the trail of the Blackfoot Indians retiring into the mountains. At first Big Tim's heart sank, for this discovery, coupled with the prolonged absence of his father, suggested the fear that he had been waylaid and murdered. But a further examination led them to think--at least to hope--that the savages had not observed the hunter's trail, owing to his having diverged at a point of the track further down, where the stony nature of the ground rendered trail-finding, as we have seen, rather difficult. Still, there was enough to fill the breasts of both son and friend with anxiety, and to induce them to push on thereafter swiftly and in silence. Let us once again take flight ahead of them, and see what the object of their anxiety is doing. True to his promise to try his best, the dauntless little hunter had proceeded alone, as before, to a part of the mountain region where he knew from past experience that grizzlies were to be easily found. There he made his preparations for a new effort on a different plan. The spot he selected for his enterprise was an open space on a bleak hillside, where the trees were scattered and comparatively small. This latter peculiarity--the smallness of the trees--was, indeed, the only drawback to the place, for few of them were large enough to bear his weight, and afford him a secure protection from his formidable game. At last however, he found one,--not, indeed, quite to his mind, but sufficiently large to enable him to get well out of a bear's reach, for it must be remembered that although some bears climb trees easily, the grizzly bear cannot climb at all. There was a branch on the lower part of the tree which seemed quite beyond the reach of the tallest bear even on tiptoe. Having made his disposition very much as on the former occasion, Little Tim settled himself on this branch, and awaited the result. He did not, however, sit as comfortably as on the previous occasion, for the branch was small and had no fork. Neither did he proceed to sup as formerly, for it was yet too early in the day to indulge in that meal. His plan this time was, not to net, but to lasso the bear; and for that purpose he had provided four powerful ropes made of strips of raw, undressed buffalo hide, plaited, with a running noose on each. "Now," said Little Tim, with a self-satisfied smirk, as he seated himself on the branch and surveyed the four ropes complacently, "it'll puzzle the biggest b'ar in all the Rocky Mountains to break them ropes." Any one acquainted with the strength of the material which Tim began to uncoil would have at once perceived that the lines in question might have held an elephant or a small steamer. "I hope," murmured Tim, struggling with a knot in one of the cords that bound the coils, "I hope I'll be in luck to-day, an' won't have to wait long." Little Tim's hope reached fruition sooner than he had expected--sooner even than he desired--for as he spoke he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him. Looking round quickly, he beheld "the biggest b'ar, out o' sight, that he had iver seen in all his life." So great was his surprise--we would not for a moment call it alarm--that he let slip the four coils of rope, which fell to the ground. Grizzly bears, it must be known, are gifted with insatiable curiosity, and they are not troubled much with the fear of man, or, indeed, of anything else. Hearing the thud of the coils on the ground, this monster grizzly walked up to and smelt them. He was proceeding to taste them, when, happening to cast his little eyes upwards, he beheld Little Tim sitting within a few feet of his head. To rise on his hind legs, and solicit a nearer interview, was the work of a moment. To the poor hunter's alarm, when he stretched his tremendous paws and claws to their utmost he reached to within a foot of the branch. Of course Little Tim knew that he was safe, but he was obliged to draw up his legs and lay out on the branch, which brought his head and eyes horribly near to the nose and projecting tongue of the monster. To make matters worse, Tim had left his gun leaning against the stem of the tree. He had his knife and hatchet in his belt, but these he knew too well were but feeble weapons against such a foe. Besides, his object was not to slay, but to secure. Seeing that there was no possibility of reaching the hunter by means of mere length of limb, and not at that time having acquired the art of building a stone pedestal for elevating purposes, the bear dropped on its four legs and looked round. Perceiving the gun, it went leisurely up and examined it. The examination was brief but effective. It gave the gun only one touch with its paw, but that touch broke the lock and stock and bent the barrel so as to render the weapon useless. Then it returned to the coil of ropes, and, sitting down, began to chew one of them, keeping a serious eye, however, on the branch above. It was a perplexing situation even for a backwoodsman. The branch on which Tim lay was comfortable enough, having many smaller branches and twigs extending from it on either side, so that he did not require to hold on very tightly to maintain his position. But he was fully aware of the endurance and patience of grizzly bears, and knew that, having nothing else to do, this particular Bruin could afford to bide his time. And now the ruling characteristic of Little Tim beset him severely. His head felt like a bombshell of fermenting ingenuity. Every device, mechanical and otherwise, that had ever passed through his brain since childhood, seemed to rush back upon him with irresistible violence in his hopeless effort to conceive some plan by which to escape from his present and pressing difficulty--he would not, even to himself, admit that there was danger. The more hopeless the case appeared to him, the less did reason and common-sense preside over the fermentation. When he saw his gun broken, his first anxiety began. When he reflected on the persistency of grizzlies in watching their foes, his naturally buoyant spirits began to sink and his native recklessness to abate. When he saw the bear begin steadily to devour one of the lines by which he had hoped to capture it, his hopes declined still more; and when he considered the distance he was from his hut, the fact that his provision wallet had been left on the ground along with the gun, and that the branch on which he rested was singularly unfit for a resting-place on which to pass many hours, he became wildly ingenious, and planned to escape, not only by pitching his cap to some distance off so as to distract the bear's attention, and enable him to slip down and run away, but by devising methods of effecting his object by clockwork, fireworks, wings, balloons--in short, by everything that ever has, in the history of design, enabled men to achieve their ends. His first and simplest method, to fling his cap away, was indeed so far successful that it did distract the bear's attention for a moment, but it did not disturb his huge body, for he sat still, chewing his buffalo quid leisurely, and, after a few seconds, looked up at his victim as though to ask, "What d'you mean by that?" When, after several hours, all his attempts had failed, poor Little Tim groaned in spirit, and began to regret his having undertaken the job; but a sense of the humorous, even in that extremity, caused him to give vent to a short laugh as he observed that Bruin had managed to get several feet of the indigestible rope down his throat, and fancied what a surprise it would give him if he were to get hold of the other end of the rope and pull it all out again. At last night descended on the scene, making the situation much more unpleasant, for the darkness tended to deceive the man as to the motions of the brute, and once or twice he almost leaped off the branch under the impression that his foe had somehow grown tall enough to reach him, and was on the point of seizing him with his formidable claws. To add to his troubles, hunger came upon Tim about his usual supper-time, and what was far worse, because much less endurable, sleep put in a powerful claim to attention. Indeed this latter difficulty became so great that hunger, after a time, ceased to trouble him, and all his faculties--even the inventive--were engaged in a tremendous battle with this good old friend, who had so suddenly been converted into an implacable foe. More than once that night did Little Tim, despite his utmost efforts, fall into a momentary sleep, from which each time he awoke with a convulsive start and sharp cry, to the obvious surprise of Bruin, who, being awakened out of a comfortable nap, looked up with a growl inquiringly, and then relapsed. When morning broke, it found the wretched man still clutching his uneasy couch, and blinking like an owl at the bear, which still lay comfortably on the ground below him. Unable to stand it any longer, Tim resolved to have a short nap, even if it should cost him his life. With this end in view, he twined his arms and legs tightly round his branch. The very act reminded him that his worsted waistbelt might be twined round both body and branch, for it was full two yards long. Wondering that it had not occurred to him before, he hastily undid it, lashed himself to the branch as well as he could, and in a moment was sound asleep. This device would have succeeded admirably had not one of his legs slowly dropped so low down as to attract the notice of the bear when it awoke. Rising to its full height on its hind legs, and protruding its tongue to the utmost, it just managed to touch Tim's toe. The touch acted liked an electric spark, awoke him at once, and the leg was drawn promptly up. But Tim had had a nap, and it is wonderful how brief a slumber will suffice to restore the energies of a man in robust health. He unlashed himself. "Good mornin' to 'ee," he said, looking down. "You're there yet, I see." He finished the salutation with a loud yawn, and stretched himself so recklessly that he almost fell off the branch into the embrace of his expectant foe. Then he looked round, and, reason having been restored, hit upon a plan of escape which seemed to him hopeful. We have said that the space he had selected was rather open, but there were scattered over it several large masses of rock, about the size of an ordinary cart, which had fallen from the neighbouring cliffs. Four of these stood in a group at about fifty yards' distance from his tree. "Now, old Caleb," he said, "I'll go in for it, neck or nothin'. You tasted my toes this mornin'. Would you like to try 'em again?" He lowered his foot as he spoke, as far down as he could reach. The bear accepted the invitation at once, rose up, protruded his tongue as before, and just managed to touch the toe. Now it is scarcely needful to say that a strong man leading the life of a hunter in the Rocky Mountains is an athlete. Tim thought no more of swinging himself up into a tree by the muscular power of his arms than you would think of stepping over a narrow ditch. When the bear was standing in its most upright attitude, he suddenly swung down, held on to the branch with his hands, and drove both his feet with such force against the bear's chin that it lost its balance and fell over backwards with an angry growl. At the same moment Tim dropped to the ground, and made for the fallen rocks at a quicker rate than he had ever run before. Bruin scrambled to his feet with amazing agility, looked round, saw the fugitive, and gave chase. Darting past the first rock, it turned, but Little Tim, of course, was not there. He had doubled round the second, and taken refuge behind the third mass of rock. Waiting a moment till the baffled bear went to look behind another rock, he ran straight back again to his tree, hastily gathered up his ropes, and reascended to his branch, where the bear found him again not many minutes later. "Ha! HA! you old rascal!" he shouted, as he fastened the end of a rope firmly to the branch, and gathered in the slack so as to have the running noose handy. "I've got you now. Come, come along; have another taste of my toe!" This invitation was given when the bear stood in his former position under the tree and looked up. Once again it accepted the invitation, and rose to the hunter's toe as a salmon rises to an irresistible fly. "That's it! Now, hold on--just one moment. _There_!" As Tim finished the sentence, he dropped the noose so deftly over the bear's head and paws that it went right down to his waist. This was an unlooked-for piece of good fortune. The utmost the hunter had hoped for was to noose the creature round the neck. Moreover, it was done so quickly that the monster did not seem to fully appreciate what had occurred, but continued to strain and reach up at the toe in an imbecile sort of way. Instead, therefore, of drawing the noose tight, Little Tim dropped a second noose round the monster's neck, and drew that tight. Becoming suddenly alive to its condition, the grizzly made a backward plunge, which drew both ropes tight and nearly strangled it, while the branch on which Tim was perched shook so violently that it was all he could do to hold on. For full half an hour that bear struggled fiercely to free itself, and often did the shaken hunter fear that he had miscalculated the strength of his ropes, but they stood the test well, and, being elastic, acted in some degree like lines of indiarubber. At the end of that time the bear fell prone from exhaustion, which, to do him justice, was more the result of semi-strangulation than exertion. This was what Little Tim had been waiting for and expecting. Quietly but quickly he descended to the ground, but the bear saw him, partially recovered, no doubt under an impulse of rage, and began to rear and plunge again, compelling his foe to run to the fallen rocks for shelter. When Bruin had exhausted himself a second time, Tim ran forward and seized the old net with which he had failed to catch the previous bear, and threw it over his captive. The act of course revived the lively monster, but his struggles now wound him up into such a ravel with the two lines and the net that he was soon unable to get up or jump about, though still able to make the very earth around him tremble with his convulsive heaves. It was at once a fine as well as an awful display of the power of brute force and the strength of raw material! Little Tim would have admired it with philosophic interest if he had not been too busy dancing around the writhing creature in a vain effort to fix his third rope on a hind leg. At last an opportunity offered. A leg burst one of the meshes of the net. Tim deftly slipped the noose over it, and made the line fast to the tree. "Now," said he, wiping the perspiration from his brow, "you're safe, so I'll have a meal." And Little Tim, sitting down on a stone at a respectful distance, applied himself with zest to the cold breakfast of which he stood so very much in need. He was thus occupied when his son with the prairie chief and his party found him. It would take at least another chapter to describe adequately the joy, surprise, laughter, gratulation, and comment which burst from the rescue party on discovering the hunter. We therefore leave it to the reader's imagination. One of the young braves was at once sent off to find the agent and fetch him to the spot with his cage on wheels. The feat, with much difficulty, was accomplished. Bruin was forcibly and very unwillingly thrust into the prison. The balance of the stipulated sum was honourably paid on the spot, and now that bear is--or, if it is not, ought to be--in the Zoological Gardens of New York, London, or Paris, with a printed account of his catching, and a portrait of Little Tim attached to the front of his cage! CHAPTER TEN. SNAKES IN THE GRASS. It was a sad but interesting council that was held in the little fortress of "Tim's Folly" the day following that on which the grizzly bear was captured. The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim's bed, presided. Beside him, with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing, the prairie chief. Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet. The other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him. In one sense it was a red man's council, but there were none of the Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the practices of their kindred. Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even to listen to the discussions of the "lords of creation," and no pipe of peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were discussed. The preacher's voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted look of calm confidence was still there. "Whitewing," he said, raising himself on one elbow, "I will speak as God gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends." He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man, remained silent, waiting for more. Not so Little Tim. That worthy, although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man's tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue. "Cheer up, sir," he said, in a tone of encouragement, "you mustn't let your spirits go down. A good rest here, an' good grub, wi' Softswan's cookin'--to say nothin' o' her nursin'--will put ye all right before long." "Thanks, Little Tim," returned the missionary, with a smile; "I do cheer up, or rather, God cheers me. Whether I recover or am called home is in His hands; therefore all shall be well. But," he added, turning to the chief, "God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on ourselves. The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that we may accommodate ourselves to His will. Sure am I that with or without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest--'though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." Again he paused, and the Indians uttered that soft "Ho!" of assent with which they were wont to express approval of what was said. "When I left the settlements of the white men," continued the preacher, "my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago, before the snows of life's winter had settled on my head, but my main object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their hereditary foe, Bounding Bull." "It's Rushin' River as is the enemy," cried Little Tim, interrupting, for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son's wife's father-- of whom he was very fond--had roused him. "Boundin' Bull would have bin reconciled long ago if Rushin' River would have listened to reason, for he is a Christian, though I'm bound to say he's somethin' of a queer one, havin' notions of his own which it's not easy for other folk to understand." "In which respect, daddy," remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his lips, "Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself." "Hold yer tongue, boy, else I'll give you a woppin'," said the father sternly. "Dumb, daddy, dumb," replied the son meekly. It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then in a little very mild "chaff," and the playful threat to give his son a "woppin'"--which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much effect--was an invariable proof that Little Tim's spirit had been calmed, and his amiability restored. "My white father's intentions are good," said Whitewing, after another pause, "and his faith is strong. It needs strong faith to believe that the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace with Whitewing." "With God all things are possible," returned the missionary. "And you must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because of me. Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River's braves, and not himself, who shot me. In any case they could not have known who I was." "I'm not so sure o' that," said Big Tim. "The Blackfoot reptile has a sharp eye, an' father has told me that you knew him once when you was in these parts twenty years ago." "Yes, I knew him well," returned the preacher, in a low, meditative voice. "He was quite a little boy at the time--not more than ten years of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave. I met him when travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded, and which was on the point of killing him. I dwelt with him and his people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus, but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet, if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it, however, that he did not shoot me knowingly." Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in Rushing River's future reformation was very weak, though they said nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds. "My white father's hopes and desires are good," said Whitewing, after another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death. "And now what does my father propose to do?" "My course is clear," answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a bright, cheerful look. "I cannot move. Here God has placed me, and here I must remain till--till I get well. All the action must be on your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends. But I shall not be idle or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray." There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they had already learned the value of prayer. "The first step I would wish you to take, however," continued the missionary, "is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive." "The loved old one still lives," returned the Indian. "Lives!" interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, "I should think she does, an' flourishes too, though she _has_ shrivelled up a bit since you saw her last. Why, she's so old now that we've changed her name to Live-for-ever. She sleeps like a top, an' feeds like a grampus, an' does little else but laugh at what's goin' on around her. I never did see such a jolly old girl in all my life. Twenty years ago--that time, you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the village was attacked--we all thought she was on her last legs, but, bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin' sort o' way, an' her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own Brighteyes, an' they twinkle a deal more." "Your account of her," returned the preacher, with a little smile, "makes me long to see her again. Indeed, the sight of these two would comfort me greatly whether I live or die. They are not far distant from here, you say?" "Not far. My father's wish shall be gratified," said Whitewing. "After they come we will consult again, and my father will be able to decide what course to pursue in winning over the Blackfeet." Of course the two Tims and all the others were quite willing to follow the lead of the prairie chief, so it was finally arranged that a party should be sent to the camp of the Indians, with whom Brighteyes and Live-for-ever were sojourning at the time--about a long day's march from the little fortress--and bring those women to the hut, that they might once again see and gladden the heart of the man whom they had formerly known as the Preacher. Now, it is a well-ascertained and undoubtable fact that the passion of love animates the bosoms of red men as well as white. It is also a curious coincidence that this passion frequently leads to modifications of action and unexpected, sometimes complicated, results and situations among the red as well as among the white men. Bearing this in mind, the reader will be better able to understand why Rushing River, in making a raid upon his enemies, and while creeping serpent-like through the grass in order to reconnoitre previous to a night attack, came to a sudden stop on beholding a young girl playing with a much younger girl--indeed, a little child--on the outskirts of the camp. It was the old story over again. Love at first sight! And no wonder, for the young girl, though only an Indian, was unusually graceful and pretty, being a daughter of Little Tim and Brighteyes. From the former, Moonlight (as she was named) inherited the free-and-easy yet modest carriage of the pale-face, from the latter a pretty little straight nose and a pair of gorgeous black eyes that seemed to sparkle with a private sunshine of their own. Rushing River, although a good-looking, stalwart man in the prime of life, had never been smitten in this way before. He therefore resolved at once to make the girl his wife. Red men have a peculiar way of settling such matters sometimes, without much regard to the wishes of the lady--especially if she be, as in this case, the daughter of a foe. In pursuance of his purpose, he planned, while lying there like a snake in the grass, to seize and carry off the fair Moonlight by force, instead of killing and scalping the whole of the Indians in Bounding Bull's camp with whom she sojourned. It was not any tender consideration for his foes, we are sorry to say, that induced this change of purpose, but the knowledge that in a night attack bullets and arrows are apt to fly indiscriminately on men, women, and children. He would have carried poor Moonlight off then and there if she had not been too near the camp to permit of his doing so without great risk of discovery. The presence of the little child also increased the risk. He might, indeed, have easily "got rid" of her, but there was a soft spot in that red man's heart which forbade the savage deed--a spot which had been created at that time, long, long ago, when the white preacher had discoursed to him of "righteousness and temperance and judgment to come." Little Skipping Rabbit, as she was called, was the youngest child of Bounding Bull. If Rushing River had known this, he would probably have hardened his heart, and struck at his enemy through the child, but fortunately he did not know it. Retiring cautiously from the scene, the Blackfoot chief determined to bide his time until he should find a good opportunity to pounce upon Moonlight and carry her off quietly. The opportunity came even sooner than he had anticipated. That night, while he was still prowling round the camp, Whitewing accompanied by Little Tim and a band of Indians arrived. Bounding Bull received them with an air of dignified satisfaction. He was a grave, tall Indian, whose manner was not at all suggestive of his name, but warriors in times of peace do not resemble the same men in times of war. Whitewing had been the means of inducing him to accept Christianity, and although he was by no means as "queer" a Christian as Little Tim had described him, he was, at all events, queer enough in the eyes of his enemies and his unbelieving friends to prefer peace or arbitration to war, on the ground that it is written, "If possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." Of course he saw that the "if possible" justified self-defence, and might in some circumstances even warrant aggressive action. Such, at all events, was the opinion he expressed at the solemn palaver which was held after the arrival of his friends. "Whitewing," said he, drawing himself up with flashing eyes and extended hand in the course of the debate, "surely you do not tell me that the Book teaches us to allow our enemies to raid in our lands, to carry off our women and little ones, and to burn our wigwams, while we sit still and wait till they are pleased to take our scalps?" Having put this rather startling question, he subsided as promptly as he had burst forth. "That's a poser!" thought the irreverent Little Tim, who sympathised with Bounding Bull, but he said nothing. "My brother has been well named," replied the uncompromising Whitewing; "he not only bounds upon his foes, but lets his mind bound to foolish conclusions. The Book teaches peace--if possible. If it be not possible, then we cannot avoid war. But how can we know what is possible unless we try? My brother advises that we should go on the war-path at once, and drive the Blackfeet away. Has Bounding Bull tried his best to bring them to reason? has he failed? Does he know that peace is _impossible_?" "Now look here, Whitewing," broke in Little Tim at this point. "It's all very well for you to talk about peace an' what's possible. I'm a Christian man myself, an' there's nobody as would be better pleased than me to see all the redskins in the mountains an' on the prairies at peace wi' one another. But you won't get me to believe that a few soft words are goin' to make Rushin' River all straight. He's the sworn enemy o' Boundin' Bull. Hates him like pison. He hates me like brimstone, an' it's my opinion that if we don't make away wi' him he'll make away wi' us." Whitewing--who was fond of silencing his opponents by quoting Scripture, many passages of which he had learned by heart long ago from his friend the preacher--did not reply for a few seconds. Then, looking earnestly at his brother chief, he said-- "With Manitou all things are possible. A soft answer turns away wrath." Bounding Bull pondered the words. Little Tim gave vent to a doubtful "humph"--not that he doubted the truth of the Word, but that he doubted its applicability on the present occasion. It was finally agreed that the question should not be decided until the whole council had returned to Tim's Folly, and laid the matter before the wounded missionary. Then Little Tim, being freed from the cares of state, went to solace himself with domesticity. Moonlight was Indian enough to know that females might not dare to interrupt the solemn council. She was also white woman enough to scorn the humble gait and ways of her red kindred, and to run eagerly to meet her sire as if she had been an out-and-out white girl. The hunter, as we have said, rather prided himself in keeping up some of the ways of his own race. Among other things, he treated his wife and daughter after the manner of white men--that is, well-behaved white men. When Moonlight saw him coming towards his wigwam, she bounded towards him. Little Tim extended his arms, caught her round the slender waist with his big strong hands, and lifted her as if she had been a child until her face was opposite his own. "Hallo, little beam of light!" he exclaimed, kissing her on each cheek, and then on the point of her tiny nose. "Eyes of mother--heart of sire, Fit to set the world on fire." Tim had become poetical as he grew older, and sometimes tried to throw his flashing thoughts into couplets. He spoke to his daughter in English, and, like Big Tim with his wife, required her to converse with him in that language. "Is mother at home?" "Yes, dear fasser, mosser's at home." "An' how's your little doll Skippin' Rabbit?" "Oh! she well as could be, an' a'most as wild too as rabbits. Runs away from me, so I kin hardly kitch her sometime." Moonlight accompanied this remark with a merry laugh, as she thought of some of the eccentricities of her little companion. Entering the wigwam, Little Tim found Brighteyes engaged with an iron pot, from which arose savoury odours. She had been as lithe and active as Moonlight once, and was still handsome and matronly. The eyes, however, from which she derived her name, still shone with undiminished lustre and benignity. "Bless you, old woman," said the hunter, giving his wife a hearty kiss, "you're as fond o' victuals as ever, I see." "At least my husband is, so I keep the pot boiling," retorted Brighteyes, with a smile, that proved her teeth to be as white as in days of yore. "Right, old girl, right. Your husband is about as good at emptying the pot as he is at filling it. Come, let's have some, while I tell you of a journey that's in store for you." "A long one?" asked the wife. "No, only a day's journey on horseback. You're goin' to meet an old friend." From this point her husband went on to tell about the arrival and wounding of the preacher, and how he had expressed an earnest desire to see her. While they were thus engaged, the prairie chief was similarly employed enlightening his own mother. That kind-hearted bundle of shrivelled-up antiquity was seated on the floor on the one side of a small fire. Her son sat on the opposite side, gazing at her through the smoke, with, for an Indian, an unwonted look of deep affection. "The snows of too many winters are on my head to go on journeys now," she said, in a feeble, quavering voice. "Is it far that my son wants me to go?" "Only one day's ride towards the setting sun, thou dear old one." Thus tenderly had Christianity, coupled with a naturally affectionate disposition, taught the prairie chief to address his mother. "Well, my son, I will go. Wherever Whitewing leads I will follow, for he is led by Manitou. I would go a long way to meet that good man the pale-face preacher." "Then to-morrow at sunrise the old one will be ready, and her son will come for her." So saying, the chief rose, and stalked solemnly out of the wigwam. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE SNAKES MAKE A DART AND SECURE THEIR VICTIMS. While the things described in the last chapter were going on in the Indian camp, Rushing River was prowling around it, alternately engaged in observation and meditation, for he was involved in complicated difficulties. He had come to that region with a large band of followers for the express purpose of scalping his great enemy Bounding Bull and all his kindred, including any visitors who might chance to be with him at the time. After attacking Tim's Folly, and being driven therefrom by its owner's ingenious fireworks, as already related, the chief had sent away his followers to a distance to hunt, having run short of fresh meat. He retained with himself a dozen of his best warriors, men who could glide with noiseless facility like snakes, or fight with the noisy ferocity of fiends. With these he meant to reconnoitre his enemy's camp, and make arrangements for the final assault when his braves should return with meat--for savages, not less than other men, are dependent very much on full stomachs for fighting capacity. But now a change had come over the spirit of his dream. He had suddenly fallen in love, and that, too, with one of his enemy's women. His love did not, however, extend to the rest of her kindred. Firm as was his resolve to carry off the girl, not less firm was his determination to scalp her family root and branch. As we have said, he hesitated to attack the camp for fear that mischief might befall the girl on whom he had set his heart. Besides, he would require all his men to enable him to make the attack successfully, and these would not, he knew, return to him until the following day. The arrival of Whitewing and Little Tim with their party still further perplexed him. He knew by the council that was immediately called, and the preparations that followed, that news of some importance had been brought by the prairie chief, and that action of some sort was immediately to follow; but of course what it all portended he could not divine, and in his uncertainty he feared that Moonlight--whose name of course he did not at that time know--might be spirited away, and he should never see her again. Really, for a Red Indian, he became quite sentimental on the point and half resolved to collect his dozen warriors, make a neck-or-nothing rush at Bounding Bull, and carry off his scalp and the girl at the same fell swoop. Cooler reflection, however, told him that the feat was beyond even _his_ powers, for he knew well the courage and strength of his foe, and was besides well acquainted with the person and reputation of the prairie chief and Little Tim, both of whom had foiled his plans on former occasions. Greatly perplexed, therefore, and undetermined as to his course of procedure, Rushing River bade his followers remain in their retreat in a dark part of a tangled thicket, while he should advance with one man still further in the direction of the camp to reconnoitre. Having reached an elevated spot as near to the enemy as he dared venture without running the risk of being seen by the sentinels, he flung himself down, and crawled towards a tree, whence he could partially observe what went on below. His companion, a youth named Eaglenose, silently followed his example. This youth was a fine-looking young savage, out on his first war-path, and burning to distinguish himself. Active as a kitten and modest as a girl, he was also quick-witted, and knew when to follow the example of his chief and when to remain inactive--the latter piece of knowledge a comparatively rare gift to the ambitious! After a prolonged gaze, with the result of nothing gained, Rushing River was about to retire from the spot as wise as he went, when his companion uttered the slightest possible hiss. He had heard a sound. Next instant the chief heard it, and smiled grimly. We may remark here in passing that the Blackfoot chief was eccentric in many ways. He prided himself on his contempt for the red man's love for paint and feathers, and invariably went on the war-path unpainted and unadorned. In civilised life he would certainly have been a Radical. How far his objection to paint was influenced by the possession of a manly, handsome countenance, of course we cannot tell. To clear up the mystery of the sound which had thrilled on the sharp ear of Eaglenose, we will return to the Indian camp, where, after the council, a sumptuous feast of venison steaks and marrow-bones was spread in Bounding Bull's wigwam. Moonlight not being one of the party, and having already supped, said to her mother that she was going to find Skipping Rabbit and have a run with her. You see, Moonlight, although full seventeen years of age, was still so much of a child as to delight in a scamper with her little friend, the youngest child of Bounding Bull. "Be careful, my child," said Brighteyes. "Keep within the sentinels; you know that the great Blackfoot is on the war-path." "Mother," said Moonlight, with the spirit of her little father stirring in her breast, "I don't fear Rushing River more than I do the sighing of the wind among the pine-tops. Is not my father here, and Whitewing? And does not Bounding Bull guard our wigwams?" Brighteyes said no more. She was pleased with the thorough confidence her daughter had in her natural protectors, and quietly went on with the moccasin which she was embroidering with the dyed quills of the porcupine for Little Tim. We have said that Moonlight was rather self-willed. She would not indeed absolutely disobey the express commands of her father or mother, but when she had made no promise, she was apt to take her own way, not perceiving that to neglect or to run counter to a parent's known wishes is disobedience. As the night was fine and the moon bright, our self-willed heroine, with her skipping playmate, rambled about the camp until they got so far in the outskirts as to come upon one of the sentinels. The dark-skinned warrior gravely told her to go back. Had she been any other Indian girl, she would have meekly obeyed at once; but being Little Tim's daughter, she was prone to assert the independence of her white blood, and, to say truth, the young braves stood somewhat in awe of her. "The Blackfoot does not make war against women," said Moonlight, with a touch of lofty scorn in her tone. "Is the young warrior afraid that Rushing River will kill and eat us?" "The young warrior fears nothing," answered the sentinel, with a dark frown; "but his chief's orders are that no one is to leave or enter the camp, so Moonlight must go home." "Moonlight will do as she pleases," returned the girl loftily. At the same time, knowing that the man would certainly do his duty, and prevent her from passing the lines, she turned sharply round, and walked away as if about to return to the camp. On getting out of the sentinel's sight, however, she stopped. "Now, Skipping Rabbit," she said, "you and I will teach that fellow something of the art of war. Will you follow me?" "Will the little buffalo follow its mother?" returned the child. "Come, then," said Moonlight, with a slight laugh; "we will go beyond the lines. Do as I do. You are well able to copy the snake." The girl spoke truly. Both she and Skipping Rabbit had amused themselves so often in imitating the actions of the Indian braves that they could equal if not beat them, at least in those accomplishments which required activity and litheness of motion. Throwing herself on her hands and knees, Moonlight crept forward until she came again in sight of the sentinel. Skipping Rabbit followed her trail like a little shadow. Keeping as far from the man as possible without coming under the observation of the next sentinel, they sank into the long grass, and slowly wormed their way forward so noiselessly that they were soon past the lines, and able to rise and look about with caution. The girl had no thought of doing more than getting well out of the camp, and then turning about and walking boldly past the young sentinel, just to show that she had defeated him, but at Skipping Rabbit's suggestion she led the way to a neighbouring knoll just to have one look round before going home. It was on this very knoll that Rushing River and Eaglenose lay, like snakes in the grass. As the girls drew near, chatting in low, soft, musical tones, the two men lay as motionless as fallen trees. When they were within several yards of them the young Indian glanced at his chief, and pointed with his conveniently prominent feature to Skipping Rabbit. A slight nod was the reply. On came the unconscious pair, until they almost trod on the prostrate men. Then, before they could imagine what had occurred, each found herself on the ground with a strong hand over her mouth. It was done so suddenly and effectually that there was no time to utter even the shortest cry. Without removing their hands for an instant from their mouths, the Indians gathered the girls in their left arms as if they had been a couple of sacks or bundles, and carried them swiftly into the forest, the chief leading, and Eaglenose stepping carefully in his footsteps. It was not a romantic or lover-like way of carrying off a bride, but Red Indian notions of chivalry may be supposed to differ from those of the pale-faces. After traversing the woods for several miles they came to the spot where Rushing River had left his men. They were unusually excited by the unexpected capture, and, from their animated gestures and glances during the council of war which was immediately held, it was evident to poor Moonlight that her fate would soon be decided. She and Skipping Rabbit sat cowering together at the foot of the tree where they had been set down. For one moment Moonlight thought of her own lithe and active frame, her powers of running and endurance, and meditated a sudden dash into the woods, but one glance at the agile young brave who had been set to watch her would have induced her to abandon the idea even if the thought of leaving Skipping Rabbit behind had not weighed with her. In a few minutes Rushing River left his men and approached the tree at the foot of which the captives were seated. The moon shone full upon his tall figure, and revealed distinctly every feature of his grave, handsome countenance as he approached. The white spirit of her father stirred within the maiden. Discarding her fears, she rose to meet him with a proud glance, such as was not often seen among Indian girls. Instead of being addressed, however, in the stern voice of command with which a red warrior is apt to speak to an obstreperous squaw, he spoke in a low, soft respectful tone, which seemed to harmonise well with the gravity of his countenance, and thrilled to the heart of Moonlight. She was what is familiarly expressed in the words "done for." Once more we have to record a case of love at first sight. True, the inexperienced girl was not aware of her condition. Indeed, if taxed with it, she would probably have scorned to admit the possibility of her entertaining even mild affection--much less love--for any man of the Blackfoot race. Still, she had an uneasy suspicion that something was wrong, and allowed an undercurrent of feeling to run within her, which, if reduced to language, would have perhaps assumed the form, "Well, but he _is_ so gentle, so respectful, so very unlike all the braves I have ever seen; but I hate him, for all that! Is he not the enemy of my tribe?" Moonlight would not have been a daughter of Little Tim had she given in at once. Indeed, if she had known that the man who spoke to her so pleasantly was the renowned Rushing River--the bitter foe of her father and of Bounding Bull--it is almost certain that the indignant tone and manner which she now assumed would have become genuine. But she did not know this; she only knew from his dress and appearance that the man before her was a Blackfoot, and the knowledge raised the whole Blackfoot race very much in her estimation. "Is the fair-faced maiden," said Rushing River, referring to the girl's comparatively light complexion, "willing to share the wigwam of a Blackfoot chief?" Moonlight received this very decided and unusually civil proposal of marriage with becoming hauteur, for she was still ruffled by the undignified manner in which she had been carried off. "Does the fawn mate with the wolf?" she demanded. "Does the chief suppose that the daughter of Little Tim can willingly enter the lodge of a Blackfoot?" A gleam of surprise and satisfaction for a moment lighted up the grave countenance of the chief. "I knew not," he replied, "that the maiden who has fallen into my hands is a child of the brave little pale-face whose deeds of courage are known all over the mountains and prairies." This complimentary reference to her father went far to soften the maiden's heart, but her sense of outraged dignity required that she should be loyal to herself as well as to her tribe, therefore she sniffed haughtily, but did not reply. "Who is the little one?" asked the chief, pointing to Skipping Rabbit, who, in a state of considerable alarm, had taken refuge behind her friend, and only peeped at her captor. Moonlight paused for a few seconds before answering, uncertain whether it would be wiser to say who she was, or merely to describe her as a child of the tribe. Deciding on the former course, in the hope of impressing the Blackfoot with a sense of his danger, she said-- "Skipping Rabbit is the daughter of Bounding Bull." Then, observing another gleam of surprise and triumph on the chief's face, she added quickly, "and the Blackfoot knows that Bounding Bull and his tribe are very strong, very courageous, and very revengeful. If Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit are not sent home at once, there will be war on the mountains and the plains, for Whitewing, the great chief of the prairies, is just now in the camp of Bounding Bull with his men. Little Tim, as you know, is terrible when his wrath is roused. If war is carried into the hunting-grounds of the Blackfeet, many scalps will be drying in our lodges before the snows of winter begin to descend. If evil befalls Skipping Rabbit or Moonlight, before another moon is passed Rushing River himself, the chicken-hearted chief of the Blackfeet, will be in the dust with his fathers, and his scalp will fringe the leggings of Little Tim." We have given but a feeble translation of this speech, which in the Indian tongue was much more powerful; but we cannot give an adequate idea of the tone and graceful gesticulation of the girl as, with flashing orbs and heightened colour, she delivered it. Yet it seemed to have no effect whatever on the man to whom it was spoken. Without replying to it, he gently, almost courteously, took the maiden's hand, and led her to a spot where his men were stationed. They were all on horseback, ready for an immediate start. Two horses without riders stood in the midst of the group. Leading Moonlight to one of these, Rushing River lifted her by the waist as if she had been a feather, and placed her thereon. Skipping Rabbit he placed in front of Eaglenose. Then, vaulting on to his own steed, he galloped away through the forest, followed closely by the whole band. Now it so happened that about the same hour another band of horsemen started from the camp of Bounding Bull. Under the persuasive eloquence of Little Tim, the chief had made up his mind to set out for the fortress without waiting for daylight. "You see," Tim had said, "we can't tell whether the preacher is goin' to live or die, an' it would be a pity to risk lettin' him miss seein' the old woman and my wife if he _is_ goin' to die; an' if he isn't goin' under this time, why, there's no harm in hurryin' a bit--wi' the moon, too, shinin' like the bottom of a new tin kettle in the sky." The chief had no objections to make. There were plenty of men to guard the camp, even when a few were withdrawn for the trip. As Whitewing was also willing, the order to mount and ride was given at once. The absence of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit had not at the time been sufficiently prolonged to attract notice. If they had been thought of at all, it is probable they were supposed to be in one or other of the wigwams. As the moon could not be counted on beyond a certain time, haste was necessary, and thus it came to pass that the party set forth without any knowledge of the disappearance of the girls. The "dear old one" was fain to journey like the rest on horseback, but she was so well accustomed to that mode of locomotion that she suffered much less than might have been expected. Besides, her son had taken care to secure for her the quietest, meekest, and most easy-going horse belonging to the tribe--a creature whose natural spirit had been reduced by hardship and age to absolute quiescence, and whose gait had been trained down to something like a hobby-horse amble. Seated astride of this animal, in gentleman fashion, the mother of Whitewing swayed gently to and fro like a partially revived mummy of an amiable type, with her devoted son on one side and Little Tim on the other, to guard against accidents. It chanced that the two parties of horsemen journeyed in nearly opposite directions, so that every hour of the night separated them from each other more and more. It was not until Whitewing's party had proceeded far on their way to Tim's Folly that suspicion began to be aroused and inquiry to be made in the camp. Then, as the two girls were nowhere to be found, the alarm spread; the warriors sallied out, and the trail of the Blackfeet was discovered. It was not, however, until daylight came to their aid that the Indians became fully aware of their loss, and sent out a strong band in pursuit of their enemies, while a messenger was despatched in hot haste to inform Little Tim and Bounding Bull that Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit had been spirited away. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE PURSUIT, FAILURE, DESPAIR. Ever dreaming of the thunderbolt that was about to be launched, Whitewing, Little Tim, Bounding Bull, and the rest of the party arrived at the little fortress in the gorge. They found Big Tim on the _qui vive_, and Brighteyes with Whitewing's mother was soon introduced to the wounded preacher. The meeting of the three was impressive, for not only had they been much attached at the time of the preacher's former visit, but the women were deeply affected by the sad circumstances in which they found their old friend. "Not much changed, I see, Brighteyes," he said, as the two women sat down on the floor beside his couch. "Only a little stouter; just what might have been expected. God has been kind to you--but, indeed, God is kind to all, only some do not see or believe in the kindness. It is equally kindness in Him whether He sends joy or sorrow, adversity or prosperity. If we only saw the end from the beginning, none of us would quarrel with the way. Love has induced Him to lay me low at present. You have another child, I am told, besides Big Tim?" "Yes, a daughter--Moonlight we call her," said Brighteyes, with a pleased look. "Is she here with you?" "No; we left her in the camp." "And my good old friend," he said, turning on his couch, and grasping the withered hand of Whitewing's mother, "how has she prospered in all these years?" The "old one," who was, as we have said, as deaf as a post, wrinkled her visage up into the most indescribable expression of world-embracing benignity, expanded her old lips, displayed her toothless gums, and chuckled. "The dear old one," said her son, "bears the snows of many winters on her head. Her brain could not now be touched by the thunders of Niagara. But the eyes are still bright inlets to her soul." "Bright indeed!" exclaimed the preacher, as he gazed with deep interest at the old face; "wonderful, considering her great age. I trust that these portals may remain unclosed to her latest day on earth." He was still talking to Whitewing about her when a peculiar whistle was heard outside, as of some water-bird. Instantly dead silence fell upon all present, and from the fixed gaze and motionless attitude of each it was evident that they anxiously expected a repetition of the sound. It was not repeated, but a moment later voices were heard outside, then a hurried step, and next instant Big Tim sprang into the room. "A messenger from the camp!" he cried. "Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit have been carried off by Blackfeet." It could easily be seen at that moment how Bounding Bull had acquired his name. From a sitting posture he sprang to his feet at one bound, darted through the doorway of the hut, cleared the low parapet like a deer, and went down the zigzag path in a succession of leaps that might have shamed a kangaroo. Little Tim followed suit almost as vigorously, accompanying his action with a leonine roar. Big Tim was close on his heels. "Guard the fort, my son," gasped Little Tim, as he cut the thong that secured his horse at the bottom of the track; "your mother's life is precious, and Softswan's. If you can quit safely, follow up." Leaping into the saddle, he was next instant on the track of the Indian chief, who had already disappeared. Hurrying back to the hut, Big Tim proceeded to make hasty preparation for the defence of the place, so that he might be able to join his father. He found the prairie chief standing with closed eyes beside the couch of the preacher, who with folded hands and feeble voice was praying to God for help. "Is Whitewing indifferent to the misfortunes of his friends," he said somewhat sharply, "that he stands idly by while the Blackfoot robbers carry off our little ones?" "My son, be not hasty," returned the chief. "Prayer is quite as needful as action. Besides, I know all the land round here--the direction which this youth tells me the enemy have taken, and a short cut over the hills, which will enable you and me to cross the path your father must take, and join him, so that we have plenty of time to make arrangements and talk before we go on the war-path." The cool, calm way in which the chief spoke, and especially the decided manner in which he referred to a short cut and going on the war-path, tended to quiet Big Tim. "But what am I to do?" he said, with a look of perplexity. "There are men enough here, no doubt, to hold the place agin a legion o' Blackfeet, but they have no dependable leader." "Here is a leader on whom you can depend; I know him well," said Whitewing, pointing to the warrior who had brought the news from the camp. "He is a stranger to you, but has been long in my band, and was left by me in the camp to help to guard it in our absence. With him there, I should have thought the stealing of two girls impossible, but he has explained that mystery by telling me that Moonlight crept out of the camp like a serpent, unknown to all, for they found her trail. With Wolf in command and the preacher to give counsel and pray, the women have no cause for fear." Somewhat reassured, though he still felt uneasy at the thought of leaving Softswan behind him, Big Tim went about his preparations for the defence of the fortress and the rescue of his sister. Such preparations never take much time in the backwoods. In half an hour Wolf and his braves were ready for any amount of odds, and Big Tim was following the prairie chief through the intricacies of the mountains. These two made such good use of their time that they were successful in intercepting and joining the war-party, which Bounding Bull, with his friend and ally Little Tim, were leading by forced marches on the trail of the Blackfeet. Rushing River was well aware, however, that such a party would soon be following him. He therefore had advanced likewise by forced marches, because his object was not so much to meet his enemy as to secure his bride. Only let him place her in the safe keeping of his mother with the main body of his tribe, and he would then return on his steps with pleasure, and give battle to his foe. In this object he was successful. After several days' march he handed over Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit to the care of an old woman, whose countenance was suggestive of wrinkled leather, and whose expression was not compatible with sweetness. It was evident to the captives that Rushing River owed his manly bearing and his comparatively gentle manners not to his mother but to the father, whose scalp, alas! hung drying in the smoke of a foeman's wigwam. During the forced march the Blackfoot chief had not once opened his lips to the girl he loved. He simply rode by her side, partly perhaps to prevent any sudden attempt at flight, and certainly to offer assistance when difficulties presented themselves on their pathless journey through the great wilderness. And on all such occasions he offered his aid with such grave and dignified gentleness that poor Moonlight became more and more impressed, though, to do her justice, she fought bravely against her tendency to fall in love with her tribal foe. On reaching home Rushing River, instead of leading his captive to his own wigwam, conducted her, as we have said, to that of his mother. Then, for the first time since the day of the capture, he addressed her with a look of tenderness, which she had never before received except from Little Tim, and, in a minor degree, from her brother. "Moonlight," he said, "till my return you will be well cared for here by my mother--the mother of Rushing River." Having said this, he lifted the leathern door of the lodge and went out instantly. Moonlight had received a terrible shock. Turning quickly to the old woman, she said-- "Was that Rushing River?" "That," replied the old woman, with a look of magnificent pride, "is my son, Rushing River--the brave whose name is known far and wide in the mountains and on the plains; whose enemies tremble and grow pale when they hear of him, and who when they see him become dead--or run away!" Here, then, was a discovery that was almost too much for the unfortunate captive, for this man was the deadly foe of her father and of her brother's father-in-law, Bounding Bull. He was also the sworn enemy of her tribe, and it now became her stern duty, as a true child of the western wilderness, to hate with all her soul the man whom she loved! Under the impulse of her powerful feelings she sat down, covered her face with her little hands, and--no, she did not burst into tears! Had she been a civilised beauty perhaps she might have done so, but she struggled for a considerable time with Spartan-like resolution to crush down the true feelings of her heart. Old Umqua was quite pleased with the effect of her information, ascribing it as she did to a wrong cause, and felt disposed to be friendly with the captive in consequence. "My son has carried you off from the camp of some enemy, I doubt not?" she said, in kindly tones. Moonlight, who had by that time recovered her composure, replied that he had--from the camp of Bounding Bull, whose little daughter he had captured at the same time, and added that she herself was a daughter of Little Tim. It was now Umqua's turn to be surprised. "What is that you tell me?" she exclaimed. "Are you the child of the little pale-face whose name extends from the regions of snow to the lands of the hot sun?" "I am," replied Moonlight, with a look of pride quite equal to and rather more lovely than that of the old woman. "Ha!" exclaimed Umqua, "you are a lucky girl. I see by my son's look and manner that he intends to take you for his wife. I suppose he has gone away just now, for I saw he was in haste, to scalp your father, and your brother, and Bounding Bull, and all his tribe. After that he will come home and take you to his wigwam. Rushing River is very brave and very kind to women. The men laugh at him behind his back--they dare not laugh before his face--and say he is too kind to them; but we women don't agree with that. We know better, and we are fondest of the kind men, for we see that they are not less brave than the others. Yes, you are a lucky girl." Moonlight was not as deeply impressed with her "luck" as the old lady expected, and was on the point of bursting out, after the manner of savages, into a torrent of abuse of the Blackfoot race in general, and of Rushing River in particular, when the thought that she was a captive and at the mercy of the Blackfeet fortunately restrained her. Instead of answering, she cast her eyes on the ground and remained stolidly silent, by which conduct she got credit for undeserved modesty. "Where is the little one of that serpent Bounding Bull?" asked Umqua, after a brief silence. "I know not" replied Moonlight, with a look of anxiety. "When we arrived here Skipping Rabbit was separated from me. She journeyed under the care of a youth. They called him, I think, Eaglenose." "Is Skipping Rabbit the child's name?" "Then Skipping Rabbit will skip more than ever, for Eaglenose is a funny man when not on the war-path, and his mother is a good woman. She does not talk behind your back like other women. You have nothing to fear for Skipping Rabbit. Come with me, we will visit the mother of Eaglenose." As the two moved through the Indian camp, Moonlight noticed that the men were collecting and bridling their horses, cleaning and sharpening their weapons, and making preparations generally for an expedition on a large scale. For a moment a feeling of fear filled her heart as she recalled Umqua's remarks about scalping her kindred; but when she reflected how well able her sturdy little father and big brother and Bounding Bull were to take care of themselves, she smiled internally, and dismissed her fears. Long before they reached Eaglenose's mother's wigwam, Moonlight was surprised to hear the well known voice of Skipping Rabbit shouting in unrestrained peals of merry laughter. On entering, the cause thereof was at once apparent, for there sat Eaglenose beside his mother (whose nose, by the way, was similar to his own) amusing the child with a home-made jumping-jack. Having seen a toy of this kind during one of his visits to the settlements of the pale-faces, the Blackfoot youth had made mental notes of it, and on his return home had constructed a jumping-jack, which rendered him more popular in his tribe--especially with the youngsters--than if he had been a powerful medicine-man or a noted warrior. When Moonlight entered, Skipping Rabbit was standing in front of Eaglenose with clasped hands and glittering eyes, shrieking with delight as the absurd creature of wood threw up its legs and arms, kicked its own head, and all but dislocated its own limbs. Catching sight of her friend, however, she gave vent to another shriek with deeper delight in it, and, bounding towards her, sprang into her arms. Regarding this open display of affection with some surprise, and rightly ascribing it to the influence of white blood in Bounding Bull's camp, Umqua asked Eaglenose's mother if the men were getting ready to go on the war-path. "I know not. Perhaps my son knows." Thus directly referred to, Eaglenose, who was but a young warrior just emancipated from boyhood, and who had yet to win his spurs, rose, and, becoming so grave and owlish that his naturally prominent feature seemed to increase in size, said sententiously-- "It is not for squaws to inquire into the plans of _men_, but as there is no secret in what we are going to do, I may tell you, mother, that women and children have not yet learned to live on grass or air. We go just now to procure fresh meat." So saying, the stripling pitched the jumping-jack into the lap of Skipping Rabbit, and strode out of the lodge with the pomposity of seven chiefs! That night, when the captives were lying side by side in Umqua's wigwam, gazing at the stars through the hole which was left in the top for the egress of the smoke, Moonlight said to her little friend-- "Does the skipping one know that it is Rushing River who has caught us and carried us away?" The skipping one said that she had not known, but, now that she did know, she hated him with all her heart. "So do I," said Moonlight firmly. But Moonlight was wrong, for she hated the man with only a very small portion of her heart, and loved him with all the rest. It was probably some faint recognition of this fact that induced her to add with the intense energy of one who is resolved to walk in the path of duty--"I hate _all_ the Blackfeet!" "So do I," returned the child, and then pausing, slowly added, "except"--and paused again. "Well, who does the skipping one except?" "Eaglenose," replied the skipper promptly. "I can't hate _him_, he is such a very funny brave." After a prolonged silence Moonlight whispered-- "Does Skipping Rabbit sleep?" "No." "Is there not something in the great medicine-book that father speaks so much about which teaches that we should love our enemies?" "I don't know," replied the little one. "Bounding Bull never taught that to _me_." Again there was silence, during which Moonlight hoped in a confused sort of way that the teaching might be true. Before she could come to a conclusion on the perplexing point both she and her little friend were in that mysterious region where the human body usually ceases to be troubled by the human mind. When Bounding Bull and Little Tim found that the Blackfoot chief had escaped them, they experienced what is often termed among Christians a great trial of faith. They did not indeed express their thoughts in language, but they could not quite prevent their looks from betraying their feelings, while in their thoughts they felt sorely tempted to charge God with indifference to their feelings, and even with something like cruelty, in thus permitting the guilty to triumph and the innocent to suffer. The state of mind is not, indeed, unfamiliar to people who are supposed to enjoy higher culture than the inhabitants of the wilderness. Even Whitewing's spirit was depressed for a time, and he could offer no consolation to the bereaved fathers, or find much comfort to himself; yet in the midst of all the mental darkness by which he was at that time surrounded, two sentences which the pale-face missionary had impressed on him gleamed forth now and then, like two flickering stars in a very black sky. The one was, "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?" the other, "He doeth all things well." But he did not at that time try to point out the light to his companions. Burning with rage, mingled somewhat with despair, the white hunter and the red chief returned home in hot haste, bent on collecting a force of men so strong that they would be enabled to go forth with the absolute certainty of rescuing their children, or of avenging them by sweeping the entire Blackfoot nation, root and branch, off the face of the earth; and adorning the garments of their braves with their scalp-locks for ages to come. It may be easily believed that they did not waste time on the way. Desperate men cannot rest. To halt for a brief space in order to take food and sleep just sufficient to sustain them was all the relaxation they allowed themselves. This was, of course, simply a process of wearing out their strength, but they were very strong men, long inured to hardships, and did not easily wear out. One night they sat round the camp fire, very weary, and in silence. The fire was low and exceedingly small. Indeed, they did not dare to venture on a large one while near the enemy's country, and usually contented themselves with a supper of cold, uncooked pemmican. On this night, however, they were more fatigued than usual--perhaps depression of spirit had much to do with it--so they had kindled a fire and warmed their supper. "What are the thoughts of Bounding Bull?" said Little Tim, at length breaking silence with something like a groan. "Despair," replied the chief, with a dark frown; "and," he added, with a touch of hesitation, "revenge." "Your thoughts are not much different from mine," returned the hunter. "My brothers are not wise," said Whitewing, after another silence. "All that Manitou does to His children is good. I have hope." "I wish my brother could give me some of his hope. What does he rest his hope on?" asked Little Tim. "Long ago," answered the chief, "when Rushing River was a boy, the white preacher spoke to him about his soul and the Saviour. The boy's heart was touched. I saw it; I knew it. The seed has lain long in the ground, but it is sure to grow, for it must have been the Spirit of Manitou that touched him; and will He not finish the work that He begins? That is my hope." The chief's eyes glittered in the firelight while he spoke. His two companions listened with grave attention, but said no word in reply. Yet it was evident, as they lay down for a few hours' rest, that the scowl of revenge and the writing of despair had alike in some measure departed from the brow of each. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE POWERFUL INFLUENCE OF BAD WEAPONS AND OF LOVE. While the bereaved parents were thus hastening by forced marches to their own camp, a band of Blackfeet was riding in another direction in quest of buffalo, for their last supply of fresh meat had been nearly consumed. Along with them they took several women to dry the meat and otherwise prepare it. Among these were poor Moonlight and her friend Skipping Rabbit, also their guardian Umqua. Ever since their arrival in camp Rushing River had not only refrained from speaking to his captives, but had carefully avoided them. Moonlight was pleased at first but at last she began to wonder why he was so shy, and, having utterly failed in her efforts to hate him, she naturally began to feel a little hurt by his apparent indifference. Very different was the conduct of Eaglenose, who also accompanied the hunting expedition. That vivacious youth, breaking through all the customs and peculiarities of Red Indian etiquette, frequently during the journey came and talked with Moonlight, and seemed to take special pleasure in amusing Skipping Rabbit. "Has the skipping one," he said on one occasion, "brought with her the little man that jumps?" by which expression he referred to the jumping-jack. "Yes, he is with the pack-horses. Does Eaglenose want to play with him?" Oh, she was a sly and precocious little rabbit, who had used well her opportunities of association with Little Tim to pick up the ways and manners of the pale-faces--to the surprise and occasional amusement of her red relations, whom she frequently scandalised not a little. Well did she know how sensitive a young Indian brave is as to his dignity, how he scorns to be thought childish, and how he fancies that he looks like a splendid man when he struts with superhuman gravity, just as a white boy does when he puts a cigar between his unfledged lips. She thought she had given a tremendous stab to the dignity of Eaglenose; and so she had, yet it happened that the dignity of Eaglenose escaped, because it was shielded by a buckler of fun so thick that it could not easily be pierced by shafts of ridicule. "Yes; I want to play with him," answered the youth, with perfect gravity, but a twinkle of the eyes that did not escape Skipping Rabbit; "I'm fond of playing with him, because he is your little husband, and I want to make friends with the husband of the skipping one; he is so active, and kicks about his arms and legs so well. Does he ever kick his little squaw? I hope not." "Oh yes, sometimes," returned the child. "He kicked me last night because I said he was so like Eaglenose." "The little husband did well. A wooden chief so grand did not like to be compared to a poor young brave who has only begun to go on the war-path, and has taken no scalps yet." The mention of war-path and scalps had the effect of quieting the poor child's tendency to repartee. She thought of her father and Little Tim, and became suddenly grave. Perceiving and regretting this, the young Indian hastily changed the subject of conversation. "The Blackfeet," he said, "have heard much about the great pale-faced chief called Leetil Tim. Does the skipping one know Leetil Tim?" The skipping one, whose good humour was quite restored at the mere mention of her friend's name, said that she not only knew him, but loved him, and had been taught many things by him. "I suppose he taught you to speak and act like the pale-faced squaws?" said Eaglenose. "I suppose he did," returned the child, with a laugh, "and Moonlight helped him. But perhaps it is also because I have white blood in me. My mother was a pale-face." "That accounts for Skipping Rabbit being so ready to laugh, and so fond of fun," said the youth. "Was the father of Eaglenose a pale-face?" asked the child. "No; why?" "Because Eaglenose is as ready to laugh and as fond of fun as Skipping Rabbit. If his father was not a pale-face, he could not I think, have been very red." What reply the youth would have made to this we cannot tell, for at that moment scouts came in with the news that buffalo had been seen grazing on the plain below. Instantly the bustle of preparation for the chase began. The women were ordered to encamp and get ready to receive the meat. Scouts were sent out in various directions, and the hunters advanced at a gallop. The region through which they were passing at the time was marked by that lovely, undulating, park-like scenery which lies in some parts between the rugged slopes of the mountain range and the level expanse of the great prairies. Its surface was diversified by both kinds of landscape--groups of trees, little knolls, stretches of forest, and occasional cliffs, being mingled with wide stretches of grassy plain, with rivulets here and there to add to the wild beauty of the scene. After a short ride over the level ground the Blackfeet came to a fringe of woodland, on the other side of which they were told by the scouts a herd of buffalo had been seen browsing on a vast sweep of open plain. Riding cautiously through the wood, they came to the edge of it and dismounted, while Rushing River and Eaglenose advanced alone and on foot to reconnoitre. Coming soon to that outer fringe of bushes, beyond which there was no cover, they dropped on hands and knees and went forward in that manner until they reached a spot whence a good view of the buffalo could be obtained. The black eyes of the two Indians glittered, and the red of their bronzed faces deepened with emotion as they gazed. And truly it was a sight well calculated to stir to the very centre men whose chief business of life was the chase, and whose principal duty was to procure food for their women and children, for the whole plain away to the horizon was dotted with groups of those monarchs of the western prairies. They were grazing quietly, as though such things as the rattle of guns, the whiz of arrows, the thunder of horse-hoofs, and the yells of savages had never sounded in their ears. The chief and the young brave exchanged impressive glances, and retired in serpentine fashion from the scene. A few minutes later, and the entire band of horsemen--some with bows and a few with guns--stood at the outmost edge of the bushes that fringed the forest land. Beyond this there was no cover to enable them to approach nearer to the game without being seen, so preparation was made for a sudden dash. The huge rugged creatures on the plain continued to browse peacefully, giving an occasional toss to their enormous manes, raising a head now and then, as if to make sure that all was safe, and then continuing to feed, or giving vent to a soft low of satisfaction. It seemed cruel to disturb so much enjoyment and serenity with the hideous sounds of war. But man's necessities must be met. Until Eden's days return there is no deliverance for the lower animals. Vegetarians may reduce their theories to practice in the cities and among cultivated fields, but vegetarians among the red men of the Far West or the squat men of the Arctic zone, would either have to violate their principles or die. As Rushing River had no principles on the subject, and was not prepared for voluntary death, he gave a signal to his men, and in an instant every horse was elongated, with ears flat nostrils distended, and eyes flashing, while the riders bent low, and mingled their black locks with the flying manes. For a few seconds no sound was heard save the muffled thunder of the hoofs, at which the nearest buffaloes looked up with startled inquiry in their gaze. Another moment, and the danger was appreciated. The mighty host went off with pig-like clumsiness--tails up and manes tossing. Quickly the pace changed to desperate agility as the pursuing savages, unable to restrain themselves, relieved their feelings with terrific yells. As group after group of astonished animals became aware of the attack and joined in the mad flight the thunder on the plains swelled louder and louder, until it became one continuous roar--like the sound of a rushing cataract--a bovine Niagara! At first the buffaloes and the horses seemed well matched, but by degrees the superiority of the latter became obvious, as the savages drew nearer and nearer to the flying mass. Soon a puff or two of smoke, a whistling bullet and a whizzing arrow told that the action had begun. Here and there a black spot struggling on the plain gave stronger evidence. Then the hunters and hunted became mixed up, the shots and whizzing were more frequent, the yells more terrible, and the slaughter tremendous. No fear now that Moonlight, and Skipping Rabbit, and Umqua, and all the rest of them, big and little, would not have plenty of juicy steaks and marrow-bones for many days to come. But all this was not accomplished without some damage to the hunters. Here and there a horse, having put his foot into a badger-hole, was seen to continue his career for a short space like a wheel or a shot hare, while his rider went ahead independently like a bird, and alighted-- anyhow! Such accidents, however, seldom resulted in much damage, red skin being probably tougher than white, and savage bones less brittle than civilised. At all events, nothing very serious occurred until the plain was pretty well strewn with wounded animals. Then it was that Eaglenose, in his wild ambition to become the best hunter of the tribe, as well as the best warrior, singled out an old bull, and gave chase to him. This was wanton as well as foolish, for bulls are dangerous and their meat is tough. What cared Eaglenose for that? The spirit of his fathers was awakened in him (a bad spirit doubtless), and his blood was up. Besides, Rushing River was close alongside of him, and several emulous braves were close behind. Eaglenose carried a bow. Urging his steed to the uttermost he got close up to the bull. Fury was in the creature's little eyes, and madness in its tail. When a buffalo bull cocks its tail with a little bend in the middle thereof, it is time to "look out for squalls." "Does Eaglenose desire to hunt with his fathers in the happy hunting-grounds?" muttered Rushing River. "Eaglenose knows not fear," returned the youth boastfully. As he spoke he bent his bow, and discharged an arrow. He lacked the precision of Robin Hood. The shaft only grazed the bull's shoulder, but that was enough. A Vesuvian explosion seemed to heave in his capacious bosom, and found vent in a furious roar. Round he went like an opera-dancer on one leg, and lowered his shaggy head. The horse's chest went slap against it as might an ocean-billow against a black rock, and the rider, describing a curve with a high trajectory, came heavily down upon his eagle nose. It was an awful crash, and after it the poor youth lay prone for a few minutes with his injured member in the dust--literally, for he had ploughed completely through the superincumbent turf. Fortunately for poor Eaglenose, Rushing River carried a gun, with which he shot the bull through the heart and galloped on. So did the other Indians. They were not going to miss the sport for the sake of helping a fallen comrade to rise. When at last the unfortunate youth raised his head he presented an appearance which would have justified the change of his name to Turkeycocknose, so severe was the effect of his fall. Getting into a sitting posture, the poor fellow at first looked dazed. Then observing something between his eyes that was considerably larger than even he had been accustomed to, he gently raised his hand to his face and touched it. The touch was painful, so he desisted. Then he arose, remounted his steed, which stood close to him, looking stupid after the concussion, and followed the hunt, which by that time was on the horizon. But something worse was in store for another member of the band that day. After killing the buffalo bull, as before described, the chief Rushing River proceeded to reload his gun. Now it must be known that in the days we write of the firearms supplied to the Nor'-west Indians were of very inferior quality. They were single flint-lock guns, with blue-stained barrels of a dangerously brittle character, and red-painted brass-mounted stocks, that gave them the appearance of huge toys. It was a piece of this description which Rushing River carried, and which he proceeded to reload in the usual manner--that is, holding the gun under his left arm, he poured some powder from a horn into his left palm; this he poured from his palm into the gun, and, without wadding or ramming, dropped after the powder a bullet from his mouth, in which magazine he carried several bullets so as to be ready. Then driving the butt of the gun violently against the pommel of the saddle, so as to send the whole charge home and cause the weapon to prime itself, he aimed at the buffalo and fired. Charges thus loosely managed do not always go quite "home." In this case the ball had stuck half-way down, and when the charge exploded the gun burst and carried away the little finger of the chief's left hand. But it did more. A piece of the barrel struck the chief on the head, and he fell from his horse as if he had been shot. This catastrophe brought the hunt to a speedy close. The Indians assembled round their fallen chief with faces graver, if possible, than usual. They bound up his wounds as well as they could, and made a rough-and-ready stretcher out of two poles and a blanket, in which they carried him into camp. During the greater part of the short journey he was nearly if not quite unconscious. When they at length laid him down in his tent, his mother, although obviously anxious, maintained a stern composure peculiar to her race. Not so the captive Moonlight. When she saw the apparently dead form of Rushing River carried into his tent, covered with blood and dust, her partially white spirit was not to be restrained. She uttered a sharp cry, which slightly roused the chief, and, springing to his side, went down on her knees and seized his hand. The action was involuntary and almost momentary. She recovered herself at once, and rose quickly, as grave and apparently as unmoved as the reddest of squaws. But Rushing River had noted the fact, and divined the cause. The girl loved him! A new sensation of almost stern joy filled his heart. He turned over on his side without a look or word to any one, and calmly went to sleep. We have already said, or hinted, that Rushing River was a peculiar savage. He was one of those men--perhaps not so uncommon as we think-- who hold the opinion that women are not made to be mere beasts of burden, makers of moccasins and coats, and menders of leggings, cookers of food, and, generally, the slaves of men. One consequence was that he could not bear the subdued looks and almost cringing gait of the Blackfoot belles, and had remained a bachelor up to the date of our story. He preferred to live with his mother, who, by the way, was also an exception to the ordinary class of squaws. She was rudely intellectual and violently self-assertive, though kind-hearted withal. That night when his mother chanced to be alone in the tent, he held some important conversation with her. Moonlight happened to be absent at a jumping-jack entertainment with Skipping Rabbit in the tent of Eaglenose, the youth himself being the performer in spite of his nose! Most of the other women in the camp were at the place where the buffalo were being cut up and dried and converted into pemmican. "Mother," said Rushing River, who in reality had been more stunned than injured--excepting, of course, the little finger, which was indeed gone past recovery. "My son," said Umqua, looking attentively in the chief's eyes. "The eagle has been brought down at last. Rushing River will be the same man no more. He has been hit in his heart." "I think not, my son," returned Umqua, looking somewhat anxious. "A piece of the bad gun struck the head of Rushing River, but his breast is sound. Perhaps he is yet stunned, and had better sleep again." "I want not sleep, mother," replied the chief in figurative language; "it is not the bursting gun that has wounded me, but a spear of light--a moonbeam." "Moonlight!" exclaimed Umqua, with sudden intelligence. "Even so, mother; Rushing River has at last found a mate in Moonlight." "My son is wise," said Umqua. "I will carry the girl to the camp of mine enemy," continued the chief, "and deliver her to her father." "My son is a fool," said Umqua. "Wise, and a fool! Can that be possible, mother?" returned the chief with a slight smile. "Yes, quite possible," said the woman promptly. "Man can be wise at one time, foolish at another--wise in one act, foolish in another. To take Moonlight to your tent is wise. I love her. She has brains. She is not like the young Blackfoot squaws, who wag their tongues without ceasing when they have nothing to say and never think--brainless ones!-- fools! Their talk is only about each other behind-backs and of feeding." "The old one is hard upon the young ones," said the chief gravely; "not long ago I heard the name of Umqua issue from a wigwam. The voice that spoke was that of the mother of Eaglenose. Rushing River listens not to squaws' tales, but he cannot stop his ears. The words floated to him with the smoke of their fire. They were, `Umqua has been very kind to me.' I heard no more." "The mother of Eaglenose is not such a fool as the rest of them," said Umqua, in a slightly softer tone; "but why does my son talk foolishness about going to the tents of his enemy, and giving up a girl who it is easy to see is good and wise and true, and a hard worker, and _not_ a fool?" "Listen, mother. It is because Moonlight is all that you say, and much more, that I shall send her home. Besides, I have come to know that the pale-face who was shot by one of our braves is the preacher whose words went to my heart when I was a boy. I _must_ see him." "But Bounding Bull and Leetil Tim will certainly kill you." "Leetil Tim is not like the red men," returned the chief; "he does not love revenge. My enemy Bounding Bull hunts with him much, and has taken some of his spirit. I am a red man. I love revenge because my fathers loved it; but there is something within me that is not satisfied with revenge. I will go alone and unarmed. If they kill me, they shall not be able to say that Rushing River was a coward." "My son is weak; his fall has injured him." "Your son is strong, mother. His love for Moonlight has changed him." "If you go you will surely die, my son." "I fear not death, mother. I feel that within me which is stronger than death." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. IN WHICH PLANS, PROSPECTS, LOVE, DANGERS, AND PERPLEXITIES ARE DEALT WITH. Three days after the conversation related in the last chapter, a party on horseback, numbering five persons, left the Blackfoot camp, and, entering one of the patches of forest with which the eastern slopes of the mountains were clothed, trotted smartly away in the direction of the rising sun. The party consisted of Rushing River and his mother, Moonlight, Skipping Rabbit, and Eaglenose. The latter, although still afflicted with a nose the swelled condition of which rendered it out of all proportion to his face, and interfered somewhat with his vision, was sufficiently recovered to travel, and also to indulge his bantering talk with the "skipping one," as he called his little friend. The chief was likewise restored, excepting the stump of the little finger, which was still bandaged. Umqua had been prevailed on to accompany her son, and it is only just to the poor woman to add that she believed herself to be riding to a martyr's doom. The chief however, did not think so, else he would not have asked her to accompany him. Each of the party was mounted on a strong horse, except Skipping Rabbit, who bestrode an active pony more suited to her size. We say bestrode, because it must ever be borne in remembrance that Red India ladies ride like gentlemen--very much, no doubt, to their own comfort. Although Rushing River had resolved to place himself unarmed in the power of his enemy, he had no intention of travelling in that helpless condition in a country where he was liable to meet with foes, not only among men but among beasts. Besides, as he carried but a small supply of provisions, he was dependent on gun and bow for food. Himself, therefore, carried the former weapon, Eaglenose the latter, and both were fully armed with hatchet, tomahawk, and scalping-knife. The path--if such it may be called--which they followed was one which had been naturally formed by wild animals and wandering Indians taking the direction that was least encumbered with obstructions. It was only wide enough for one to pass at a time, but after the first belt of woodland had been traversed, it diverged into a more open country, and finally disappeared, the trees and shrubs admitting of free passage in all directions. While in the narrow track the chief had headed the little band. Then came Moonlight, followed by Umqua and by Skipping Rabbit on her pony, Eaglenose bringing up the rear. On emerging, however, into the open ground, Rushing River drew rein until Moonlight came up alongside of him. Eaglenose, who was quick to profit by example--especially when he liked it--rode up alongside of the skipping one, who welcomed him with a decidedly pale-face smile, which showed that she had two rows of bright little teeth behind her laughing lips. "Is Moonlight glad," said the chief to the girl, after riding beside her for some time in silence, "is Moonlight glad to return to the camp of Bounding Bull?" "Yes, I am glad," replied the girl, choosing rather to answer in the matter-of-fact manner of the pale-faces than in the somewhat imaginative style of the Indians. She could adopt either, according to inclination. There was a long pause, during which no sound was heard save the regular patter of the hoofs on the lawn-like turf as they swept easily out and in among the trees, over the undulations, and down into the hollows, or across the level plains. "Why is Moonlight glad?" asked the chief. "Because father and mother are there, and I love them both." Again there was silence, for Moonlight had replied some what brusquely. The truth is that, although rejoicing in the prospect of again seeing her father and mother, the poor girl had a lurking suspicion that a return to them meant final separation from Rushing River, and--although she was too proud to admit, even to herself, that such a thought affected her in any way--she felt very unhappy in the midst of her rejoicing, and knew not what to make of it. This condition of mind, as the reader knows, is apt to make any one lower than an angel somewhat testy! On coming to a rising ground, up which they had to advance at a walking pace, the chief once more broke silence in a low, soft voice-- "Is not Moonlight sorry to quit the Blackfoot camp?" The girl was taken by surprise, for she had never before heard an Indian--much less a chief--address a squaw in such a tone, or condescend to such a question. A feeling of self-reproach induced her to reply with some warmth-- "Yes, Rushing River, Moonlight is sorry to quit the lodges of her Blackfoot friends. The snow on the mountain-tops is warmed by the sunshine until it melts and flows down to the flowering plains. The heart of Moonlight was cold and hard when it entered the Blackfoot camp, but the sunshine of kindness has melted it, and now that it flows towards the grassy plains of home, Moonlight thinks with tenderness of the past, and will _never_ forget." Rushing River said no more. Perhaps he thought the reply, coupled with the look and tone, was sufficiently satisfactory. At all events, he continued thereafter to ride in profound silence, and, checking his steed almost imperceptibly, allowed his mother to range up on the other side of him. Meanwhile Eaglenose and Skipping Rabbit, being influenced by no considerations of delicacy or anything else, kept up a lively conversation in rear. For Eaglenose, like his chief, had freed himself from some of the trammels of savage etiquette. It would take up too much valuable space to record all the nonsense that these two talked to each other, but a few passages are worthy of notice. "Skipping one," said the youth, after a brief pause, "what are your thoughts doing?" "Swelled-nosed one," replied the child, with a laugh at her own inventive genius, "I was thinking what a big hole you must have made in the ground when you got that fall." "It was not shallow," returned the youth, with assumed gravity. "It was big enough to have buried a rabbit in, even a skipping one." "Would there have been room for a jumping-jack too?" asked the child, with equal gravity; then, without waiting for an answer, she burst into a merry laugh, and asked where they were travelling to. "Has not Moonlight told you?" "No, when I asked her about it yesterday she said she was not quite sure, it would be better not to speak till she knew." "Moonlight is very wise--almost as wise as a man." "Yes, wiser even than some men with swelled noses." It was now the youth's turn to laugh, which he did quite heartily, for an Indian, though with a strong effort to restrain himself. "We are going, I believe," he said, after a few moments' thought, "to visit your father, Bounding Bull. At least the speech of Rushing River led Eaglenose to think so, but our chief does not say all that is in his mind. He is not a squaw--at least, not a skipping one." Instead of retorting, the child looked with sudden anxiety into the countenance of her companion. "Does Rushing River," she asked, with earnest simplicity, "want to have his tongue slit, his eyes poked in, his liver pulled out, and his scalp cut off?" "I think not," replied Eaglenose, with equal simplicity, for although such a speech from such innocent lips may call forth surprise in a civilised reader, it referred, in those regions and times, to possibilities which were only too probable. After a few minutes' thought the child said, with an earnest look in her large and lustrous eyes, "Skipping Rabbit will be glad--very glad--to see her father, but she will be sorry--very sorry--to lose her friends." Having now made it plain that the feelings of both captives had been touched by the kindness of their captors, we will transport them and the reader at once to the neighbourhood of Bounding Bull's camp. Under the same tree on the outskirts which had been the scene of the girls' capture, Rushing River and Eaglenose stood once more with their companions, conversing in whispers. The horses had been concealed a long way in rear, to prevent restiveness or an incidental neigh betraying them. The night was intensely dark and still. The former condition favoured their enterprise, but the latter was unfavourable, as it rendered the risk of detection from any accidental sound much greater. After a few minutes' talk with his male companion, the chief approached the tree where the females stood silently wondering what their captors meant to do, and earnestly hoping that no evil might befall any one. "The time has come," he said, "when Moonlight may help to make peace between those who are at war. She knows well how to creep like the serpent in the grass, and how to speak with her tongue in such a way that the heart of the listener will be softened while his ear is charmed. Let Moonlight creep into the camp, and tell Bounding Bull that his enemy is subdued; that the daughter of Leetil Tim has conquered him; that he wishes for friendship, and is ready to visit his wigwam, and smoke the pipe of peace. But tell not that Rushing River is so near. Say only that Moonlight has been set free; that Manitou of the pale-faces has been whispering in the heart of Rushing River, and he no longer delights in revenge or wishes for the scalp of Bounding Bull. Go secretly, for I would not have the warriors know of your return till you have found out the thoughts of the chief. If the ear of the chief is open and his answer is favourable, let Moonlight sound the chirping of a bird, and Rushing River will enter the camp without weapons, and trust himself to the man who was once his foe. If the answer is unfavourable, let her hoot like the owl three times, and Rushing River will go back to the home of his fathers, and see the pleasant face of Moonlight no more." To say that Moonlight was touched by this speech would give but a feeble description of her feelings. The unusual delicacy of it for an Indian, the straightforward declaration implied in it and the pathetic conclusion, would have greatly flattered her self-esteem, even if it had not touched her heart. Yet no sign did she betray of emotion, save the somewhat rapid heaving of her bosom as she stood with bowed head, awaiting further orders. "Moonlight will find Skipping Rabbit waiting for her here beside this tree. Whether Bounding Bull is for peace or war, Rushing River returns to him his little one. Go, and may the hand of Manitou guide thee." He turned at once and rejoined Eaglenose, who was standing on guard like a statue at no great distance. Moonlight went immediately and softly into the bushes, without pausing to utter a single word to her female companions, and disappeared. Thereupon the chief and his young brave lay down, and, resting there in profound silence, awaited the result with deep but unexpressed anxiety. Well did our heroine know every bush and rock of the country around her. With easy, soundless motion she glided along like a flitting shadow until she gained the line of sentries who guarded the camp. Here, as on a former occasion, she sank into the grass, and advanced with extreme caution. If she had not possessed more than the average capacity of savages for stalking, it would have been quite impossible for her to have eluded the vigilance of the young warriors. As it was, she narrowly escaped discovery, for, just as she was crossing what may he termed the guarded line, one of the sentinels took it into his head to move in her direction. Of course she stopped and lay perfectly flat and still, but so near did the warrior come in passing that his foot absolutely grazed her head. But for the intense darkness of the night she would have inevitably been caught. Creeping swiftly out of the sentinel's way before he returned, she gained the centre of the camp, and in a few minutes was close to her father's wigwam. Finding a little hole in the buffalo-skins of which it was chiefly composed, she peeped in. To her great disappointment, Little Tim was not there, but Brighteyes was, and a youth whom she knew well as one who was about to join the ranks of the men, and go out on his first war-path on the first occasion that offered. Although trained to observe the gravity and reticence of the Indian, this youth was gifted by nature with powers of loquacity which he found it difficult to suppress. Knowing this, Moonlight felt that she dared not trust him with her secret, and was much perplexed how to attract her mother's attention without disturbing him. At last she crept round to the side of the tent where her mother was seated, opposite to the youth. Putting her lips to another small hole which she found there, she whispered "Mother," so softly that Brighteyes did not hear, but went calmly on with her needlework, while the aspirant for Indian honours sent clouds of tobacco from his mouth and nose, and dreamed of awful deeds of daring, which were probably destined to end also in smoke. "Mother!" whispered Moonlight again. The whisper, though very slightly increased, was evidently heard, for the woman became suddenly motionless, and turned slightly pale, while her lustrous eyes gazed at the spot whence the sound had come. "What does Brighteyes see?" asked the Indian youth, expelling a cloud from his lips and also gazing. "I thought I heard--my Moonlight--whisper." A look of grave contempt settled on the youth's visage as he replied-- "When love is strong, the eyes are blind and the ears too open. Brighteyes hears voices in the night air." Having given utterance to this sage opinion with the sententious solemnity of an oracle, or the portentous gravity of "an ass"--as modern slang might put it--the youth resumed his pipe and continued the stupefaction of his brain. The woman was not sorry that her visitor took the matter thus, for she had felt the imprudence of having betrayed any symptom of surprise, whatever the sound might be. When, therefore, another whisper of "Mother!" was heard, instead of looking intelligent, she bestowed some increased attention on her work, yawned sleepily once or twice, and then said-- "Is there not a council being held to-night?" "There is. The warriors are speaking now." "Does not the young brave aspire to raising his voice in council?" "He does," replied the youth, puffing with a look of almost superhuman dignity, "but he may not raise his voice in council till he has been on the war-path." "I should have thought," returned Brighteyes, with the slightest possible raising of her eyebrows, "that a brave who aims so high would find it more pleasant to be near the council tent talking with the other young braves than to sit smoking beside a squaw." The youth took the hint rather indignantly, rose, and strode out of the tent in majestic silence. No sooner was he gone than Moonlight darted in and fell into her mothers arms. There was certainly more of the pale-face than of the red man's spirit in the embrace that followed, but the spirit of the red man soon reasserted itself. "Mother," she said eagerly and impressively, "Rushing River is going to be my husband!" "Child," exclaimed the matron, while her countenance fell, "can the dove mate with the raven? the rabbit with the wolf?" "They can, for all I care or know to the contrary," said Moonlight-- impelled, no doubt, by the spirit of Little Tim. "But" she continued quickly, "I bear a message to Bounding Bull. Where is he?" "Not in the camp, my daughter. He has gone to the block-house to see the preacher." "And father. Is he here?" "No, he has gone with Bounding Bull. There is no chief in the camp just now--only the young braves to guard it." "How well they guard it--when I am here!" said the girl, with a laugh; then, becoming intensely earnest, she told her mother in as few words as possible the object of her visit, concluding with the very pertinent question, "Now, what is to be done?" "You dare not allow Rushing River to enter the camp just now," said Brighteyes. "The young men would certainly kill him." "But I must not send him away," returned the perplexed Moonlight. "If I do, I--I shall never--he will never more return." "Could you not creep out of camp as you crept in and warn him?" "I could, as far as the sentinels are concerned, for they are little better than owls; but it is growing lighter now, and the moon will be up soon--I dare not risk it. If I were caught, would not the braves suspect something, and scour the country round? I know not what to do, yet something _must_ be done at once." For some minutes the mother and daughter were silent, each striving to devise some method of escaping from their difficulty. At last Brighteyes spoke. "I see a way, my child," she said, with more than her wonted solemnity, even when discussing grave matters. "It is full of danger, yet you must take it, for I see that love has taken possession of my Moonlight's heart, and--there is no withstanding love!" She paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then resumed-- "One of your father's horses is hobbled down in the willow swamp. He put it there because the feeding is good, and has left no one to guard it because the place is not easily found, as you know, and thieves are not likely to think of it as a likely place. What you must do is to go as near our lines as you dare, and give the signal of the owl. Rushing River will understand it, and go away at once. He will not travel fast, for his heart will be heavy, and revenge to him is no longer sweet. That will give you time to cross the camp, creep past the sentinels, run down to the swamp, mount the horse, and go by the short cuts that you know of until you get in front of the party or overtake them. After that you must lead them to the block-house," (Brighteyes never would consent to call it Tim's Folly after she understood the meaning of the name), "and let the chief manage the rest. Go. You have not a moment to lose." She gave her daughter a final embrace, pushed her out of the tent and then sat down with the stoicism of a Red Indian to continue her work and listen intently either for the savage yells which would soon indicate the failure of the enterprise, or the continued silence which would gradually prove its success. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT. Moonlight sauntered through the camp carelessly at first with a blanket over her head after the manner of Indian women; but on approaching the outskirts, nearest to the spot where Rushing River was concealed, she discarded the blanket, sank into the grass like a genuine apparition, and disappeared. After creeping a short way, she ventured to give the three hoots of the owl. An Indian brave, whose eyes were directed sentimentally to the stars, as though he were thinking of his lady-love--or buffalo steaks and marrow-bones--cocked his ears and lowered his gaze to earth, but as nothing more was to be seen or heard, he raised his eyes and thoughts again to love--or marrow-bones. Very different, as may be supposed, was the effect of those three hoots upon Rushing River, as he lay on the grass in perfect silence, listening intently. On hearing the sounds, he sprang up as though an arrow had pierced him, and for a few moments the furious glare of a baffled savage gleamed in his dark eyes, as he laid a hand on his tomahawk; but the action was momentary, and in a short time the look passed away. It was succeeded by a calm aspect and demeanour, which seemed to indicate a man devoid of all feeling--good or bad. "Skipping Rabbit," he said, taking the hand of the child in his, and patting her head, "you are soon to be with your father--and with Moonlight. Rushing River goes back to his people. But the skipping one must not move from this tree till some of her people come to fetch her. There is danger in moving--perfect safety in sitting still." He moved as if about to go, but suddenly turned back and kissed the child. Then he muttered something in a low tone to his companions, and strode into the dark forest. Umqua then advanced and gave the little one a tremendous hug. She was evidently struggling to suppress her feelings, for she could hardly speak as she said-- "I--I _must_ go, dear child. Rushing River commands. Umqua has no choice but to obey." She could say no more, but, after another prolonged hug, ran rapidly away. Hitherto Eaglenose had stood motionless, looking on, with his arms folded. Poor boy! he was engaged in the hardest fight that he had yet experienced in his young life, for had he not for the first time found a congenial playmate--if we may venture to put it so--and was she not being torn from him just as he was beginning to understand her value? He had been trained, however, in a school where contempt of pain and suffering was inculcated more sternly even than among the Spartans of old. "Skipping one," he said, in a low, stern voice, "Eaglenose must leave you, for his chief commands, but he will laugh and sing no more." Even through her tears the skipping one could scarce forbear smiling at the tone in which this was uttered. Fortunately, her face could not be seen. "O yes, you will laugh and sing again," she said, "when your nose is better." "No, that cannot be," returned the youth, who saw--indeed the child intended--nothing humorous in the remark. "No, I will never more laugh, or pull the string of the jumping-jack; but," he added, with sudden animation, as a thought struck him, "Eaglenose will bring the jumping-jack to the camp of Bounding Bull, and put it in the hands of the skipping one, though his scalp should swing for it in the smoke of her father's wigwam." He stooped, took the little face between his hands, and kissed it on both cheeks. "Don't--don't leave me," said the child, beginning to whimper. "The chief commands, and Eaglenose must obey," said the youth. He gently unclasped the little hands, and silently glided into the forest. Meanwhile Moonlight, utterly forgetting amid her anxieties the arrangement about Skipping Rabbit, sauntered back again through the camp till she reached the opposite extremity, which lay nearest to the willow swamp. The lines here were not guarded so carefully, because the nature of the ground rendered that precaution less needful. She therefore managed to pass the sentinels without much difficulty, and found, as she had been told, that one of her father's horses was feeding near the willow swamp. Its two fore-legs were fastened together to prevent it straying, so that she caught it easily. Having provided herself with a strong supple twig, she cut the hobbles, vaulted lightly on the horse's back, and went off at a smart gallop. Moonlight did not quite agree with her mother as to the effect of disappointment on her lover. Although heaviness of heart might possibly induce him to ride slowly, she thought it much more likely that exasperation of spirit would urge him to ride with reckless fury. Therefore she plied her switch vigorously, and, the light increasing as she came to more open ground, she was able to speed swiftly over a wide stretch of country, with which she had been familiar from childhood, in the hope of intercepting the Blackfoot chief. After a couple of hours' hard riding, she came to a narrow pass through which she knew her lover must needs go if he wished to return home by the same path that had led him to the camp of his enemy. Jumping quickly from her steed, she went down on her knees and examined the track. A sigh of relief escaped her, for it was evident that no one had passed there that day towards the west. There was just a bare possibility, however, that the chief had taken another route homeward, but Moonlight tried hard to shut her eyes to that fact, and, being sanguine of temperament she succeeded. Retiring into a thicket, she tied her horse to a tree, and then returned to watch the track. While seated there on a fallen tree, thinking with much satisfaction of some of her recent adventures, she suddenly conceived a little plot, which was more consistent with the character of Skipping Rabbit than herself, and rose at once to put it into execution. With a knife which she carried in her girdle she cut and broke down the underwood at the side of the track, and tramped about so as to make a great many footmarks. Then, between that point and the thicket where her steed was concealed, she walked to and fro several times, cutting and breaking the branches as she went, so as to make a wide trail, and suggest the idea of a hand-to-hand conflict having taken place there. She was enabled to make these arrangements all the more easily that the moon was by that time shining brightly, and revealing objects almost as clearly as if it had been noonday. Returning to the pass, she took off the kerchief with which she usually bound up her luxuriant brown hair, and placed it in the middle of the track, with her knife lying beside it. Having laid this wicked little trap to her satisfaction, she retired to a knoll close at hand, from which she could see her kerchief and knife on the one hand and her horse on the other. Then she concealed herself behind the trunk of a tree. Now it chanced at that very time that four of the young braves of Bounding Bull's camp, who had been sent out to hunt were returning home laden with venison, and they happened to cross the trail of Moonlight at a considerable distance from the pass just mentioned. Few things escape the notice of the red men of the west. On seeing the trail, they flung down their loads, examined the prints of the hoofs, rose up, glared at each other, and then ejaculated "Hough!" "Ho!" "Hi!" "Hee!" respectively. After giving vent to these humorous observations, they fixed the fresh meat in the forks of a tree, and, bending forward, followed up the trail like bloodhounds. Thus it happened that at the very time when Moonlight was preparing her practical joke, or surprise, for Rushing River, these four young braves were looking on with inexpressible astonishment, and preparing something which would indeed be a surprise, but certainly no joke, to herself and to all who might chance to appear upon the scene. With mouths open and eyes stretched to the utmost, these Bounding Bullers--if we may so call them--lay concealed behind a neighbouring mound, and watched the watcher. Their patience was not put to a severe test. Ere long a distant sound was heard. As it drew near it became distinctly like the pattering sound of galloping steeds. The heart of Moonlight beat high, as she drew closer into the shelter of the tree and clasped her hands. So did the hearts of the Bounding Bullers, as they drew closer under the brow of the mound, and fitted arrows to their bows. Moonlight was right in her estimate of the effect of disappointment on her lover. He was evidently letting off superfluous steam through the safety-valve of a furious pace. Presently the cavalcade came sweeping into the pass, and went crashing through it--Rushing River, of course, in advance. No cannon ball was ever stopped more effectually by mountain or precipice than was our Indian chief's career by Moonlight's kerchief and knife. He reined in with such force as to throw his steed on its haunches, like the equestrian statue of Peter the Great; but, unlike the statuesque animal, Rushing River's horse came back to the position of all-fours, and stood transfixed and trembling. Vaulting off, the chief ran to the kerchief, and picked it up. Then he and Eaglenose examined it and the knife carefully, after which they turned to the track through the bushes. But here caution became necessary. There might be an ambuscade. With tomahawk in one hand, and scalping-knife in the other, the chief advanced slowly, step by step, gazing with quick intensity right and left as he went. Eaglenose followed, similarly armed, and even more intensely watchful. Umqua brought up the rear, unarmed, it is true, but with her ten fingers curved and claw-like, as if in readiness for the visage of any possible assailant, for the old woman was strong and pugnacious as well as kindly and intellectual. All this was what some people call "nuts" to Moonlight. It was equally so to the Bounding Bullers, who, although mightily taken by surprise, were fully alive to the fact that here were two men and two women of their hated Blackfoot foes completely at their mercy. They had only to twang their bowstrings and the death-yells of the men would instantly resound in the forest. But burning curiosity as to what it could all mean, and an intense desire to see the play out, restrained them. Soon Rushing River came upon the tied-up horse, and of course astonishment became intensified, for in all his varied experience of savage warfare he had never seen the evidence of a deadly skirmish terminate in a peacefully tied-up horse. While he and his companions were still bending cautiously forward and peering around, the hoot of an owl was heard in the air. Eaglenose looked up with inquiring gaze, but his chief's more practised ear at once understood it. He stood erect, stuck his weapons into his belt, and, with a look of great satisfaction, repeated the cry. Moonlight responded, and at once ran down to him with a merry laugh. Of course there was a good deal of greeting and gratulation, for even Indians become demonstrative at times, and Moonlight had much of importance to tell. But now an unforeseen difficulty came in the way of the bloody-minded Bullers. In the group which had been formed by the friendly evolutions of their foes, the women chanced to have placed themselves exactly between them and the men, thus rendering it difficult to shoot the latter without great risk of injury, if not death, to the former, for none of them felt sufficiently expert to emulate William Tell. In these circumstances it occurred to them, being courageous braves, that four men were more than a match for two, and that therefore it would be safer and equally effective to make a united rush, and brain their enemies as they stood. No sooner conceived than acted on. Dispensing with the usual yell on this occasion, they drew their knives and tomahawks, and made a tremendous rush. But they had reckoned too confidently, and suffered the inevitable disgrace of bafflement that awaits those who underrate the powers of women. So sudden was the onset that Rushing River had not time to draw and properly use his weapons, but old Umqua, with the speed of light, flung herself on hands and knees in front of the leading Buller, who plunged over her, and drove his head against a tree with such force that he remained there prone and motionless. Thus the chief was so far ready with his tomahawk that a hastily-delivered blow sent the flat of it down on the skull of the succeeding savage, and, in sporting language, dropped him. Thus only two opponents were left, of whom Eaglenose choked one and his chief felled the other. In ordinary circumstances the victors would first have stabbed and then scalped their foes, but we have pointed out that the spirit of our chief had been changed. He warned Eaglenose not to kill. With his assistance and that of the women, he bound the conquered braves, and laid them in the middle of the track, so that no one could pass that way without seeing them. Then, addressing the one who seemed to be least stunned, he said-- "Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull. He will not slay and scalp his young men; but the young men have been hasty, and must suffer for it. When your friends find you and set you free, tell them that it was Rushing River who brought Skipping Rabbit to her father and left her near the camp." "If Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull," returned the fallen savage sulkily, "how comes it that we have crossed the trail of a war-party of Blackfeet on their way to the block-house of the pale-face?" This question roused both surprise and concern in the Blackfoot chief, but his features betrayed no emotion of any kind, and the only reply he condescended to make was a recommendation to the youth to remember what he had been told. When, however, he had left them and got out of hearing, he halted and said-- "Moonlight has travelled in the region of her father's fort since she was a little child. Will she guide me to it by the shortest road she knows!" The girl of course readily agreed, and, in a few minutes, diverging from the pass, went off in another direction where the ground permitted of their advancing at a swift gallop. We must turn now to another part of those western wilds, not far from the little hut or fortress named. In a secluded dell between two spurs of the great mountain range, a council of war was held on the day of which we write by a party of Blackfoot Indians. This particular band had been absent on the war-path for a considerable time, and, having suffered defeat, were returning home rather crestfallen and without scalps. In passing near the fortress of Little Tim it occurred to them that they might yet retrieve their character by assaulting that stronghold and carrying off the booty that was there, with any scalps that chance might throw in their way. That night the prairie chief, Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, and Softswan were sitting in a very disconsolate frame of mind beside their friend the pale-face preacher, whose sunken eye and hollow cheek told of his rapidly approaching end. Besides the prospect of the death of one whom they had known and loved so long, they were almost overwhelmed by despair at the loss of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit, and their failure to overtake and rescue them, while the difficulty of raising a sufficient number of men at the time to render an attempt upon the Blackfoot stronghold possible with the faintest hope of success still further increased their despair. Even the dying missionary was scarcely able to give them hope or encouragement, for by that time his voice was so weak that he could only utter a word or two at long intervals with difficulty. "The clouds are very dark, my father," said Whitewing. "Very dark," responded his friend, "but on the other side the sun is shining brightly." "Sometimes I find it rather hard to believe it," muttered Little Tim. Bounding Bull did not speak, but the stern look of his brow showed that he shared the feelings of the little hunter. Big Tim was also silent but he glanced at Softswan, and she, as if in reply to his thoughts, said, "He doeth all things well." "Ha!" exclaimed the missionary, with a quick glance of pleased surprise at the girl; "you have learned a good lesson, soft one. Treasure it. `He doeth all things well.' We may think some of them dark, some even wrong, but--`Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?'" Silence again ensued, for they were indeed very low, yet they had by no means reached the lowest point of human misery. While they were sitting there the Blackfoot band, under cover of the night, was softly creeping up the zigzag path. Great events often turn on small points. Rome was saved by the cackling of geese, and Tim's Folly was lost by the slumbering of a goose! The goose in question was a youth, who was so inflated with the miraculous nature of the deeds which he intended to do that he did not give his mind sufficiently to those which at that time had to be done. He was placed as sentinel at the point of the little rampart furthest from the hut and nearest the forest. Instead of standing at his post and gazing steadily at the latter, he sat down and stared dreamily at the future. As might have been expected, the first Blackfoot that raised his head cautiously above the parapet saw the dreamer, tapped his cranium, and rendered him unconscious. Next moment a swarm of black creatures leaped over the wall, burst open the door of the hut and, before the men assembled there could grasp their weapons, overpowered them by sheer weight of numbers. All were immediately bound, except the woman and the dying man. Thus it happened that when Rushing River arrived he found the place already in possession of his own men. "I will go up alone," he said, "to see what they are doing. If they have got the fire-water of the pale-faces they might shoot and kill Moonlight in their mad haste." "If Rushing River wishes to see his men, unseen by them, Moonlight can guide him by a secret way that is known only to her father and her father's friends," said the girl. The chief paused, as if uncertain for a moment how to act. Then he said briefly, "Let Moonlight lead; Rushing River will follow." Without saying a word, the girl conducted her companion round by the river's bed, and up by the secret path into the cavern at the rear of the little fortress. Here Eaglenose and Umqua were bidden to remain, while the girl raised the stone which covered the upper opening of the cave, and led the chief to the back of the hut whence issued the sound of voices, as if raised in anger and mutual recrimination. Placing his eye to a chink in the back door, the Blackfoot chief witnessed a scene which filled him with concern and surprise. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE LAST. The sight witnessed by Rushing River was one which might indeed have stirred the spirit of a mere stranger, much more that of one who was well acquainted with, and more or less interested in, all the actors in the scene. Seated on the floor in a row, with their backs against the wall of the hut, and bound hand and foot were his old enemies Bounding Bull, Little Tim and his big son, and Whitewing, the prairie chief. In a corner lay a man with closed eyes, clasped hands, and a face, the ashy paleness of which indicated the near approach of death, if not its actual presence. In him he at once recognised the preacher, who, years ago, had directed his youthful mind to Jesus, the Saviour of mankind. In front of these stood one of the warriors of his own nation, brandishing a tomahawk, and apparently threatening instant destruction to Little Tim, who, to do him justice, met the scowls and threats of the savage with an unflinching gaze. There was, however, no touch of pride or defiance in Tim's look, but in the frowns of Bounding Bull and Big Tim we feel constrained to say that there were both pride and defiance. Several Blackfoot Indians stood beside the prisoners with knives in their hands, ready at a moment's notice to execute their leader's commands. Rushing River knew that leader to be one of the fiercest and most cruel of his tribe. Softswan was seated at the feet of the missionary, with her face bowed upon her knees. She was not bound, but a savage stood near to watch her. Whitewing's old mother sat or rather crouched, close to her. What had already passed Rushing River of course could only guess. Of what followed his ears and eyes took note. "You look very brave just now," said the Blackfoot leader, "but I will make you change your looks before I take your scalps to dry in the Blackfoot wigwams." "You had better take our lives at once," said Big Tim fiercely, "else we will begin to think that we have had the mischance to fall into the hands of cowardly squaws." "Wah!" exclaimed Bounding Bull, with a nod of assent as he directed a look of scorn at his adversary. "Tush, tush, boy," said Little Tim to his son reprovingly, in an undertone. "It ill becomes a man with white blood in his veins, an' who calls hisself a Christian, to go boastin' like an or'nary savage. I thowt I had thrashed that out of 'ee when ye was a small boy." "Daddy," remonstrated Big Tim, "is not Softswan sittin' there at his marcy?" "No, lad, no. We are at the marcy of the Lord, an' His marcies are everlastin'." A faint smile flickered on the lips of the missionary at that moment, and, opening his eyes, he said solemnly-- "My son, hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of thy countenance and thy God." The savage leader was for the moment startled by the words, uttered in his own language, by one whom he had thought to be dead, but recovering himself quickly, he said-- "Your trust will be vain, for you are now in my power, and I only spare you long enough to tell you that a Blackfoot brave has just met us, who brings us the good news of what our great Blackfoot chief did when he crept into the camp of Bounding Bull and carried away his little daughter from under his very nose, and also the daughter of Leetil Tim. Wah! Did I not say that I would make you change your looks?" The savage was so far right that this reference to their great loss was a terrible stab, and produced considerable change of expression on the faces of the captives; but with a great effort Bounding Bull resumed his look of contempt and said that what was news to the Blackfoot leader was no news to him, and that not many days would pass before his warriors would pay a visit to the Blackfoot nation. "That may be so," retorted the savage, "but they shall not be led by Bounding Bull, for his last hour has come." So saying, the Blackfoot raised his tomahawk, and advanced to the chief, who drew himself up, and returned his glare of hate with a smile of contempt. Softswan sprang up with a shriek, and would have flung herself between them, but was held back by the savage who guarded her. At that moment the back door of the hut flew open, and Rushing River stood in the midst of them. One word from him sent all the savages crestfallen out of the hut. He followed them. Returning alone a few seconds later, he passed the astonished captives, and, kneeling down by the couch of the missionary, said, in tones that were too low to be heard by the others-- "Does my white father remember Rushing River?" The missionary opened his eyes with a puzzled look of inquiry, and gazed at the Indian's face. "Rushing River was but a boy," continued the chief, "when the pale-face preacher came to the camp of the Blackfeet." A gleam of intelligence seemed to shoot from the eyes of the dying man. "Yes, yes," he said faintly; "I remember." "My father," continued the chief, "spoke to Rushing River about his sins--about the Great Manitou; about Jesus, the Saviour of all men, and about the Great Spirit. Rushing River did not believe then--he could not--but the Great Spirit must have been whispering to him since, for he believes _now_." A look of quiet joy settled on the preacher's face while the chief spoke. Rousing himself with an effort, he said, as he turned a glance towards the captives-- "If you truly love Jesus, let these go free." The chief had to bend down to catch the feebly-spoken words. Rising instantly, he drew his knife, went to Little Tim, and cut the thongs that bound him. Then he cut those of Big Tim and Whitewing, and lastly those of Bounding Bull. He had scarcely completed the latter act when his old enemy suddenly snatched the knife out of his hand, caught him by the right arm with a vice-like grasp, and pointed the weapon at his heart. "Bounding Bull," he said fiercely, "knows not the meaning of all this, but he knows that his child is in the Blackfoot camp, and that Rushing River is at his mercy." No effort did Rushing River make to avert the impending blow, but stood perfectly still, and, with a look of simple gravity, said-- "Skipping Rabbit is not in the Blackfoot camp. She is now in the camp of her kindred; and Moonlight," he added, turning a glance on Little Tim, "is safe." "Your face looks truthful and your tone sounds honest, Rushing River," said Little Tim, "but the Blackfeet are clever at deceiving, and the chief is our bitter foe. What surety have we that he is not telling lies? Rushing River knows well he has only to give a signal and his red reptiles will swarm in on us, all unarmed as we are, and take our scalps." "My young men are beyond hearing," returned the chief. "I have sent them away. My breast is open to the knife in the hand of Bounding Bull. I am no longer an enemy, but a follower of Jesus, and the preacher has told us that He is the Prince of peace." At this the prairie chief stepped forward. "Friends," he said, "my heart is glad this day, for I am sure that you may trust the word of Rushing River. Something of his change of mind I have heard of in the course of my wanderings, but I had not been sure that there was truth in the report till now." Still Bounding Bull maintained his grasp on his old foe, and held the knife in readiness, so that if there should be any sudden attempt at rescue, he, at least, should not escape. The two Tims, Little and Big, although moved by Whitewing's remarks, were clearly not quite convinced. They seemed uncertain how to view the matter, and were still hesitating when Rushing River again spoke. "The pale-faces," he said, "do not seem to be so trustful as the red men. I have put myself in your power, yet you do not believe me. Why, then, does not Bounding Bull strike his ancient enemy? His great opportunity has come. His squaws are waiting in his wigwam fur the scalp of Rushing River." For the first time in his life Bounding Bull was rendered incapable of action. In all his extensive experience of Indian warfare he had never been placed in such a predicament. If he had been an out-and-out heathen, he would have known what to do, and would have done it at once--he would have gratified revenge. Had Rushing River been an out-and-out heathen, he never would have given him the chance he now possessed of wreaking his vengeance. Then the thought of Skipping Rabbit filled his heart with tender anxiety, and confused his judgment still more. It was very perplexing! But Rushing River brought the perplexity to an end by saying-- "If you wish for further proof that Rushing River tells no lies, Moonlight will give it. Let her come forward." Little Tim was beginning to think that the Blackfoot chief was, as he expressed it, somewhat "off his head," when Moonlight ran into the room, and seized him with her wonted energy round the neck. "Yes, father, it's all true. I am safe, as you see, and happy." "An' Skippin' Rabbit?" said Little Tim. "Is in her own wigwam by this time." As she spoke in the Indian tongue, Bounding Bull understood her. He at once let go his hold of his old foe. Returning the knife to him, he grasped his right hand after the manner of the pale-faces, and said-- "My brother." By this time Eaglenose and Umqua had appeared upon the scene, and added their testimony to that of their chief. While they were still engaged in explanation, a low wail from Softswan turned their attention to the corner where the preacher lay. The prairie chief glided to the side of his old friend, and kneeled by the couch. The others clustered round in solemn silence. They guessed too surely what had drawn forth the girl's wail. The old man lay, with his thin white locks scattered on the pillow, his hands clasped as if in prayer, and with eyes nearly closed, but the lips moved not. His days of prayer and striving on this earth were over, and his eternity of praise and glory had begun. We might here, appropriately enough, close our record of the prairie chief and the preacher, but we feel loath to leave them without a few parting words, for the good work which the preacher had begun was carried on, not only by Whitewing, but, as far as example went--and that was a long way--by Little and Big Tim and their respective wives, and Bounding Bull, as well as by many of their kindred. After the preacher's remains had been laid in the grave at the foot of a pine-tree in that far western wilderness, Little Tim, with his son and Indian friends, followed Bounding Bull to his camp, where one of the very first persons they saw was Skipping Rabbit engaged in violently agitating the limbs of her jumping-jack, to the ineffable delight of Eaglenose. Soon after, diplomatic negotiations were entered into between the tribe of Bounding Bull and the Blackfeet, resulting in a treaty of peace which bid fair to be a lasting treaty, at least as lasting as most other human treaties ever are. The pipe of peace was solemnly smoked, the war-hatchet was not less solemnly buried, and a feast on a gigantic scale, was much more solemnly held. Another result was that Rushing River and Moonlight were married--not after the simple Indian fashion, but with the assistance of a real pale-faced missionary, who was brought from a distance of nearly three hundred miles, from a pale-face pioneer settlement, for the express purpose of tying that knot along with several other knots of the same kind, and doing what in him lay to establish and strengthen the good work which the old preacher had begun. Years passed away, and a fur-trading establishment was sent into those western regions, which gradually attracted round it a group of Indians, who not only bartered skins with the traders, but kept them constantly supplied with meat. Among the most active hunters of this group were our friends Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, Rushing River, and Eaglenose. Sometimes these hunted singly, sometimes in couples, not unfrequently all together, for they were a very sociable band. Whitewing was not one of them, for he devoted himself exclusively to wandering about the mountains and prairies, telling men and women and children of the Saviour of sinners, of righteousness and judgment to come--a self-appointed Red Indian missionary, deriving his authority from the Word of God. But the prairie chief did not forsake his old and well-tried friends. He left a hostage in the little community, a sort of living lodestone, which was sure to bring him back again and again, however far his wanderings might extend. This was a wrinkled specimen of female humanity, which seemed to be absolutely incapable of extinction because of the superhuman warmth of its heart and the intrinsic hilarity of its feelings! Whoever chanced to inquire for Whitewing, whether in summer or in winter, in autumn or in spring, was sure to receive some such answer as the following: "Nobody knows where he is. He wanders here and there and everywhere; but he'll not be absent long, for he always turns up, sooner or later, to see his old mother." Yes, that mummified old mother, that "dear old one," was a sort of planet round which Brighteyes and Softswan and Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit and others, with a host of little Brighteyes and little Softswans, revolved, forming a grand constellation, which the men of the settlement gazed at and followed as the mariners of old followed the Pole star. The mention of Skipping Rabbit reminds us that we have something more to say about her. It so happened that the fur trader who had been sent to establish a post in that region was a good man, and, strange to say, entertained a strong belief that the soul of man was of far greater importance than his body. On the strength of this opinion he gathered the Indians of the neighbourhood around him, and told them that, as he wished to read to them out of the Word of the Great Manitou, he would hold a class twice a week in the fur-store; and, further, that if any of them wished to learn English, and read the Bible of the pale-faces for themselves, he was quite willing to teach them. Well, the very first pupil that came to the English class was Skipping Rabbit, and, curiously enough, the very second was Eaglenose. Now it must be remembered that we have said that years had passed away. Skipping Rabbit was no longer a spoiled, little laughing child, but a tall, graceful, modest girl, just bursting into womanhood. She was still as fond as ever of the jumping-jack, but she slily worked its galvanic limbs for the benefit of little children, not for her own--O dear no! Eaglenose had also grown during these years into a stalwart man, and his chin and lower jaws having developed considerably, his nose was relatively much reduced in appearance. About the same time Brighteyes and Softswan, naturally desiring to become more interesting to their husbands, also joined this class, and they were speedily followed by Moonlight and Bounding Bull. Rushing River also looked in, now and then, in a patronising sort of way, but Whitewing resolutely refused to be troubled with anything when in camp save his mother and his mother-tongue. It will not therefore surprise the reader to be told that Eaglenose and the skipping one, being thus engaged in a common pursuit, were naturally, we may even say unavoidably, thrown a good deal together; and as their philological acquirements extended, they were wont at times to air their English on each other. The lone woods formed a convenient scene for their intercourse. "Kom vis me," said Eaglenose to Skipping Rabbit one day after school. "Var you goes?" asked the girl shyly--yet we might almost say twinklingly. "Don' know. Nowhars. Everywhars. Anywhars." "Kim 'long, den." "Skipping one," said Eaglenose--of course in his own tongue, though he continued the sentence in English--"de lunguish of de pale-fass am diffikilt." "Yes--'most too diffikilt for larn." "Bot Softswan larn him easy." "Bot Softswan have one pale-fass hubsind," replied the girl, breaking into one of her old merry laughs at the trouble they both experienced in communicating through such a "lunguish." "Would the skipping one," said Eaglenose, with a sharp look, "like to have a hubsind?" The skipping one looked at her companion with a startled air, blushed, cast down her eyes, and said nothing. "Come, sit down here," said the Indian, suddenly reverting to his native tongue, as he pointed to the trunk of a fallen tree. The girl suffered herself to be led to the tree, and sat down beside the youth, who retained one of her hands. "Does not the skipping one know," he said earnestly, "that for many moons she has been as the sun in the sky to Eaglenose? When she was a little one, and played with the jumping-jack, her eyes seemed to Eaglenose like the stars, and her voice sounded like the rippling water after it has reached the flowering prairie. When the skipping one laughed, did not the heart of Eaglenose jump? and when she let drops fall from her stars, was not his heart heavy? Afterwards, when she began to think and talk of the Great Manitou, did not the Indian's ears tingle and his heart burn? It is true," continued the youth, with a touch of pathos in his tone which went straight to the girl's heart, "it is true that Eaglenose dwells far below the skipping one. He creeps like the beetle on the ground. She flies like the wild swan among the clouds. Eaglenose is not worthy of her; but love is a strong horse that scorns to stop at difficulties. Skipping Rabbit and Eaglenose have the same thoughts, the same God, the same hopes and desires. They have one heart--why should they not have one wigwam?" Reader, we do not ask you to accept the above declaration as a specimen of Indian love-making. You are probably aware that the red men have a very different and much more prosaic manner of doing things than this. But we have already said that Eaglenose was an eccentric youth; moreover, he was a Christian, and we do not feel bound to account for the conduct or sentiments of people who act under the combined influence of Christianity and eccentricity. When Skipping Rabbit heard the above declaration, she did indeed blush a little. She could not help that, we suppose, but she did not look awkward, or wait for the gentleman to say more, but quietly putting her arm round his neck, she raised her little head and kissed that part of his manly face which lay immediately underneath his eagle nose! Of course he was not shabby enough to retain the kiss. He understood it to be a loan, and returned it immediately with interest--but--surely we have said enough for an intelligent reader! Not many days after that these two were married in the fur-store of the traders. A grand feast and a great dance followed, as a matter of course. It is noteworthy that there was no drink stronger than tea at that merry-making, yet the revellers were wonderfully uproarious and very happy, and it was universally admitted that, exclusive of course of the bride and bridegroom, the happiest couple there were a wrinkled old woman of fabulous age and her amiable son--the Prairie Chief. THE END. 
28098	----	http://www.archive.org/details/holidaytaleschr00murriala HOLIDAY TALES. Christmas in the Adirondacks. by W. H. H. MURRAY. [Illustration: W. H. H. MURRAY, THE MURRAY HOMESTEAD GUILFORD, CONN.] Copyrighted, 1897. All Rights Reserved. Press of Springfield Printing and Binding Company, Springfield, Mass. CONTENTS. PAGE I. HOW JOHN NORTON THE TRAPPER KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS, 11 II. JOHN NORTON'S VAGABOND, 77 [Illustration: THE WILD DEER'S HOME.] [Illustration: THE OLD TRAPPER'S HOME.] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE WILD DEER'S HOME, _By J. Gurner Fisher_, _Frontispiece No. 1_ THE OLD TRAPPER'S HOME, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, _Frontispiece No. 2_ HOW JOHN NORTON THE TRAPPER KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS, (_Heading_) 11 THE OLD TRAPPER'S FIREPLACE, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, between pages 12-13 "ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN STOOD THE DISMAL HUT," _By J. Gurner Fisher_, " " 30-31 THE OLD TRAPPER'S SHOT, _By J. Gurner Fisher_, " " 44-45 THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT, _By J. Gurner Fisher_, _Frontispiece No. 3_ THE VAGABOND'S ROCK, _By W. L. Everett Knowles,_ _Frontispiece No. 4_ JOHN NORTON'S VAGABOND, (_Heading_) 76 "VAGABONDS INCLUDED IN THIS INVITE," _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, between pages 80-81 "AND ABOVE THE WORDS WAS A STAR," _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, " " 82-83 THE OLD TRAPPER'S PADDLE, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 85 THE OLD TRAPPER'S RIFLE, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 88 AN OLD TIME GUN, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 89 CHRISTMAS HOLLY, _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 93 "WHERE BE THE SHIPS?" _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, between pages 98-99 "AND FINALLY THE WORDS PASSED INTO THE AIR," _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 105 "YE CRADLE OF YE OLDEN TIME," _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, 108 THE OLD TRAPPER AND HIS DOGS, "Friends come and go, but until death enters kennel or cabin the hunter and his hounds bide together." _By W. L. Everett Knowles_, between pages 112-113 HOW JOHN NORTON THE TRAPPER KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS. I. A cabin. A cabin in the woods. In the cabin a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. On either side of the broad hearthstone a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely, as only a hound in a meditative mood can, into the glowing fire. In the center of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table, strongly built and solid. At the table sat John Norton, poring over a book,--a book large of size, with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age, and smooth as with the handling of many generations. The whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. A cabin in the woods filled with firelight, a table, a book, an old man studying the book. This was the scene on Christmas Eve. Outside, the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon. "It says here," said the Trapper, speaking to himself, "it says here, '_Give to him that lacketh, and from him that hath not, withhold not thine hand._' It be a good sayin' fur sartin; and the world would be a good deal better off, as I conceit, ef the folks follered the sayin' a leetle more closely." And here the old man paused a moment, and, with his hand still resting on the page, and his forefinger still pointing at the sentence, seemed pondering what he had been reading. At last he broke the silence again, saying:-- "Yis, the world would be a good deal better off, ef the folks in it follered the sayin';" and then he added, "There's another spot in the book I'd orter look at to-night; it's a good ways furder on, but I guess I can find it. Henry says the furder on you git in the book, the better it grows, and I conceit the boy may be right; for there be a good deal of murderin' and fightin' in the fore part of the book, that don't make pleasant readin', and what the Lord wanted to put it in fur is a good deal more than a man without book-larnin' can understand. Murderin' be murderin', whether it be in the Bible or out of the Bible; and puttin' it in the Bible, and sayin' it was done by the Lord's commandment, don't make it any better. And a good deal of the fightin' they did in the old time was sartinly without reason and ag'in jedgment, specially where they killed the womenfolks and the leetle uns." And while the old man had thus been communicating with himself, touching the character of the Old Testament, he had been turning the leaves until he had reached the opening chapters of the New, and had come to the description of the Saviour's birth, and the angelic announcement of it on the earth. Here he paused, and began to read. He read as an old man unaccustomed to letters must read,--slowly and with a show of labor, but with perfect contentment as to his progress, and a brightening face. [Illustration: THE OLD TRAPPER'S FIREPLACE.] "This isn't a trail a man can hurry on onless he spends a good deal of his time on it, or is careless about notin' the signs, fur the words be weighty, and a man must stop at each word, and look around awhile, in order to git all the meanin' out of 'em--yis, a man orter travel this trail a leetle slow, ef he wants to see all there is to see on it." Then the old man began to read:-- "'_Then there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host_,'--the exact number isn't sot down here," he muttered; "but I conceit there may have been three or four hunderd,--'_praisin' God and singin', Glory to God in the highest, and on 'arth, peace to men of good will_.' That's right," said the Trapper. "Yis, peace to men of good will. That be the sort that desarve peace; the other kind orter stand their chances." And here the old man closed the book,--closed it slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing; closed it, fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had taken it, putting it away in its place. Having done this, he returned to his seat, and, moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked first at one hound, and then at the other, and said, "Pups, this be Christmas Eve, and I sartinly trust ye be grateful fur the comforts ye have." He said this deliberately, as if addressing human companions. The two hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into his face, and wagged their tails. "Yis, yis, I understand ye," said the Trapper. "Ye both be comfortable, and, I dare say, that arter yer way ye both be grateful, fur, next to eatin', a dog loves the heat, and ye be nigh enough to the logs to be toastin'. Yis, this be Christmas Eve," continued the old man, "and in the settlements the folks be gittin' ready their gifts. The young people be tyin' up the evergreens, and the leetle uns be onable to sleep because of their dreamin'. It's a pleasant pictur', and I sartinly wish I could see the merry-makin's, as Henry has told me of them, sometime, but I trust it may be in his own house, and with his own children." With this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he loved so well, the old man lapsed into silence. But the peaceful contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned, and whom he so fondly loved. At last a more sober look came to his countenance,--a look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers something he should not have forgotten,--and he said:-- "I ax the Lord to pardin me, that in the midst of my plenty I have forgot them that may be in want. The shanty sartinly looked open enough the last time I fetched the trail past the clearin', and though with the help of the moss and the clay in the bank she might make it comfortable, yit, ef the vagabond that be her husband has forgot his own, and desarted them, as Wild Bill said he had, I doubt ef there be vict'als enough in the shanty to keep them from starvin'. Yis, pups," said the old man, rising, "it'll be a good tramp through the snow, but we'll go in the mornin', and see ef the woman be in want. The boy himself said, when he stopped at the shanty last summer, afore he went out, that he didn't see how they was to git through the winter, and I reckon he left the woman some money, by the way she follered him toward the boat; and he told me to bear them in mind when the snow came, and see to it they didn't suffer. I might as well git the pack-basket out, and begin to put the things in't, fur it be a goodly distance, and an 'arly start will make the day pleasant to the woman and the leetle uns, ef vict'als be scant in the cupboard. Yis, I'll git the pack-basket out, and look round a leetle, and see what I can find to take 'em. I don't conceit it'll make much of a show, fur what might be good fur a man won't be of sarvice to a woman; and as fur the leetle uns, I don't know ef I've got a single thing but vict'als that'll fit 'em. Lord! ef I was near the settlements, I might swap a dozen skins fur jest what I wanted to give 'em; but I'll git the basket out, and look round and see what I've got." In a moment the great pack-basket had been placed in the middle of the floor, and the Trapper was busy overhauling his stores to see what he could find that would make a fitting Christmas gift for those he was to visit on the morrow. A canister of tea was first deposited on the table, and, after he had smelled of it, and placed a few grains of it on his tongue, like a connoisseur, he proceeded to pour more than half of its contents into a little bark box, and, having carefully tied the cover, he placed it in the basket. "The yarb be of the best," said the old man, putting his nose to the mouth of the canister, and taking a long sniff before he inserted the stopple--"the yarb be of the best, fur the smell of it goes into the nose strong as mustard. That be good fur the woman fur sartin, and will cheer her sperits when she be downhearted; fur a woman takes as naterally to tea as an otter to his slide, and I warrant it'll be an amazin' comfort to her, arter the day's work be over, more specially ef the work had been heavy, and gone sorter crosswise. Yis, the yarb be good fur a woman when things go crosswise, and the box'll be a great help to her many and many a night, beyend doubt. The Lord sartinly had women in mind when He made the yarb, and a kindly feelin' fur their infarmities, and, I dare say, they be grateful accordin' to their knowledge." A large cake of maple sugar followed the tea into the basket, and a small chest of honey accompanied it. "That's honest sweetenin'," remarked the Trapper with decided emphasis; "and that is more'n ye can say of the sugar of the settlements, leastwise ef a man can jedge by the stuff they peddle at the clearin'. The bees be no cheats; and a man who taps his own trees, and biles the runnin' into sugar under his own eye, knows what kind of sweetenin' he's gittin'. The woman won't find any sand in her teeth when she takes a bite from that loaf, or stirs a leetle of the honey in the cup she's steepin'." Some salt and pepper were next added to the packages already in the basket. A sack of flour and another of Indian meal followed. A generous round of pork, and a bag of jerked venison, that would balance a twenty-pound weight, at least, went into the pack. On these, several large-sized salmon trout, that had been smoked by the Trapper's best skill, were laid. These offerings evidently exhausted the old man's resources, for, after looking round a while, and searching the cupboard from bottom to top, he returned to the basket, and contemplated it with satisfaction, indeed, yet with a face slightly shaded with disappointment. "The vict'als be all right," he said, "fur there be enough to last 'em a month, and they needn't scrimp themselves either. But eatin' isn't all, and the leetle uns was nigh on to naked the last time I seed 'em; and the woman's dress, in spite of the patchin', looked as ef it would desart her, ef she didn't keep a close eye on't. Lord! Lord! what shall I do? fur there's room enough in the basket, and the woman and the leetle uns need garments; that is, it's more'n likely they do, and I haven't a garment in the cabin to take 'em." "Hillo! Hillo! John Norton! John Norton! Hillo!" The voice came sharp and clear, cutting keenly through the frosty air and the cabin walls. "John Norton!" "Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper. "I sartinly hope the vagabond hasn't been a-drinkin'. His voice sounds as ef he was sober; but the chances be ag'in the signs, fur, ef he isn't drunk, the marcy of the Lord or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. I'll go to the door, and see what he wants. It's sartinly too cold to let a man stand in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark the Trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open. "What is it, Wild Bill? what is it?" he called. "Be ye drunk, or be ye sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin within a dozen rods of ye?" "Sober, John Norton, sober. Sober as a Moravian preacher at a funeral." "Yer trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, Wild Bill, for the last month, or the Dutchman at the clearin' has watered his liquor by a wrong measure for once. But ef ye be sober, why do ye stand there whoopin' like an Indian, when the ambushment is onkivered and the bushes be alive with the knaves? Why don't ye come into the cabin, like a sensible man, ef ye be sober? The signs be ag'in ye, Wild Bill; yis, the signs be ag'in ye." "Come into the cabin!" retorted Bill. "An' so I would mighty lively, ef I could; but the load is heavy, and your path is as slippery as the plank over the creek at the Dutchman's, when I've two horns aboard." "Load! What load have ye been draggin' through the woods?" exclaimed the Trapper. "Ye talk as ef my cabin was the Dutchman's, and ye was balancin' on the plank at this minit." "Come and see for yourself," answered Wild Bill, "and give me a lift. Once in your cabin, and in front of your fire, I'll answer all the questions you may ask. But I'll answer no more until I'm inside the door." "Ye be sartinly sober to-night," answered the Trapper, laughing, as he started down the hill, "fur ye talk sense, and that's more'n a man can do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle. "Lord-a-massy!" exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled, and saw the huge box that was on it. "Lord-a-massy, Bill! what a tug ye must have had! and how ye come to be sober with sech a load behind ye is beyend the reckinin' of a man who has knowed ye nigh on to twenty year. I never knowed ye disapp'int one arter this fashion afore." "It is strange, I confess," answered Wild Bill, appreciating the humor that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. "It is strange, that's a fact, for it's Christmas Eve, and I ought to be roaring drunk at the Dutchman's this very minit, according to custom; but I pledged him to get the box through jest as he wanted it done, and that I wouldn't touch a drop of liquor until I had done it. And here it is, according to promise, for here I am sober, and here is the box." "H'ist along, Bill, h'ist along!" exclaimed the Trapper, who suddenly became alive with interest, for he surmised whence the box had come. "H'ist along, Bill, I say, and have done with yer talkin', and let's see what ye have got on yer sled. It's strange that a man of yer sense will stand jibberin' here in the snow with a roarin' fire within a dozen rods of ye." Whatever retort Wild Bill may have contemplated, it was effectually prevented by the energy with which the Trapper pushed the sled after him. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep it off his heels, so earnestly did the old man propel it from behind; and so, with many a slip and scramble on the part of Wild Bill, and a continued muttering on the part of the Trapper about the "nonsense of a man's jibberin' in the snow arter a twenty mile drag, with a good fire within a dozen rods of him," the sled was shot through the doorway into the cabin, and stood fully revealed in the bright blaze of the firelight. "Take off yer coat and yer moccasins, Wild Bill," exclaimed the Trapper, as he closed the door, "and git in front of the fire; pull out the coals, and set the tea pot a-steepin'. The yarb will take the chill out of ye better than the pizen of the Dutchman. Ye'll find a haunch of venison in the cupboard that I roasted to-day, and some johnnycake; I doubt ef either be cold. Help yerself, help yerself, Bill, while I take a peep at the box." No one can appreciate the intensity of the old man's feelings in reference to the mysterious box, unless he calls to mind the strictness with which he was wont to interpret and fulfill the duties of hospitality. To him the coming of a guest was a welcome event, and the service which the latter might require of the host both a sacred and a pleasant obligation. To serve a guest with his own hand, which he did with a natural courtesy peculiar to himself, was his delight. Nor did it matter with him what the quality of the guest might be. The wandering trapper or the vagabond Indian was served with as sincere attention as the richest visitor from the city. But now his feelings were so stirred by the sight of the box thus strangely brought to him, and by his surmise touching who the sender might be, that Wild Bill was left to help himself without the old man's attendance. It was evident that Bill was equal to the occasion, and was not aware of the slightest neglect. At least, his actions were not, by the neglect of the Trapper, rendered less decided, or the quality of his appetite affected, for the examination he made of the old man's cupboard, and the familiarity with which he handled the contents, made it evident that he was not in the least abashed, or uncertain how to proceed; for he attacked the provisions with the energy of a man who had fasted long, and who has at last not only come suddenly to an ample supply of food, but also feels that for a few moments, at least, he will be unobserved. The Trapper turned toward the box, and approached it for a deliberate examination. "The boards be sawed," he said, "and they come from the mills of the settlement, for the smoothin'-plane has been over 'em." Then he inspected the jointing, and noted how truly the edges were drawn. "The box has come a goodly distance," he said to himself, "fur there isn't a workman this side of the Horicon that could j'int it in that fashion. There sartinly ought to be some letterin', or a leetle bit of writin', somewhere about the chest, tellin' who the box belonged to, and to whom it was sent." Saying this, the old man unlashed the box from the sled, and rolled it over, so that the side might come uppermost. As no direction appeared on the smoothly planed surface, he rolled it half over again. A little white card neatly tacked to the board was now revealed. The Trapper stooped, and on the card read,-- JOHN NORTON, TO THE CARE OF WILD BILL. "Yis, the 'J' be his'n," muttered the old man, as he spelled out the word J-o-h-n, "and the big 'N' be as plain as an otter-trail in the snow. The boy don't make his letters over plain, as I conceit, but the 'J' and the 'N' be his'n." And then he paused for a full minute, his head bowed over the box. "The boy don't forgit," he murmured, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The boy don't forgit." And then he added, "No, he isn't one of the forgittin' kind. Wild Bill," said the Trapper, as he turned toward that personage, whose attack on the venison haunch was as determined as ever, "Wild Bill, this box be from Henry!" "I shouldn't wonder," answered that individual, speaking from a mass of edibles that filled his mouth. "And it be a Christmas gift!" continued the old man. "It looks so," returned Bill, as laconically as before. "And it be a mighty heavy box!" said the Trapper. "You'd 'a' thought so, if you had dragged it over the mile-and-a-half carry. It was good sleddin' on the river, but the carry took the stuff out of me." "Very like, very like," responded the Trapper; "fur the gullies be deep on the carry, and it must have been slippery haulin'. Didn't ye git a leetle 'arnest in yer feelin's, Bill, afore ye got to the top of the last ridge?" "Old man," answered Bill, as he wheeled his chair toward the Trapper, with a pint cup of tea in the one hand, and wiping his mustache with the coat sleeve of the other, "I got it to the top three times, or within a dozen feet from the top, and each time it got away from me and went to the bottom agin; for the roots was slippery, and I couldn't git a grip on the toe of my moccasins; but I held on to the rope, and I got to the bottom neck and neck with the sled every time." "Ye did well, ye did well," responded the Trapper, laughing; "for a loaded sled goes down hill mighty fast when the slide is a steep un, and a man who gits to the bottom as quick as the sled must have a good grip, and be considerably in 'arnest. But ye got her up finally by the same path, didn't ye?" "Yes, I got her up," returned Bill. "The fourth time I went for that ridge, I fetched her to the top, for I was madder than a hornet." "And what did ye do, Bill?" continued the Trapper. "What did ye do when ye got to the top?" "I jest tied that sled to a sapling so it wouldn't git away agin, and I got on to the top of that box, and I talked to that gulch a minit or two in a way that satisfied my feelings." "I shouldn't wonder," answered the Trapper, laughing, "fur ye must have ben a good deal riled. But ye did well to git the box through, and ye got here in time, and ye've 'arnt yer wages; and now, ef ye'll tell me how much I am to pay ye, ye shall have yer money, and ye needn't scrimp yerself on the price, Wild Bill, for the drag has been a hard un; so tell me yer price, and I'll count ye out the money." "Old man," answered Bill, "I didn't bring that box through for money, and I won't take a--" Perhaps Wild Bill was about to emphasize his refusal by some verbal addition to the simple statement, but, if it was his intention, he checked himself, and said, "a cent." "It's well said," answered the Trapper; "yis, it's well said, and does jestice to yer feelin's, I don't doubt; but an extra pair of breeches one of these days wouldn't hurt ye, and the money won't come amiss." "I tell ye, old man," returned Wild Bill earnestly, "I won't take a cent. I'll allow there's several colors in my trousers, for I've patched in a dozen different pieces off and on, and I doubt, as ye hint, if the patching holds together much longer; but I've eaten at your table and slept in your cabin more than once, John Norton, and whether I've come to it sober or drunk, your door was never shut in my face; and I don't forget either that the man who sent you that box fished me from the creek one day, when I had walked into it with two bottles of the Dutchman's whisky in my pocket, and not one cent of your money or his will I take for bringing the box in to you." "Have it yer own way, ef ye will," said the Trapper; "but I won't forgit the deed ye have did, and the boy won't forgit it neither. Come, let's clear away the vict'als, and we'll open the box. It's sartinly a big un, and I would like to see what he has put inside of it." The opening of the box was a spectacle such as gladdens the heart to see. At such moments the countenance of the Trapper was as facile in the changefulness of its expression as that of a child. The passing feelings of his soul found an adequate mirror in his face, as the white clouds of a summer day find full reflection in the depth of a tranquil lake. He was not too old or too learned to be wise, for the wisdom of hearty happiness was his,--the wisdom of being glad, and gladly showing it. As for Wild Bill, the best of his nature was in the ascendant, and with the curiosity and pleasure of a child, and a happiness as sincere as if the box were his own, he assisted at the opening. "The man who made this box did the work in a workmanlike fashion," said the Trapper, as he strove to insert the edge of his hatchet into the jointing of the cover, "fur he shet these boards together like the teeth of a bear trap when the bars be well 'iled. It's a pity the boy didn't send him along with the box, Wild Bill, fur it sartinly looks as ef we should have to kindle a fire on it, and burn a hole in through the kiver." At last, by dint of great exertion, and with the assistance of Wild Bill and the poker, the cover of the box was wrenched off, and the contents were partially revealed. "Glory to God, Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper. "Here be yer breeches!" and he held up a pair of pantaloons made of the stoutest Scotch stuff. "Yis, here be yer breeches, fur here on the waistband be pinned a bit of paper, and on it be written, 'Fur Wild Bill.' And here be a vest to match; and here be a jacket; and here be two pairs of socks in the pocket of the jacket; and here be two woolen shirts, one packed away in each sleeve. And here!" shouted the old man, as he turned up the lapel of the coat, "Wild Bill, look here! Here be a five-dollar note!" and the old man swung one of the socks over his head, and shouted, "Hurrah for Wild Bill!" And the two hounds, catching the enthusiasm of their master, lifted their muzzles into the air, and bayed deep and long, till the cabin fairly shook with the joyful uproar of man and dogs. It is doubtful if any gift ever took the recipient more by surprise than this bestowed upon Wild Bill. It is true that, judged by the law of strict deserts, the poor fellow had not deserved much of the world, and certainly the world had not forgotten to be strictly just in his case, for it had not given him much. It is a question if he had ever received a gift before in all his life, certainly not one of any considerable value. His reception of this generous and thoughtful provision for his wants was characteristic both of his training and his nature. The Old Trapper, as he ended his cheering, flung the pantaloons, the vest, the jacket, the socks, the shirts, and the money into his lap. For a moment the poor fellow sat looking at the warm and costly garments that he held in his hands, silent in an astonishment too profound for speech, and then, recovering the use of his organs, he gasped forth:-- "I swear!" and then broke down, and sobbed like a child. The Trapper, kneeling beside the box, looked at the poor fellow with a face radiant with happiness, while his mouth was stretched with laughter, utterly unconscious that tears were brimming his own eyes. "Old Trapper," said Wild Bill, rising to his feet, and holding the garments forth in his hands, "this is the first present I ever received in my life. I have been kicked and cussed, sneered at and taunted, and I deserved it all. But no man ever gave me a lift, or showed he cared a cent whether I starved or froze, lived or died. You know, John Norton, what a fool I've been, and what has ruined me, and that when sober I'm more of a man than many who hoot me. And here I swear, old man, that while a button is on this jacket, or two threads of these breeches hold together, I'll never touch a drop of liquor, sick or well, living or dying, so help me God! and there's my hand on it." "Amen!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he sprang to his feet, and clasped in his own strong palm the hand that the other had stretched out to him. "The Lord in His marcy be nigh ye when tempted, Bill, and keep ye true to yer pledge!" Of all the pleasant sights that the angels of God, looking from their high homes, saw on earth that Christmas Eve, perhaps not one was dearer in their eyes than the spectacle here described,--the two sturdy men standing with their hands clasped in solemn pledge of the reformation of the one, and the helping sympathy of the other, above that Christmas box in the cabin in the woods. It is not necessary to follow in detail the Trapper's further examination of the box. The reader's imagination, assisted by many a happy reminiscence, will enable him to realize the scene. There was a small keg of powder, a large plug of lead, a little chest of tea, a bag of sugar, and also one of coffee. There were nails, matches, thread, buttons, a woolen under-jacket, a pair of mittens, and a cap of choicest fur, made of an otter's skin that Henry himself had trapped a year before. All these and other packages were taken out one by one, carefully examined, and characteristically commented on by the Trapper, and passed to Wild Bill, who in turn inspected and commented on them, and then laid them carefully on the table. Beneath these packages was a thin board, constituting a sort of division between its upper and lower half. "There seems to be a sort of cellar to this box," said the Trapper, as he sat looking at the division. "I shouldn't be surprised ef the boy himself was in here somewhere, so be ready, Bill, fur anything, fur the Lord only knows what's underneath this board." Saying which, the old man thrust his hand under one end of the division, and pulled out a bundle loosely tied with a string, which became unfastened as the Trapper lifted the roll from its place in the box, and, as he shook it open, and held its contents at arm's length up to the light, the startled eyes of Wild Bill, and the earnest gaze of the Trapper, beheld a woman's dress! "Heavens and 'arth, Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, "what's this?" And then a flash of light crossed his face, in the illumination of which the look of wonder vanished, and, dropping upon his knees, he flung the dividing board out of the box, and his companion and himself saw at a glance what was underneath. Children's shoes, and dresses of warmest stuffs; tippets and mittens; a full suit for a little boy, boots and all; a jackknife and whistle; two dolls dressed in brave finery, with flaxen hair and blue eyes; a little hatchet; a huge ball of yarn, and a hundred and one things needed in the household; and underneath all a Bible; and under that a silver star on a blue field, and pinned to the silk a scrap of paper, on which was written,-- "Hang this over the picture of the lad." "Ay, ay," said the Trapper in a tremulous voice, as he looked at the silver star, "it shall be done as ye say, boy; but the lad has got beyend the clouds, and is walkin' a trail that is lighted from eend to eend by a light clearer and brighter than ever come from the shinin' of any star. I hope we may be found worthy to walk it with him, boy, when we, too, have come to the edge of the Great Clearin'." To the Trapper it was perfectly evident for whom the contents of the box were intended; but the sender had left nothing in doubt, for, when the old man had lifted from the floor the board that he had flung out, he discovered some writing traced with heavy penciling on the wood, and which without much effort he spelled out to Wild Bill,-- "Give these on Christmas Day to the woman at the dismal hut, and a merry Christmas to you all." "Ay, ay," said the Trapper, "it shall be did, barrin' accident, as ye say; and a merry Christmas it'll make fur us all. Lord-a-massy! what _will_ the poor woman say when she and her leetle uns git these warm garments on? There be no trouble about fillin' the basket now; no, I sartinly can't git half of the stuff in. Wild Bill, I guess ye'll have to do some more sleddin' to-morrow, fur these presents must go over the mountain in the mornin', ef we have to harness up the pups." And then he told his companion of the poor woman and the children, and his intended visit to them on the morrow. "I fear," he said, "that they be havin' a hard time of it, 'specially ef her husband has desarted her." "Little good he would do her, if he was with her," answered Wild Bill, "for he's a lazy knave when he is sober, and a thief as well, as you and I know, John Norton; for he's fingered our traps more than once, and swapped the skins for liquor at the Dutchman's; but he's thieved once too many times, for the folks in the settlement has ketched him in the act, and they put him in the jail for six months, as I heard day before yesterday." "I'm glad on't; yis, I'm glad on't," answered the Trapper; "and I hope they'll keep him there till they've larnt him how to work. I've had my eye on the knave for a good while, and the last time I seed him I told him ef he fingered any more of my traps, I'd larn him the commandments in a way he wouldn't forgit; and, as I had him in hand, and felt a leetle like talkin' that mornin', I gin him a piece of my mind, techin' his treatment of his wife and leetle uns, that he didn't relish, I fancy, fur he winced and squirmed like a fox in a trap. Yis, I'm glad they've got the knave, and I hope they'll keep him till he's answered fur his misdoin'; but I'm sartinly afeered the poor woman be havin' a hard time of it." "I fear so, too," answered Wild Bill; "and if I can do anything to help you in your plans, jest say the word, and I'm your man to back or haul, jest as you want me." And so it was arranged that they should go over the mountain together on the morrow, and take the provisions and the gifts that were in the box to the poor woman. And, after talking awhile of the happiness their visit would give, the two men, happy in their thoughts, and with their hearts full of that peace which passeth the understanding of the selfish, laid themselves down to sleep; and over the two,--the one drawing to the close of an honorable and well-spent life, the other standing at the middle of a hitherto useless existence, but facing the future with a noble resolution,--over the two, as they slept, the angels of Christmas kept their watch. II. On the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut; and the stars of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which it stood, and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered lake which lay in front of it, as brightly as they had shone on the cabin of the Trapper; but no friendly step had made its trail in the surrounding snow, and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary door. [Illustration: "On the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut."] As the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. Once, indeed, a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and, running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of a yelp, and scuttled back under the shadow of the forest, as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. An owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. And once a raven, roosting on the dry bough of a lightning-blasted pine, dreamed that the white moonlight was the light of dawn, and began to stir his sable wings, and croak a harsh welcome; but awakened by his blunder, and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off in the very midst of his discordant call, and again settled gloomily down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before. It seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods, and had left it to the cold hospitality of unsympathetic nature. Within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of Heaven itself, sat a woman huddling her young--two girls and a boy. The fireplace was of monstrous proportions, and the chimney yawned upward so widely that one looking up the sooty passage might see the stars shining overhead. A little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess: scant warmth might such a fire yield, kindled in such a fireplace, to those around it. Indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability, and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker, as if it were discouraged in view of the task set before it, and had more than half concluded to go out altogether. The cabin was of large size, and undivided into apartments. The little fire was only able to illuminate the central section, and more than half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. The woman's face, which the faint flame over which she was crouched revealed with painful clearness, showed pale and haggard. The induration of exposure and the tightening lines of hunger sharpened and marred a countenance which a happier fortune would have kept even comely. It had that old look about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age, and the weariness of its expression was pitiful to see. Was it work or vain waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? Alas! the weariness of waiting for what we long for, and long for purely, but which never comes! Is it the work or the longing--the long longing--that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines? "Mother, I'm hungry," said the little boy, looking up into the woman's face. "Can't I have just a little more to eat?" "Be still," answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed inability. "I've given you almost the last morsel in the house." The boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's knee, and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes were half hidden in the ashes. O warmth! blessed warmth! how pleasant art thou to old and young alike! Thou art the emblem of life, as thy absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. Would that all the cold toes in the world could get to my grate to-night, and all the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside! Ay, and that the children of poverty, that lack for bread, might get their hungry hands into that well-filled cupboard there, too! In a moment the woman said, "You children had better go to bed. You'll be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace." The words were harshly spoken, as if the very presence of the children, cold and hungry as they were, was a vexation to her; and they moved off in obedience to her command. O cursed poverty! I know thee to be of Satan, for I myself have eaten at thy scant table, and slept in thy cold bed. And never yet have I seen thee bring one smile to human lips, or dry one tear as it fell from a human eye. But I have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting speech, and harden the tender heart. Ay, I've seen thee make even the presence of love a burden, and cause the mother to wish that the puny babe nursing her scant breast had never been born. And so the children went to their unsightly bed, and silence reigned in the hut. "Mother," said one of the girls, speaking out of the darkness,--"mother, isn't this Christmas Eve?" "Yes," answered the woman sharply. "Go to sleep." And again there was silence. Happy is childhood, that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants! Thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings, including the keen pangs of hunger, for a time, and under the tattered blankets that covered them saw, perhaps, visions of enchanting lands, and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry children see only in sleep, to the poor woman sitting at the failing fire there came no surcease of sorrow, and no vision threw even an evanescent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings. And the reality of her condition was dire enough, God knows. Alone in the wilderness, miles from any human habitation, the trails covered deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already upon them, and starvation staring them squarely in the face,--no wonder that her soul sank within her; no wonder that her thoughts turned toward bitterness. "Yes, it's Christmas Eve," she muttered, "and the rich will keep it gayly. God sends them presents enough; but you see if He remembers me! Oh, they may talk about the angels of Christmas Eve flying abroad to-night, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this shanty, I reckon; no, they won't even drop a piece of meat as they soar past." And so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and they were heavy enough,--too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted, to lift,--while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner, until it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. At last she said, in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of the Christmas legend had softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood:-- "Perhaps I'm wrong to take on so. Perhaps it isn't God's fault that I and my children are deserted and starving. But why should the innocent be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and to spare, while those who do no evil go half naked and starved?" Alas, poor woman! that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many lips besides thine have asked that question, querulously or entreatingly, many a time; but whether they asked it in vexation and rebellion of spirit, or humbly besought Heaven to answer, to neither murmur nor prayer did Heaven vouchsafe a response. Is it because we are so small, or, being small, are so inquisitive, that the Great Oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry? At this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold much longer, flared fitfully, and uneasily shifted itself from brand to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out; but the woman, with her elbows on her knees, and her face settled firmly between her hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they so steadily gazed. "I will do it, _I will do it!_" she suddenly exclaimed. "I will make one more effort. They shall not starve while I have strength to try. Perhaps God will aid me. They say He always does at the last pinch, and He certainly sees that I am there now. I wonder if He's been waiting for me to get just where I am before He helped me. There is one more chance left, and I'll make the trial. I'll go down to the shore where I saw the big tracks in the snow. It's a long way, but I shall get there somehow. If God is going to be good to me, He won't let me freeze or faint on the way. Yes, I'll creep into bed now, and try to get a little sleep, for I must be strong in the morning." And with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed, and burrowed down, more like an animal than a human being, beside her little ones, as they lay huddled close together and asleep, down in the rags. What angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch, and stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? Some sweet one, surely; for she shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture, and, gently drawing down the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little faces lying side by side, and, bending tenderly over them, she placed a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each; then she nestled down again in her own place, and said, "Perhaps God will help me." And with this sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from that sweet faith which never quite deserts a woman's bosom, and on the other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own eyes deserted of God, she fell asleep. She, too, dreamed; but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her waking thoughts; for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on her hard couch, and muttered, "Perhaps God will. Perhaps--" Sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips, and have borne the burden of its toil and fretting, that our vexations and disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs us of our otherwise peaceful repose. Perhaps somewhere in the years to come, after much wandering and weariness, guided of God, we may come to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed, and for which the noblest among them sought so long, and died seeking; plunging into which, we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths, and, rising refreshed and strengthened, shall go on our eternal journey re-clothed with the beauty, the innocence, and the happiness of our youth. The poor woman slept uneasily, and with much muttering to herself; but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night, and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen windows of the east, and peered shiveringly forth. Who says the earth cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? The sky hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel, whose invisibly matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white, gleaming stars. The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. The lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores. A bitter morn, a bitter morn,--ah me! a bitter morn for the poor! The woman, wakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain, that she might not wake the children, who, coiled together, slumbered on, still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness. "They had better sleep," she said to herself. "If I fail to bring them meat, I hope they will never wake!" Ah! if the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter disappointment, or that other something which the future was to bring her, would she have made that prayer? Is it best for us, as some say, that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked until the happy tones are mingled with, and smothered by, the rising moan? Is it best, I wonder? She noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened the door, and stepped forth into the outer cold. There was a look of brave determination in her eyes as she faced the chilly greeting the world gave her, and, with more of hopefulness than had before appeared upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore, which at this point receded toward the mountain. For an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. Suddenly she stopped, and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead. Well might she seek concealment, for there, standing on a point of land that jutted sharply out into the lake, not forty rods away, unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions as one even in years of hunting might not see. The woman's eyes fairly gleamed as she saw the noble animal standing thus in full sight; but who may tell the agony of fear and hope that filled her bosom! The buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. The thought of her mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. The buck would soon move; when he moved, which way would he move? Would he go from or come toward her? Would she get him, or would she lose him? Oh, the agony of that thought! "God of the starving," burst from her quivering lips, "let not my children die!" Many prayers more ornate rose that day to Him whose ears are open to all cries. But of all that prayed on that Christmas morn, whether with few words or many, surely, no heart rose with the seeking words more earnestly than that of the poor woman kneeling as she prayed, rifle in hand, amid the snow. "God of the starving, let not my children die!" That was her prayer; and, as if in answer to her agonizing petition, the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as he came. Once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air suspiciously. Had he scented her presence, and would he bound away? Should she fire now? No; her judgment told her she could not trust the gun or her aim at such a range. He must come nigher,--come even to the big maple, and stand there, not ten rods away; then she felt sure she should get him. So she waited. Oh, how the cold ate into her! How her teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her thin, shivering frame! But still she clutched the cold barrel, and still she watched and waited, and still she prayed:-- "God of the starving, let not my children die!" Alas, poor woman! My own body shivers as I think of thine, and my pen falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn. Did the buck turn? Did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace his steps? No. He continued to advance. Had Heaven heard her prayer? Her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward Him to whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she steadied herself for the shot. For even as she prayed, the deer came on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the smooth bark. There he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her, unconscious of her presence. Noiselessly she cocked the piece. Noiselessly she raised it to her face, and, with every nerve drawn to its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_. Had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its explosion? We know not. We only know that in spite of prayer, in spite of noblest effort, she missed the game. For, as the rifle cracked, the buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain; while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on the snow. III. At the same moment the rifle sounded, two men, the Trapper with his pack, and Wild Bill with his sled heavily loaded, were descending the western slope of the mountain, not a mile from the clearing in which stood the lonely cabin. The sound of the piece brought them to a halt as quickly as if the bullet had cut through the air in front of their faces. For several minutes both stood in the attitude of listening. "Down into the snow with ye, pups!" exclaimed the Trapper, in a hoarse whisper. "Down into the snow with ye, I say! Rover, ef ye lift yer muzzle agin, I'll warm yer back with the ramrod. By the Lord, Bill, the buck is comin' this way; ye can see his horns lift above the leetle balsams as he breaks through the thicket yender. Ef he strikes the runway, he'll sartinly come within range;" and the Old Trapper slipped his arms from the pack, and, lowering it to the earth, sank on his knees beside it, where he waited as motionless as if the breath had departed his body. Onward came the game. As the Trapper had suggested, the buck, with mighty and far-reaching bounds, cleared the shrubby obstructions, and, entering the runway, tore up the familiar path with the violence of a tornado. Onward he came, his head flung upward, his antlers laid well back, tongue lolling from his mouth, and his nostrils smoking with the hot breaths that burst in streaming columns from them. Not until his swift career had brought him exactly in front of his position did the old man stir a muscle. But then, quick as the motion of the leaping game, his rifle jumped to his cheek, and even as the buck was at the central point of his leap, and suspended in the air, the piece cracked sharp and clear, and the deer, stricken to his death, fell with a crash to the ground. The quivering hounds rose to their feet, and bayed long and deep; Wild Bill swung his hat and yelled; and for a moment the woods rang with the wild cries of dogs and man. [Illustration: THE OLD TRAPPER'S SHOT.] "Lord-a-massy, Bill, what a mouth ye have when ye open it!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he leisurely poured the powder into the still smoking barrel. "Atween ye and the pups, it's enough to drive a man crazy. I should sartinly think ye had never seed a deer shot afore, by the way ye be actin'." "I've seen a good many, as you know, John Norton; but I never saw one tumbled over by a single bullet when at the very top of his jump, as that one was. I surely thought you had waited too long, and I wouldn't have given a cent for your chances when you pulled. It was a wonderful shot, John Norton, and I would take just such another tramp as I have had, to see you do it again, old man." "It wasn't bad," returned the Trapper; "no, it sartinly wasn't bad, for he was goin' as ef the Old Harry was arter him. I shouldn't wonder ef he had felt the tech of lead down there in the holler, and the smart of his hurt kept him flyin'. Let's go and look him over, and see ef we can't find the markin's of the bullit on him." In a moment the two stood above the dead deer. "It is as I thought," said the Trapper, as he pointed with his ramrod to a stain of blood on one of the hams of the buck. "The bullit drove through his thigh here, but it didn't tech the bone, and was a sheer waste of lead, fur it only sot him goin' like an arrer. Bill, I sartinly doubt," continued the old man, as he measured the noble animal with his eye, "I sartinly doubt ef I ever seed a bigger deer. There's seven prongs on his horns, and I'd bet a horn of powder agin a chargerful that he'd weigh three hunderd pounds as he lies. Lord! what a Christmas gift he'll be fur the woman! The skin will make a blanket fit fur a queen to sleep under, and the meat, jediciously cared fur, will last her all winter. We must manage to git it to the edge of the clearin', anyhow, or the wolves might make free with our venison, Bill. Yer sled is a strong un, and it'll bear the loadin', ef ye go keerful." The Trapper and his companion set themselves to their task with the energy of men accustomed to surmount every obstacle, and in a short half-hour the sled, with its double loading, stopped at the door of the lonely cabin. "I don't understand this, Wild Bill," said the Trapper. "Here be a woman's tracks in the snow, and the door be left a leetle ajar, but there be no smoke in the chimney, and they sartinly ain't very noisy inside. I'll jest give a knock or two, and see ef they be stirrin';" and, suiting the action to the word, he knocked long and loud on the large door. But to his noisy summons there came no response, and without a moment of farther hesitation he shoved open the door, and entered. "God of marcy! Wild Bill," exclaimed the Trapper, "look in here." A huge room dimly lighted, holes in the roof, here and there a heap of snow on the floor, an immense fireplace with no fire in it, and a group of scared, wild-looking children huddled together in the farther corner, like young and timid animals that had fled in affright from the nest where they had slept, at some fearful intrusion. That is what the Trapper saw. "I"--Whatever Wild Bill was about to say, his astonishment, and, we may add, his pity, were too profound for him to complete his ejaculation. "Don't ye be afeerd, leetle uns," said the Trapper, as he advanced into the center of the room to survey more fully the wretched place. "This be Christmas morn, and me and Wild Bill and the pups have come over the mountain to wish ye all a merry Christmas. But where be yer mother?" queried the old man, as he looked kindly at the startled group. "We don't know where she is," answered the older of the two girls; "we thought she was in bed with us, till you woke us. We don't know where she has gone." "I have it, I have it, Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, whose eyes had been busy scanning the place while talking with the children. "The rifle be gone from the hangin's, and the tracks in the snow be hern. Yis, yis, I see it all. She went out in hope of gittin' the leetle uns here somethin' to eat, and that was her rifle we heerd, and her bullit made that hole in the ham of the buck. What a disapp'intment to the poor creetur when she seed she hadn't hit him! Her heart eena'most broke, I dare say. But the Lord was in it--leastwise, He didn't go agin the proper shapin' of things arterwards. Come, Bill, let's stir round lively, and git the shanty in shape a leetle, and some vict'als on the table afore she comes. Yis, git out your axe, and slash into that dead beech at the corner of the cabin, while I sorter clean up inside. A fire is the fust thing on sech a mornin' as this; so scurry round, Bill, and bring in the wood as ef ye was a good deal in 'arnest, and do ye cut to the measure of the fireplace, and don't waste yer time in shortenin' it, fur the longer the fireplace, the longer the wood; that is, ef ye want to make it a heater." His companion obeyed with alacrity; and by the time the Trapper had cleaned out the snow, and swept down the soot from the sides of the fireplace, and put things partially to rights, Bill had stacked the dry logs into the huge opening, nearly to the upper jamb, and, with the help of some large sheets of birch bark, kindled them to a flame. "Come here, leetle uns," said the Trapper, as he turned his good-natured face toward the children,--"come here, and put yer leetle feet on the h'arthstun, fur it's warmin', and I conceit yer toes be about freezin'." It was not in the power of children to withstand the attraction of such an invitation, extended with such a hearty voice and such benevolence of feature. The children came promptly forward, and stood in a row on the great stone, and warmed their little shivering bodies by the abundant flames. "Now, leetle folks," said the Trapper, "jest git yerselves well warmed, then git on what clothes ye've got, and we'll have some breakfast,--yis, we'll have breakfast ready by the time yer mother gits back, fur I know where she be gone, and she'll be hungry and cold when she gits in. I don't conceit that this leetle chap here can help much, but ye girls be big enough to help a good deal. So, when ye be warm, do ye put away the bed to the furderest corner, and shove out the table in front of the fire, and put on the dishes, sech as ye have, and be smart about it, too, fur yer mother will sartinly be comin' soon, and we must be ahead of her with the cookin'." What a change the next half-hour made in the appearance of the cabin! The huge fire sent its heat to the farthest corner of the great room. The miserable bed had been removed out of sight, and the table, drawn up in front of the fire, was set with the needed dishes. On the hearthstone a large platter of venison steak, broiled by the Trapper's skill, simmered in the heat. A mighty pile of cakes, brown to a turn, flanked one side, while a stack of potatoes baked in the ashes supported the other. The teapot sent forth its refreshing odor through the room. The children, with their faces washed and hair partially, at least, combed, ran about with bare feet on the warm floor, comfortable and happy. To them it was as a beautiful dream. The breakfast was ready, and the visitors sat waiting for the coming of her to whose assistance the angel of Christmas Eve had sent them. "Sh!" whispered the Trapper, whose quick ear had caught the sound of a dragging step in the snow. "She's comin'!" Too weary and faint, too sick at heart and exhausted in body to observe the unaccustomed signs of human presence around her dwelling, the poor woman dragged herself to the door, and opened it. The gun she still held in her hand fell rattling to the floor, and, with eyes wildly opened, she gazed bewildered at the spectacle. The blazing fire, the set table, the food on the hearthstone, the smiling children, the two men! She passed her hands across her eyes as one waking from sleep. Was she dreaming? Was this cabin the miserable hut she had left at daybreak? Was that the same fireplace in front of whose cold and cheerless recess she had crouched the night before? And were those two strangers there men, or were they angels? Was what she saw real, or was it only a fevered vision born of her weakness? Her senses actually reeled to and fro, and she trembled for a moment on the verge of unconsciousness. Indeed, the shock was so overwhelming that in another instant she would have swooned and fallen to the floor had not the growing faintness been checked by the sound of a human voice. "A merry Christmas to ye, my good woman," said the Trapper. "A merry Christmas to ye and yourn!" The woman started as the hearty tones fell on her ear, and, steadying herself by the door, she said, speaking as one partially dazed:-- "Are you John Norton the Trapper, or are you an ang--" "Ye needn't sight agin," interrupted the old man. "Yis, I'm old John Norton himself, nothin' better and nothin' wuss; and the man in the chair here by my side is Wild Bill, and ye couldn't make an angel out of him, ef ye tried from now till next Christmas. Yis, my good woman, I'm John Norton, and this is Wild Bill, and we've come over the mountain to wish ye a merry Christmas, ye and yer leetle uns, and help ye keep the day; and, ye see, we've been stirrin' a leetle in yer absence, and breakfast be waitin'. Wild Bill and me will jest go out and cut a leetle more wood, while ye warm and wash yerself; and when ye be ready to eat, ye may call us, and we'll see which can git into the house fust." So saying the Trapper, followed by his companion, passed out of the door, while the poor woman, without a word, moved toward the fire, and, casting one look at her children, at the table, at the food on the hearthstone, dropped on her knees by a chair, and buried her face in her hands. "I say," said Wild Bill to the Trapper, as he crept softly away from the door, to which he had returned to shut it more closely, "I say, John Norton, the woman is on her knees by a chair." "Very likely, very likely," returned the old man reverently; and then he began to chop vigorously at a huge log, with his back toward his comrade. Perhaps some of you who read this tale will come sometime, when weary and heart-sick, to something drearier than an empty house, some bleak, cold day, some lonely morn, and with a starving heart and benumbed soul,--ay, and empty-handed, too,--enter in only to find it swept and garnished, and what you most needed and longed for waiting for you. Then will you, too, drop upon your knees, and cover your face with your hands, ashamed that you had murmured against the hardness of your lot, or forgotten the goodness of Him who suffered you to be tried only that you might more fully appreciate the triumph. "My good woman," said the Trapper, when the breakfast was eaten, "we've come, as we said, to spend the day with ye; and accordin' to custom--and a pleasant un it be fur sartin--we've brought ye some presents. A good many of them come from him who called on ye as he and me passed through the lake last fall. I dare say ye remember him, and he sartinly has remembered ye. Fur last evenin', when I was makin' up a leetle pack to bring ye myself,--fur I conceited I had better come over and spend the day with ye,--Wild Bill came to my door with a box on his sled that the boy had sent in from his home in the city; and in the box he had put a great many presents fur him and me; and in the lower half of the box he had put a good many presents fur ye and yer leetle uns, and we've brought them all over with us. Some of the things be fur eatin' and some of them be fur wearin'; and that there may be no misunderstandin', I would say that all the things that be in the pack-basket there, and all the things that be on the sled, too, belong to ye. And as I see the wood-pile isn't a very big un fur this time of the year, Bill and me be goin' out to settle our breakfast a leetle with the axes. And while we be gone, I conceit ye had better rummage the things over, and them that be good fur eatin' ye had better put in the cupboard, and them that be good fur wearin' ye had better put on yerself and yer leetle uns; and then we'll all be ready to make a fair start. Fur this be Christmas Day, and we be goin' to keep it as it orter be kept. Ef we've had sorrers, we'll forgit 'em; and we'll laugh, and eat, and be merry. Fur this be Christmas, my good woman! children, this be Christmas! Wild Bill, my boy, this be Christmas; and, pups, this be Christmas! And we'll all laugh, and eat, and be merry." The joyfulness of the old man was contagious. His happiness flowed over as waters flow over the rim of a fountain. Wild Bill laughed as he seized his axe, the woman rose from the table smiling, the girls giggled, the little boy stamped, and the hounds, catching the spirit of their merry master, swung their tails round, and bayed in canine gladness; and amid the joyful uproar the Old Trapper spun himself out of the door, and chased Wild Bill through the snow like a boy. The dinner was to be served at two o'clock; and what a dinner it was, and what preparations preceded! The snow had been shoveled from around the cabin, the holes in the roof roughly but effectually thatched. A good pile of wood was stacked in front of the doorway. The spring that bubbled from the bank had been cleared of ice, and a protection constructed over it. The huge buck had been dressed, and hung high above the reach of wolves. Cedar and balsam branches had been placed in the corners and along the sides of the room. Great sprays of the tasseled pine and the feathery tamarack were suspended from the ceiling. The table had been enlarged, and extra seats extemporized. The long-unused oven had been cleaned out, and under its vast dome the red flames flashed and rolled upward. What a change a few hours had brought to that lonely cabin and its wretched inmates! The woman, dressed in her new garments, her hair smoothly combed, her face lighted with smiles, looked positively comely. The girls, happy in their fine clothes and marvelous toys, danced round the room, wild with delight; while the little boy strutted about the floor in his new boots, proudly showing them to each person for the hundredth time. The hostess's attention was equally divided between the temperature of the oven and the adornment of the table. A snow-white sheet, one of a dozen she had found in the box, was drafted peremptorily into service, and did duty as a tablecloth. Oh, the innocent and funny makeshifts of poverty, and the goodly distance it can make a little go! Perhaps some of us, as we stand in our rich dining rooms, and gaze with pride at the silver, the gold, the cut glass, and the transparent china, can recall a little kitchen in a homely house far away, where our good mothers once set their tables for their guests, and what a brave show the few extra dishes made when they brought them out on the rare festive days. However it might strike you, fair reader, to the poor woman and her guests there was nothing incongruous in a sheet serving as a tablecloth. Was it not white and clean and properly shaped, and would it not have been a tablecloth if it hadn't been a sheet? How very nice and particular some people can be over the trifling matter of a name! And this sheet had no right to be a sheet, since any one with half an eye could see at a glance that it was predestined from the first to be a tablecloth, for it sat as smoothly on the wooden surface as pious looks on a deacon's face, while the easy and nonchalant way it draped itself at the corners was perfectly jaunty. The edges of this square of white sheeting that had thus providentially found its true and predestined use were ornamented with the leaves of the wild myrtle, stitched on in the form of scallops. In the center, with a brave show of artistic skill, were the words, "Merry Christmas," prettily worked with the small brown cones of the pines. This, the joint product of Wild Bill's industry and the woman's taste, commanded the enthusiastic admiration of all; and even the little boy, from the height of a chair into which he had climbed, was profoundly affected by the show it made. The Trapper had charge of the meat department, and it is safe to say that no Delmonico could undertake to serve venison in greater variety than did he. To him it was a grand occasion, and--in a culinary sense--he rose grandly to meet it. What bosom is without its little vanities? and shall we laugh at the dear old man because he looked upon the opportunity before him with feeling other than pure benevolence,--even of complacency that what he was doing was being done as no one else could do it? There was venison roasted, and venison broiled, and venison fried; there was hashed venison, and venison spitted; there was a side-dish of venison sausage, strong with the odor of sage, and slightly dashed with wild thyme; and a huge kettle of soup, on whose rich creamy surface pieces of bread and here and there a slice of potato floated. "I tell ye, Bill," said the Trapper to his companion, as he stirred the soup with a long ladle, "this pot isn't act'ally runnin' over with taters, but ye can see a bit occasionally ef ye look sharp and keep the ladle goin' round pretty lively. No, the taters ain't over plenty," continued the old man, peering into the pot, and sinking his voice to a whisper, "but there wasn't but fifteen in the bag, and the woman took twelve of 'em fur her kittle, and ye can't make three taters look act'ally crowded in two gallons of soup, can ye, Bill?" And the old man punched that personage in the ribs with the thumb of the hand that was free from service, while he kept the ladle going with the other. "Lord!" exclaimed the Trapper, speaking to Bill, who, having taken a look into the old man's kettle, was digging his knuckles into his eyes to free them from the spray that was jetted into them from the fountains of mirth within that were now in full play,--"Lord! ef there isn't another piece of tater gone all to pieces! Bill, ef I make another circle with this ladle, there won't be a whole slice left, and ye'll swear there wasn't a tater in the soup." And the two men, with their faces within twenty inches, laughed and laughed like boys. How sweet it is to think that when the Maker set up this strange instrument we call ourselves, and strung it for service, He selected of the heavy chords so few, and of the lighter ones so many! Some muffled ones there are; some slow and solemn sounds swell sadly forth at intervals, but blessed be God that we are so easily tickled, and the world is so funny that within it, even when exiled from home and friends, we find, as the days come and go, the causes and occasions of hilarity! Wild Bill had been placed in charge of the liquids. What a satire there is in circumstances, and how those of to-day laugh at those of yesterday! Yes, Wild Bill had charge of the liquids,--no mean charge, when the occasion is considered. Nor was the position without its embarrassments, as few honorable positions are, for it brought him face to face with the problem of the day--dishes; for, between the two cooks of the occasion, every dish in the cabin had been brought into requisition, and poor Bill was left in the predicament of having to make tea and coffee with no pots to make them in. But Bill was not lacking in wit, if he was in pots, and he solved the conundrum how to make tea without a teapot in a manner that extorted the woman's laughter, and commanded the Old Trapper's admiration. In ransacking the lofts above the apartment, he had lighted on several large stone jugs, which, with the courage--shall we call it the audacity?--of genius, he had seized upon; and, having thoroughly rinsed them, and freed them from certain odors,--with which we are free to say Bill was more or less familiar,--he brought them forward as substitutes for kettle and pot. Indeed, they worked admirably, for in them the berry and the leaves might not only be properly steeped, but the flavor could be retained beyond what it might in many of our famous and high-sounding patented articles. But Bill, while ingenious and courageous to the last degree, was lacking in education, especially in scientific directions. He had never been made acquainted with that great promoter of modern civilization--the expansive properties of steam. The corks he had whittled out for his bravely extemporized tea and coffee pots were of the closest fit; and, as they had been inserted with the energy of a man who, having conquered a serious difficulty, is determined to reap the full benefit of his triumph, there was at least no danger that the flavor of the concoctions would escape through any leakage at the muzzle. Having thus prepared them for steeping, he placed the jugs in his corner of the fireplace, and pushed them well up through the ashes to the live coals. "Wild Bill," said the Trapper, who wished to give his companion the needed warning in as delicate and easy a manner as possible, "Wild Bill, ye have sartinly got the right idee techin' the makin' of tea and coffee, fur the yarb should be steeped, and the berry, too,--leastwise, arter it's biled up once or twice,--and therefore it be only reasonable that the nozzles should be closed moderately tight; but a man wants considerable experience in the business, or he's likely to overdo it jest a leetle, and ef ye don't cut some slots in them wooden corks ye've driven into them nozzles, Bill, there'll be a good deal of tea and coffee floatin' round in yer corner of the fireplace afore many minits, and I conceit there'll be a man about yer size lookin' fur a couple of corks and pieces of jugs out there in the clearin', too." "Do you think so?" answered Bill, incredulously. "Don't you be scared, old man, but keep on stirring your soup and turning the meat, and I'll keep my eye on the bottles." "That's right, Bill," returned the Trapper; "ye keep yer eye right on 'em, specially on that un that's furderest in toward the butt of the beech log there; fur ef there's any vartue in signs, that jug be gittin' oneasy. Yis," continued the old man, after a minute's pause, during which his eye hadn't left the jug, "yis, that jug will want more room afore many minits, ef I'm any jedge, and I conceit I had better give it the biggest part of the fireplace;" and the Trapper hastily moved the soup and his half-dozen plates of cooked meats to the other end of the hearthstone, whither he retired himself, like one who, feeling that he is called upon to contend with unknown forces, wisely beats a retreat. He even put himself behind a stack of wood that lay piled up in his corner, like one who does not despise, in a sudden emergency, an artificial protection. "Bill," called the Trapper, "edge round a leetle,--edge round, and git in closer to the jamb. It's sheer foolishness standin' where ye be, fur the water will be wallopin' in a minit, and ef the corks be swelled in the nozzle, there'll be an explosion. Git in toward the jamb, and watch the ambushment under kiver." "Old man," answered Bill, as he turned his back carelessly toward the fireplace, "I've got the bearin's of this trail, and know what I'm about. The jugs are as strong as iron kittles, and I ain't afraid of their bust--" Bill never finished the sentence, for the explosion predicted by the Trapper occurred. It was a tremendous one, and the huge fireplace was filled with flying brands, ashes, and clouds of steam. The Trapper ducked his head, the woman screamed, and the hounds rushed howling to the farthest end of the room; while Bill, with half a somersault, disappeared under the table. "Hurrah!" shouted the Trapper, lifting his head from behind the wood, and critically surveying the scene. "Hurrah, Bill!" he shouted, as he swung the ladle over his head. "Come out from under the table, and man yer battery agin. Yer old mortars was loaded to the muzzle, and ef ye had depressed the pieces a leetle, ye'd 'a' blowed the cabin to splinters; as it was, the chimney got the biggest part of the chargin', and ye'll find yer rammers on the other side of the mountain." It was, in truth, a scene of uproarious hilarity; for once the explosion was over, and the woman and children saw there was no danger, and apprehended the character of the performance, they joined unrestrainedly in the Trapper's laughter, in which they were assisted by Wild Bill, as if he were not the victim of his own over-confidence. "I say, Old Trapper," he called from under the table, "did both guns go off? I was getting under cover when the battery opened, and didn't notice whether the firing was in sections or along the whole line. If there's a piece left, I think I will stay where I am; for I am in a good position to observe the range, and watch the effect of the shot. I say, hadn't you better get behind the wood-pile again?" "No, no," interrupted the Trapper; "the whole battery went at the word, Bill, and there isn't a gun or a gun-carriage left in the casement. Ye've wasted a gill of the yarb, and a quarter of a pound of the berry; and ye must hurry up with another outfit of bottles, or we'll have nothin' but water to drink at the dinner." The dinner! That great event of the day, the crown and diadem to its royalty, and which became it so well, was ready promptly to the hour. The table, enlarged as it was to nearly double its original dimensions, could scarcely accommodate the abundance of the feast. Ah, if some sweet power would only enlarge our hearts when, on festive days, we enlarge our tables, how many of the world's poor, that now go hungry while we feast, would then be fed! At one end of the table sat the Trapper, Wild Bill at the other. The woman's chair was at the center of one of the sides, so that she sat facing the fire, whose generous flames might well symbolize the abundance which amid cold and hunger had so suddenly come to her. On her right hand the two girls sat; on her left, the boy. A goodly table, a goodly fire, and a goodly company,--what more could the Angel of Christmas ask to see? Thus were they seated, ready to begin the repast; but the plates remained untouched, and the happy noises which had to that moment filled the cabin ceased; for the Angel of Silence, with noiseless step, had suddenly entered the room. There's a silence of grief, there's a silence of hatred, there's a silence of dread; of these, men may speak, and these they can describe. But the silence of our happiness, who can describe that? When the heart is full, when the long longing is suddenly met, when love gives to love abundantly, when the soul lacketh nothing and is content,--then language is useless, and the Angel of Silence becomes our only adequate interpreter. A humble table, surely, and humble folk around it; but not in the houses of the rich or the palaces of kings does gratitude find her only home, but in more lowly abodes and with lowly folk--ay, and often at the scant table, too,--she sitteth a perpetual guest. Was it memory? Did the Trapper at that brief moment visit his absent friend? Did Wild Bill recall his wayward past? Were the thoughts of the woman busy with sweet scenes of earlier days? And did memory, by thus reminding them of the absent and the past, of the sweet things that had been and were, stir within their hearts thoughts of Him from whom all gifts descend, and of His blessed Son, in whose honor the day was named? O Memory! thou tuneful bell that ringeth on forever, friend at our feasts, and friend, too, let us call thee, at our burial, what music can equal thine? For in thy mystic globe all tunes abide,--the birthday note for kings, the marriage peal, the funeral knell, the gleeful jingle of merry mirth, and those sweet chimes that float our thoughts, like fragrant ships upon a fragrant sea, toward heaven,--all are thine! Ring on, thou tuneful bell; ring on, while these glad ears may drink thy melody; and when thy chimes are heard by me no more, ring loud and clear above my grave that peal which echoes to the heavens, and tells the world of immortality, that they who come to mourn may check their tears and say, "_Why do we weep? He liveth still!_" "The Lord be praised fur His goodness!" said the Trapper, whose thoughts unconsciously broke into speech. "The Lord be praised fur His goodness, and make us grateful fur His past marcies, and the plenty that be here!" And looking down upon the viands spread before him he added, "The Lord be good to the boy, and make him as happy in his city home as be they who be wearin' and eatin' his gifts in the woods!" "Amen!" said the woman softly, and a grateful tear fell on her plate. "A--hem!" said Wild Bill; and then looking down upon his warm suit, he lifted his voice, and, bringing it out in a clear, strong tone, said, "_Amen! hit or miss!_" At many a table that day more formal grace was said, by priest and layman alike, and at many a table, by lips of old and young, response was given to the benediction; but we doubt if over all the earth a more honest grace was said or more honestly assented to than the Lord heard from the cabin in the woods. The feast and the merrymaking now began. The Old Trapper was in his best mood, and fairly bubbled over with humor. The wit of Wild Bill was naturally keen, and it flashed at its best as he ate. The children stuffed and laughed as only children on such an elastic occasion can. And as for the poor woman, it was impossible for her, in the midst of such a scene, to be otherwise than happy, and she joined modestly in the conversation, and laughed heartily at the witty sallies. But why should we strive to put on paper the wise, the funny, and the pleasant things that were said, the exclamations, the laughter, the story, the joke, the verbal thrust and parry of such an occasion? These, springing from the center of the circumstance, and flashed into being at the instant, cannot be preserved for after-rehearsal. Like the effervescence of champagne, they jet and are gone; their force passes away with the noise that accompanied its out-coming. Is it not enough to record that the dinner was a success, that the Trapper's meats were put upon the table in a manner worthy of his reputation, that the woman's efforts at pastry-making were generously applauded, and that Wild Bill's tea and coffee were pronounced by the hostess the best she had ever tasted? Perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed, as certainly none was ever more heartily eaten. The wonder and pride of the table was the pudding,--a creation of Indian meal, flour, suet, and raisins, re-enforced and assisted by innumerable spicy elements supposed to be too mysterious to be grasped by the masculine mind. In the production of this wonderful centerpiece,--for it had been unanimously voted the place of honor,--the poor woman had summoned all the latent resources of her skill, and in reference to it her pride and fear contended, while the anxiety with which she rose to serve it was only too plainly depicted on her countenance. What if it should prove a failure? What if she had made a miscalculation as to the amount of suet required,--a point upon which she had been somewhat confused? What if the raisins were not sufficiently distributed? What if it wasn't done through, and should turn out pasty? Great Heavens! The last thought was of so overwhelming a character that no feminine courage could encounter it. Who may describe the look with which she watched the Trapper as he tasted it, or the expression of relief which brightened her anxious face when he pronounced warmly in its favor? "It's a wonderful bit of cookin'," he said, addressing himself to Wild Bill, "and I sartinly doubt ef there be anythin' in the settlements to-day that can equal it. There be jest enough of the suet, and there be a plum for every mouthful; and it be solid enough to stay in the mouth ontil ye've had time to chew it, and git a taste of the corn,--and I wouldn't give a cent for a puddin' ef it gits away from yer teeth fast. Yis, it be a wonderful bit of cookin'," and, turning to the woman, he added, "ye may well be proud of it." What higher praise could be bestowed? And as it was re-echoed by all present, and plate after plate was passed for a second filling, the dinner came to an end with the greatest good feeling and hilarity. IV. "Now fur the sled!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he rose from the table. "It be a good many years since I've straddled one, but nothin' settles a dinner quicker, or suits the leetle folks better. I conceit the crust be thick enough to bear us up, and, ef it is, we can fetch a course from the upper edge of the clearin' fifty rods into the lake. Come, childun, git on yer mittens and yer tippets, and h'ist along to the big pine, and ye shall have some fun ye won't forgit ontil yer heads be whiter than mine." It is needless to record that the children hailed with delight the proposition of the Trapper, or that they were at the appointed spot long before the speaker and his companion reached it with the sled. "Wild Bill," said the Trapper, as they stood on the crest of the slope down which they were to glide, "the crust be smooth as glass, and the hill be a steep un. I sartinly doubt ef mortal man ever rode faster than this sled'll be goin' by the time it gits to where the bank pitches into the lake; and ef ye should git a leetle careless in yer steerin', Bill, and hit a stump, I conceit that nothin' but the help of the Lord or the rottenness of the stump would save ye from etarnity." Now, Wild Bill was blessed with a sanguine temperament. To him no obstacle seemed serious if bravely faced. Indeed, his natural confidence in himself bordered on recklessness, to which the drinking habits of his life had, perhaps, contributed. When the Trapper had finished speaking, Bill ran his eye carelessly down the steep hillside, smooth and shiny as polished steel, and said, "Oh, this isn't anything extry for a hill. I've steered a good many steeper ones, and in nights when the moon was at the half, and the sled overloaded at that. It don't make any difference how fast you go," he added, "if you only keep in the path, and don't hit anything." "That's it, that's it," replied the Trapper. "But the trouble here be to keep in the path, fur, in the fust place, there isn't any path, and the stumps be pretty thick, and I doubt ef ye can line a trail from here to the bank by the lake without one or more sudden twists in it, and a twist in the trail, goin' as fast as we'll be goin', has got to be taken jediciously, or somethin' will happen. I say, Bill, what p'int will ye steer fur?" Wild Bill, thus addressed, proceeded to give his opinion touching the proper direction of the flight they were to make. Indeed, he had been closely examining the ground while the Trapper was speaking, and therefore gave his opinion promptly and with confidence. "Ye have chosen the course with jedgment," said the old man approvingly, after he had studied the line his companion pointed out critically for a moment. "Yis, Bill, ye have a nateral eye for the business, and I sartinly have more confidence in ye than I had a minit ago, when ye was talkin' about a steeper hill than this; fur this hill drops mighty sudden in the pitches, and the crust be smooth as ice, and the sled'll go like a streak when it gits started. But the course ye've p'inted out be a good un, fur there be only one bad turn in it, and good steerin' orter put a sled round that. I say," continued the old man, turning toward his companion, and pointing out the crook in the course at the bottom of the second dip, "can ye swing around that big stump there without upsettin', when ye come to it?" "Swing around? Of course I can," retorted Wild Bill, positively. "There's plenty room to the left, and--" "Ay, ay; there be plenty of room, as ye say, ef ye don't take too much of it," interrupted the Trapper. "But--" "I tell you," broke in the other, "I'll turn my back to no man in steering a sled; and I can put this sled, and you on it, around that stump a hundred times, and never lift a runner." "Well, well," responded the Trapper, "have it yer own way. I dare say ye be good at steerin', and I sartinly know I'm good at ridin'; and I can ride as fast as ye can steer, ef ye hit every stump in the clearin'. Now, childun," continued the old man, turning to the little group, "we be goin' to try the course; and ef the crust holds up, and Wild Bill keeps clear of the stumps, and nothin' onusual happens, ye shall have all the slidin' ye want afore ye go in. Come, Bill, git yer sled p'inted right, and I'll be gittin' on, and we'll see ef ye can steer an old man round a stump as handily as ye say ye can." The directions of the Trapper were promptly obeyed, and in an instant the sled was in the right position, and the Trapper proceeded to seat himself with the carefulness of one who feels he is embarking on a somewhat uncertain venture, and has grave misgivings as to what will be the upshot of the undertaking. The sled was large and strongly built; and it added not a little to his comfort to feel that he could put entire confidence in the structure beneath them. "The sled'll hold," he said to himself, "ef the loadin' goes to the jedgment." The Trapper was no sooner seated than Wild Bill threw himself upon the sled, with one leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind. This was a method of steering that had come into vogue since the Trapper's boyhood, for in his day the steersman sat astride the sled, with his feet thrust forward, and steered by the pressure of either heel upon the snow. "Hold on, Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, whose eye this novel method of steering had not escaped. "Hold on, and hold up a minit. Heavens and 'arth! ye don't mean to steer this sled with one toe, do ye, and that, too, the length of a rifle-barrel astarn? Wheel round, and spread yer legs out as ye orter, and steer this sled in an honest fashion, or there'll be trouble aboard afore ye git to the bottom." "Sit round!" retorted Bill. "How could I see to steer if I was sitting right back of you? For you're nigh a foot taller then I be, and your shoulders are as broad as the sled." "Yer p'ints be well taken, fur sartin," replied the Trapper; "fur it be no more than reasonable that the man that steers should see where he be goin', and I am as anxious as ye be that ye should. Yis, I sartinly want ye to see where ye be goin' on this trip, anyhow, fur the crew be a fresh un, and the channel be a leetle crooked. But be ye sartin, Bill, that ye can fetch round that stump there as it orter be did, with nothin' but yer toe out behind? It may be the best way, as ye say, but it don't look like honest steerin' to a man of my years." "I have used both ways," answered Bill, "and I give you my word, old man, that this is the best one. You can get a big swing with your foot stretched out in this fashion, and the sled feels the least pressure of the toe. Yes, it's all right. John Norton, are you ready?" "Yis, yis, as ready as I ever shall be," answered the Trapper, in a voice in which doubt and resignation were equally mingled. "It may be as ye say," he continued; "but the rudder be too fur behind to suit me, and ef anything happens on this cruise, jest remember, Wild Bill, that my jedgment--" The sentence the Trapper was uttering was abruptly cut short at this point; for Bill had started the sled with a sudden push, and leaped to his seat behind the Trapper as it glided downward and away. In an instant the sled was under full headway, for the dip was a sharp one, and the crust smooth as ice. Scarce had it gone ten rods from the point where it started before it was in full flight, and was gliding downward with what would have been, to any but a man of the steadiest nerve, a frightful velocity. But the Trapper was of too cool and courageous temperament to be disturbed even by actual danger. Indeed, the swiftness of their downward career, as the sled with a buzz and a roar swept along over the resounding crust, stirred the old man's blood with a tingle of excitement; while the splendid manner with which Wild Bill was keeping it to the course settled upon filled him with admiration, and was fast making him a convert to the new method of steering. Downward they flashed. The Trapper's cap had been blown from his head; and as the old man sat bolt-upright on his sled, his feet bravely planted on the round, his face flushed, and his white hair streaming, he looked the very picture of hearty enjoyment. Above his head the face of Wild Bill looked actually sharpened by the pressure of the air on either cheek as it clove through it; but his lips were bravely set, and his eyes were fastened without winking on the big stump ahead, toward which they were rushing. It was at this point that Wild Bill vindicated his ability as a steersman, and at the same time barely escaped shipwreck. At the proper moment he swept his foot to the left, and the sled, in obedience to the pressure, swooped in that direction. But in his anxiety to give the stump a wide berth, Bill overdid the pressure that was needed a trifle; for in calculating the curve required he had failed to allow for the sidewise motion of the sled, and, instead of hitting one stump, it looked for an instant as if he would be precipitated among a dozen. "Heave her starn up, Wild Bill! up with her starn, I say," yelled the Trapper, "or there won't be a stump left in the clearin'." With a quickness and courage that would have done credit to any steersman,--for the speed at which they were going was terrific,--Bill swept his foot to the right, leaning his body well over at the same instant. The Trapper instinctively seconded his endeavors, and with hands that gripped either side of the sled he hung over that side which was upon the point of going into the air. For several rods the sled glided along on a single runner, and then, righting itself with a lurch, jumped the summit of the last dip, and raced away, like a swallow in full flight, toward the lake. Now, at the edge of the clearing that bounded the shore was a bank of considerable size. Shrubs and stunted bushes fringed the crest of it. These had been buried beneath the snow, and the crust had formed smoothly over them; and as it was upheld by no stronger support than such as the hidden shrubbery furnished, it was incapable of sustaining any considerable pressure. Certainly no sled was ever moving faster than was Wild Bill's when it came to this point; and certainly no sled ever stopped quicker, for the treacherous crust dropped suddenly under it, and the sled was left with nothing but the hind part of one of the runners sticking up in sight. But though the sled was suddenly checked in its career, the Trapper and Wild Bill continued their flight. The former slid from the sled without meeting any obstruction, and with the same velocity with which he had been moving. Indeed, so little was his position changed, that one might almost fancy that no accident had happened, and that the old man was gliding forward to the end of the course with an adequate structure under him. But with the latter it was far different; for, as the sled stopped, he was projected sharply upward into the air, and, after turning several somersaults, he actually landed in front of the Trapper, and glided along on the slippery surface ahead of him. And so the two men shot onward, one after the other, while the children cackled from the hill-top, and the woman swung her bonnet over her head, and laughed from her position in the doorway. "Bill," called the Trapper, when by dint of much effort they had managed to check their motion somewhat, "Bill, ef the cruise be about over, I conceit we'd better anchor hereabouts. But I shipped fur the voyage, and ye be capt'in, and as ye've finally got the right way to steer, I feel pretty safe techin' the futur'." It was not until they had come to a full stop, and looked around them, that they realized the distance they had come; for they had in truth slid nearly across the bay. "I've boated a good many times on these waters, and under sarcumstances that called fur 'arnest motion, but I sartinly never went across this bay as fast as I've did it to-day. How do ye feel, Bill, how do ye feel?" "A good deal shaken up," was the answer, "a good deal shaken up." "I conceit as much," answered the Trapper, "I conceit as much, fur ye left the sled with mighty leetle deliberation; and when I saw yer legs comin' through the air, I sartinly doubted ef the ice would hold ye. But ye steered with jedgment; yis, ye steered with jedgment, Bill; and I'd said it ef we'd gone to the bottom." The sun was already set when they returned to the cabin; for, selecting a safer course, they had given the children an hour's happy sliding. The woman had prepared some fresh tea and a lunch, which they ate with lessened appetites, but with humor that never flagged. When it was ended, the Old Trapper rose to depart, and with a dignity and tenderness peculiarly his own, thus spoke:-- "My good woman," he said, "the moon will soon be up, and the time has come fur me to be goin'. I've had a happy day with ye and the leetle uns; and the trail over the mountain will seem shorter, as the pups and me go home, thinkin' on't. Wild Bill will stay a few days, and put things a leetle more to rights, and git up a wood-pile that will keep ye from choppin' fur a good while. It's his own thought, and ye can thank him accordin'ly." Then, having kissed each of the children, and spoken a few words to Wild Bill, he took the woman's hand, and said:-- "The sorrers of life be many, but the Lord never forgits. I've lived until my head be whitenin', and I've noted that though He moves slowly, He fetches most things round about the time we need 'em; and the things that be late in comin', I conceit we shall git somewhere furder on. Ye didn't kill the big buck this mornin', but the meat ye needed hangs at yer door, nevertheless." And shaking the woman heartily by the hand, he whistled to the hounds, and passed out of the door. The inmates of the cabin stood and watched him, until, having climbed the slope of the clearing, he disappeared in the shadows of the forest; and then they closed the door. But more than once Wild Bill noted that as the woman stood wiping her dishes, she wiped her eyes as well; and more than once he heard her say softly to herself, "God bless the dear old man!" Ay, ay, poor woman, we join thee in thy prayer. God bless the dear old man! and not only him, but all who do the deeds he did. God bless them one and all! Over the crusted snow the Trapper held his course, until he came, with a happy heart, to his cabin. Soon a fire was burning on his own hearthstone, and the hounds were in their accustomed place. He drew the table in front, where the fire's fine light fell on his work, and, taking some green vines and branches from the basket, began to twine a wreath. One he twined, and then he began another; and often, as he twined the fadeless branches in, he paused, and long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall; and when the wreaths were twined, he hung them on the frames, and, standing in front of the dumb reminders of his absent ones, he said, "_I miss them so!_" Ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is passed, when the sweet Christmas chimes are rung for other ears than ours, when other hands set the green branches up, and other feet glide down the polished floor, may there be those still left behind to twine us wreaths, and say, "_We miss them so!_" And this is the way John Norton the Trapper kept his Christmas. [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT.] [Illustration: THE VAGABOND'S ROCK.] JOHN NORTON'S VAGABOND. I. A cabin. A cabin in the woods. Of it I have written before, and of it I write again. The same great fireplace piled high with logs fiercely ablaze. Again on either side of the fireplace are the hounds gazing meditatively into the fire. The same big table, and on it the same great book, leather-bound and worn by the hands of many generations. And at the strong table, bending over the sacred book, with one huge finger marking a sentence, the same whitened head, the same man, large of limb and large of feature--John Norton, the Trapper. "Yis, pups," said the Trapper, speaking to his dogs as one speaks to companions in council, "yis, pups, it must go in, for here it be writ in the Book--Rover, ye needn't have that detarmined look in yer eye--for here it be writ in the Book, I say, '_Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you._' "I know, old dog, that ye have seed me line the sights on the vagabonds, when ye and me have ketched 'em pilferin' the traps or tamperin' with the line, and I have trusted yer nose as often as my own eyes in trackin' the knaves when they'd got the start of us. And I will admit it, Rover, that the Lord gave ye a great gift in yer nose, so that ye be able to desarn the difference atween the scent of an honest trapper's moccasin and that of a vagabond. But that isn't to the p'int, Rover. The p'int is, Christmas be comin' and ye and me and Sport, yender, have sot it down that we're to have a dinner, and the question in council to-night is, Who shall we invite to our dinner? Here we have been arguin' the matter three nights atween us, pups, and we didn't git a foot ahead, and the reason that we didn't git a foot ahead was, because ye and me, Rover, naterally felt alike, for we have never consorted with vagabonds, and we couldn't bear the idee of invitin' 'em to this cabin and eatin' with 'em. So, ye and me agreed to-night we'd go to the Book and go by the Book, hit or miss. And the reason we should go to the Book and by the Book is, because, ef it wasn't for the Book, there wouldn't be any Christmas nor any Christmas dinner to invite anyone to, and so we went to the Book, and the Book says--I will read ye the words, Rover. And, Sport, though ye be a younger dog, and naterally of less jedgment, yit ye have yer gifts, and I have seed ye straighten out a trail that Rover and me couldn't ontangle. So do ye listen, both of ye, like honest dogs, while I read the words:-- "'_Give to him that lacketh and from him that hath not withhold not thine hand._' "There it be, Rover,--we are to give to the man that lacks, vagabond or no vagabond. Ef he lacks vict'als, we are to give him vict'als; ef he lacks garments, we are to give him garments; ef he lacks a Christmas dinner, Rover, we are to give him a Christmas dinner. But how are we to give him a Christmas dinner onless we give him an invite to it? For ye know yerself, Rover, that no vagabond would ever come to a cabin where ye and me be onless we axed him to. "But there's another sentence here somewhere in the Book that bears on the p'int we be considerin'. '_When thou makest a dinner_'--that be exactly our case, Rover,--'_or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just._' "Furdermore, Rover, there's another passage that the lad, when he was on the 'arth, used to say each night afore he went to sleep, whether in the cabin or on the boughs. Sport, ye must remember it, for ye was his own dog. I am not sartin where it be writ in the Book, but that doesn't matter, for we all know the words,--it be from the great prayer,--'_Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us_,' and the great prayer, as I conceit, is the only blazin' a man can trail by ef he hopes to fetch through to the Great Clearin' in peace. "Now these vagabonds, Rover,--I needn't name 'em to ye,--have trespassed agin us; ye and me know it, for we've ketched 'em in their devilment, and, what is more to the p'int, the Lord knows it, too, for He's had His eye on 'em, and there's one up in the north country that wouldn't git an invite to this dinner, Bible or no Bible. But, barrin' this knave, who is beyend the range of our trails, there is not a single vagabond that has trespassed agin us that we mustn't forgive. For this be Christmas time, pups, and Christmas be a time for forgivin' and forgittin' all the evil that's been done agin us." And here the old man paused and looked at the dogs and then gazed long and earnestly into the fire. To his face as he gazed came the look of satisfaction and a most placid peace. It was evident that if there had been a struggle between his natural feelings and his determination to celebrate the great Christmas festival in the true Christmas spirit the latter had won, and that the Christmas mood had at last entered into and possessed his soul. And after an interval he rose and carefully closing the great volume said:-- "And now, pups, as we've settled it atween us, and we all stand agreed in the matter, I'll git the bark and the coal, and we'll see how the decision of the council looks when it be put in writin'." And in a moment the Trapper was again seated at the table with a large piece of birch bark in front of him and a hound on either side. "I conceit, pups, that the letterin'," said the old man as he proceeded to sharpen the piece of charcoal he held in his hands, "should be of goodly size, for it may help some in readin', and I sartinly know it will help me in writin'." With this honest confession of his lack of practice in penmanship, he proceeded to write:-- "_Any man or animil that be in want of vict'als or garments is invited to come on Christmas day--which be next week Thursday--without furder axin', to John Norton's cabin, on Long Lake, to eat Christmas dinner. Vagabonds included in this invite._" [Illustration: "Vagabonds included in this invite."] "I can't say," said the Trapper, as he backed off a few paces and looked at the writing critically, "I can't say that the wordin' be exactly as the missioners would put it, and as for the spellin', I haven't any more confidence in it than a rifle that loads at the breech pin. The letterin' sartinly stands out well, for the coal is a good un, and I put as much weight on it as I thought it would bear, but there is sartinly a good deal of difference atween the ups and downs of the markin's, and the lines slope off to'ard the northwest as ef they had started out to blaze a trail through to St. Regis. That third line looks as ef it would finally come together ef ye'd gin it time enough to git round the circle, but the bark had a curve in it there, and the coal followed the grain of the bark, and I am not to blame for that. Rover, I more than half conceit by the look in yer eye that ye see the difference in the size of them letters yerself. But ef ye do ye be a wise dog to keep yer face steddy, for ef ye showed yer feelin's, old as ye be, I'd edicate ye with the help of a moccasin." And he looked at the old dog, whose face, as if he realized the peril of his position, bore an expression of supernatural gravity, with interrogative earnestness. "Never mind the shape and size of the letters or the curve of the lines," he added; "the charcoal markin' stands out strong, and any hungry man with a leaky cabin for his home can sartinly study out the words, and that's the chief p'int, as I understand it." With this comforting reflection the Trapper made his preparations to retire for the night. He placed the skins for the dogs in the accustomed spot, lifted another huge log into the monstrous fireplace, swept the great hearthstone, bolted the heavy door, and then stretched himself upon his bed. But before he slept he gazed long and earnestly at the writing on the bark, and murmured: "'Vagabonds included in this invite.' Yis, the Book be right, Christmas be a day for forgivin' and forgittin'. And even a vagabond, ef he needs vict'als or garments or a right sperit, shall be welcome to my cabin." And then he slept. In the vast and cheerless woods that night were some who were hungry and cold and wicked. What were Christmas and its cheer to them? What were gifts and giving, or who would spread for them a full table at which as guests of honor they might eat and be merry? And above the woods was a star leading men toward a manger, and a multitude of angels and an Eye that seeth forever the hungry and the cold and the wicked. On his bed slept the Trapper, with the look of the Christ on his face, and as he slept he murmured:-- "Yis, the Book be right: '_Let him who hath, give to them that hath not._'" And above the woods, above the wicked and the cold, above the sleeping Trapper, and above the blessed words on the bark on his wall, above the spot where the Christ had thus received a forest incarnation, a great multitude of the heavenly host broke forth and sang:-- "_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men._" [Illustration: "And above the woods was a star."] II. It was on the day before Christmas, and the sun was at its meridian. It was a day of brilliance and prophecy, and the prophecy which the Trapper read in the intense sky and vivid brightness of the sun's light told him of coming storm. "Yis," muttered the old man, as he stood just outside the doorway of his cabin and carefully studied the signs of forest and sky, "yis, this is a weather breeder for sartin. I smell it in the air. The light is onnaterally bright and the woods onnaterally still. Snow will be flyin' afore another sunrise, and the woods will roar like the great lakes in a gale. I am sorry that it's comin', for some will be kept from the dinner. It's sartinly strange that the orderin' of the Lord is as it is, for a leetle more hurryin' and a leetle more stayin' on His part of the things that happen on the 'arth would make mortals a good deal happier, as I conceit." Aye, aye, John Norton; a little more hurrying and a little more staying of things that happen on the earth would make mortals much happier. The great ship that is to-day a wreck would be sailing the sea, and the faces that stare ghastly white from its depths would be rosy with life's happy health. The flowers on her tomb would be twined in the bride's glossy hair, and the tower that now stands half builded would go on to its finishing. The dry fountain would still be in play and the leafless tree would stand green in its beauty and bloom. Who shall read us the riddle of the ordering in this world? Who shall read the riddle, O man of whitened head, O woman whose life is but a memory, who shall read us the Trapper's riddle, I say? "There comes Wild Bill," exclaimed the Trapper joyfully, "and one plate will have its eater for sartin." And the old man laughed at the recollection of his companion's appetite. "Lord-a-massy! that box on his sled is as big as the ark. I wonder ef he has got a drove of animils in it." Had the Trapper known the closeness of his guess as to the contents of the huge box he would have marveled at his guessing, for there certainly were animals in the box and of a sort that usually are noisy enough and sure, at the least provocation, to proclaim their name and nature. But every animal, whether wild or domesticated, has its habits, and many of the noisiest of mouths, when the mood is on them, can be as dumb as a sphinx, and as Wild Bill came shuffling up on his snowshoes, with a box of goodly size lashed to his sled, not a sound proceeded therefrom. It is needless to record that the greeting between the two men was most hearty. How delightful is the meeting of men of the woods! Manly are they in life and manly in their greeting. "What have ye in the box, Bill?" queried the Trapper good-naturedly. "It's big enough to hold a church bell, and a good part of the steeple beside." "It's a Christmas present for you, John Norton," replied Bill gleefully. "You don't think I would come to your cabin to-day and not bring a present, do you?" "Gift or no gift, yer welcome would be the same," answered the Trapper, "for yer heart and yer shootin' be both right, and ye will find the door of my cabin open at yer comin', whether ye come full handed or empty, sober or drunk, Wild Bill." "I haven't touched a drop for twelve months," responded the other. "The pledge I gave you above the Christmas box in your cabin here last Christmas eve I have kept, and shall keep to the end, John Norton." "I expected it of ye, yis, I sartinly expected it of ye, Bill, for ye came of good stock. Yer granther fit in the Revolution, and a man's word gits its value a good deal from his breedin', as I conceit," replied the Trapper. "But what have ye in the box,--bird, beast, or fish, Bill?" "The trail runs this way," answered Bill. "I chopped a whole winter four year ago for a man who never paid me a cent for my work at the end of it. Last week I concluded to go and collect the bill myself, but not a thing could I get out of the knave but what's in the box. So I told him I'd take them and call the account settled, for I had read the writing on the bark you had nailed up on Indian Carry, and I said: 'They will help out at the dinner.'" And Bill proceeded to start one of the boards with his hatchet. The Trapper, whose curiosity was now thoroughly excited, applied his eye to the opening, and as he did so there suddenly issued from the box the most unearthly noises, accompanied by such scratchings and clawings as could only have proceeded from animals of their nature under such extraordinary treatment as they had experienced. "Heavens and 'arth!" exclaimed the Trapper, "ye have pigs in that box, Bill!" "That's what I put in it," replied Bill, as he gave it another whack, "and that's what will come out of it if I can start the clinchings of these nails." And he bent himself with energy to his work. "Hold up! Hold up, Bill!" cried the Trapper. "This isn't a bit of business ye can do in a hurry ef ye expect to git any profit out of the transaction. I can see only one of the pigs, but the one I can see is not over-burdened with fat, and it's agin reason to expect that he will be long in gittin' out when he starts, or wait for ye to scratch him when he breaks cover." "Don't you be afraid of them pigs getting away from me, old man," rejoined Bill, as he pried away at the nails. "I don't expect that the one that starts will be as slow as a funeral when he makes his first jump, but he won't be the only pig I've caught by the leg when he was two feet above the earth." "Go slow, I say, go slow!" cried the Trapper, now thoroughly alarmed at the reckless precipitancy of his companion; "the pigs, as I can see, belong to a lively breed, and it is sheer foolishness to risk a whole winter's choppin'--" Not another word of warning did the Old Trapper utter, for suddenly the nails yielded, the board flew upward, and out of the box shot a pig. It is in the interest of accurate statement and everlasting proof of Wild Bill's alertness to affirm and record that the flying pig had taken only two jumps before his owner was atop of him, and both disappeared over the bank in a whirlwind of flying snow. Nor had the Trapper been less dexterous, for no sooner had the sandy colored streak shot through the hole made by the hatchet of the man who had sledded him forty miles that he might present him to the Trapper as a contribution to the Christmas dinner, than the old man dropped himself on to the box, thereby effectually barring the exit of the other porcine sprinter. "Get your gun, get your gun, Old Trapper!" yelled Bill from the whirlwind of snow. "Get your gun, I say, for this infernal pig is getting the best of me." "I can't do it, Bill," cried the Trapper; "I can't do it. I am doin' picket duty on the top of this box, with a big hole under me and another pig under the hole." At the same instant the pig and Wild Bill shot up the bank into full view. Bill had lost his grip on the leg, but had made good his hold on an ear, and had the Trapper been a betting man, it is doubtful if he would have placed money on either. Had he done so, the odds would have been slightly in favor of the pig. "Hold on to him, Bill!" cried the Trapper, laughing at the spectacle in front of him till the tears stood in his eyes. "Hold on to him, I say. Remember, ye have three months of choppin' in yer grip; the pig under me is gittin' lively, and the profits of the other three months be onsartin. O Lord!" ejaculated the old man, partially sobered at the prospect, "here comes the pups and the devil himself will now be to pay!" The anxiety and alarming prediction of the Trapper were in the next instant fully justified, for the two dogs, unaccustomed to the scent and cries of the animals, but thoroughly aroused at the noise and fury of the contest, came tearing down the slope through the snow at full speed. The pig saw them coming and headed for the southern angle of the cabin, with Bill streaming along at his side. In an instant he reappeared at the northern corner, with Bill still fastened to his ear and the hounds in full cry just one jump behind him. It is not an accurate statement to say that Wild Bill was running beside the pig, for his stride was so elongated that when one of his feet left the ground it was impossible to predict when or where it would strike the earth, or whether it would ever strike again. The two flying objects, as they came careering down the slope directly toward the Trapper, who was heroically holding himself above the aperture in the box with the porcine volcano in full play under him, presented the dreadful appearance of Biela's comet when, rent by some awful explosion, the one half was on the point of taking its eternal farewell of the other. "Lift the muzzle of yer piece, Wild Bill!" yelled the Trapper. "Lift the muzzle, I say, and allow three feet for windage, or ye'll make me the bull's-eye for yer pig!" The advice, or rather, let us say, the expostulation of the Trapper, was the best which, under the circumstances, could be given, but no directions, however correct, might prevent the dreadful catastrophe. The old man stuck heroically to his post, and the pig stuck with equal pertinacity to his course. He struck the box on which the Trapper sat with the force of a stone from a catapult, and dogs, men, and pigs disappeared in the snow. When the Trapper had wiped the snow from his eyes, the spectacle that he beheld was, to say the least, extraordinary. The head of one dog was in sight above the snow, and nigh the head he could make out the hind legs and tail of another. In an instant Wild Bill's cap came in sight, and from under it a series of sounds was coming as if he were talking earnestly to himself, while far down the trail leading to the river he caught the glimpse of two sandy-colored objects going at a speed to which matter can only attain when it has become permanently detached from this earth and superior to the laws of gravitation. For several minutes not a word was said. The catastrophe had been so overwhelming and the wreck of Bill's hopes so complete that it made speech on his part impossible. The Trapper, from a fine sense of feeling and regard for his companion, remained silent, and the dogs, uncertain as to what was expected of them, kept their places in the snow. At last the old man struggled to his feet and silently started toward the cabin. Wild Bill followed in equal silence, and the dogs as mutely brought up the rear. The depressed, not to say woe-begone, appearance of the singular procession certainly had in it, in the fullest measure, all the elements of humor. In this suggestive manner the column filed into the cabin. The dogs stole softly to their accustomed places, Wild Bill dropped into a chair, and the Trapper addressed himself mechanically to some domestic concerns. At last the silence became oppressive. Wild Bill turned in his chair, and, facing the Trapper, said:-- "It's too devilish bad!" "Ef ye was in council, ginerals or privits, ye'd carry every vote with ye on that statement, Bill," said the Trapper with deliberation. "Do you think there is any chance, old man?" queried Bill, earnestly. "Not on the 'arth, Bill," answered the Trapper. "Ye see," he continued, "the snow wasn't so deep on my side the trail and I had my eye on them pigs afore ye got yer head above the drift, and I noted the rate of their movin'. They was goin' mighty fast, Bill, mighty fast. Ye must take into account that they had the slope in their favor and sartin experiences behind. I've sighted on a good many things that was gifted in runnin' and flyin', and I never kept a bullit in the barrel when I wanted feather, fur, or meat, because of the swiftness of the motion, but ef I had ben standin' ten rods from that trail and loved the meat like a settler, I wouldn't have wasted powder or lead on them pigs, Bill." And the two men, looking into each other's faces, laughed like boys. "Where do you think they'll fetch up, John Norton?" queried Bill, at last. "They won't fetch up," replied the Trapper, wiping his eyes, "leastwise not this year. Henry has told me that it is twenty-four thousand miles around the 'arth, and it looked to me as ef them pigs had started out to sarcumnavigate it, and I conceit it'll be about a month afore they will come through this clearin' agin. I may be a little amiss in my calkerlatin', but a day more or less won't make any difference with you and me, nor with the pigs, either, Bill. They may be a trifle leaner when they pass the cabin next time, but their gait will be jest the same, as I conceit." And after a moment, he asked, sympathetically:-- "How far did ye sled them pigs, Bill?" "Forty mile," answered Bill, dejectedly. "It's a goodly distance, considerin' the natur' of the animils," replied the Trapper, "and ye must have been tempted to onload the sled more'n once, Bill." "I would have unloaded it," responded the other, "I would have unloaded the cussed things more than once, but I had nothing else to bring you, and I thought they'd look mighty fine standing up on the table with an apple in each mouth and their tails curled up, as I've seen them at the barbecues." "So they would, so they would, Bill; but ye never could have kept 'em on the table. No amount of cookin' would have ever taken the speed out of them pigs. Ef ye had nailed 'em to the table they'd have taken the table and cabin with 'em. It's better as it is, Bill; so cheer up and we'll git at the cookin'." * * * * * Cooking is more than an art; it is a gift. Genius, and genius alone, can prepare a feast fit for the feaster. Woe be to the wretch who sees nothing in preparing food for the mouth of man save manual labor. Such a knave should be basted on his own spit. An artist in eating can alone appreciate an artist in cooking. When food is well prepared it delights the eye, it intoxicates the nose, it pleases the tongue, it stimulates the appetite, and prolongs the healthy craving which it finally satisfies, even as the song of the mother charms the child which it gradually composes for slumber. The Old Trapper was a man of gifts and among his gifts was that of cooking. For sixty years he had been his own _chef_, with a continent for his larder, and to more than one gourmand of the great cities the tastiness and delicacy of his dishes had been a revelation--more than one epicure of the clubs had gone from his cabin not only with a full but a surprised stomach. It is easy to imagine the happiness that this host of the woods experienced in preparing the feast for the morrow. He entered upon his labors, whose culmination was to be the great event of the year, with the alacrity of one who had mentally discussed and decided every point in anticipation. There was no cause for haste, and hence there was no confusion. He could not foretell the number of his guests, but this did in no way disconcert him. He had already decided that no matter how many might come there should be enough. In Wild Bill he had an able and willing assistant, and all through the afternoon and well into the evening the two men pushed on the preparation for the great dinner. The large table, constructed of strong maple plank, was sanded and scoured until it shone almost snowy white. On it was placed a buck, roasted a la barbecue, the skin and head skillfully reconnected with the body and posed, muzzle lifted, antlers laid well back, head turned, ears alert, as he stood in the bush when the Trapper's bullet cut him down. At one end of the table a bear's cub was in the act of climbing a small tree, while at the other end a wild goose hung in mid-air, suspended by a fine wire from the ceiling, with neck extended, wings spread, legs streaming backward, as he looked when he drove downward toward open water to his last feeding. The great cabin was a bower of beauty and fragrance. The pungent odor of gummy boughs and of bark, under which still lurked the amber-colored sweat of heated days and sweltering nights, pervaded it. On one side of the cabin hung a huge piece of white cotton cloth, on which the Trapper, with a vast outlay of patience, had stitched small cones of the pine into the conventional phrase, "A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YE ALL." "It must have taken you a good many evenings to have done that job," said Wild Bill, pointing with the ladle he held in his hand toward the illuminated bit of sheeting. "It did, Bill, it did," replied the Trapper, "and a solemn and a lively time I had of it, for I hadn't but six big needles in the cabin and I broke five on 'em the fust night, for the cones was gummy and hard, and it takes a good, stiff needle to go through one ef the man who is punchin' it through hasn't any thimble and the ball of his thumb is bleedin'. Lord-a-massy, Bill, Rover knew the trouble I was havin' as well as I did, for arter I had broken the second needle and talked about it a moment, the old dog got oneasy and began to edge away, and by the time I had broken the fourth needle and got through washin' my thumb he had backed clean across the cabin and sat jammed up in the corner out there flatter than a shingle." "And what did he do when the fifth needle broke?" queried Bill, as he thrust his ladle into the pot. "Heavens and 'arth, Bill, why do ye ax sech foolish questions? Ye know it wasn't a minit arter that fifth needle broke, leavin' the bigger half stickin' under the nail of my forefinger, afore both of the pups was goin' out through the door there as ef the devil was arter 'em with a fryin' pan, and a chair a leetle behind him. But a man can't stand everything, ef he be a Christian man and workin' away to git a Christmas sign ready; can he, Bill?" It is in harmony with the facts of the case for me to record that Wild Bill never answered the Old Trapper's very proper interrogation, but sat down on the floor and thrust his legs up in the air and yelled, and after the spasm left him he got up slowly, sat down in a chair, and looked at the Trapper with wet eyes and mouth wide open. The Old Trapper evidently relished the mirthfulness of his companion, for his face was lighted with the amused expression of the humorist when he has told to an appreciative comrade an experience against himself. But in an instant his countenance dropped, and, looking at the huge kettle that stood half buried in the coals and warm ashes in front of the glowing logs and into which Bill had been so determinedly thrusting his ladle only a moment before, he exclaimed:-- "Bill, I have lost all confidence in yer cookin' abilities. Ye said that ye knew the natur' of corn meal and that ye could fill a puddin' bag jediciously, and though it isn't ten minits sence ye tied the string and the meal isn't half swollen yit, yer whole bag there is on the p'int of comin' out of the pot." At this alarming announcement Wild Bill jumped for the fireplace and in an instant he had placed the spade-shaped end of his ladle, whose handle was full three feet long, at the very center of the lid that was already lifted two inches from the rim of the kettle, and was putting a good deal of pressure upon it. Confident in his ability to resist any further upward tendency, and to escape the threatened catastrophe, he coolly replied:-- "It strikes me that you are a good deal excited over a little matter, old man. The meal has got through swelling--" "No, it hasn't, no, it hasn't," returned the Trapper. "Half the karnels haven't felt the warmin' of the hot water yit, and I can see that the old lid is liftin'." "No, it isn't lifting, either, John Norton," returned Wild Bill determinedly; "and it won't lift unless the shaft of this ladle snaps." "The ladle be a good un," returned the Trapper, now fully assured that no human power could avert the coming catastrophe, and keenly enjoying his companion's extremity and the humor of the situation. "The ladle be a good un, for I fashioned it from an old paddle of second growth ash, whose blade I had twisted in the rapids, and ye can put yer whole weight on it." "Old man," cried Bill, now thoroughly alarmed, "the lid is lifting." "Sartinly, sartinly," returned the Trapper. "It's lifted fully half an inch sence ye placed yer ladle to it, and it'll keep on liftin'. Rover knows what is comin' as well as I do, for the old dog, as ye see, begins to edge away, and Sport has started for the door already." "What shall I do, John Norton? What shall I do? The lid is lifting again." "Is yer ladle well placed, Bill? Have ye got it in the center of the lid?" returned the Trapper. "Dead in the center, old man," responded Bill, confidently, "dead in the center." "Put yer whole weight on it, then, and don't waste yer strength in talkin'. Ye know yer own strength, and I know the strength of Indian meal when hot water gits at it, and ef the ladle don't slip or the kettle-lid split it's about nip and tuck atween ye." "Old man," yelled Bill, as he put his whole weight on the ladle handle, "this lid has lifted again. Get a stick and come here and help me." "No, no, Bill," answered the Trapper, "the puddin' is of yer own mixin' and ye must attend to the job yerself. I stuck to yer box with a hole underneath me and a pig under the hole till somethin' happened and ye must stick to yer puddin'." "But I can't hold it down, John Norton," yelled poor Bill. "The lid has lifted again and the whole darned thing is coming out of the pot." "I conceit as much, I conceit as much," answered the Trapper. "There go the pups out of the door, Bill, and when the dogs quit the cabin it's time for the master to foller." And the old man started for the door. * * * * * The catastrophe! Who could describe it? Bill's strength was adequate, but no human power could save the pudding. Even as Bill put his strength on to the ladle, the wooden cover of the kettle split with a sharp concussion in the middle, the kettle was upset, and poor Bill, covered with ashes and pursued by a cloud of steam, shot out of the door and plunged into the snow. Oh, laughter, sweet laughter, laugh on and laugh ever! In the smile of the babe thou comest from heaven. In the girl's rosy dimples, in the boy's noisy glee, in the humor of strong men, and the wit of sweet women, thou art seen as a joy and a comfort to us humans. When fortune deserts and friends fall away, he who keeps thee keeps solace and health, hope and heart, in his bosom. When the head groweth white and the eye getteth dim, and the soul goeth out through the slow closing gates of the senses, be thou then in us and of us, thou sweet angel of heaven, that the smile of the babe in its first happy sleep may come back to our faces as we lie at the gates in our last and--perhaps--most peaceful slumber! The laughter and the labor of the day were ended. The work of preparation for the dinner on the morrow had extended well into the evening, and at its conclusion the two men, satisfied with the result of the pleasant task and healthily weary, retired to their cots. It is needless to say that the thoughts of each were happy and their feelings peaceful, and to such slumber comes quickly. Outside the world was white and still, with the stillness that precedes the coming of a winter storm. Through the voiceless darkness a few feathery prophecies of coming snow were settling lazily downward. The great stones in the fireplace were still white with heat, and the cabin was filled with the warm afterglow of burned logs and massive brands that ever and anon broke apart and flamed anew. Suddenly the Trapper lifted himself on his couch, and, looking over toward his companion, said:-- "Bill, didn't ye hear the bells ring?" Wild Bill lifted himself to his elbow, and in sheer astonishment stared at the Trapper, for he well knew there wasn't a bell within fifty miles. The old man noticed the astonishment of his companion and, realizing the incredibility of the supposition, said as if in explanation of the strangeness of his questioning:-- "This be the night on which memory takes the home trail, Bill, and the thoughts of the aged go backward." And, laying his head again on the pillow, he murmured: "I sartinly conceited I heerd the bells ringin'." And then he slept. Aye, aye, Old Trapper; we of whitening heads know the truth of thy saying and thy dreaming. Thou didst hear the bells ring. For often as we sleep on Christmas eve the ringing of bells comes to us. Marriage peal and funeral knell, chimes and tolling, clash of summons and measured stroke, dying noises from a dead past swelling and sinking, sinking and swelling, like falling and failing surf on a wreck-strewn beach. Ah, me! where be the ships, the proud, white-sailed ships, the rich-laden ships, whose broken timbers and splintered spars lie now dank, weed-grown, sand-covered, on that sorrowful shore, on that mournfully resounding shore of our past? [Illustration: "Where be the ships?"] But other bells, thank God, sound for us all, Old Trapper, on Christmas eve,--not the bells of the past, but the bells of the future. And they ring loud and clear, and they will ring forever, for they are swung by the angels of God. And they tell of a new life, a new chance, and a new opportunity for us all. * * * * * Morning dawned. The day verified the Trapper's prophecy, for it came with storm. The mountain back of the cabin roared as if aërial surf was breaking against it. The air was thick with snow that streamed, whirled, and eddied through it dry and light as feathers of down. "Never mind the storm, Bill," said the Trapper cheerily, as he pushed the door open in the gray dawn and looked out into the maze of whirling, rushing snowflakes. "A few may be hindered, and one or two fetch through a leetle late, but there'll be an 'arnest movement of teeth when the hour for eatin' comes and the plates be well filled." Dinner was called prompt to the hour, and again was the old man's prediction realized. The table lacked not guests, for nearly every chair was occupied. Twenty men had breasted the storm that they might be at that dinner, and some had traversed a thirty mile trail that they might honor the old man and share his generous cheer. It was a remarkable and, perhaps we may say, a motley company that the Trapper looked upon as he took his place, knife and fork in hand, at the head of the table, with a hound on either side of his great chair, to perform the duty of host and chief carver. "Friends," said the Trapper, standing erect in his place and looking cheerfully at the row of bearded and expectant faces on either hand in front of him, "friends, I axed ye to come and eat this Christmas dinner with me because I love the companionship of the woods and hated, on this day of human feastin' and gladness, to eat my food alone. I also conceited that some of ye felt as I did, and that the day would be happier ef we spent it together. I knew, furdermore, that some of ye were not born in the woods, but were newcomers, driven here as a canoe to a beach in a gale, and that the day might be long and lonesome to ye ef ye had to stay in yer cabins from mornin' till night alone by yerselves. And I also conceited that here and there might be a man who had been onfortunit in his trappin' or his venturs in the settlements, and might act'ally be in need of food and garments, or it may be he had acted wickedly at times, and had lost confidence in his own goodness and the goodness of others, and I said I will make the tarms of the invitin' broad enough to include each and all, whoever and whatever he may be. "And now, friends," continued the old man, "I be glad to see ye at my table, and I hope ye have brought a good appetite with ye, for the vic'tals be plenty and no one need scrimp the size of his eatin'. Let us all eat heartily and be merry, for this be Christmas. Ef we've had bad luck in the past we'll hope for better luck in the futur' and take heart. Ef we've been heavy-hearted or sorrowful we will chirk up. Ef any have wronged us we will forgive and forgit. For this be Christmas, friends, and Christmas be a day for forgivin' and forgittin.' And now, then," continued the old man, as he flourished his knife and grasped the huge fork preparatory to plunging it into the venison haunch in front of him, "with good appetites and a cheerful mind let us all fall to eatin'." III. Thus went the feasting. Hunger had brought its appetite to the plentiful table, and the well cooked viands provoked its indulgence. If the past of any of the Trapper's guests had been sorrowful, the unhappiness of it for the moment was forgotten. Stories crisp as snow-crust and edged with aptness, happy memories and reminiscences of frolic and fun, sly hits and keen retorts, jokes and laughter, rollicked around the table and shook it with mirthful explosions. The merriment was at its height when a loud summons sounded upon the door. It was so imperious as well as so unexpected that every noise was instantly hushed, and every face at the table was turned in surprise to wait the entrance. "Come in," cried the Trapper, cheerily; "whoever ye be, ye be welcome ef ye be a leetle late." The response of him who so emphatically sought admission to the feast was as prompt as his summons had been determined. For, without an instant's delay or the least hesitancy of movement, the great door was pushed suddenly inward and a man stepped into the room. A sturdy fellow he was, swarth of skin and full whiskered. His hair was black and coarse and grown to his shoulders. His eyes were black as night, largely orbed under heavy brows, not lacking a certain wicked splendor. His face was strongly featured and stamped in every line and curve and prominence with the impress of unmistakable power. In his right hand he carried a rifle, and in his left a bundle, snugly packed and protected from the storm in wrappings of oiled cloth. The strong light, into the circle of which he had so suddenly stepped, blinded him for a moment, while to those who sat staring at him it brought out with vivid distinctiveness every feature of his strong and, save for a certain hardness of expression, handsome face. It was evident that the man, whoever he was and whatever he might be, was under the pressure of some impulse or conviction which had urged him on to the Trapper's cabin and the Trapper's presence. For, no sooner had he closed the door and shaken the snow, with which he was covered, from his garments, than, regardless of those who sat staring in startled interrogation at him, he strode to the head of the table where the Old Trapper sat, and, looking him straight in the face, said:-- "Do you know who I am, John Norton?" "Sartinly," answered the Trapper, "ye be Shanty Jim, and ye have camped these three year and more at the outlet of Bog Lake." "Do you know that I am a thief, and a sneak thief at that?" continued the newcomer, speaking with a fierce directness that was startling. "I've conceited ye was," answered the Trapper, calmly. "Do you know it, know it to a certainty?" and the words came out of his mouth like the thrust of a knife. "Yis, I know that ye be a thief, Shanty Jim," replied the Trapper, "know it to a sartinty." "Do you know that I have stolen skins from you, old man, skins and traps both?" continued the other. "I laid in ambush for ye once at the falls of Bog River, and I seed ye take an otter from a trap that I sot," replied the Trapper. "Why didn't you shoot me when I stood skin in hand?" queried the self-confessed thief. "I can't tell ye," answered the Trapper, "fer my eye was at the sights and my finger on the trigger, and the feelin' of natur' was strong within me to crop one of yer ears then and there, Shanty Jim, but somethin', mayhap the sperit of the Lord, staid my finger, and ye went with yer thievin' in yer hand to yer camp ontetched and onhindered." "Do you know what brought me to this cabin and to your presence--the presence of the man whose skins and whose traps I have stolen--and made me confess to his face and before these men here that I am a thief and a scoundrel; do you know what brought me here, a miserable cuss that I am and have been for years, John Norton?" And the man's speech was the speech of one who had been educated to use words rightly and was marked with intense, even dramatic, earnestness. "I can't conceit, onless the sperit of the Lord." "The spirit of the Lord had nothing to do with it," interrupted the other fiercely. "If there is any such influence at work in this world as the preachers tell of, why has it not prevented me from being a thief? Why did it not prevent me from doing what I did and being what I was in my youth,--me, whose mother was an angel and whose father was a patriarch? No, it was nothing under God's heavens, old man, but your invitation scrawled with a coal on a bit of birch bark inviting anyone in these woods who needed victuals and clothes and a right spirit to come to your cabin on Christmas day; and had you written nothing else I would not have cared a cuss for it or for you, but you did write something else, and it was this: 'Vagabonds included in this invite.' "When I read that, old man, my breath left me and I stood and stared at the letters on that bark as a devil might gaze at a pardon signed with the seal manual of the Almighty, for in my hand was a trap that bore the stamp 'J. N.' and the skin of an otter I had taken from the trap. And there I stood, a thief and a scoundrel, with your property in my hands and read your invitation to all the needy in the woods to come to your cabin on Christmas day and that vagabonds were included." "That meant you, by thunder!" exclaimed Wild Bill. "Yes, it did mean me," returned Shanty Jim, "and I knew it. Standing there in the snow with the stolen skin and trap in my hand, I realized what I was and what John Norton was and the difference between him and myself and most of the world. I went to the tree to which the bark that bore the blessed letters was nailed; I took it down from the tree; I placed it next my bosom and buttoned my coat above it and, thus resting upon my heart, I bore it to my shanty." "It was as good as a Bible to you," said Wild Bill. "A Bible!" rejoined the man with emphasis. "Better than all Bibles. Better than churches and preachers, better than formal texts and utterances, for that bit of bark told me of a man here in the woods good enough and big enough to forgive and forget. All that night I sat and gazed at that piece of bark and the writing on it, and as I gazed my heart melted within me. For there it was ever before my eyes--'Vagabonds included in this invite.' 'Vagabonds included in this invite.' And finally the words passed into the air, and wherever I looked I saw, 'Vagabonds included in this invite.'" "Yis, them be the very words I writ," said the Trapper, gravely. "And I saw more than the words written on the bark, John Norton," resumed the man. "For looking at it I saw all my past life and the evil of it and what a scoundrel I had become; my eyes saw with a new sight, and I said, when the sun comes I will rise and go to the man who wrote those words and tell him what they did for me. And here I am, a vagabond who has accepted your invitation to spend Christmas with you, and here in this pack are the skins and the traps I have stolen from you, and I ask your forgiveness and that you will take my hand in proof of it, that I may come to your table feeling that I am a man, and a vagabond no longer." "Heart and hand be yours now and forever, Shanty Jim," cried the Trapper, joyfully; and, rising from his chair, he met the outstretched hand of the repentant vagabond with his own hearty grasp. "And may the Lord be with ye ever more." "Amen!" It was Wild Bill, the once drunkard, who said the sweet word of prayer and assent, and he said it softly. And that murmur of amen and amen went round the great table like the murmur of prayer and of praise. And then it passed out and rose up from the cabin, and the air in its joy passed it on, and the stars took it up and thrilled it around their vast courses of glorified light, and through the high heavens it sang itself onward from order to order of angels until it reached Him whom no man hath seen or may ever see, in all and over all, God! blessed forever! Has Nature knowledge? Is she conscious of the evil and the good among men, and has she a heart that saddens at their sorrow and rejoices in their joy? Perhaps. For, suddenly, even as the two men joined their hands, the fury of the storm checked itself, and a stillness--the stillness of a great calm--fell on the woods, and through the sudden, the unexpected, the blessed stillness, to the ears of one of the two men--yea, to him who had forgiven--there came the melody of bells swinging slowly and softly to and fro. Oh, bells, invisible bells! Bells of the soul, bells high in heaven, swing softly, swing low, swing sweet, and swing ever for us, one and all, when we at our tables sit feasting. Swing for us living, swing for us dying, and may the cause of your swinging be our forgiving and forgetting. "John Norton," said the man, "you have called me Shanty Jim, and that is well, for in the woods here that is my name, but in the city where I lived and whence I fled, fled because of my misdeeds, years ago, I have another name, a name of power and wealth and honor for more than two centuries. There I have a home, and in that home to-night sits my aged father and white-haired mother. I am going back to them clothed and in my right mind. Think of it, Old Trapper, going back to my home, my boyhood's home, to my father and my mother. All day as I tramped on the trail toward your cabin, my mind has been filled with memories of the past, and the words of a sweet old song I used to sing when too young to feel the tenderness of it, have been ringing in my ears." "Sing us the song, sing us the song!" cried Wild Bill, and every man at the table cried with him, "Sing us the song!" "Aye, aye," assented the Trapper, "sing us the song, Shanty Jim; we be men of the woods at this table, and some of us have had losses and sorrers, and all of us have memories of happy days that be gone. Stand here by my side and sing us the song that has been ringin' in yer ears all day. This is a table of feastin', and feastin' means more than eatin'. Sing us the song that tells ye of the past, of yer boyhood's days and father and mother." Oh, the secrets of the woods! How many have fled to them for concealment and refuge! In them piety has built its retreat, learning has sought retirement, broken pride a mask, and misfortune a haven. And in response to the Trapper's invitation there had come to his cabin and were now grouped about his table more of ability, more of knowledge, more of struggle and failure, and more of reminiscence than might be found, perhaps, in the same number of guests at any other table on that Christmas day in the world. Never did singer sing sweeter or more touching song, or to more receptive company. "Backward, turn backward, oh, Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night. Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart, as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair, Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. CHORUS:--"Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. "Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures, Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. CHORUS.-- "Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again, as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply, will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep." CHORUS.-- Never was the sweet and touching song sung under more suggestive circumstances, and never was it received into more receptive hearts. The voice of the repentant vagabond was of the finest quality, a pure, resonant tenor, and, through the splendid avenue of expression which the words and music of the song made for his emotions, he poured his soul forth without restraint. The effect of his effort was what would be expected when the character of the audience and the occasion is considered. Many an eye was wet with tears, and the voices that took up the refrain here and there trembled with emotion. The Old Trapper, himself, was not unmoved, for, as the song closed, after a few moments of silence, he said:-- "Ye sang the song well, Shanty Jim, and many be the memories it has stirred in the breasts of us all. May yer home-comin' be as happy as was the boy's we read of in the Scriptur', although I never could conceit why the mother was not there to go forth to meet him, and fall on his neck with the father, and ef I'd had the writin' of it I'd had the mother git to him a leetle fust, and hers the fust arms that was thrown round his neck, for that would be more nateral, as I conceit. And I sartinly trust, as do all of us here, that ye will find mother and father both waitin' and watchin' for ye when the curve of the trail brings ye in the sight of the cabin. And ye sartinly will take with ye the good wishes of us all. Come, take the chair here by my side, and we will all talk as we eat; aye, and sing, too, for this be Christmas, and Christmas be the time for eatin' and singin', but, above all else, for forgivin' and forgittin'." At the word the happy feasters went on with the feasting. * * * * * Long and merry was the meal. As the hours passed the eating ceased, and the feast of reason and the flow of soul began. Memories of other days were recalled, confessions made, sorrow for misdoings felt and spoken, and, gradually growing, as grows the light of dawn, a fine atmosphere of hope, charity, and courage spread from heart to heart, until at last it filled with its genial and illuminating presence every bosom. In such a mood on the part of the host and guests alike the feast came to its close. His Christmas dinner had been all that the Old Trapper had hoped, and his heart was filled with happiness. He rose from his chair, and, standing erect in his place, said:-- "Ye tell me that the time has come for ye to go, and I dare say ye be right, but I be sorry we must part, for in partin' we be never sure of a meetin', and, therefore, as I conceit, all the partin's on the 'arth be more or less sad, but all parted trails, it may be, will come together in the eend. But afore ye go I want to thank ye for comin', and I hope ye will all come agin, and whenever yer needs or yer feelin's incline ye this way. One thing I want to say to ye in goin', and I want ye to take it away with ye, for it may help some of ye to aid some onfortunit man and to feel as happy as I feel to-night. It is this"--and here the old man paused a moment and looked with the face of an angel at his guests as they stood gazing at him; then he impressively said:-- "I've lived nigh on to eighty year, and my head be whitenin' with the comin' and goin' of the years I have lived, and the Book has long been in my cabin. I have kept many a Christmas alone and in company, both, but never afore have I knowed the raal meanin' of the day nor read the lesson of it aright. And this be the lesson that I have larned and the one I want ye all to take away with ye as ye go--that Christmas is a day of feastin' and givin' and laughin', but, above everythin' else, it is the day for forgivin' and forgittin'. Some of ye be young and may yer days be long on the 'arth, and some of yer heads be as white as mine and yer years be not many, but be that as it may, whether our Christmas days be many or few, when the great day comes round let us remember in good or ill fortun', alone or with many, that Christmas, above all else, is the day for forgivin' and forgittin'." * * * * * The guests were gone and the Trapper seated himself in front of the fireplace, and called the two dogs to his side. It was a signal that they had heard many times and they responded with happy hearts. Each rested his muzzle on the Trapper's knee, and fixed his large hazel, love-lighted eyes wistfully on his master's face. The old man placed a large and age-wrinkled hand on either head, and murmured: "Whether ye be in sorrer or joy, friends come and go, but, ontil death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together. The lad camps beyend sight and beyend hearin'. Henry be on the other side of the world, to-night, and guests be gone. Rover, yer muzzle be as gray as my head, and few be livin' of the many we have met on the trail." And the Trapper lifted his eyes and looked around the large and empty room, and then added:-- "It took me a good many years, yis, it sartinly took me a good many years, but, if I've larned the lesson of Christmas a leetle late, I've larned it at last. But the cabin does look a leetle empty now that the guests be gone. No, the lad can never come back, and Henry is on the other side of the world, and there is no good in longin'. But I do wish I could jest tech the boy's hand." [Illustration: THE OLD TRAPPER AND HIS DOGS. "Friends come and go, but until death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together."] * * * * * Ah, friends, dear friends, as years go on and heads get gray--how fast the guests do go! Touch hands, touch hands with those that stay. Strong hands to weak, old hands to young, around the Christmas board, touch hands. The false forget, the foe forgive, for every guest will go and every fire burn low and cabin empty stand. Forget, forgive, for who may say that Christmas day may ever come to host or guest again. Touch hands. W. H. H.--ADIRONDACK--MURRAY'S COMPLETE WORKS CAREFULLY REVISED AND ENLARGED BY THE AUTHOR PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN UNIFORM EDITION ADIRONDACK TALES In all matters relating to his Writings or his Platform Engagements, address the author personally ADDRESS W. H. H. MURRAY GUILFORD, CONN. CARE THE MURRAY HOMESTEAD _Copyrighted by the Author. All rights reserved._ 1898 +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE. | | =================== | | | | The following illustrations, although shown in the List of | | Illustrations, appear not to have been included in the final | | printed version of the book: | | | | - How John Norton the Trapper Kept His Christmas, p. 11 | | - John Norton's Vagabond, p. 76 | | - The Old Trapper's Paddle, p. 85 | | - The Old Trapper's Rifle, p. 88 | | - An Old Time Gun, p. 89 | | - Christmas Holly, p. 93 | | - "And Finally the Words Passed into the Air," p. 105 | | - "Ye Cradle of Ye Olden Time," p. 108 | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ 
32465	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.com THE WHELPS OF THE WOLF By GEORGE MARSH [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Published by arrangement with The Penn Publishing Company Printed in U. S. A. COPYRIGHT 1922 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY [Illustration] The Whelps of the Wolf Made in the U. S. of A. Contents I. THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO 9 II. THE END OF THE TRAIL 16 III. THE FRIEND OF DEMONS 30 IV. HOME AND JULIE BRETON 38 V. THE MOON OF FLOWERS 44 VI. FOR LOVE OF A DOG 51 VII. THE LONG TRAIL TO THE SOUTH COAST 64 VIII. THE MEETING IN THE MARSHES 69 IX. IN THE TEETH OF THE WINDS 79 X. THE CAMP ON THE GHOST 88 XI. THE WARNING IN THE WIND 94 XII. THE WORK OF THE WHITE WOLVES 98 XIII. POOR FLEUR 103 XIV. THE MARK OF THE BREED 108 XV. FOR LOVE OF A MAN 111 XVI. THE STARVING MOON 119 XVII. THE TURN OF THE TIDE 131 XVIII. SPRING AND FLEUR 135 XIX. WHEN THE ICE GOES SOFT 145 XX. THE DEAD MAN TELLS HIS TALE 150 XXI. THE BLIND CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE 157 XXII. IN THE DEPTHS 170 XXIII. IN THE EYES OF THE CREES 175 XXIV. ON THE CLIFFS 181 XXV. INSPECTOR WALLACE TAKES CHARGE 188 XXVI. THE WHELPS OF THE WOLF 193 XXVII. THE TRAP IS SPRUNG 198 XXVIII. BITTER-SWEET 212 XXIX. THE FANGS OF THE HALF-BREEDS 216 XXX. CREE JUSTICE 224 XXXI. THE WAY OF A DOG 228 XXXII. FROM THE FAR FRONTIERS 234 XXXIII. RENUNCIATION 238 XXXIV. THE VOICE OF THE WINDIGO 243 XXXV. RAW WOUNDS 253 XXXVI. DREAMS 259 XXXVII. FOR LOVE OF A GIRL 264 XXXVIII. THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE 270 XXXIX. THE HATE OF THE LONG SNOWS 280 XL. "HE'S GOT HIS MAN!" 290 XLI. AS YE SOW 296 The Whelps of the Wolf CHAPTER I THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO The solitudes of the East Coast had shaken off the grip of the long snows. A thousand streams and rivers choked with snow water from bleak Ungava hills plunged and foamed and raced into the west, seeking the salt Hudson's Bay, the "Big Water" of the Crees. In the lakes the honeycombed ice was daily fading under the strengthening sun. Already, here and there the buds of the willows reddened the river shores, while the southern slopes of sun-warmed ridges were softening with the pale green of the young leaves of birch and poplar. Long since, the armies of the snowy geese had passed, bound for far Arctic islands; while marshes and muskeg were vocal with the raucous clamor of the nesting gray goose. In the air of the valleys hung the odor of wood mold and wet earth. And one day, with the spring, returned Jean Marcel from his camp on the Ghost, the northernmost tributary of the Great Whale to the bald ridge, where, in March, he had seen the sun glitter on a broad expanse of level snow unbroken by trees, in the hills to the north. His eyes had not deceived him. The lake was there. From his commanding position on the bare brow of the isolated mountain, he looked out on a wilderness of timbered valleys, and high barrens which rolled away endlessly into the north. Among these lay a large body of water partly free of ice. Into the northeast he could trace the divide--even make out where a small feeder of the Ghost headed on the height of land. And he now knew that he looked upon the dread valleys of the forbidden country of the Crees--the demon-haunted solitudes of the land of the Windigo, whose dim, blue hills guarded a region of mystery and terror--a wilderness, peopled in the tales of the medicine men, with giant eaters of human flesh and spirits of evil, for generations, taboo to the hunters of Whale River. There was no doubt of it. The large lake he saw was a headwater of the Big Salmon, the southern sources of which tradition placed in the bad-lands north of the Ghost. Once his canoe floated in this lake, he could work into the main river and find the Esquimos on the coast. "Bien!" muttered the Frenchman, "I will go!" Two days later, back in camp on the Ghost, Marcel announced to his partners, Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, his intention of returning to the Bay by the Big Salmon. "W'at you say, Jean; you go home tru de Windigo countree?" cried Piquet, his swart face blanched by the fear which the very mention of the forbidden land aroused, while Antoine, speechless, stared wide-eyed. "Oui, nord of de divide, I see beeg lac. Eet ees Salmon water for sure. I portage cano' to dat lac and reach de coast by de riviere. You go wid me an' get some dog?" Marcel smiled coolly into the sober faces of his friends. "Are you crazee, Jean Marcel?" protested Antoine. "De spirit have run de game an' feesh away. De Windigo eat you before you fin' de Salmon, an' eef he not get you first, you starve." "Ver' well, you go back by de Whale; I go by Salmon an' meet de Husky. I nevaire hunt anoder long snow widout dogs." "Ah-hah! Dat ees good joke! You weel nevaire see de Husky," broke in Piquet. "W'en _Matchi-Manitou_ ees tru wid you, de raven an' wolf peek your bones, w'ile Antoine an' Joe dance at de spreeng trade wid de Cree girl." Ignoring the dire prediction, Marcel continued: "Good dog are all gone at Whale Riviere Post from de maladie. De Husky have plenty dog. I meet dem on de coast before dey reach Whale Riviere an' want too much fur for dem. Maybe I starve; maybe I drown een de strong-water; maybe de Windigo get me; but I go." And he did. With a shrug of contempt for the tales of the medicine men, dramatically rehearsed with all the embellishment which the imagination of his superstitious partners could invent, the following day Marcel started. "Bo'-jo', Antoine!" he said, as he gripped his friend's hand. "I meet you at Whale Riviere." The face of Beaulieu only too patently reflected his thoughts as he shook his head. "Bo'-jo', Jean, I nevaire see you again." "You are dead man, Jean," added Piquet; "we tell Julie Breton dat your bones lie up dere." And the half-breed pointed north to the dim, blue hills of dread. So with fur-pack and outfit, and as much smoked caribou as he dared carry, Marcel poled his canoe up the Ghost, later to portage across the divide into the trailless land where, in the memory of living man, the feet of no hunter of the Hudson's Bay Company had strayed. It was a reckless venture--this attempt to reach the Bay through an unknown country. The demons of the Cree conjurors he did not fear, for his father and his mother's father, who had journeyed, starved, and feasted in trailless lands, from Labrador to the great Barren Grounds, had never seen one or heard the wailing of the Windigo in the night. But what he did fear was the possibility of weeks of wandering in his search for the main stream, lost in a labyrinth of headwater lakes where game might be scarce and fish difficult to net. For his smoked meat would take him but a short way, when his rifle and net would have to see him through. But the risk was worth taking. If he could reach the Esquimos on their spring journey south to the post, before they learned of the scarcity of dogs at Whale River, he could obtain huskies at a fair trade in fur. And a dog-team was his heart's desire. Portaging over the divide to the large lake, now clear of ice, Marcel followed its winding outlet into the northwest. There were days when, baffled by a maze of water routes in a network of lakes, he despaired of finding the main stream. There were nights when he lay supperless by his fire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the Oblat Missionary at Whale River--nights when the forebodings of his partners returned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of the forest, or, across the valleys, drifted low wailing sobs, like the grieving of a Cree mother for her dead child. But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old _coureurs-de-bois_. His parents, victims of the influenza which had swept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of a dauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly as the roving wolverine and the lynx turned the night into what would have been a thing of horror to the superstitious breeds. When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found the main stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Esquimos. Two hundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June day rounded the bend above a long white-water. The _voyageur_ ran the rapids, rode the "boilers" at the foot of the last pitch and shot into deep water again. But as he swung inshore to rid the craft of the slop picked up in the churning "strong-water" behind him, Marcel's eyes widened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His last rapids had been run. He had reached his goal, for on the shore stood the squat skin lodges of an Esquimo camp, and moving about on the beach, he saw the shaggy objects of his quest. The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in their lair shaped a wide smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade at Whale River, and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, a pair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the chorus when the dogs pointed their noses at the new moon. CHAPTER II THE END OF THE TRAIL In his joy at his good luck, Marcel had momentarily forgotten the ancient feud between the Esquimo and the Cree. Then he realized his position. These rapids of the Salmon were an age-old fishing ground of the Esquimos, who, with their dogs, are called "Huskies." No birch-bark had ever run the broken waters behind him--no Indian hunted so far north. If among these people there were any who traded at Whale River where Cree and Esquimo met in amity, they would recognize the son of the old Company head man, André Marcel, and welcome him. But should they chance to be wild Huskies who did not come south to the post, they would mistake him for a Cree, and resenting his entering their territory, attack him. Drawing his rifle from its skin case, he placed it at his feet and poled slowly toward the shore where a bedlam of howls from the dogs signalled his approach. The clamor quickly emptied the lodges scattered along the beach. A group of Huskies, armed with rifle and seal spear, now watched the strange craft. So close was the canoe that only by a miracle could Marcel hope to escape down-stream if they started shooting. Alive to his danger, the Frenchman snubbed his boat, leaning on his pole, while his anxious eyes searched for a familiar figure in the skin-clad throng, who talked and gesticulated in evident excitement. But among them he found no friendly face. Was it for this he had slaved overland to the Salmon and starved through the early spring--a miserable death; when he had won through to his goal--when the yelps of the dogs he sought rang in his ears? Surely, among these Huskies, there were some who traded at the post. "Kekway!" he called, "I am white man from Whale River!" The muscles of Jean Marcel set, tense as wire cables, as he watched for a hostile movement from the Huskies, silenced by his shout. Seemingly surprised by his action, no answer was returned from the shore. Slowly his hopes died. They were wild Esquimos and would show no mercy to the supposed Cree invader of their hereditary fishing ground. But still the movement which the Frenchman's roving eyes awaited, was delayed. Not a gun in the whispering throng on the beach was raised; not a word in Esquimo addressed to the stranger. Mystified, desperate from the strain of the suspense, Marcel called again, this time in post Husky: "I am white man, from the fort at Whale River. Is there one among you who trades there?" At the words, the tension of the sullen group seemed to relax. Pointing to a thick-set figure striding up the beach, a Husky shouted: "There is one who goes to Whale River!" The _voyageur_ expelled the air from his lungs with relief. Too long, with pounding heart, he had steeled himself to face erect, swift death from the near shore. A wrong move, and a hail of lead would have emptied his canoe. Then to his joy he recognized the man who approached. "Kovik!" he shouted. "Eet ees Jean Marcel from Whale Riviere!" The Husky waved his hand to Marcel, joined his comrades, and, for a space, there was much talk and shaking of heads; then he called to Jean to come ashore. Grounding his canoe, Marcel gripped the hand of the grinning Kovik while the Huskies fell back eying them with mingled curiosity and fear. "Husky say you bad spirit, Kovik say you son little chief, Whale River. W'ere you come?" It was clear, now, why the Esquimos had not wiped him out. They had thought him a demon, for Esquimo tradition, as well as Cree, made the upper Salmon the abode of evil spirits. "I look for hunteen ground, on de head of riviere," explained Jean, for the admission that he was in search of dogs would only defeat the purpose of his journey. "Good dat Kovik come," returned the Esquimo. "Some say shoot you; some say you eat de bullet an' de Husky." To this difference of opinion Marcel owed his life. As Kovik finished his explanation, Jean laughed: "No, I camp wid no Windigo up riviere; but I starve." At this gentle hint, Marcel was invited to join in the supper of boiled seal and goose which was waiting at the tepee. When Kovik had prevailed upon some of the older Esquimos to forget their fears and shake hands with the man who had appeared from the land of spirits, Jean stowed his outfit on the cache of the Husky, freed his canoe of water and placing it beside his packs, joined the family party. Shaking hands in turn with Kovik's grinning wife and children, who remembered him at Whale River, Marcel hungrily attacked the kettle, into which each dipped fingers and cup indiscriminately. Finishing, he passed a plug of Company nigger-head to his hosts and lit his own pipe. "W'ere you' woman?" abruptly inquired the thick-set mother of many. "No woman," replied Marcel, thinking of three spruce crosses in the Mission cemetery at Whale River. "No woman, you? No dog?" pressed the curious wife of Kovik. "No famile." And Jean told of the deaths of parents and younger brother, from the plague of the summer before. But he failed to mention the fact that most of the dogs at the post had been wiped out at the same time. "Ah! Ah!" groaned the Huskies at the Frenchman's tale of the scourge which had swept the Hudson's Bay posts to the south. "He good man--Marcel! He fr'en' of me!" lamented Kovik. Sucking his pipe, he gravely nodded again and again. Surely, he intimated, the Company had displeased the spirits of evil to have been so punished. Then he asked: "W'ere you dog?" "On Whale Riviere," returned Jean grimly, referring to their bones; his eyes held by the great dogs sprawled about the beach. No such sled-dogs as these had he ever seen at the post, even with the Esquimos. But his grave face betrayed no sign of what was in his mind. Massive of bone and frame, with coats unusually heavy, even for the far-famed Ungava breed, Jean noted the strength and size of these magnificent beasts as a horseman marks the points of a blooded colt. Somewhat apart from the other dogs of Kovik, tumbling and roughing each other, frolicked four clumsy puppies, while the mother, a great slate-gray and white animal, lay near, watching her progeny through eyes whose lower lids, edged with red, marked the wolf strain. While those slant eyes kept restless guard, to molest one of her leggy, yelping imps of Satan would have been the bearding of a hundred furies. The older dogs, evidently knowing the power in the snap of her white fangs, avoided the puppies. One, in particular, Marcel noticed as they romped and roughed each other on the shore, or with a brave show of valor, noisily charged their recumbent mother, only to be sent about their business with the mild reprimand of a nip from her long fangs. Larger, and of sturdier build than her brothers, this puppy, in marking, was the counterpart of the mother, having the same slate-gray patches on head and back and wearing white socks. As he watched her bully her brothers, Jean resolved to buy that four-months'-old puppy. As the northern twilight filled the river valley, the Huskies returned to the lodge, where Jean squeezed in between two younger members of the family whose characteristic aroma held sleep from the fatigued _voyageur_ long enough for him to decide on a plan of action. Before he started to trade for dogs he must learn if the Esquimos knew that they were scarce at the fur-posts. If rumor of this relayed up the coast from Husky hunting party to hunting party, had reached them, he would be lucky to get even a puppy. They would send their spare dogs to the posts. The following morning, at the suggestion of Kovik, Marcel set his gill-net for whitefish on the opposite shore of the wide river, as the younger Esquimos showed unmistakably by their actions that his presence at the salmon fishing, soon to begin, was resented. But Jean needed food for his journey down the coast and for the dogs he hoped to buy, so ignored the dark looks cast at the mysterious white man, the friend of Kovik. But not until evening did he casually suggest to the Husky that he had more dogs than he could feed through the summer. The broad face of Kovik widened in a mysterious smile as he asked: "You geeve black fox for dog?" Marcel's hopes fell at the words. It was an unheard of price for a dog. The Husky knew. Masking his chagrin, the Frenchman laughed in ridicule: "I geeve otter for dog." Kovik shook his head, his narrowed eyes wrinkling in amusement. "No husky W'ale Riv'--For' Geor'. Me trade husky W'ale Riv'." It was useless to bargain further. The Husky knew the value of his dogs at the posts, and Jean could not afford to rob his fur-pack to get one. There was much that he needed at Whale River--and then there was Julie. It was necessary to increase his credit with the Company to pay for the home he would some day build for Julie and himself. So, when Kovik promptly refused a valuable cross-fox pelt for a dog, the disheartened boy gave it up. But after the toil and lean days of the long trail he had taken to meet the Esquimos, he could not return to Whale River empty handed. He coveted the slate-gray and white puppy. Never had he seen a husky of her age with such bone--such promise as a sled dog. And her spirit--at four months she would bare her puppy fangs at an infringement of her rights by an old dog, as though she already wore the scars of many a brawl. Handsomer than her brothers, leader of the litter by virtue of a build more rugged, a stronger will, she was the favorite of Kovik's children. That they would object to parting with her; that the Husky would demand an exorbitant price he now knew; but he was determined to have the puppy. However, he resolved to wait until the following day, renew the bargaining for a grown dog, then suddenly make an offer for the puppy. The next morning Jean Marcel again offered a high price for a dog, but the smiling Husky would not relent. Then Marcel, pointing at the female puppy, offered the pelt of a marten for her. To Jean's surprise, the owner refused to part with any of the litter. They would be better than the adult dogs--these children of the slate-gray husky--he said, and he would sell but one or two, even at Whale River, where the Company needed dogs badly and would pay more than Marcel could offer. It was a bitter moment for the lad who had swung his canoe inshore at the Husky camp with such high hopes. And he realized that it would be useless to turn north from the mouth of the Salmon in search of dogs. Now that they had learned of conditions at the fur-posts, no Esquimos bound south for the spring trade would sell a dog at a reasonable price. As the disheartened Marcel watched with envious eyes the puppies, which he realized were beyond his means to obtain, the cries from the shore of the eldest son of his host aroused the camp. Above them, in the chutes at the foot of the white-water, flashes of silver marked the leaping vanguards of the salmon run, on their way to spring-fed streams at the river's head. Seizing their salmon spears the Esquimos hurried up-stream to take their stands on rocks which the fish might pass. Having no spear Jean watched the younger Kovik wade through the strong current out to a rock within spearing reach of a deep chute of black water. Presently the crouching lad drove his spear into the flume at his feet and was struggling on the rock with a large salmon. Killing the fish with his knife, he threw it, with a cry of triumph, to the beach. Again he waited, muscles tense, his right arm drawn back for the lunge. Again, as a silvery shape darted up the chute, the boy struck with his spear. But so anxious was he to drive the lance home, that, missing the fish, his lunge carried him head-first into the swift water. With a shout of warning to those above, Jean Marcel ran down the beach. His canoe was out of reach on the cache with the Husky's kayak, and the clumsy skin umiak of the family was useless for quick work. In his sealskin boots and clothes the lad would be carried to the foot of the rapids and drowned. Jean reached the "boilers" below the white-water before the body of the helpless Esquimo appeared. Plunging into the ice-cold river he swam out into the current below the tail of the chute, and when the half-drowned lad floundered to the surface, seized him by his heavy hair. As they were swept down-stream an eddy threw their bodies together, and in spite of Marcel's desperate efforts, the arms of the Husky closed on him in vise-like embrace. Strong as he was, the Frenchman could not break the grip, and they sank. The _voyageur_ rose to the surface fighting to free himself from the clinging Esquimo, but in vain; then his sinewy fingers found the throat of the half-conscious boy and taking a long breath, he again went down with his burden. When the two came up Marcel was free. With a grip on the long hair of the now senseless lad he made the shore, and dragging the Husky from the water, stretched exhausted on the beach. Shaking with cold he lay panting beside the still body of the boy, when the terrified Esquimos reached them. The welcome heat of a large fire soon thawed the chill from the bones of Marcel; but the anxious parents desperately rolled and pounded the Husky, starting his blood and ridding his stomach of water, before he finally regained his voice, begging them to cease. With the boy out of danger they turned to his rescuer, and only by vigorous objection did Marcel escape the treatment administered the Husky. He would prefer drowning, he protested with a grimace, to the pounding they had given the boy. "You lak' seal in de water," cried the relieved father with admiration, when he had lavished his thanks upon Jean; for the Esquimos, although passing their lives on or near the water, because of its low temperature, never learn to swim. "My fader taught me to swim een shallow lak' by Fort George," explained the modest Frenchman. "He die, eef you no sweem lak' seal," added the grateful mother, her round face oily with sweat from the vigorous rubbing of her son, now snoring peacefully by the fire. Then the Huskies returned to their fishing, for precious time was being wasted. The boy's spear was found washed up on the beach and loaned to Jean, who labored the remainder of the day spearing salmon for his journey down the coast. That evening, after supper, Jean sat on a stone in front of the tepee watching the active puppies. Inside the skin lodge the Esquimo and his wife conversed in low tones. Shortly they appeared and Kovik, grinning from long side-lock to side-lock, said: "You good man! You trade dat dog?" He pointed at the large slate-gray puppy sprawled near them. The dark features of Jean Marcel lighted with eagerness. "I geeve two marten for de dog," he said, rising quickly. The Husky turned to the woman, shaking his head. Marcel's lip curled at the avarice of these people whose son he had so recently snatched from death. Then Kovik, seemingly changing his mind, seized the puppy by the loose skin of her neck and dragged her, protesting vigorously, to Jean, while the mother dog came trotting up, ears erect, curious of what the master she feared was doing with her progeny. "Dees you' dog!" said the Esquimo. Marcel patted the back of the puppy, still in the grasp of her owner, while she muttered her wrath at the touch of the stranger. Although they owed him much, he thought, yet these Huskies wished to make him pay dearly for the dog. Still he was glad to get her, even at such a price. So he went to the cache, loosened the lashings of his fur-pack, and returned with two prime marten pelts, offering them to the Esquimo. Again Kovik's round face was divided by a grin. The wrinkles radiated from the narrow eyes which snapped. "You lak' seal in riv'--ketch boy. Tak' de dog--we no want skin." And shaking his head, the Husky pushed away the pelts. Slowly the face of Marcel changed with surprise as he sensed the import of Kovik's words. They were making him a present of the dog. "You--you geeve to me--dese puppy?" he stammered, staring into the grinning face of the Esquimo, delighted with the success of his little ruse. Kovik nodded. "T'anks, t'anks!" cried Jean, his eyes suspiciously moist as he wrung the Husky's hand, then seized that of the chuckling woman. "You are good people; I not forget de Kovik." He had done these honest Esquimos a wrong. Now, after the fear of defeat, and the bitterness, the puppy he had coveted was his. He was not to return to Whale River empty handed, the laughing-stock of his partners. It had been indeed worth while, his plunge into the bad-lands, for in two years he would have the dog-team of his dreams. Some day this four-months-old puppy should make the fortune of Jean Marcel. But little he realized, as he exulted in his good luck, how vital a part in his life, and in the life of Julie Breton, this wild puppy with the white socks was to play. CHAPTER III THE FRIEND OF DEMONS When Marcel put his canoe into the water the following morning, to cross to his net, three young Esquimos, who had been loitering near Kovik's lodge, followed him to the beach, and as he left the shore, hurled at his back a torrent of Husky abuse. What he had hoped to avoid had come. It would have been better to listen to Kovik's warning against delaying his departure and attempting to fish at the rapids after the salmon arrived. The use of the boy's spear, the day previous, had brought the feeling among the younger men to a head. They meant to drive him down river. Removing the whitefish and small salmon, Jean lifted his net and stretching it to dry on the shore, recrossed the stream. On the beach awaiting his return were the Huskies. Clearly, they had decided that he was possessed of no supernatural powers and could now be bullied with impunity. As he did not wish to embroil his friend Kovik in his defense, when he had smoked his last catch he would leave. But the blood of the fighting Marcels was slowly coming to a boil. If these raw fish-eaters thought that they could frighten the grandson of the famous Étienne Lacasse, and the son of André Marcel, whose strength was a tradition on the East Coast, he could show them their mistake. Still, avoid trouble he must, for a fight would be suicide. So ignoring the Huskies, who talked together in low tones, Marcel landed, cleaned some fish for the Koviks' kettle, and carried them up to the tepee where the family were still asleep. Returning, the hot blood rose to the bronzed face of the Frenchman at what he saw. The three Esquimos were coolly feeding his fish to the dogs. Reckless of the consequences, in the blind rage which choked him, Marcel reached the pilferers of his canoe before they realized that he was on them. Seizing one by his long hair, with a wrench he hurled the surprised Husky backward into the water and sent a second reeling to the stony beach with a fierce blow in the face. The third, retreating from the fury of the attack of the maddened white man, drew his skinning knife; but seizing his paddle, Marcel sent the knife spinning with a vicious slash which doubled the screaming Husky over a broken wrist. Turning, he saw his first victims making down the beach toward the tepees, while the uproar of the dogs was swiftly arousing the camp. Then, as his blood cooled and his judgment returned, the youth, who had suffered and dared much that he might have dogs for the next long snows, realized the height of his folly. They had baited him into furnishing them with an excuse for attacking him. Now even the faithful Kovik would be helpless against them. He would never see Whale River and Julie Breton again. Already the Huskies were emerging from their tepees, to hear the tale of his late antagonists. There was no time to lose before they rushed him. Bounding up the beach to Kovik's tepee for his rifle, he rapidly explained the situation to the Esquimo, while in his ears rang the shouts of the excited Huskies and the yelping of the dogs. Jean did not hope to escape alive from this bedlam, but of one thing he was sure, he would die like a Marcel, with a smoking gun in his hands. Urging Jean to get his fur-pack and smoked fish to his canoe at once, Kovik hurried down the shore to the knot of wildly excited Esquimos. With the aid of the grateful wife and son of Kovik, Marcel's canoe was swiftly loaded and his treasured puppy lashed in the bow. But the rush up the beach of an infuriated throng bent on his death, which Marcel stoically awaited beside a large boulder, was delayed. Not a hundred yards distant, the doughty Kovik, the center of an arguing mob, was fighting with all the wits he possessed for the man who had saved his son. For Marcel to attempt to escape by water would only have drawn the fire of the Huskies and nullified Kovik's efforts, and their kayaks, faster than any canoe, were below him. A break for the "bush," even if successful, in the end, meant starvation. So with extra cartridges between his teeth, and in his hands, Jean Marcel grimly fingered the trigger-guard of his rifle, as he waited at the boulder for the turn of the dice down the shore. Minutes, each one an eternity to the man at bay, passed. But Kovik still held his men, and Marcel clearly noted a change in the manner of the Huskies. The shouting had ceased. His friend was winning. Shortly, Kovik left the group and walked rapidly toward Marcel, followed at a distance by his people. "Dey keel you, but Kovik say you fr'en' wid spirit; he come down riv' an' eat Husky," explained the worried defender of Jean. "Kovik say you shoot wid spirit gun, all de Husky; so you go, queek!" The broad face of Kovik split in a grim smile as he gripped the hand of the relieved Marcel and pushed off his canoe. Thus, doubly, had the loyal Esquimo paid for the life of his son. With the emotions of a man suddenly reprieved from a sentence of death, Marcel poled his canoe out into the current. Behind him, the Esquimos had already joined Kovik on the shore, when, warned by a shout from his friend, Marcel instinctively ducked as a seal spear whistled over his head. Some doubter was testing the magic of the white demon. Seizing his paddle Jean swiftly crossed the river and secured his precious net. But he was not yet rid of his enemies. If the young men, conquering their fear of his friendship with demons, at once launched their kayaks, they could overhaul his loaded canoe. But once clear of the last tepees, with his pursuers behind him, he was confident that he could pick them off with his rifle as fast as they came up in their rocking craft. With all the power of his iron back and shoulders, Jean drove his canoe on the strong current; but Kovik had the Huskies in hand and they did not follow. Shortly he had passed the last lodge on the shore and the camp was soon in the distance. It seemed like a dream--his peril of the last hour; and now, a free man again, with his puppy in the bow, he was on his way to the coast and Julie Breton. Suddenly two rifles cracked in the rocks on the near beach. The paddle of Marcel dropped from his limp hands. Headlong he lurched to the floor of the canoe. Again the guns spat from the boulders. Two bullets whined over the birch-bark. But save for the yelping puppy in the bow, there was no movement in the canoe, as it slid, the cat's-paw of the current. Waving their arms in triumph at the collapse of the feared white man, whose magic had been impotent before their bullets, the Huskies hurried along shore after the canoe. Carried by breeze and current, with its whimpering puppy and silent human freight the craft grounded a half-mile below the ambush. On came the chattering pair of assassins, already quarrelling over the division of the outfit of the dead man--delirious with the sweetness of their vengeance for the rough handling the stricken one in the canoe had meted out to them but an hour before. The dog, although lashed to the bow thwart, had managed to crawl out of the boat and was struggling with the thongs which held her, when the Huskies came running up. Staring into the birch-bark, they turned to each other gray faces on which was written ghastly fear. The canoe was empty! The white man they had thought to find a bloodied heap, was, after all, a maker of magic--a friend of demons. Kovik had told the truth. They were lost! Palsied with dread, their feet frozen to the beach, the young ruffians awaited the swift vengeance of their enemy. And it came. Hard by, a rifle crashed in the boulders. With a scream, a Husky reeled backward with a shattered hand, as his gun, torn from his grasp by the impact of the bullet, rattled on the stones. A second shot, splintering the butt of his rifle, hurled the other to his knees. Then with a demonical yell, Marcel sprang from his ambush. Running like caribou jumped by barren-ground wolves, the panic-stricken Huskies fled from the place of horror, pursued by the ricochetting bullets of the white demon, until they disappeared up the shore. "A'voir, M'sieurs!" cried Marcel. "De nex' tam you ambush cano', don' let eet dref behin' de point." And shaking with laughter, turned to his yelping puppy, frenzied with excitement. "De Husky t'ink we not go to Whale Riviere, eh?" he said, stroking the trembling shoulders of the worrying dog. "But Jean and hees petite chienne, dey see Julie Breton jus' de same." Putting his puppy in the canoe, Marcel continued on down the river. When the shots from ambush whined past his face, Marcel had flattened to the floor of the craft, both for cover and to deceive the Huskies. The second shots convinced him that he had but two to deal with. Slitting the bark skin near the gunwale, that he might watch the shore without betraying the fact that he was conscious, and thereby draw their fire, while they were protected from his by the boulders, he learned that the craft was working toward the beach. His plan was swiftly made. Driven by the racing current, the canoe had already left the Esquimos, following the shore, in the rear. He would allow the craft to ground and hold his fire until they were on top of him. But the boat finally reached the beach at a point hidden from the pursuing Huskies. With a bound Marcel was out of the canoe and concealed among the rocks. Great as was the temptation to leave the men who had ambushed him in cold blood, shot upon the beach, a sinister warning to their fellows, the thought of Kovik's position at the camp forced him to content himself with disarming and sending them shrieking up the shore with his bullets worrying their heels. Often, during the day, as Marcel put mile after mile of the Salmon between himself and the camp at the rapids, the puppy cocked curious ears as the new master ceased paddling, to roar with laughter at the memory of two flying Esquimos. CHAPTER IV HOME AND JULIE BRETON That night Marcel camped at the river's mouth and watched the gray waters of the great Bay drown the sinking sun. Somewhere, far down the bold East Coast the Great Whale emptied into the salt "Big Water" of the Crees. He remembered having heard the old men at the post say that the Big Salmon lay four "sleeps" of fair weather to the north--four days of hard paddling, as the Company canoes travel, if the sea was flat and the wind light. But if he were wind-bound, as was likely heading south in the spring, it might take weeks. He had a hundred pounds of cured fish and could wait out the wind, but the thought of Julie, who by this time must have learned from his partners of his mad journey, made Jean anxious to reach the post. He preferred to be welcomed living than mourned as dead. He wondered how deeply she would feel it--his death. Ah, if she only cared for him as he loved her! Well, she should love him in time, when he had become a _voyageur_ of the Company, with a house at the post, he told himself, as he patted his shy puppy before turning into his blankets. The second day out he was driven ashore under gray cliffs by a south-wester and spent the succeeding three days in overcoming the shyness of the hulking puppy, who, in the gentleness of the new master, found swift solace for the loss of her shaggy kinsmen of the Husky camp. Already she had learned that the human hand could caress as well as wield a stick, and for the first time in her short existence, was initiated into the mystery and delight of having her ears rubbed and back scratched by this master who did not kick her out of the way when she sprawled in his path. And because of her beauty, and in memory of Fleur Marcel, the mother he had loved, he named her Fleur. When the sea flattened out after the blow, Marcel launched his canoe, and, with his dog in the bow, continued south. Not a wheeling gull, flock of whistling yellow-legs, or whiskered face of inquisitive seal, thrust from the water only as quickly to disappear, escaped the notice of the eager puppy. Passing low islands where teal and pin-tail rose in clouds at his approach, driving Fleur into a frenzy of excitement, at last he turned in behind a long island paralleling the coast. For two days Jean travelled down the strait in the lee of this island and knew when he passed out into open water and saw in the distance the familiar coast of the Whale River mouth, that he had travelled through the mystic Manitounuk, the Esquimos' Strait of the Spirit. The following afternoon off Sable Point he entered the clear water of the Great Whale and once again, after ten months' absence, saw on the bold shore in the distance the roofs of Whale River. There was a lump in the throat of Jean Marcel as he gazed at the distant fur-post. That little settlement, with its log trade-house and church of the Oblat Fathers, the last outpost of the Great Company on the bleak East Coast, which for two centuries had defied the grim north, stood for all he held most dear--was home. There, in the church burial ground enclosed by a slab fence, three spruce crosses marked the graves of his father, mother and brother. There in the Mission House, built by Cree converts, lived Julie Breton. As the young flood swept him up-stream he wondered if already he had been counted as lost by his friends at the post--for it was July; whether the thoughts of Julie Breton sometimes wandered north to the lad who had disappeared into the Ungava hills on a mad quest; or if, with the others, she had given him up as starved or drowned--numbered him with that fated legion who had gone out into the wide north never to return. Nearing the post, the canoe began to pass the floats of gill-nets set for whitefish and salmon. He could now see the tepees of the Whale River Crees, dotting the high shores, and below, along the beach, the squat skin lodges of the Huskies, with their fish scaffolds and umiaks. The spring trade was on. Beaching his canoe at the Company landing, where he was welcomed as one returned from the dead by two post Crees, Marcel, leading his dog by a rawhide thong, sought the Mission House. At his knock the door was opened by a girl with dusky eyes and masses of black hair, who stared in amazement at the _voyageur_. "Julie!" he cried. Then she found her voice, while the blood flushed her olive skin. "Jean Marcel! _vous êtes revenu!_ You have come back!" exclaimed the girl, continuing the conversation in French. "Oh, Jean! We had great fear you might not return." He was holding both her hands but, embarrassed, she did not meet his eager eyes seeking to read her thoughts. "Come in, _M'sieu le voyageur_!" and she led him gayly into the Mission. "Henri, Père Henri!" she called. "Jean Marcel has returned from the dead!" "Jean, my son!" replied a deep voice, and Père Breton was vigorously embracing the man he had thought never to see again. "Father, your greeting is somewhat warmer than that of Julie," laughed the happy youth, as the bearded priest surveyed him at arm's length. "Ah, she has spoken much of you, Jean, this spring. None the worse for the long voyage, my son?" he continued. "You will be the talk of Whale River; the Crees said you could not get through. And you got your dogs? We have only curs here, except those of the Huskies, and they are very dear." "The Huskies would not sell their dogs, Father. They were bringing them to Whale River." Then Marcel sketched briefly to his wondering friends the history of his wanderings and his meeting with the Huskies on the Big Salmon. As he finished the tale of his escape from the camp with his puppy, and later from the ambush, Julie Breton's dark eyes were wet with tears. "Oh, Jean Marcel, why did you take such risks? You might have starved--they might have killed you!" His eyes lighted with tenderness as they met the girl's questioning face. "I had to have dogs, Julie. I must save my credit with the Company. It was the only way." "Let me see your puppy! Where is she?" demanded the girl. Jean led his friends outside the Mission, where he had fastened his dog. The wild puppy shrank from the strangers, the hair bristling on her neck, as Julie impulsively thrust a hand toward the dog's handsome head. "Oh, but she is cross!" she exclaimed. "What is her name?" "Fleur; it was my mother's." "Too nice a name for such an impolite dog!" Jean stroked Fleur's head as she crouched against his legs muttering her dislike of strangers. At his caress, her warm tongue sought his hand. "There," he said proudly, his white teeth flashing in a grin at Julie, "you see here is one who loves Jean Marcel." At the invitation of Père Breton, the _voyageur_ shut his dog in the Mission stockade, where she would be free from attack by the post Huskies and safe from some covetous Cree, and gladly took possession of an empty room in the building. CHAPTER V THE MOON OF FLOWERS As the grim fastnesses reaching away to the north and east and south in limitless, ice-locked solitude, had wakened to the magic touch of spring, so the little post at Whale River had quickened with life at the advent of June with the spring trade. For weeks, before the return of Marcel, the canoes of the Crees had been coming in daily from winter trapping grounds in far valleys. Around the tepees, which dotted the post clearing like mushrooms, groups of dark-skinned women, heads wrapped in gaudy shawls, laughed and gossiped, while the shrill voices of romping children filled the air, for the lean moons of the long snows had passed and the soft days returned. Swart hunters from Lac d'Iberville, half-breed Crees from the Whispering Hills and the Little Whale watershed, belted with colored Company sashes, wearing beaded leggings and moccasins, smoked and talked of the trade with wild _voyageurs_ from Lac Bienville, the Lakes of the Winds, and the Starving River headwaters in the caribou barrens. From a hundred unmapped valleys they had journeyed to the Bay to trade their fox and lynx, their mink and fisher and marten, for the goods of the Company. Below, along the beach, Huskies from Richmond Gulf and the north coast, from the White Bear and the Sleeping Islands, who had brought ivory of the walrus, pelts of the white fox, seal, and polar bear, and sealskin boots, which only their women possess the art of making waterproof, were camped in low skin tepees, their priceless dogs tied up and under constant guard. But while the camp of the Esquimos was a bedlam of noisy huskies, the quarters of the Crees in the post clearing, formerly overrun by brawling sled-dogs, were now a place of peace. The plague of the previous summer had left the Indians but a scattering of curs. Carrying his fur-pack and outfit to the Mission, Marcel sought the trade-house. Passing the tepees of the Crees, he was forced to stop and receive the congratulations of the admiring hunters on his safe return from his "_longue traverse_" through the land of demons, which had been the gossip of the post since the arrival of Joe and Antoine. When his partners appeared, to stare in amazement at the man they had announced as dead, Jean made them wince as he gripped their hands. "Bo'-jo', Joe! Bo'-jo', Antoine!" he laughed. "You see de Windigo foun' Jean Marcel too tough to eat! He ees good fr'en' to me now. De Husky t'ink me devil too." "I nevaire t'ink to see you alive at Whale Riviere, Jean Marcel!" cried the delighted Antoine. "Did you get de dog?" asked the practical Piquet. "Onlee one petite pup; de Husky would not trade." Then Jean hurriedly described his weeks on the Salmon. As he entered the door of the long trade-house he was seized by a giant Company man. "By Gar! Jean Marcel!" cried Jules Duroc, his swart face lighting with joy as he crushed the wanderer in a bear hug. "We t'ink you sure starve out een de bush! You fin' de Beeg Salmon headwater? You see de Windigo?" "Oui, I fin' de riviere for sure, Jules; but de Windigo he scared of me. I tell heem Jean Marcel ees fr'en' of Jules Duroc." The laughter in the doorway drew the attention of two men descending the ladder from the fur-loft. "Well, as I live, Jean Marcel!" cried Colin Gillies, the factor, and he wrung the hand of the son of his old head man until Marcel grimaced with pain. "You're sure good for sore eyes, Jean; we were about giving you up!" added Andrew McCain, the clerk, seizing Jean's free hand. "Bon jour, M'sieu Gillies! Bon jour, Andrew! Dey say I leeve my bones on de Beeg Salmon; de Husky shoot at me; but--Tiens! I am here!" "What? You had trouble with the Huskies?" "Oui, dey t'o't I was a devil, because I come down riviere from de Bad-Lands, but Kovik, he talk to dem an' I stay. Tell dem I come from Whale Riviere. Den dey get mad because I feesh salmon at de rapide and mak' trouble; and poor Kovik, he tell dem dat I am bad spirit, so I can get away." Jean laughed heartily at the memory of Kovik's dilemma. "Dey mus' t'ink poor Kovik ees damn liar by dees tam." Then he added soberly, "But he save my life." Seated with his three friends, Marcel told of his struggle to reach the Salmon, his meeting with the Esquimos, and escape with his dog. "So you got a dog after all, Jean? But you were crazy to take a chance with those Huskies; they won't stand trespassing on their fisheries and they were shy of you because you came from the headwaters. I'm glad you didn't kill that pair, much as they deserved it. It would have made trouble later." "Good old Kovik! We won't forget him," added McCain. "No, that we will not," agreed Gillies. "He thought a lot of your father, Jean." "Wal," said Jean proudly, "I weel have good dog-team een two year. Dat pup, she ees wort' all de work an' trouble to get her." "You're lucky," said Gillies. "It's mighty hard on our hunters not to have good dogs, but they couldn't pay the Huskies' price. The Crees only took three for breeding purposes, and six cost us a thousand in trade. The rest were taken to Fort George and East Main." The days at the Mission with Père Breton and Julie raced by--hours of unalloyed happiness for Jean after ten months in the "bush." Not a day passed that did not find him romping with the great puppy who had learned to gaze at her tall master through slant eyes eloquent with love. Each morning when he visited the Mission fish nets and his own, the puppy rode in the bow of the canoe. Each afternoon, often accompanied by Julie Breton, they went for a run up the river shore. Man and dog were inseparable. When he heard that Kovik had arrived, Jean brought Fleur down to the shore, to find the family absent from their lodge. To Marcel's amazement, his puppy at first failed to recognize her brothers, who, yelping madly, rushed her in a mass. With flattened ears, and mane stiffened on neck and back, their doughty sister met them half-way. Bowling one over, she shouldered another to the ground, where she threatened him with a fierce display of teeth. And not until their worried mother, made fast to a stake, had recognized her lost daughter and lured her within reach of her tongue, did the nose of Jean's puppy reveal to her the identity of her kin. Then there was a mad frolic in which she bullied and roughed her brothers as in the forgotten days before the master with the low voice and the hand that never struck her, took her away in his canoe. When Kovik appeared in his umiak with his squat wife and family, there was a general handshaking. "How you leeve my fr'en' on de Salmon, Kovik?" The Husky gravely shook his head. "Kovik have troub' wid young men you shoot. Dey say Kovik bad spirit too. You not hurt by dem?" "Dey miss me an' I dreef down riviere an' ambush dem. I could keel dem easy but eet mak' eet bad for you. Here ees tabac, an' tea an' sugar for de woman. I tell M'sieu Gillies w'at you do for Jean Marcel." When Jean had distributed his gifts, Fleur came trotting up, but to his delight refused to allow Kovik to touch her. "Huh! Dat you' dog!" chuckled the Husky. "Oui, she ees my dog, now," laughed Jean, and his heart went out to the puppy who already knew but one allegiance. CHAPTER VI FOR LOVE OF A DOG The spring trade at Whale River was nearing its end. One by one the tepees in the post clearing disappeared as, each day, canoes of Cree hunters started up-river for lakes of the interior, to net fish for the coming winter. Already the umiaks of the Esquimos peopled with women and children had followed the ebb-tide down to the great Bay, bound for their autumn hunting camps along the north coast. When Jean Marcel had traded his fur and purchased what flour, ammunition and other supplies he needed to carry him through the long snows of the coming winter, he found that a substantial balance remained to his credit on the books of the Company; a nest egg, he hoped, for the day when, perchance, as a _voyageur_ of the Company with a house at the post, he might stand with Julie at his side and receive the blessing of the good Père Breton. But Jean realized that that day was far away. Before he might hope to be honored by the Company with the position and trust his father had so long enjoyed, he knew he must prove his mettle and his worth; for the Company crews and dog-runners, entrusted with the mails, the fur-brigades and Company business in general, are men chosen for their intelligence, stamina and skill as canoemen and dog-drivers. When he had packed his last load of winter supplies from the trade-house to the Mission, he said with a laugh to Julie: "Julie, we have made a good start, you and I. We have credit of three hundred dollars with the Company." The olive skin of Julie Breton flushed to the dusky crown of hair, but she retorted with spirit: "You are counting your geese before they are shot, M'sieu Jean. Merci! But I am very happy with Père Henri." Père Breton's laugh interrupted Jean's reply. "Yes, my son. Julie is right. You are too young, you two, to think of anything but your souls." "Some day, Julie, I will be a Company man and then you will listen to Jean Marcel," and the lad who had cherished the memory of the girl's oval face through the long winter and taken it with him into the dim, blue Ungava hills, left the Mission with head erect and swinging stride. "Jean, when are you going back to the bush?" inquired Gillies, as Marcel entered the trade-house. "My partners and I go next week, maybe." "Well, I want you to take a canoe to Duck Island for me. We're short-handed here, and you have just come down that coast. I promised some Huskies to leave a cache of stuff there this summer." Marcel's dark features reddened with pride. He had been put in charge of a canoe bound on Company business. His crossing to the Big Salmon had marked him at Whale River as a canoeman of daring--a chip of the old block, worthy of the name Marcel. "Bien! M'sieu Gillies, when do we start?" "To-day, after dinner!" Returning to the Mission elated, Marcel ate his dinner, made up his pack while they wished him "Bon-voyage!" then went out to the stockade. At the gate he was met simultaneously by the impact of a shaggy body and the swift licks of an eager tongue. Then Fleur circled him at full speed, yelping her delight, while she worked off the excitement of seeing her playmate again, until, at length, she trotted up and nosed his hand, keen for the daily rubbing of her ears which drew from her deep throat grateful mutterings of content. "I leave my petite chienne for a few days," he whispered into a hairy ear. "She will be a good dog and obey Ma'm'selle Julie, who will feed her?" The puppy broke away and ran to the gate, turning to him with pricked ears as she whined for the daily stroll into the scrub after snow-shoe rabbits. "Non, ma petite! We walk not to-day!" He stroked the slate-gray back which trembled with her desire for a run with the master, then circling her shaggy neck with his arms, his face against hers, while she fretted as though she knew Jean was leaving her, said: "A'voir, Fleur!" and closed the gate. She stood grieving, her black nose thrust between the slab pickets, the slant eyes following Marcel's back until he disappeared. Then she raised her head and, in the manner of her kind, voiced her disappointment in a long howl. And the wail of his puppy struck with strange insistence upon the ears of Jean Marcel--like a premonition of misfortune which the future held for him and which he often recalled in the weeks to come. As the canoe of the Company journeyed through the Strait of the Spirit, flocks of gray geese, which were now leading their broods out to the coast islands from the muskegs of the interior, rose ahead, to sail away in their geometric formations, while clouds of pin-tail and black duck patrolled the low beaches. Jean left his cargo for the Huskies in a stone cache and running into a south-wester, while homeward bound, did not reach Whale River for a fortnight. As he approached the post, he made out at the log landing the Company steamer _Inenew_, loaded with trade goods from the depot at Charlton Island. Through the clearing, now almost bare of tepees, for the trade was over, he walked to the Mission. The door was opened by Julie Breton. "Bon-jour, Ma'm'selle Breton!" and he seized the unresponsive hand of the girl. "I am glad to see you home safely, Jean." Something in the face and voice of the girl checked him. "What is the matter, Julie?" he asked. "Père Henri; he is not ill?" "No, Jean. Père Henri is well, but----" "You do not seem glad to see me again, Julie!" "I am glad. You know that----" "Well," he flung out, hurt at the girl's constrained manner, "I'll go and see someone who will welcome Jean Marcel with no sober face----" "Jean!" she said as he turned away. "What is it, Ma'm'selle Breton?" and he smiled into her troubled eyes. "Fleur has missed me, I know. She will give Jean Marcel a true welcome home." "Jean--she is not there--they stole her!" The face of Jean Marcel twisted with pain. "Mon Dieu! Stole my Fleur--my puppy?" "Yes, they took her from the stockade, two nights ago--two men who came up the coast after dogs." With face buried in his arms to hide the tears misting his eyes, he leaned against the door jamb, while the girl rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Poor Jean!" "I worked so hard to get her. I loved that puppy, Julie; she was my child," he groaned. "I know, Jean, how you feel; after what you have been through--to have lost her----" "But I have not lost her!" the boy exclaimed fiercely, drawing a deep breath and facing the girl with features set like stone. "I have not lost her, Julie Breton! I will follow them and bring back my dog if I have to trail those men to Rupert House." The tears had gone and in the eyes of Jean Marcel was a glint she had never known--a glitter of hate for the men who had taken his dog, so intense, so bitter, that she thrilled inwardly as she gazed at his transformed face. Instinctively, Julie Breton knew that the lad who faced her was no longer the playmate of old to be treated as a boy, but the possessor of a high courage and unbreakable will that men in the future would reckon with. Jean entered the trade-house to find Gillies in conversation with a tall stranger, who, Jules whispered, was Mr. Wallace, the new inspector of the East Coast posts, who had come with the steamer. "A few days after you left, Jean," explained Gillies, "two half-breeds dropped in here with the story that they had travelled up the coast from Rupert House to buy dogs from the Huskies. There were no dogs for sale here, and they seemed pretty sore at missing the York-boat bound south with the dogs bought by the Company for East Main and Fort George. Why, we didn't know, for they couldn't get any of those dogs. They were a weazel-faced, mean-looking pair and when Jules found them feeding two of our huskies one day, there was trouble." "What did they do to you, Jules?" asked Jean, smiling faintly at the big Company bowman. "What did Jules do to them, you mean," broke in Angus McCain. "Well," continued Gillies, "we got outside in time to see Jules break his paddle over the head of one and pile into the other who had a knife out and looked mean. "Then I kicked them out of the post. They left that night with your dog, for the next day at Little Bear Island they passed a canoe of goose-hunters bound for Whale River and the Indians noticed the puppy who seemed to be muzzled and tied." During the recital, Marcel walked the floor of the trade-house, his blood hot with rage. "French half-breeds, M'sieu Gillies, or Scotch?" he asked. "Scotch, Jean, medium sized; one had lost half an ear and the other had a scar on his chin and the first finger gone on his right hand. But you're not going after them, lad; they've two days' start on you and it's August!" "M'sieu Gillies, I took de _longue traverse_ for dat dog. She was de best pup in dees place. I love dat husky, M'sieu. I start to-night." The import and finality of Jean's words startled his hearers. "Why, you won't make your trapping-grounds before the freeze-up, if you head down the coast now. You're crazy, man! Besides, they are two days ahead of you, to start with, and with two paddles will keep gaining," objected the factor. "M'sieu Gillies," the boy ignored the factor's protest, "will you geeve me letter of credit for de Company posts?" "Why, yes, Jean, you've got three hundred dollars credit here, but, man, stop and think! You can't overhaul those breeds alone, and if they belong in the East Main or Rupert River country they'll be back in the bush by the time you reach the posts, even if you can trail them that far. It's three hundred and fifty miles to Rupert House; you might be a month on the way." Jean Marcel shook his head doggedly, determination written in the stone-hard muscles of his dark face. Then he suddenly demanded of the factor: "What would my father, André Marcel, do eef he leeved? Because of de freeze-up would he geeve hees pup to dose dog-stealer? I ask you dat, M'sieu?" Gillies' honest eyes frankly met the questioner's. "André Marcel was the best canoeman on this coast, and no man ever did him a wrong who didn't pay." The factor hesitated. "Well, M'sieu!" demanded Jean. "André Marcel," Gillies continued, "would have followed the men who stole his dog down this coast and west to the Barren Grounds." Jules Duroc nodded gravely as he added: "By Gar! André Marcel, he would trail dose men into de muskegs of Hell." "Well," said Jean, smiling proudly at the encomiums of his father's prowess, "Jean Marcel, hees son, will start to-night." Argument was futile to dissuade Marcel from his mad venture. His partners of the previous winter who had waited impatiently for his return refused to delay longer their start for Ghost River and left at once. Then Jules took Marcel aside and quietly talked to him as would a brother. "Jean, you stay here wid Ma'm'selle Julie till de steamer go. Dat M'sieu Wallace, he sweet on you' girl w'en you were up de coast. You stay till he leeve." For this Jean had an outward shrug of contempt, but the rumored attentions of Wallace to Julie Breton, during his absence, sickened his heart with fear. Was he to lose her, too, as well as Fleur? Before supper, at the Mission, Père Breton urged him to return to his trapping grounds and spare himself the toil of a hopeless quest down the coast in the face of the coming winter. Julie was adding her objections to her brother's, when a knock on the door checked her. Her face colored slightly as Jean glanced up, when she turned to the door. "Bon soir, Monsieur!" she greeted the newcomer, a note of embarrassment in her voice. "Good evening, Mademoiselle. I hope I'm not late?" And Inspector Wallace entered the room. The Inspector, a handsome, well-built man of thirty-five, was dressed in the garb of civilization and wore shoes, a rarity at Whale River. Chief of the East Coast posts of the Great Company, he had been sent the year previous, from western Ontario, and put in command of men older in years and experience who had passed their lives in the far north. And naturally much resentment had manifested itself among the traders. But that the new chief officer looked and acted like a man of ability, the disgruntled factors had been forced to admit. As Wallace sat conversing of the great world outside with Père Breton, who was evidently much pleased by his attentions to Julie, he seemed to Jean Marcel to embody all that the young Frenchman lacked. How, indeed, he asked himself, could he now aspire to the love of Julie Breton when so great a man chose to smile upon her? Wallace seemed surprised at the presence of a humble Company hunter as a member of the priest's family, but Père Breton privately informed him that Jean was as a son and brother at the Mission. While the black eyes of Julie flashed in response to the admiring glances of Wallace, Jean Marcel ate in silence his last meal at Whale River for many a long week, torn by his longing for the dog carried down the coast in the canoe of the thieves and by the hopelessness of his love for this girl who was manifestly thrilling to the compliments of a man who knew the world of men and cities, who had seen many women, yet found this rose of the north fair. But as he ate in silence, the young Frenchman made a vow that should this man, who was taking her from him, treat her innocence lightly, Inspector though he was, he should feel the cold steel of the knife of Jean Marcel. After the meal, as Jean prepared to leave, Père Breton renewed his protests against the trip, but in vain. If he had luck, Marcel insisted, he could beat the "freeze-up" home; if not, he would travel up the coast, later, on the ice, or--well, it did not much matter what became of Jean Marcel. So, with the letter of the factor, on which he could draw supplies at the southern posts, Jean Marcel shook the hands of his friends and, sliding his canoe into the ebb tide, started south as the dying sun gilded the flat Bay to the west. He waved his hand in farewell to the group of Company men on the shore, when he saw above them the figures of Julie Breton and the priest. As Julie held aloft something white, she and her brother were joined by a man. It was Inspector Wallace. Jean swung his paddle to and fro, in response to Julie's Godspeed, then dropping to his knees, drove the craft swiftly down-stream on the long pursuit which might take him four hundred miles down the coast to the white-waters of the great Rupert and beyond, he knew not where. And with him he carried the thought that Julie, his Julie, would daily, for a week, see this great man of the Company. It was a heavy heart that Marcel that night took down to the sea. With the vision of Fleur, strangely sensing the impending separation from her master, as her wail of despair rose from the stockade the night he left her to go north, constantly before his eyes, Jean Marcel reached the coast and turned south. The thought of his puppy muzzled and bound in the canoe two days ahead of him lent power to every lunge of his paddle. While the knowledge that, back at Whale River, instead of walking the river shore in the long twilight with Jean Marcel, as he had dreamed, Julie would have Wallace at her side, added to the viciousness of his stroke. The sea was flat and when at daylight he saw looming ahead the shores of Big Island, he knew he had won a deserved rest, so went ashore, cooked some food and slept. CHAPTER VII THE LONG TRAIL TO THE SOUTH COAST A day's hard paddle past Big Island the dreaded Cape of the Four Winds thrust its bold buttresses far out into the sea toward the White Bear, and Marcel knew that wind here meant days of delay, for no canoe could round this grim headland feared by all _voyageurs_, except in fair weather. So, after a few hours' sleep, he toiled all day down the coast and at midnight had put the gray cape behind him. Two days later when Marcel went ashore on the Isle of Graves of the Esquimos, to boil his kettle, he found, to his delight, a Fort George goose-boat on the same errand. The Crees who had just left the post to shoot the winter's supply of gray and snowy geese, or "wavies," as they are called from their resemblance in flight to a white banner waving in the sun, had met, two nights before off the mouth of Big River, the canoe he was following. The dog-thieves, who were strangers, did not stop at the post, but had continued south. With two paddles they were not holding their lead, he laughed to himself, but were coming back. If he hurried he would overhaul them before they reached Rupert. He did not know the Rupert River, and if once they started inland he would be caught by the "freeze-up" in a strange country, so he continued on late into the night. Then followed day after day of endless toil at the paddle, for he knew he must travel while the weather held. He could not hope to make Rupert, or even East Main before the wind changed; which might mean idling for days on a beach pounded by seas in which no canoe could live. At times, with a stern breeze, he rigged a piece of canvas to a spruce pole and sailed. But one thought dominated him as mile after mile of the gray East Coast slid past; the thought of having his puppy once more in his canoe, fretting at the gulls and ducks and geese, as he headed north. Only through necessity did he stop to shoot geese, whose gray and white legions were gathering on the coast for the annual migration. At dawn the "gou-luk!" of the gray ganders marshalling their families out to the feeding grounds, which once sent his blood leaping, now left him cold. He was hunting bigger game, and his heart hungered for his puppy, beaten and half-starved, in all likelihood, travelling somewhere ahead down that bleak coast in the canoe of two men who did not know that close on their heels followed an enemy as dogged, as relentless, as a wolf on the trail of an old caribou abandoned by the herd. And so, after days of ceaseless dip and swing, dip and swing, which at night left his back and arms stiff and his fingers numb, Jean Marcel turned into the mouth of the East Main River and paddled up to the post, where he learned that the canoe of the half-breeds had not been seen, and that no hunters of their description traded there. So he turned again to the Bay and headed south for Rupert House. Off the Wild Geese Islands he met what he had for days been dreading, the first September north-wester, and was driven ashore. For the following three days he rested and hunted geese, and when the storm whipped itself out, went on, and at last, crossing Boatswain's Bay, rounded Mount Sherrick and paddled up Rupert Bay to the famous old post, which, since the days of the Merry Monarch and his favorite, Prince Rupert, the first Governor of the "Company of Merchants-Adventurers trading into Hudson's Bay," has guarded the river mouth--an uninterrupted history of two centuries and a half of fair dealing with the red fur-hunters of Rupert Land. "So you're the son of André Marcel? Well, well! Time does fly! Why, André and I made many a camp together in the old days. There was a man, my lad!" Jean straightened his wide shoulders in pride at this praise of his father by Alec Cameron, factor at Rupert. When he had explained the object of his long journey south in the fall, the latter raised his bushy eyebrows in amazement. "You mean to tell me that you paddled from Whale River in fifteen days, after a dog?" "Oui, M'sieu Cameron." "Well, you didn't waste the daylight or the moon either. You're sure a son of André Marcel. It must be a record for a single paddle; and all for a pup, eh?" "Oui, all for a pup!" "You deserve to get that dog. Now, these half-breeds you describe dropped in here in June behind the Mistassini brigade, and traded their fur. Then they started north after dogs." "Dey were onlee a day ahead of me up de coast." "Queer I haven't seen 'em here yet. Pierre!" Cameron called to a Company man passing the trade-house. "Have those two Mistassini strangers who went north in June, got back yet?" "No, but Albert meet dem in Gull Bay two day back. Dey have one pup dey trade from Huskee!" "There you are, Marcel! Your men crossed over to Hannah Bay to hunt geese. They'll be here in a week or two on their way up-river. You wait here and we'll get your dog when they show up." "T'anks, M'sieu Cameron!" The dark eyes of Jean Marcel snapped. At last he was closing in on his quarry. "I weel go to Hannah Bay now and get my dog." "Two to one, lad! They may get the best of you, and I've no men to spare; they're all away goose hunting. You'd better wait here." "M'sieu, André Marcel would go alone and tak' his dog. I, hees son, also weel tak' mine." "Good Lord! André Marcel would have skinned them alive--those two. Well, good luck, Jean! but I don't like your tackling those breeds alone." Jean shook hands with the factor. "Bon-jour, M'sieu Cameron, and t'anks!" "If you don't drop in here on your way back, give my regards to Gillies and his family, and be careful," said the factor as Marcel left him. CHAPTER VIII THE MEETING IN THE MARSHES Two days later, after rounding Point Comfort, Marcel was crossing the mud-flats of Gull Bay. At last the stalk was on, for somewhere in the vast marshes of the Hannah Bay coast, camped the men he had followed four hundred miles to meet face to face and fight for his dog. Somewhere ahead, through the gray mist, back in the juniper and alder scrub beyond the wide reaches of tide-flats and goose-grass, was Fleur, a prisoner. That night in camp at East Point, while he cleaned the action and bore of his rifle, the clatter of the geese in the muskeg behind the far lines of spruce edging the marshes, filled him with wonder. Never on the bold East Coast had he heard such a din of geese gathering for the long flight. At dawn, for it was windy, lines of gray Canadas passing overhead bound out to the shoals, waked him with their clamor. The tide was low, and he carried his canoe across the mud-flats through flocks of plover, snipe and yellow-legs, feeding behind the ebb, while teal and black-duck swarmed along the beaches. As he poled his canoe south through the shoals, he recalled the tales his father had told him of the marshes of Hannah Bay, the greatest breeding ground of the gray goose and black duck in all the wide north. Everywhere along the bars and sand-spits the gray Canadas were idling, always with an erect, keen-eyed sentinel on guard. Farther out, white islands of snowy geese flashed in the sun, as here and there a "wavy" rose on the water to flap his black-tipped wings. Just in from their Arctic breeding-grounds, they were lingering for a month's feast on toothsome south-coast goose-grass before seeking their winter home on the great Gulf two thousand miles away. Slowly throughout the morning Marcel travelled along the mud-flats bared for miles by the retreating tide. At times the breeze carried to his ears the faint sound of firing, but there were goose-boats from Moose and Rupert House on the coast, and it meant little. That night as the tide covered the marshes he ran up a channel of the Harricanaw delta seeking a camp-ground on its higher shores. Landing he was looking for drift-wood for his fire when suddenly he stopped. "Ah! You have been here, my friends." In the soft mud of the shore ran the clearly marked tracks of a man and dog. The footprints of the dog seemed large for Fleur, but Marcel had not seen her in six weeks and the puppy was growing fast. "Fleur!" he said aloud, "will you remember Jean Marcel after all these weeks with them?" He had seen no smoke of a fire and the tracks were at least two days old. His men were doubtless on the west shore of the bay where the water for miles inland to the spruce networked the marshes, and the rank grass grew to the height of a man's head; but he would find them. The guns of the hunters would betray their whereabouts. He drew a long breath of relief. At last he had reached the end of the trail. He could now come to grips with his enemies. To the thief, the law of the north is ruthless, and ruthlessly Jean Marcel was prepared to exact, if need be, the last drop of the blood of these men in payment for this act. It was now his nerve and wit against theirs, with Fleur as the stake. The blood of André Marcel and the _coureurs-de-bois_, which stirred in his veins, was hot for the fight which the days would bring. Before dawn Jean was taking advantage of the high tide, and when the first light streaked the east, was well on his way. As the sun lifted over the muskeg behind the bay he saw, hanging in the still air, the smoke of a fire. Quickly turning inshore, he ran his canoe up a waterway and into the long grass. There he waited until the tide went out, listening to the faint reports of the guns of the hunters. At noon, having eaten some cold goose and bannock, he took his rifle and started back over the marsh. Slowly he worked his way, keeping to the cover of the grass and alders, circling around the wide, open spaces, pock-marked with water-holes and small ponds. Knowing that the breeds would not take the dog with them to their blinds but would tie her up, he planned to stalk the camp up-wind, in order not to alarm Fleur, who might betray his presence to his enemies if by accident they were in camp, in the afternoon, when the geese were moving. After that--well, he should see. At last he lay within sight of the tent, which was pitched on a tongue of high ground running out into the rush-covered mud-flats. The camp was deserted. His eyes strained wistfully for the sight of the shaggy shape of his puppy. Pain stabbed at his heart. She was not there. What could it mean? Distant shots from the marsh to the west marked the absence of at least one of the breeds. But where was Fleur? Marcel was too "bush-wise" to take any chances. Still keeping to cover, he made his approach up-wind until he lay within a stone's throw of the tent, when a shift in the breeze warned a pair of keen nostrils that some living thing skulked not far off. The heart of Jean Marcel leaped as the howl of Fleur betrayed his presence, for huskies never bark. Grasping his rifle, he waited. The uproar of the dog brought no response. The breeds were both away. Rising, he ran to the excited puppy lashed to a stake back of the tent. "Fleur! _Ma petite chienne!_" Dropping his rifle, he approached his dog with outstretched arms. With flattened ears, the puppy crouched, growling at the stranger, her mane bristling. "Fleur! Don't you know me, pup?" continued Marcel in soothing tones, holding out his hand. The puppy's ears went forward. She sniffed long at the hand that had once caressed her. Slowly the growl died in her throat. "Fleur! Fleur! My poor puppy! Don't you remember Jean Marcel?" Again the puzzled dog drew deep whiffs through her black nostrils. Back in her brain memory was at work. Slowly the soothing tones of the voice of Marcel stirred the ghosts of other days; vague hints, blurred by the cruelty of weeks, of a time when the hand of a master caressed her and did not strike, when a voice called to her as this voice--then another sniff, and she knew. With a whimper her warm tongue licked his hand, and Jean Marcel had his puppy in his arms. Mad with joy, the yelping husky strained at her rawhide bonds as her anxious master examined a great lump on her head, and her ribs, ridged with welts from kick and blow. "So they tied her up and beat her, my Fleur? Well, she not leave Jean Marcel again. Were he go, Fleur go!" Suddenly in his ears were hissed the words: "W'at you do wid dat dog?" And a fierce blow on the back of the head hurled the kneeling Marcel flat on his face. For a space he lay stunned, his numbed senses blurred beyond thought or action. Then, as his dazed brain cleared, the realization that life hung on his presence of mind, for he would receive no mercy from the thieves, held him limp on the ground as though unconscious. Snarling curses at the crumpled body of his victim, the half-breed was busy with the joining of some rawhide thongs. Then Jean's dizziness faded. Cautiously he raised an eyelid. The breed was bending over him with a looped thong. Not a muscle moved as the Frenchman waited. Nearer leaned the thief. He reached to slip the looped rawhide over one of Marcel's outstretched hands, when, with a lunge from the ground, the arms of the latter clamped on his legs like a sprung trap. With a wrench, the surprised thief was thrown heavily. Cat-like, the hunter was on his man, bearing him down. And then began a battle in which quarter was neither asked nor given. Heavier but slower than the younger man, the thief vainly sought to reach Marcel's throat, for the Frenchman's arms, having the under grip, blocked the half-breed from Jean's knife and his own. Over and over they rolled, locked together; so evenly matched in strength that neither could free a hand. Near them yelped Fleur, frantic with excitement, plunging at her stake. Then the close report of a gun sounded in Marcel's startled ears. A great fear swept him. The absent thief was working back to camp. It was a matter of minutes. Was it to this that he had toiled down the coast in search of his dog--a grave in the Harricanaw mud? And the face of Julie Breton flashed across his vision. Desperate with the knowledge that he must win quickly, if at all, he strained until the fingers of his left hand reached the haft of the breed's knife. But a twinge shot through his shoulder like the stab of steel, as the teeth of his enemy crunched into his flesh, and he lost his grip. Maddened by pain, Marcel wrenched his right arm free and had his own knife before the fingers of the thief closed on his wrist, holding the blade in the sheath. Then began a duel of sheer strength. For a time the straining arms lifted and pushed, at a dead lock. With veins swelling on neck and forehead, Marcel fought to unsheath his knife; but the half-breed's arm was iron, did not give. Again a gun was fired--still nearer the camp. With help at hand, the thief, safe so long as he held his grip, snarled in triumph in the ear of his trapped enemy. But his peril only increased the Frenchman's strength. The fighting blood of the Marcels boiled in his veins. With a fierce heave of the shoulders the hand gripping the knife moved upward. The arm of the thief gave way, only to straighten. Then with a wrench that would not be denied, Jean tore the blade from the sheath. Frantically now, the breed, white with sudden fear, fought the sinewy wrist, advancing inexorably, on its grim mission. In short jerks, Marcel hunched the knife toward its goal. As he weakened, the knotted features of the one who felt death creeping to him, inch by inch, went gray. The hand fighting Marcel's wrist dripped with sweat. Panting hoarsely, like a beast at bay, the thief twisted and writhed from the pitiless steel. Then in his ears rang the voice of the approaching hunter. With a cry of despair, the doomed half-breed called to the man who had come too late. Already the knuckles of Marcel were high on his ribs. With a final wrench, the blade was lunged home. The cry was smothered in a cough. The man who had beaten his last puppy gasped, quivered convulsively; then lay still. Bathed in sweat, shaking from the strain and exertion of the long battle, Marcel got stiffly to his feet and seized his rifle. Again the camp was hailed from the marsh. It was evident that the goose-hunter had not sensed the cry of his partner or he would not have betrayed his position. Doubtless he was poling up a reed-masked waterway with a load of geese. Jean smiled grimly, for the thief would have only his shotgun loaded with fine shot, for large shot is not used for geese in the north. Hurriedly searching the tent, he found a rifle which he threw into the rushes; then loosed Fleur. The half-breed was in his power, but he wanted no prisoner. To stay and beat this man as Fleur had been beaten would have been sweet, but of blood he had had enough. For an instant his eyes rested on the ghastly evidence of his visit, awaiting the return of the hunter; then he took Fleur and started across the marsh for his canoe. To the dead man, who, to the theft of Fleur would have lightly added the death of her master, Marcel gave no thought. As for the other, when he found his dead partner, fear of an ambush would prevent him from following their trail. Reaching his canoe, Jean divided a goose with Fleur and, when it became dark, started for East Point. That the half-breed's partner might attempt to follow him and seek revenge, he had no doubt, but with the shotgun alone, for Jean had taken the only rifle at their camp, the thief's sole chance would be to stalk Marcel while he slept. However, as the sea was flat and the tide ebbing, Marcel was confident that daylight would find him well up the coast toward Point Comfort. CHAPTER IX IN THE TEETH OF THE WINDS It was the first week in September. This meant a race with the "freeze-up" into Whale River, for with the autumn headwinds, it would take him a month, travel as he might. Though he sorely needed geese for food on his way north, there was no time to waste at Hannah Bay, so Marcel paddled steadily all night. At dawn, in the mist off Gull Bay, Fleur became so restless with the scent of the shoals of geese, which the canoe was raising, that Jean was forced to put a gag of hide in her mouth while he drifted with the tide on the "wavies" and shot a week's supply of food. At daylight he went ashore, concealed his canoe behind some boulders, and trusting to Fleur's nose and ears to guard him from surprise, slept the sleep of exhaustion. Later, while his breakfast was cooking, Jean revelled in his reunion with his dog. In the weeks since he had last seen her she had fairly leaped in height and weight. Food had been plenty with the half-breeds and Fleur was not starved, but his blood boiled at the evidence she bore of the breeds' brutality. He now regretted that he had not ambushed the confederate of the man he had beaten, and branded him, also, as the puppy had been marked. Though Fleur was but six months old, the heavy legs and already massive lines of her head gave promise of a maturity, unusual, even in the Ungava breed. Some day, mused Marcel, as Fleur looked her love of the master through her slant, brown eyes, her head on his knee, he would have a dog-team equal to the famous huskies of his grandfather, Pierre Marcel, who once took the Christmas mail from Albany to Fort Hope, four hundred and fifty miles, over a drifted trail, in twelve days. "Yes, some day Fleur will give Jean Marcel a team," he said aloud, and rubbed the gray ears while Fleur's hairy throat rumbled in delight as though she were struggling to answer: "Some day, Jean Marcel; for Fleur will not forget how you came from the north and brought her home." And then the muscles of his lean face twisted with pain as he went on: "But who will there be to work for with Julie gone?" That day, holding the nose of his canoe on Mount Sherrick, Jean crossed the mouth of Rupert Bay and headed up the coast. In three days he was at East Main, where he bought dried whitefish for Fleur, for huskies thrive on whitefish as on no other food, and salt to cure geese; then started the same night for Fort George. Two days out he was driven ashore by the first north-wester and held prisoner, while he added to his supply of geese, which he salted down. After the storm he toiled on day after day, praying that the stinging northers bringing the "freeze-up" would hold off until he sighted Whale River. At night, seated beneath the sombre cliffs by his drift-wood fire with Fleur at his side, he often watched the wonder of the Northern Lights, marvelling at their mystery, as they pulsed and waned and flared again over the sullen Bay, then streamed up across the heavens, and diffusing, veiled the stars, which twinkled through with a mystic blue light. The "Spirits of the Dead at Play," the Esquimos called those dancing phantoms of the skies; and he thought of his own dead and wondered if their spirits were at peace. And then, as he lay, a blanketed shape beside his sleeping puppy, came dreams to mock him--dreams of Julie Breton, always happy, and beside her, smiling into her face, the handsome Inspector of the East Coast posts. Night after night he dreamed of the girl who was slipping away from him--who had forgotten Jean Marcel in his mad race south for his dog. On and on he fought his way north through the head-seas, defying cross-winds; landing to empty his canoe, and then on to the lee of the next island. While his boat would live he travelled, for September was drawing to a close and over him hung the menace of the first stinging northers which for days would anchor his frail craft to the beach. Hard on their heels would follow the nipping nights of the "freeze-up," which would shackle the waterways, locking the land in a grip of ice. Past the beetling shoulders of the Black Whale, past the Earthquake Islands and Fort George he journeyed, for the brant and blue geese were on the coast and he needed no supplies; leaving Caribou Point astern, at last the dreaded Cape of the Four Winds loomed through the mist which blanketed the flat sea. It was to this gray headland that he had raced the northers which would have held him wind-bound. And he had won. Rounding the Cape, in five days he stood, a drawn-faced tattered figure with Fleur at his side, at the door of the Mission House. "Jean Marcel! Thank God!" and Julie Breton impulsively kissed the lean cheek of the _voyageur_. A whine of protest followed by a smothered rumble at such familiarity with her master drew her glance to the great puppy. "Fleur! You brought Fleur with you, Jean, as you said you would. Oh, we have had much worry about you, Jean Marcel--and how thin you are!" She led man and dog into the building. "Henri! Come quick and see whom we have with us!" "Jean, my son!" cried the priest, embracing the returned _voyageur_, "and you brought back your dog! It will be a brave tale we shall hear to-night!" The appearance of Marcel and Fleur at the trade-house was greeted with: "Nom de Dieu! Jean Marcel! And de dog! He return wid hees dog, by Gar!" as Jules Duroc sprang to meet him with a bear hug. "Welcome back, my lad!" cried Colin Gillies, tearing a hand of Jean from the emotional Company man. While Angus McCain, joining in the chorus of congratulations, was clapping the helpless Marcel on the shoulder, the perplexed puppy, worried by the uproar of strangers about her master, leaped, tearing the back out of McCain's coat, and was relegated by Jean to the stockade outside. "Well, well, how far did they take you, Jean? Did you have a fuss getting your dog?" asked the factor. "I was one day behind dem at Rupert Bay----" "What, you've been to Rupert?" interrupted the amazed Gillies. "Oui, M'sieu. I go to Rupert and see M'sieu Cameron." "And with one paddle you gained a day on them? Lad, you've surely got your father's staying power. Where did you come up with them?" Then Jean related the details of his capture of Fleur to an open-mouthed audience. "So there's one less dog-stealer on the Bay," drily commented Gillies, when Marcel had finished his grim tale. "Why you not put de bullet een dat oder t'ief, Jean?" demanded the bloodthirsty Jules. "Eet ees not easy to keel a man, onless he steal your dog an' try to keel you. I had de dog. One of dem was enough," gravely answered the trapper. "That's right; you had your dog which I thought you'd never see again," approved Gillies. "But your travelling this time of year, with the headwinds and sea, up the coast in thirty days, beats me. I was five weeks, once, making it with two paddles. You must have your father's back, lad. It was the best on this coast in his day; and you've surely got his fighting blood." Basking for three days in the hospitality of the Mission; resting from the strain and wear of six weeks' constant toil at the paddle, Marcel revelled in Julie's good cooking. To watch her trim figure moving about the house; to talk to her while her dusky head bent over her sewing, after the loneliness of his long journey, would have been all the heaven he asked, had it not been that over it all hung the knowledge that Julie Breton was lost to him. Kind she was as a sister is kind, but her heart he knew was far in the south at East Main in the keeping of Inspector Wallace, to do with it as his manhood prompted. And knowing what he did, Marcel kept silence. On his return he had learned the story from big Jules. All Whale River had watched the courting of Julie. All Whale River had seen Wallace and the girl walking nightly in the long twilight, and had shaken their heads sadly, in sympathy with the lad who was travelling down the coast on the mad quest of his puppy. Yes, he had lost her. It was over, and he manfully fought the bitterness and despair that was his; tried to forget the throbbing pain at his heart, as he made the most of those three short days with the girl he loved, and might never see again, as a girl, for Marcel was not returning from the Ghost at Christmas. His dreams were dead. Ambitions for the future had been stripped from him, as the withering winds strip a tree of leaves. The home he had pictured at Whale River when, in the spring, he fought through to the Salmon for a dog-team which should make his fortune, was now a phantom. There was nothing left him but the love of his puppy. She would never desert Jean Marcel. But Jean Marcel was a trapper, and the precious days before the ice would close the upper Whale and the Ghost to canoe travel were slipping past. Before he went south his partners of the previous winter had agreed to take with them the supplies, which he had drawn from the post, but that they would not net fish for his dog he was certain. Exasperated at his determination to go south, they would hardly plan for the dog they were confident he would not recover. So Marcel bade his friends good-bye and with as much cured whitefish as he could carry without being held up on the portages by extra trips, started with Fleur on the long up-river trail to his trapping grounds. When he left, he said to Julie in French: "I have not spoken to you of what I have heard since my return." The girl's face flushed but her eyes bravely met his. "They tell me that you are to marry M'sieu Wallace," he hazarded. "They do not know, who tell you that!" she exclaimed with spirit. "M'sieu Wallace has not asked me to marry him, and beside, he is still a Protestant." Ignoring the evasion, he went on slowly: "But you love him, Julie; and he is a great man----" "Ah, Jean," she broke in, "you are hurt. But you will always be my friend, won't you?" "Yes, I shall always be that." And he was gone. CHAPTER X THE CAMP ON THE GHOST Although the stinging winds with swirls of fine snow were already driving down the valleys, and nightly the ice filmed the eddies and the backwaters, yet the swift river remained open to the speeding canoe until, one frosty morning, Marcel waked in camp at the Conjuror's Falls to find that the ice had over-night closed in on the quiet reaches of the Ghost just above, shackling the river for seven months against canoe travel. Caching his boat and supplies on spruce saplings, he circled each peeled trunk with a necklace of large inverted fish-hooks, to foil the raids of that arch thief and defiler of caches, the wolverine. That night he reached the camp of his partners. Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, like Marcel, had lost their immediate families in the plague, and the year before, had been only too glad to join the Frenchman in a trapping partnership of mutual advantage. For while Marcel, son of the former Company head man, with a schooling at the Mission, and a skill and daring as canoeman and hunter, beyond their own, was looked upon as leader by the half-breeds, Antoine was a good hunter, while Joe Piquet's manual dexterity in fashioning snow-shoes, making moccasins and building bark canoes rendered him particularly useful. Marcel's feat of the previous spring in finding the headwaters of the Salmon and his appearance at Whale River with a pure bred Ungava husky, to the amazement of the Crees, had increased his influence with his partners; but his determination to go south after his dog when it was already high time for the three men to start for their trapping-grounds had left them in a sullen mood. Because they could use them, if he did not return from the south, they had packed his supplies over the portages of the Whale and up the Ghost to their camp, but had netted no extra whitefish for the dog they felt he would not bring home. That night they sat long over the fire in the shack they had built the autumn previous, listening to Marcel's tale of the rescue of Fleur and of the great goose grounds of the south coast. In the morning Jean waked with the problem of a supply of fish for Fleur and himself troubling him, for one of the precepts of André Marcel had been, "Save your fish for the tail of the winter, for no one knows where the caribou will be." Down at Conjuror's Falls, he had cached less than two months' rations for his dog, and they were facing seven months of the long snows. To be sure, she could live on meat, if meat was to be had, but a husky thrives on fish, and Marcel determined that she should have it. Confident of finding game plentiful, his partners, with the usual lack of foresight of the Crees, had netted less than three months' supply of whitefish and lake-trout. This emergency store Marcel knew would be consumed by February, however plentiful the caribou proved to be, for the Crees seldom possess the thrift to save against the possible spring famine. So he determined to set his net at once. Borrowing Joe's canoe, he packed it through the "bush" to a good fish lake where he set the net under the young ice, and baited lines; then taking Fleur, he started cruising out locations for his trap-lines in new country, far toward the blue hills of the Salmon watershed, where game signs had been thick the previous spring. Toward the last of October when the snow began to make deep, Fleur's education as a sled-dog began. Already the fast growing puppy was creeping up toward one hundred pounds in weight, and soon, under the kind but firm tutelage of the master, was as keen to be harnessed for a run as a veteran husky of the winter trails. When he had set and baited his traps over a wide circle of new country to the north, Jean returned to his net and lines, and at the end of ten days had a supply of trout and whitefish for Fleur, which he cached at the lake. On his return, Antoine and Joe derided his labors when the caribou trails networked the muskegs, but Marcel ignored them. It looked like a good winter for game. Snow-shoe rabbits were plentiful and wherever their runways led in and out of the scrub-spruce and fir covers, there those furred assassins of the forest, the fox and the lynx, the fisher and the marten, were sure to make their hunting-grounds. During November and December, when pelts are at their best, the men made a harvest at their traps. The caribou were still on the barrens feeding on the white moss from which they scraped the snow with their large, round-toed hoofs, and the rabbit snares furnished stew whenever the trappers craved a change from caribou steaks. But no Indian will eat rabbit as a regular diet while he can get red meat. This varying hare of the north, which, so often, in the spring, from Labrador to the Yukon, stands between the red trapper and starvation, has a flavor which quickly palls on the taste, and never quite seems to satisfy hunger. The Crees often speak of "starving on rabbits." During these weeks following the trap-lines, learning the ways of the winter forest after a puppyhood on the coast, as Fleur grew in bulk and strength, so her affection deepened for Jean Marcel. Now nearly a year old, she easily drew the sled loaded with the meat of a caribou into camp, on a beaten trail. At night in the tent Marcel had pitched and banked with snow, as a half-way camp on the round of his trap-lines, she would sit with hairy ears pointed, watching his every movement, looking unutterable adoration as he scraped his pelts, stretching them on frames to dry or mended his clothes and moccasins. Then, before he turned in to his plaited, rabbit-skin blankets, warmer by far than any fur robes known in the north, Fleur invariably demanded her evening romp. Taking a hand in her jaws which never closed, she would lift her lips, baring her white fangs in a snarl of mimic anger, as she swung her head from side to side, until, seizing her, Jean rolled her on her back, while rumbles and growls from her shaggy throat voiced her delight. Back at the main camp, Fleur, true to her breed, merely tolerated the presence of Antoine and Joe, indifferent to all offers of friendship. Moving away at their approach, she suffered neither of them to place hand upon her. At night she slept outside in the snow, where the thick mat of fine fur under the long hair rendered her immune to cold. And all these weeks Jean Marcel was fighting out his battle with self. Always, the struggle went ceaselessly on--the struggle with his heart to give up Julie Breton. Reason though he would, that he had nothing to give her, while this great man of the Company had everything, his love for the girl kept alive the embers of hope. He carried the memory of her sweetness over the white trails by day and at night again wandered with her in the twilight as in the days before the figure of Wallace darkened his life. As Christmas approached, Jean wondered whether Wallace would spend it in Whale River, and was glad that they had not intended, because of the great distance, to go back for the festivities at the post. Should he ever see her again as Julie Breton? he asked himself. Wallace would change his religion. Surely no man would balk at that, to get Julie. And the spring would see them married. Well, he should go on loving her--and Fleur; there was no one else. CHAPTER XI THE WARNING IN THE WIND One afternoon toward the end of the year when the early dusk had turned Marcel back toward camp from his most northerly line of marten traps, he suddenly stopped in his tracks on the ridge from which he had seen the lake on the Salmon headwaters the spring previous. Pushing back the hood of his caribou capote to free his ears, he listened, motionless. Beside him, with black nostrils quivering, Fleur sniffed the stinging air. Again the faint, far, wailing chorus which had checked him, reached Marcel's ears. The dog stiffened, her mane rising as she bared her white fangs. "You heard it too, Fleur?" muttered the man, softly, resting a rabbit-skin mitten on the broad head of the nervous husky. Marcel gazed long at the floor of snow to the north through wind-whipped ridges. "Ah-hah!" he exclaimed, "dey turn dees way." Clearer now the stiff breeze carried the call of the hunting wolves. Fleur burst into a frenzy of yelping. Seizing the dog, Marcel calmed her into silence. Then, after an interval, the cry of the pack slowly faded, and shortly, the man's straining ears caught no sound save the fretting of the wind through the spruce. Wolves he had often heard, singly, and in groups of four and five, but the hunting howl which had been brought to him through the hills by the wind, he knew was not the clamor of a handful of timber-wolves, but the blood chorus of a pack. None but the white-wolves which, far to the north, hung on the flanks of the caribou herds could raise such a hunting cry and there was but one reason for their drifting south from the great Ungava barrens. It was a sober face that Jean Marcel wore back to his camp. Large numbers of arctic wolves in the country meant the departure of the trapper's chief source of meat--the caribou. With the caribou gone, they had their limited supply of fish, and the rabbits, eked out by the flour, which would not carry them far, for the half-breeds, in spite of his warnings, had already consumed half of it. To be sure, the rabbits would pull them through to the "break-up" of the long snows in April; would keep them from actual starvation. Then he cursed his partners for failing to make themselves independent of meat by netting more fish in September. "To-morrow," said Marcel, on his return next day to the main camp, "we start for de barren and hunt de deer hard while dey stay in dees countree." The partners spoke, at times, in French patois and Cree, at times in broken English. "Wat you say, Jean? I got trap-line to travel to-morrow," objected Antoine Beaulieu. "I say dis," returned Marcel, commanding the attention of the two men by the gravity of his face. "De deer will not be in dis countree een t'ree--four day." "Ha! Ha! dat ees good joke, Jean Marcel!" exclaimed Piquet. "Oui, dat ees good joke!" returned Marcel, rising and shaking a finger in the grinning faces of his partners. "But I say dis to you, Antoine Beaulieu an' Joe Piquet. We go to de barren and hunt deer to-morrow or I tak' my share of flour and mak' my own camp." Marcel's threat sobered the half-breeds. They had no desire to break with the Frenchman, whose initiative and daring they respected. "De deer are plentee, I count seexteen to-day," argued Antoine. "Oui, to-day de deer are here, but, whiff!" Jean waved his hand, "an' dey are gone; for las' night I hear de white wolves, not t'ree or four, but manee, ver' manee, drive de deer in de hills. Dey starve in de nord and come here for meat. To-morrow we go!" Piquet and Beaulieu readily admitted that the white wolves, if they appeared in numbers, would drive the caribou--called deer, in the north--out of the country, but they insisted that what Jean had heard was the echoing of the call and answer of three or four timber wolves gathering for a hunt. Never in his life had Joe Piquet, who was thirty, heard of arctic wolves appearing on the Great Whale headwaters. Thus they argued, but Jean was obdurate. On the following day the three men started back into the barrens with Fleur and the sled. CHAPTER XII THE WORK OF THE WHITE WOLVES The first day, by hard hunting they shot three caribou, but to the surprise and chagrin of Antoine and Joe, on the second day, in a country where they had never failed to get meat earlier in the winter, the hunters got but one. After that not a caribou was seen on the wide barrens, while many trails were crossed, all heading south, and following the signs of the fleeing caribou were the tracks of wolves, not singly or in couples, but in packs. When the hunters had satisfied themselves that the caribou had left the country, they relayed their meat into camp with the help of Fleur and lines attached to the sled to aid her. That night the trappers took council. The caribou meat, flour and remaining fish, counting Jean's cache at Conjuror's Falls, would take them into February. After that, it would be rabbits through March and April until the fish began to move. In the meantime a few lake trout and pike could be caught with lines through holes in the ice. Also, setting the net under three feet of ice could be accomplished with infinite labor, but the results in midwinter were always a matter of doubt. "You had all September to net fish, but what did you do? You grew fat on deer meat," flung out Jean bitterly, thinking of his hungry puppy who required nourishing food in these months of rapid growth. "How much feesh you got in dat cache?" demanded Piquet, ignoring the remark. "About one hundred fifty pound," replied Marcel. "Not on Conjur' Fall, I mean at de lac." The fish Jean had netted and cached at the lake, on arriving in October, were designed for his dog and already had been partly used. "Only little left at de lac," he replied. "Dat feesh belong to us all; de dog can leeve on rabbit." Piquet's remark brought the blood to Jean's face. "De dog gets her share of feesh, do you hear dat, Joe?" rasped Marcel, his eyes blazing. "You and Antoine got no right to dat feesh; you refuse to help me and you laugh when I net dat feesh. De dog gets her share, Joe Piquet!" Marcel rose, facing the others with a glitter in his eyes that had its effect on Piquet. "We have bad tam, dees spreeng, for sure," moaned Antoine. "I weesh we net more feesh." "Well, I tell you what to do," said Jean. "Eef de feesh do not bite tru de ice or come to de net, we travel over to de Salmon, plentee beaver dere." At the suggestion of moving into the unknown country to the north, with its dread valleys peopled with spirits, the superstitious half-breeds shook their heads. Rather starve on the Whale, they said, than in the haunted valleys where the voices of the Windigo filled the nights with fear. With a disgusted shrug of his wide shoulders, Marcel dismissed the subject. "All right, starve on de Ghost, de Windigo get you on de Salmon." With the disappearance of the caribou the partners began setting rabbit snares to save their meat and flour. Jean brought up the last of his fish from Conjuror's Falls but refused to touch his cache at the lake. With strict economy and a liberal diet of rabbit, they decided that their food could carry them into March. Jean wished to keep the flour untouched for emergency, but the half-breeds, characteristically optimistic, counted on a return of the caribou, and they always had rabbit to fall back upon. During the last week in January while following his trap-lines, Jean made a discovery the gravity of which drove him in haste back to the camp on the Ghost. "How many long snows since de plague, Joe?" he asked. His comrades turned startled eyes on the speaker. Piquet slowly counted on his fingers the winters since the last plague all but exterminated the snow-shoe rabbits, then leaping to his feet, cried: "By Gar! eet ees not dees year. No, no! de ole man at de trade said de nex' long snow after dees will be de plague." "Well, de old men were wrong," Marcel calmly insisted, as his companions paled at the meaning of his words. "Eet ees dees year w'en you net leetle feesh, dat de rabbits die." "No, eet ees a meestake!" they protested as the lean features of the Frenchman hardened in a bitter smile. "On de last trip to my traps," went on the imperturbable Marcel, "I find four rabbit dead from de plague an' since de last snow I cross few fresh tracks." "I fin' none een two days myself," echoed Antoine. The stark truth of Marcel's contention drove itself home. At last, convinced, they gazed with blanched faces into each others' eyes from which looked fear--fear of the dread weeks of the March moon and the slow death which starvation might bring. The grim spectre which ever hovers over the winter camps in the white silences now menaced the shack on the Ghost. Shortly, fresh rabbit tracks became rare. After years of plenty, the days of lean hunting for lynx and fox had returned. The plague, which periodically sweeps the north, would bring starvation, as well, to many a tepee of the improvident children of the snows. CHAPTER XIII POOR FLEUR As the weeks went by, the food cache at the camp on the Ghost steadily shrank. The nets under the ice and the set-lines were now bringing no fish. More and more Jean slept in his half-way camp ten miles north, for although the short rations he fed Fleur had been obtained solely by his own efforts, Joe and Antoine objected to the well-nourished look of the puppy while they grew thin and slowly weakened. But, for generations, the huskies have been accustomed to starvation, and if not slaving with the sleds, will for weeks show but slight effect from short rations. Besides, Fleur had, from necessity and instinct, become a hunter, and many a ptarmigan and stray rabbit she picked up foraging for herself. To increase the difficulty of hunting for food, January had brought blizzard after blizzard, piling deep with drifts the trails to their trap-lines, which they still visited regularly, for the starved lynxes were coming to the bait of the flesh of their kin in greater and greater numbers. Twice, seeking the return of the caribou, the desperate men travelled far into the barrens beaten by the withering January winds, returning with wind-burned, frost-blackened faces, for no man may face for long the needle-pointed scourge of the midwinter northers off the Straits. Finally, in desperation, when the flour was gone, and the food cache held barely enough meat and fish for two weeks, Joe and Antoine insisted that, while they had food to carry them through, they make for the post. "You can crawl into de post lak a starving Cree because you were too lazy to net feesh. I will stay in de bush with my dog," was Jean's scornful reply. But the situation was desperate. With two months remaining before the big thaw in April, when they could rely on plenty of fish, there seemed but one alternative, unless the caribou returned or the fish began to move. A few trout and an occasional rabbit and ptarmigan would not keep them alive until the "break-up," when the bear would leave their "washes" and the caribou start north. Already with revolting stomachs they had begun to eat starved lynx. If only they could get beaver, but there were no beaver on the Ghost. It was clear that they must find game shortly or retreat to Whale River. One night Jean reached his fish cache on his return from a three days' hunt toward the Salmon waters. At last he had found beaver, and caching two at his tent, with his heart high with hope, was bringing the carcasses of three more to his partners. As he approached the cache in the gathering dusk, to his surprise he found the fresh tracks of snow-shoes. "Ah-hah!" he muttered, his mouth twisted in a grim smile, "so dey rob de cache of Jean Marcel while he travel sixty mile to get dem beaver!" The last of Fleur's pitiful little store of fish was gone. The cache was stripped. Jean shook his head sadly. So he could no longer trust these men whose hunger had made them thieves, he mused. Well, he would break with them at once. "Poor Fleur!" He patted the sniffing nose of his dog. Bitter with the discovery, Marcel drove Fleur over the trail to the camp. Opening the slab-door he surprised the half-breeds gorging themselves from a steaming kettle of trout. But hunger had driven them past all sense of shame. Looking up sullenly, they waited for him to speak. "Bon soir, my friends! I see you have had luck at de lines," he surprised them with. "I have three nice fat beaver for you." The hollow eyes of Joe and Antoine met in a questioning look. Then Piquet brazened it out. "Beaver, eh? Dat soun' good, fat beaver!" and he smacked his thin lips greedily. "W'ere you get beaver, Jean?" asked Antoine, now that the tension due to Jean's appearance had relaxed. "W'ere I tell you I would fin' dem, nord, een de valley of de spirits," he laughed. Marcel heaped a tin dish from the kettle, and slipping outside, fed Fleur. "Here, Fleur!" he called, "ees some of feesh dat Joe has boiled for you. Wat, you lak' eet bettair raw? Well, Joe he lak' eet boiled." Returning, Jean ate heartily of the lake trout. When he had finished and lighted his pipe, he said: "You weel fin' de beaver on de cache. I leeve een de morning for Salmon riviere country." "W'at, you goin' leave us, Jean?" cried Antoine visibly disturbed. "Oui, I don't trap wid t'ief!" The cold eyes of Marcel bored into those of Beaulieu which wavered and fell. But Piquet accepted the challenge. "W'at you t'ink, Jean Marcel, you geeve dose feesh to de dog w'en we starve?" he sullenly demanded. "We eat de dog, also, before we starve." "You eat de dog, eh, Joe Piquet? Dat ees good joke. You 'av' to keel de dog and Jean Marcel first, my frien'," sneered Marcel. "I net feesh for my dog and you not help me but laugh; now you tak' dem from my dog. Bien! I am tru wid you both! I geeve you de beaver and bid you, bon jour, to-morrow!" Antoine was worried, for he knew too well what the loss of Marcel would mean to them in the days to come. But the sullen Piquet in whom toil and starvation were bringing to the surface traits common to the half-breed, treated Marcel's going with seeming indifference. CHAPTER XIV THE MARK OF THE BREED Deep in the night, Marcel waked cold. Lifting his head from the blankets, his face met an icy draft driving through the open door of the shack which framed a patch of sky swarming with frozen stars. Wondering why the door was open, he rose to close it, when the starlight fell on Piquet's empty bunk. "Ah-hah! Joe he steal some more, maybe!" he muttered, hastily drawing on his moccasins. Then stepping into the thongs of his snow-shoes which stood in the snow beside the door, he hurried to the cache. Beneath the food scaffold crouched a dark form. "So you steal my share of de meat and hide eet, before I go, eh? You t'ief!" Caught in the act, Piquet rose from the provision bags as Marcel reached him, to take full in the face a blow backed by the concentrated fury of the Frenchman. Reeling back against a spruce support to the cache, the dazed half-breed sank to his snow-shoes, then, slowly struggling to his knees, lunged wildly with his knife at the man sneering down at him. Missing, Piquet's thrust carried him head-first into the snow, his arms buried to the shoulders. In a flash, Marcel fell on the prostrate breed with his full weight, driving both knees hard into Piquet's back. With a smothered grunt the half-breed lay limp in the snow. "Get up, Antoine!" called Marcel, returning to the shack with Fleur, who had left her bed under a spruce, "you fin' a cache-robber, widout fur on heem, out dere. I tak' my grub an' go." "W'ere ees Joe?" asked the confused Beaulieu, rubbing his eyes. "Joe, he got w'at t'ieves deserve. Go an' see." Antoine appeared shortly, followed by the muttering Piquet. "Ah, bo'-jo', M'sieu Carcajou! You have wake up," Jean jeered. One of Piquet's beady eyes was swollen shut, but the other snapped evilly as he limped to his bunk. Taking his share of the food, Marcel loaded his sled, hitched Fleur, then looked into the shack, where he found the two men arguing excitedly. "A'voir, Antoine! Better hide your grub or M'sieu Wolverine weel steal eet w'ile you sleep." With an oath, Piquet was on his feet with his knife, but Beaulieu hurled him back on his bunk and held him, as he cursed the man who stood coolly in the doorway, sneering at the helpless breed blocked in his attempt at revenge. "A'voir, Antoine!" Jean repeated, as the troubled face of Beaulieu turned to the old partner he respected, "don' let de carcajou keel you for de grub." And ignoring the proffered hand of the hunter who followed him out to the sled, took the trail north. As dawn broke blue over the bald ridges to the east, Marcel raised his set-lines and net at the lake and pushed on toward the silent hills of the Salmon headwaters. CHAPTER XV FOR LOVE OF A MAN It had been with the feeling of a heavy load loosed from his shoulders that the Frenchman left the Ghost. Disgusted with the laziness and lack of foresight of his partners in the autumn; through the strain and worry of the winter he had gradually lost all confidence in their capacity to fight through until spring brought back the fishing; and now this robbery of his cache and the affair with Piquet had made him a free man. For Antoine, the friend of his youth, ever easily led but at heart, honest enough, he held only feelings of disgust; but with the crooked-souled Piquet, henceforth it should be war to the knife. Knowing that there were more beaver in the white valleys of the Salmon country, Marcel faced with hope the March crust and the long weeks of the April thaws, when rotting ice would bar the waterways and soggy snow, the trails, to all travel. Somehow, he and Fleur would pull through and see Julie Breton and Whale River again. Somehow, they would live, but it meant a dogged will and day after day, many a white mile of drudgery for himself and the dog he loved. Crawl starved and beaten into Whale River--caught like a mink in a trap by the pinch of the pitiless snows--no Marcel ever did, and he would not be the first. The February dusk hung in the spruce surrounding the half-way camp of Marcel beside a pond in the hills dividing the watershed of the Ghost from the Salmon. For three days Jean had been picking up his traps preparatory to making the break north to the beaver country. With a light load, for Fleur could not haul much over her weight on a freshly broken trail in the soft snow, the toboggan-sled stood before the tent ready for an early start under the stars. From the smoke-hole of the small tepee the sign of cooking rose straight into the biting air, for there was no wind. But the half-ration of trout and beaver which was simmering in the kettle would leave the clamoring stomach of the man unsatisfied. With the three beaver he had brought from the north and the fish and caribou from the Ghost, Marcel still had food for himself and his dog for a fortnight, but he was not an Indian and was husbanding his scanty store. Fleur had already bolted her fish, more supper than her master allowed himself, for Fleur was still growing fast and her need was greater. Disliking the smoke from the fire which often filled the tepee, Fleur slept outside under the low branches of a fir, and when it snowed, waked warm beneath a white blanket. For, enured to the cold, the husky knows no winter shelter and needs none, sleeping curled, nose in bushy tail, in a hole dug in the snow, through the bitter nights without frost bite. As the dusk slowly blanketed the forest, here and there stars pricked out of the dark canopy of sky to light gradually the white hills rolling away north to the dread valleys of the forbidden land of the Crees. Later, as the night deepened, the Milky Way drew its trail across the swarming stars. In the pinch of the strengthening cold, spruce and jack-pine snapped in the encircling forest, while the ice of lake and river, contracting, boomed intermittently, like the shot of distant artillery. On the northern horizon, the camp-fires of the giants flickered and glowed, fitfully; then, at length, loosing their bonds, snake-like ribbons of light writhed and twisted from the sky-line to the high heavens, in grotesque traceries; and across the white wastes of the polar stage swept the eerie "Dance of the Spirits." For a space Jean stood outside the tepee watching the never-ceasing wonder of the aurora; then sending Fleur to her bed, sought his blankets. But no sting of freezing air might keep the furred and feathered marauders of the night from their hunting; for faintly on the tense silence floated the "hoo-hoo!" of the snowy owl, patrolling the haunts of the wood-mice. Out of the murk of a cedar swamp rose the scream of a starving lynx. Presently, over star-lit ridges drifted the call of a mating timber wolf. The Northern Lights had dimmed and faded. Sentinel stars alone guarded the white solitudes, when, from the gloom of the spruce out into the lighted snow moved a dark shape. Noiselessly the muffled racquettes of the skulker advanced. As the figure crept nearer the tent, it suddenly stopped, frozen into rigidity, head forward, as though listening. After a space, it stirred again. Something held in the hands glinted in the starlight, like steel. It was the action of a rifle, made bright by wear. When the creeping shape reached the banking of the tepee, again it stopped, stiff as a spruce. The seconds lengthened into minutes. Then a hand reached out to the canvas. In the hand was a knife. Slowly the keen edge sawed at the frozen fabric. At last the tent was slit. Leaning forward the hunter of sleeping men enlarged the opening and pressed his face to the rent. Long he gazed into the darkened tepee. Then withdrawing his hooded head, he shook it slowly as if in doubt. Finally, as though decided on his course, he thrust the barrel of his rifle through the opening and dropped his head as if to aim; when, from the rear a gray shape catapulted into his back, flattening him on the snow. As the weight of the dog struck the crouching assassin, his rifle exploded inside the tent, followed by a scream of terror. Again and again the long fangs of the husky slashed at the throat of the writhing thing in the snow. Again and again the massive jaws snapped and tore, first the capote, then the exposed neck, to ribbons. Then with cocked rifle the dazed Marcel, waked by the gun fired in his ears, reached them. With difficulty dragging his dog from the crumpled shape, Marcel looked, and from the bloodied face grimacing horribly in death above the mangled throat, stared the glazed eyes of Joe Piquet. "By Gar! You travel far for de grub and de _revanche_, Joe Piquet," he exclaimed. Turning to the dog, snarling with hate of the prowling thing she had destroyed, Jean led her away. "Fleur, ma petite!" he cried, "she took good care of Jean Marcel while he sleep. Piquet, he thought he keel us both in de tent. He nevaire see Fleur under de fir." The great dog trembling with the heat of battle, her mane stiff, yelped excitedly. "She love Jean Marcel, my Fleur; and what a strength she has!" Rearing, Fleur placed her massive fore-paws on Marcel's chest, whining up into his face; then seizing a hand in her jaws, proudly drew him back to the dead man in the snow. There, raising her head, as if in warning to all enemies of her master, she sent out over the white hills the challenging howl of the husky. When Jean Marcel had buried the frozen body of Joe Piquet in a drift over the ridge, where the April thaws would betray him to the mercy of his kind, the forest creatures of tooth and beak and claw, he started back to the Ghost with Fleur, taking Piquet's rifle to be returned to his people with his fur and outfit. Confident that Antoine had had no part in the attempt to kill him and get his provisions, he wished Beaulieu to know Piquet's fate, as Antoine would now in all probability make for Whale River and could carry a message. Furthermore if anything had by chance happened to Beaulieu, Marcel wished to know it before starting north. As Fleur drew him swiftly over the trail, ice-hard from much travelling, Jean decided that if Antoine wished to fight out the winter in the Salmon country, for the sake of their old friendship he would overlook the half-breed's weakness under Piquet's influence, and offer to take him. Dawn was wavering in the gray east when Marcel reached the silent camp. He called loudly to wake the sleeping man inside; but there was no response. Marcel's heavy eyebrows contracted in a puzzled look. "Allo, Antoine!" Still no answer. Was he to find here more of the work of Joe Piquet? he wondered, as he swung back the slab-door of the shack and peered into the dim interior. There in his bunk lay the half-breed. "Wake up, Antoine!" Marcel cried, approaching the bunk; then the faint light from the open door fell on the gray face of Antoine Beaulieu, stiff in death. "Tiens!" muttered Marcel. "Stabbed tru de heart w'en he sleep. Joe Piquet, he t'ink to get our feesh and beaver and fur, den he tell dem at Whale Riviere we starve out. Poor Antoine!" Sick with the discovery, Jean sat beside the dead man, his head in his hands. Bitterly now, he regretted that he had refused the hand of his old friend in parting; that he had not taken him with him when he left the Ghost. It was clear that before starting to stalk Marcel's camp, Piquet had deemed it safer to seal the lips of Beaulieu forever as to the fate of the man he planned to kill. "Poor Antoine!" Marcel sadly repeated. Outside, Fleur, fretting at the presence of death, whined to be off. In the cold sunrise, Jean lashed the body of his boyhood friend, which he had sewed in some canvas, on the food cache, that it might rest in peace undefiled by the forest creatures, until on his return in May he might give it decent burial. Beside it he placed the fur-packs, rifles and outfits of the two men. "Adieu, Antoine!" he called, waving his hand at the shrouded shape on the cache, and turned north. CHAPTER XVI THE STARVING MOON March, the Crees' "Moon of the Crust on the Snow," was old. Camped on a chain of lakes in the Salmon country Marcel had been following the few traps for which he had bait and at the same time hunting widely for food. Soon, the sun, mounting higher and higher each day at noon, would begin to soften the surface of the snow which the freezing nights would harden into crust. Then he could travel far and fast. With much searching he had found another beaver lodge, postponing for a space the days when man and dog would have not even half rations to stay their hunger. The Frenchman's drawn face and loose capote evidenced the weeks of under-nourishment; but, though Fleur's great bones and the ropes of muscle, banding her back and shoulders, thrust through her shaggy coat with undue prominence, still she had as yet suffered little from the famine. So long as Jean Marcel had had fish or meat, his growing puppy had received the greater share, for she had already attained in that winter on the Ghost a height and bulk of bone equal to that of her slate-gray mother now far on the north coast. For days Jean had been praying for the coming of the crust. With it he planned to make a wide circle back into the high barrens in search of returning caribou. Once the crust had set hard, travelling with the sled into new country would be easy. Food he must accumulate to take them through the April thaws, or perish miserably, with no one to carry the news of their fate to Whale River. Since the heart-breaking days when the white wolves drove the caribou south and the rabbits disappeared, he had, in moments of depression, sat by the fire at night, wondering, when June again came to Whale River and one by one the canoes of the Crees appeared, if, by chance, a pair of dark eyes would ever turn to the broad surface of the river for the missing craft of Jean Marcel--whether in the joy of her love for another the heart of the girl would sadden for one whose bones whitened in far Ungava hills. At last the crust came. With eyes shielded by snow goggles made by cutting slits in flat pieces of spruce, for the glare of the sun on the barrens was intense, Jean started with his dog. All the food he had was on his sled. He had burned his bridges, for if he failed in his hunt, they would starve, but as well starve in the barrens, he thought, as back at camp. They were passing through the thick spruce of a sheltered valley, travelling up-wind, when Fleur, sniffing hard, grew excited. There was something ahead, probably fur, so he did not tie his dog. Shortly Fleur started to bolt with the sled and Jean turned her loose. Following his yelping husky, who broke through the new crust at every leap, Marcel entered a patch of cedar scrub. There Fleur distanced him. Shortly, a scream, followed by a din of snarls and squalls filled the forest. Close ahead a bitter struggle of creatures milling to the death was on. "Tiens!" exclaimed Jean, fearing for the eyes of his raw puppy, battling for the first time with the great cat of the north. He broke through the scrub to see the lynx spring backward from the rush of the dog and leap for the limbs of a low cedar. But the cat was too slow, for at the same instant, Fleur's jaws snapped on his loins, and with a wrench of her powerful neck, the husky threw the animal to the snow with a broken back. In a flash she changed her grip, the long fangs crunching through the neck of the helpless beast, and with a quiver, the lynx was dead. Hot with the lust of battle, Fleur worried the body of her enemy. Reaching her, Jean proudly patted his dog's back. "My Fleur! She make de _loup-cervier_ run!" he cried, delighted with the courage and power of his puppy. Then he anxiously examined the slashes of rapier claws on Fleur's muzzle and shoulders. "Bon!" he said, relieved. "De lynx he very weak or he cut you deeper dan dese scratch." As Jean hastily skinned the dead cat he marvelled at its emaciation. "Ah! He also miss de rabbit. Lucky he starve or you get de beeg scratch, Fleur." For answer the hot tongue of the dog sought his hands as she raised her brown eyes to his. With arms around her shaggy shoulders her proud master muttered into the ears of the delighted husky love words that would have been strange indeed to any but Fleur, who found them sweet beyond measure. "My Fleur, she grow to be de dog, de most _sauvage_!" he cried. "Some day she keel de wolf, eh?" Owing to the weakened condition of the lynx, Fleur's were but surface scratches. So furious had been the husky's assault on the starved cat that she had left no opening to the knife-like claws of the powerful hind legs. Continuing east, four days later Marcel camped in a valley on the flank of a great barren. In the morning, tying Fleur with a rawhide thong which she could have chewed through with ease but had been taught to respect, he followed the scrub along the edge of the barren searching for caribou signs. Often he stopped to gaze out across the white waste reaching away east to the horizon, seeking for blue-gray objects whose movements in scraping away the snow to the moss beneath, would alone mark them as caribou. In places the great winds had swept the plateau almost bare, beating down the snow to a depth of less than a foot. All day he skirted the barren but at last turned back to his camp sick at heart and spent with the long day on the crust, following his meagre breakfast. Deep in the shelter of the thick timber of the valley, he had dug away the snow for his fire and sleeping place, lashing above his bed of spruce boughs a strip of canvas which acted both as windbreak and heat reflector. When they had eaten their slim supper, he freshened the fire with birch logs, and sat down with Fleur's head between his knees. The "Starving Moon" of the Montagnais hung over Jean Marcel. "Fleur, you know we got onlee two day meat left? W'en dat go, Jean Marcel go too--een few day, a week maybe; and Fleur, w'at she do?" The husky's slant eyes shone with her dog love into the set face of her master. She whined, wrinkling her gray nose, then her jaw dropped, which was her manner of laughing, while her hot breath steamed in the freezing air. Vainly she waited for the smile that had never failed to light Marcel's face in the old days at such advances. Dropping his mittens Jean held the massive head between his naked hands. "Jean Marcel feel ver' bad to leave Fleur alone. Wid no game she starve too, w'en he go," he said. Fleur's deep throat rumbled in ecstasy as the hands of the master rubbed her ears. "Back on de Ghost, Fleur, ees some feesh and meat Joe and Antoine left; not much, but eet tak' us to Whale Riviere, maybe." The lips of Fleur lifted from her white teeth at the names of Jean's partners. "You remember Joe Piquet, Fleur? Joe Piquet!" The husky growled. She knew only too well the name, Joe Piquet. "Eet ees four--five sleep to de Ghost, Fleur, shall we go? W'at you t'ink?" The strained face in the fur-lined hood approached the dog's, whose eyes shifted uneasily from the fixed look of her master. "We go back to de Ghost, Fleur, or mak' one beeg hunt for de deer?" The perplexed husky, unable to meet Marcel's piercing eyes, sprang to her feet with a yelp. "Bon!" he cried. "We mak' de beeg hunt!" He had had his answer and on the yelp of his dog had staked their fate. To-morrow he would push on into the barrens and find the caribou drifting north again, or flicker out with his dog as men for centuries had perished, beaten by the long snows. In the morning he divided his remaining food into four parts; a breakfast and a supper for himself and Fleur, for two days. After that--strips of caribou hide and moss, boiled in snow water, to ease the throbbing ache of their stomachs. Eating his thin stew, he shortened his belt still another hole over his lean waist, and harnessing Fleur, turned resolutely east into country no white man had ever seen, on his bold gamble for food or an endless sleep in the blue Ungava hills. In his weakened state, black spots and pin-points of light danced before his eyes. Distant objects were often magnified out of all proportion. So intense was the glare of the high March sun on the crust that his wooden goggles alone saved him from snow-blindness. He travelled a few miles until dizziness forced him to rest. Later he continued on, to rest again, while the black nose of Fleur, who was still comparatively strong, sought his face, as she wondered at the reason for the master's strange actions. By noon he had crossed no trail except that of a wolverine seeking food like himself, and finally went down into the timbered valley of a brook where he left Fleur and the sled. Then he started again on his hopeless search. As the streams flowed northeast, he was certain that he had crossed the Height of Land to the Ungava Bay watershed, and was now in the headwater country of the fabled River of Leaves, the Koksoak of the Esquimos, into which no hunter from Whale River had ever penetrated. Marcel was snow-shoeing through the scrub at the edge of the plateau when far out on the barren he saw two spots. Shortly he was convinced that the objects moved. "By Gar, deer! At last they travel nord!" he gasped, gazing with bounding pulses at the distant spots almost indistinguishable against the snow. Meat out there on the barren awaited him--food and life, if only he could get within range. Cutting back into the scrub, that he might begin his stalk of the caribou from the nearest cover with the wind in his face, he moved behind a rise in the ground slowly out into the barren. With a caution he had never before exercised, lest the precious food now almost within reach should escape him, the starving man advanced. At last he crawled up behind a low knoll, and stretched out on the snow. Cocking and thrusting his rifle before him, he wormed his way to the top of the rise and looked. There a hundred yards off, playing on the crust, were two arctic foxes. Distorting their size, the barren ground mirage had cruelly deceived him. With a groan the spent hunter dropped his head on his arms. "All dees for fox!" he murmured. Then, because foxes were meat, he took careful aim and shot one, wounding the other, which he killed with the second bullet. Hanging the carcasses in a spruce, Marcel continued to skirt the barren toward the east. As dusk fell he returned to Fleur and made camp. Cutting up and boiling one of the foxes, he and the dog ate ravenously of the rank flesh, but hope was low in the breast of Jean Marcel. A day or two more of half rations and he was done. The spring migration of the caribou was not yet on. And when the deer did come, it would be too late. Jean Marcel would be past aid and Fleur--what would become of her? True, she could live on the flanks of the caribou herds like the wolves, but the wolves would find and destroy her. Tortured by such thoughts, he sat by his fire, the husky's great head on his knee, her eyes searching his, mutely demanding the reason for his strange silence. Another day of fruitless wandering in which he had pushed as far east as his fading strength would take him, and Jean shared the last of the food with his dog. He had fought hard to find the deer, had already travelled one hundred miles into the barrens, but he felt that it was no use; he was beaten. The spirit of the coureurs whose blood coursed his veins would drive him on and on, but without food the days of his hunting would be few. Henceforth it would be caribou hide boiled with moss from the barrens to ease the pinch of his hunger, but his strength would swiftly go. Then, when hope died, rather than leave his dog to the wolves, he would shoot Fleur and lying down beside her in his blanket, place the muzzle of his rifle against his own head. Two days, in which Marcel and Fleur drank the liquor from stewed caribou hide and moss while he continued to hunt, followed. As he staggered into camp at the end of the second day the man was so weak that he scarcely found strength to gather wood for his fire. Fleur now showed signs of slow starvation in her protruding ribs and shoulders. Her heavy coat no longer shone with gloss but lay flat and lusterless. Vainly she whimpered for the food that her heart-sick master could not give her. With the dog beside him, Marcel lay by the fire numbed into indifference to his fate. The torment of hunger had vanished leaving only great weakness and a dazed brain. He thought of the three wooden crosses at Whale River; how restful it would be to lie beside them behind the Mission, instead of sleeping far in the barrens where the great winds beat ceaselessly by over the treeless snows. There Julie Breton might have planted forest flowers on the mound that marked the grave of Jean Marcel. But no, he had forgotten; Julie Breton would not be at Whale River. Julie would live at East Main and some day at her feet would play the children of Wallace. Julie would be married in the spring at Whale River, while the wolves and ravens were scattering the whitened bones of Jean Marcel over the valley, and there would be no rest--no rest. What hopes he had had of a little house of their own at Whale River when he entered the service of the Company and drove the mail packet down the coast, with the team that Fleur would give him. How often he had pictured that home where Julie and the children would wait his return from summer voyage and winter trail; Julie Breton, whom he had loved from boyhood and whom, he had once prided himself, should love him, some day, when he had proved his manhood among the swart men of the East Coast. All a dream--a dream. Julie was happy. She would soon marry the great man at East Main, while in a few days Jean Marcel was going to snuff out--smoulder a while, as a fire from lack of wood, dying by inches--by inches; and then two shots. Poor Fleur! It had all come to pass because he had dared to follow and bring her home--had had no time to cache fish and game in the fall. She would have been better off with the half-breeds on the Rupert, where the caribou had gone. They would have kicked her, but fed her too. Yes, she would have been better there. Now he would take her with him, his own dog, when the time came. No more starvation for her, and a death in the barrens when she met the white wolves. Yes, he would take her with him. So rambled the thoughts of Jean Marcel, as he lay with his dog facing the creeping death his rifle would cheat, until kindly sleep brought him surcease--sleep, followed by dreams of the wide barrens trampled by herds of the returning caribou, of juicy steaks sizzling over the fire, while Fleur gnawed contentedly at huge thigh bones. CHAPTER XVII THE TURN OF THE TIDE Before dawn, a cold nose nuzzling his face buried in his robe, waked Marcel. "Fleur, hungry? Eet ees better to sleep w'en dere ees no breakfast," he protested. The warm tongue sought the face of the drowsy man, and the dog, not to be put off, thrust her nose roughly into his robe, whimpering as she pulled at his capote. "Poor Fleur!" he muttered. "No more meat for de pup! Lie down! Jean ees ver' tired." But the dog, bent on arousing the master, grew only the more insistent. Seizing an arm in her jaws, she dragged Marcel from his rabbit-skin blankets. As he sat upright, wide awake, Fleur sniffed long at the frosty air, then dashed yelping into the dusk up the trail toward the barren. Turning, she ran back to camp, whining excitedly. "Tiens! W'at you smell, Fleur?" cried Marcel tearing his rifle with shaking hands from its skin case and cramming cartridges into a pocket. Could it be, he wondered, could it be the deer at last? No, only a starving wolf or lynx, prowling near the camp, likely. But still he would go! The love of life was yet strong in Jean Marcel now that a gleam of hope warmed his heart. Slipping his toes into the thongs of his snow-shoes, he made Fleur fast to a tree, and started. He was so weak from lack of food that often he was forced to stop in the climb, shaken by his hammering heart. At last, exhausted, he dragged himself to the shoulder of the barren and on unsteady legs moved along the edge of the scrub, his eyes straining to pierce the wall of dusk which shut the plateau from his sight. But the shadows still blanketed the barren; so testing the light wind, that he might move directly out toward the game when the light grew stronger, he sat down to save his strength for the stalk. Only too clearly, his weakness warned him that it was his last hunt. By another day, even though he managed the climb, his trembling hands would prevent the lining of his sights on game. As opal and rose faintly streaked the east, the teeth of the hunter, waiting to read the fate daylight would disclose, chattered in the stinging air. But a space now, and he would know whether he were to creep back to his blankets and wait for stark despair to steady the hand which would bring swift release for Fleur and himself, or whether meat, food, life, were scraping with round-toed hooves the snow from the caribou moss out there in the dim dawn. Daylight filtered over the floor of snow to meet Marcel lying at the top of a rise out on the barren, waiting. As the light at length opened up the treeless miles, a sob shook the lean frame of the hunter. Tears welled in the deep-set eyes to course down and freeze upon his face, for there, on the snow before him, were the _blue-gray shapes of caribou_. Three deer were feeding almost within range while farther out, gray patches, moving on the snow, marked other bands. At last the spring migration had reached him, and barely in time. He would see Whale River again when June came north. And Fleur, fretting back there in camp at his absence, after the lean days would revel and grow gigantic on deer meat. Painfully Marcel crawled within easy range of the nearest caribou. As he attempted to line his sights in order to hit two with the first shot, as he had often done, the waving of his gun barrel in his trembling hands swept him cold with fear. The exertion of crawling to his position had cruelly shaken his nerves. So he rested. Then he carefully took aim. As he fired, his heart skipped a beat, for he thought he had missed. But to his joy a caribou bounded from the snow, ran a few feet and fell, while another, stopping to scent the air before circling up-wind, gave him a second shot. The deer was badly hit and the next shot brought it down. The tension of the crisis passed, the shattered nerves relaxed, and for a space the starving hunter lay limp in the snow. But warned by his rapidly numbing fingers, he forced himself to his feet and went to the deer. Out on the barren beyond the sound of his rifle scattered bands of caribou were feeding. Meat to take them through the big "break-up" of April was at hand. The lean face of Jean Marcel twisted into a grim smile. _He had beaten the long snows._ Stopping only to take the tongues and a piece of haunch, Marcel returned to his hungry dog. Frantic with the faint scent of caribou brought by the breeze off the barren, the famished Fleur chafed and fretted for his return. "Here, Fleur, see what Jean Marcel got for you!" The husky, maddened by the scent of the blood-red meat, plunged at her leash, her jaws dripping with slaver. Throwing her a chunk of frozen haunch which she bolted greedily, Marcel filled his kettle with snow and putting in a tongue and strips of steak to boil, lay down by his fire. CHAPTER XVIII SPRING AND FLEUR At intervals during the day Jean drank the strengthening broth, too "bush-wise" to sicken himself by gorging. By late afternoon he was able to drive the rejuvenated Fleur to the barren and bring back the meat on the sled. The days following were busy ones. At first his weakness forced him to husband his strength while the stew and roasted red meat were thickening his blood, but as the food began to tell, he was able to hunt farther and farther into the barrens where the main migration of the caribou was passing. When he was strong enough, he took Fleur with a load of meat back to his old winter camp, returning with traps. These he set at the carcasses he had shot, for foxes, lynxes and wolverines were drawn from the four winds to his kill. So while he hunted meat to carry him through April, and home, at the same time he added materially to his fur-pack. Toward the end of March, before the first thaws softened his back trail and made sled-travel heart-breaking for Fleur, Jean began relaying west the meat he had shot. He had now, cached in the barrens, ample food to supply Fleur and himself until the opening of the waterways when fish would be a most welcome change. His sledding over, he returned to his camp in the barrens to get his traps and take one last hunt, for the lean weeks of the winter had made him over-cautious and he wished to make the trip back with a loaded sled. By the coming of April, Fleur, in whom an abundance of red caribou meat had swiftly worked a metamorphosis, had increased in bone and weight. As Jean watched her throw her heavy shoulders into her collar and trot lightly off over the hard trail with a two hundred pound load his heart leaped with love of the beautiful beast who worshipped him with every red drop in her shaggy body. What a team she would give him some day! he thought. There would be nothing like them south of Hudson's Straits. And the Company would need them for the winter mail packet, with Jean Marcel to drive them. Lately he had noticed a new trait in his dog. Several times, deep in the night when he waked to renew the fire, he had found that Fleur was not sleeping near him but had wandered off into the "bush." As she needed no food, he thought these night hunts of the husky peculiar. But at dawn, he always found Fleur back in camp sleeping beside him. It was Marcel's last night in the barren-ground camp. Leaving Fleur, he had, as usual, hunted all day, returning with a sled load of meat which he drew himself. As he approached the camp he crossed the trail of a huge timber wolf and hurried to learn if his dog had been attacked, for tied as she was, she would fight with a cruel handicap. But Fleur greeted him as usual with yelps of delight. In the vicinity of the camp there were no tracks to show that the wolf had approached the husky. However, Marcel decided that he would not leave her again bound in camp unable to chew through the rawhide thongs in time to protect herself from sudden attacks of the wolves which roamed the country. After supper man and dog sat by the fire, but Fleur was manifestly restless. Time and again she left his side to take long sniffs of the air. Not even the rubbing of her ears which usually brought grunts of pleasure had the magic to hold her long. The early moon hung on the white brow of a distant ridge, and Jean, finishing his pipe, was about to renew his fire and roll into his blankets, when a long, wailing howl floated across the valley. Fleur bounded to her feet, her quivering nostrils sucking in the keen air. Again the call of the timber wolf drifted out on the silent night. Fleur, alive with excitement, trotted into the "bush." In a moment she returned to the fire, whimpering. Then sitting down, she pointed her nose at the stars and her deep throat swelled with the long-drawn howl of the husky. Shortly, when the timber wolf replied, the lips of Fleur did not lift from her white fangs in a snarl nor did her thick mane rise as her ears pricked eagerly forward. At dawn Jean waked with a sense of loneliness. Pushing together the embers of his fire, he put on fresh wood, and not seeing Fleur, called to her but she did not appear. She had a habit of prowling around the neighboring "bush" at dawn, inspecting fresh tracks of mice, searching for ptarmigan or for the snow-shoe rabbits that were not there. But when Marcel's breakfast was cooked Fleur was still absent. Thinking that a fresh game trail had led her some distance, he ate, then started to break camp. Finally he put his index and middle fingers between his teeth and blew the piercing whistle which had never failed to bring her leaping home. Intently, he listened for her answer somewhere in the valley of the stream or on the edge of the barren, but the yelp of his dog did not come to his straining ears. Curious as to the cause of her absence Jean smoked his pipe and waited. He was anxious to start back with his traps and meat; but where was Fleur? Becoming alarmed by the middle of the morning, he made a wide circle of the camp hoping to pick up her trail. Two days previous there had been a flurry of snow sufficient to enable him to follow her tracks on the stiff crust. In the vicinity of the camp were traces of Fleur's recent footprints but finally, at a distance, Marcel ran into a fresh trail leading down into the brook-bottom. There he lost it, and after hours of search returned to camp to wait for her return. But the day wore away and the husky did not appear. Night came and visions of his dog lying somewhere stiff in the snow slashed and torn by wolves, tortured his thoughts. If only he could pick up her trail at daylight, he thought, for she might still live, crippled, unable to come to him, waiting for Jean Marcel who had never failed her. As he sat brooding by his fire, he came to realize, now that he had lost her, what a part of him the dog had become. His thoughts drifted back over their life together, months of gruelling toil and--delight. Tears traced their way down the wind-burned cheeks of Marcel as he recalled her early puppy ways and antics, how she had loved to nibble with her sharp milk teeth at his moccasins and sit in the bow of the canoe, on their way down the coast, scolding at the seals and ducks; with what mad delight she had welcomed his visits to the stockade at Whale River circling him at full speed, until breathless and panting, she leaped upon him, her hot tongue seeking his hands and face. Then on the long trail home from the south coast marshes, how closely she would snuggle to his back as they lay on the beaches, as if fearing to lose him while she slept. And the winter on the Ghost, with its ghastly end--what a rock his dog had been when his partners failed him! In the moment of his peril, how savagely she had battled for Jean Marcel! Through the lean weeks of starvation when hope had died, to the dawn when she had waked him at the coming of the caribou, his thoughts led him. And now, when spring and Whale River were near, it was all over. Their life together with its promise of the future had been snapped short off. He should never again look into the slant, brown eyes of Fleur. He had lost his all; first Julie, and now, Fleur. There was nothing left. At daybreak, without hope, he took up the search along the stream. Where the wind had driven, the crust now stiff with alternate freezing and thawing and swept clean of snow, would show little sign of the passing of the dog, but in the sheltered areas where the crust was softer and the young snow lay, he hoped to cross the tracks of Fleur. At length, miles from the camp, he picked up the trail of the dog in some light drift. Following the tracks across the brook-bottom and into the scrub of the opposite slope, he suddenly stopped, wide-eyed with amazement at the evidence written plainly in the light covering of the crust. Fleur's tracks had been joined by, and ran side by side with, the trail of a wolf. "By Gar!" gasped the surprised Frenchman. "She do not fight wid de wolf!" As he travelled, he found no marks of battle in the snow, simply the parallel trails of the two, dog and wolf, now trotting, now lengthening out into the long, wolf lope. "Fleur leave Jean Marcel for de wolf!" the trapper rubbed his eyes as though suspicious of a trick of vision. His Fleur, whom he loved as his life and who adored Jean Marcel, to desert him this way in the night--and for a timber wolf. It was strange indeed. Yet he had heard of such things. It was this way that the Esquimos kept up the marvellous strain to which Fleur belonged. He recalled the peculiar actions of the dog during the previous days--the wolf tracks near the camp; her excitement of the night before when the call had sounded over the valley. This wolf had been dogging their trail for a week and Fleur had known it. "Ah!" he murmured, nodding his head. "Eet ees de spreeng!" Yes, the spring was slowly creeping north and the creatures of the forest had already answered its call. It was April, and Fleur, too, had succumbed to an urge stronger for the moment than the love of the master. April, the Crees' "Moon of the Breaking of the Snow-Shoes," when, at last, the wind would begin to shift to the south and the nights lose their edge, only to shift back again, with frost. Then the snow would melt hard at noon, softening the trails, and later on, rain and sleet would drive in from the great Bay turning the white floor of the forest to slush, flooding the ice of the rivers which later would break up and move out, overrunning the shell of pond and lake which late in May would honeycomb and disappear. Marcel followed the trails of wolf and dog until he lost them on the wind-packed snow of the barren. There was nothing to do but wait. He knew his dog had not forgotten him--would come home; but when? It was high time for his return to the camp in the Salmon country, to his precious cache of meat, which would attract lynxes and wolverines for miles around. The bears would soon leave their "washes" and the uprights of his cache were not proof against bear. But he would not go without Fleur, and she was away, somewhere in the hills. Three days he waited, continuing to hunt that he might take a full sled-load back to his cache. But the weather was softening and any day now might mean the start of the big "break-up." It was deep in the third night that a great gray shape burst out of the forest and pounced upon the muffled figure under the shed-tent by the fire. As the dog pawed at the blanketed shape, Marcel, drugged with sleep and bewildered by the attack, was groping for his knife, when a familiar whine and the licks of a warm tongue proclaimed the return of Fleur, and the man threw his arms around his dog. "Fleur come back to Jean?" Breaking from him, in sheer delight, the dog repeatedly circled the fire, then rearing on her hind legs put her fore-paws on his chest. "Fleur bad dog to run away wid de wolf!" Marcel seized her by the jowls and shook the massive head, peering into the slant eyes in the dim starlight. And Fleur, as though ashamed of her desertion of the master, pushed her nose under his arm, the rumbling in her throat voicing her joy to be with him again. Then Marcel gave her meat from the cache which she bolted greedily. It had not entered his mind once he had found her tracks that Fleur would not return to him, but during her long absence the condition of the snow had been a source of worry. Each day's delay meant the chance of the bottom suddenly falling out of the trail before he could freight his load of meat and traps back to his old camp far to the west. Once the big thaw was on, all sledding would be over. So, hurriedly eating his breakfast, he started under the stars, for at noon he would be held up by the softening trail. Toward mid-afternoon, when it turned colder, he would again travel. Back at his old camp, Marcel found that the fish-hook necklace with which he had circled each of the peeled spruce uprights of his cache had baffled the wolverines and lynxes lured for miles by the odor of meat. Resetting short trap-lines, he waited for the "break-up" with tranquil mind, for his cache groaned with meat. CHAPTER XIX WHEN THE ICE GOES SOFT The snows were fading fast before the rain and sleet of the big thaw. Often, at night, the softening winds shifted, to drive in raw from the north, again tightening the land with frost. But each day, as May neared, the sun swung higher and higher, slowly scattering the snow to flood the ice of myriad lakes and rivers. Already, Marcel had thrilled to the trumpets of the gray vanguards of the Canadas. On fair days the sun flashed from white fleets of "wavies," bound through seas of April skies to far Arctic ports. With May the buds of birch and poplar began to swell, later to light with the soft green of their young leaves the sombre reaches of upland jack-pine and spruce. Rimming the rivers with red, the new shoots of the willows appeared. At dawn, now, from dripping spires, white-throats and hermit thrush, fleeter than the spring, startled the drowsing forest with a reveille of song. One afternoon in May on his return from picking up a line of traps to be cached for use the following winter, Marcel went to the neighboring pond to lift his net. For safety on the rapidly sponging ice he wore his snow-shoes and carried a twelve-foot spruce pole. He had reset the net and was lashing an anchor line to a stake when suddenly the honeycombed shell crumbled beneath his feet. As he sank, he lunged for the pole he had dropped to set the net, but the surface settled under his leap carrying him into the water. Fighting in the mush ice for the pole almost within reach, to his horror he found his right foot trapped. He could not move farther in that direction. The snow-shoe was caught in the net. Marcel turned back floundering to the edge of firm ice, where he held himself afloat. Fast numbing with cold, as he clung, caught like a beaver in a trap, he knew that it was but a matter of minutes. Fleur, if only Fleur were there! But Fleur was hunting in the "bush." With a great effort he braced himself on his elbows, got his frozen fingers between his teeth, and blew the signal, once heard, his dog had never failed to answer. To the joy of the man slowly chilling to the bone, a yelp sounded in the forest. Rallying his ebbing strength, again Marcel whistled. Shortly Fleur appeared on the shore, sighted the master and bounded through the surface slop out to the fishing hole. Reaching Marcel, the husky seized a skin sleeve of his capote and arching her great back, fought the slippery footing in a mad effort to drag him from the water. But the net held him fast. "De stick, Fleur! De stick dere!" Marcel pointed toward the pole. Sensing his gesture, the dog brought the pole to the ice edge. Then with the pole bridging the hole, its ends on firm ice, Marcel worked his way to the submerged net, but the sinkers had hopelessly tangled the meshes with his snow-shoe. Under his soggy capote was his knife. His stiff fingers fumbled desperately with the knot of his sash but failed to loose it. Again Fleur seized his sleeve and pulled until she rolled backward with a patch of the tough hide in her teeth. The situation of the trapped man seemed hopeless. The chill of the water was fast numbing his senses. Already his heart slowed with the torpor of slow freezing. With difficulty now he kept the excited Fleur from plunging beside him into the mush ice. Then with a final effort he got his free leg with its snow-shoe, over the pole, and seizing the husky's tail with both hands, cried: "Marche, Fleur! Marche!" Settling low between wide-spread fore-legs, the dog dug her nails into the soft ice and hurled her weight into a fierce lunge. As her feet slipped, the legs of the husky worked like piston rods showering Marcel's face with water, her nails gouging the ice, while she fought the drag of the net. At last, something gave way, Marcel felt himself move. Slowly the great dog drew her master over the pole and upon the ice with the net still anchored to his right foot. Still gripping Fleur's tail in his left hand, with the other he finally reached his knife and groping in the icy water slashed the heel thong of the caught shoe. Free, Marcel limped to his camp, Fleur, now leaping beside him, now marching proudly with his sleeve in her teeth. The heat of the fire and the hot broth soon started the blood of the half-frozen Frenchman, who lay muffled in a blanket. Near him sprawled the husky, who had sensed only too acutely on the ice the danger menacing her master and would not now leave his sight, but with head on paws watched the blanketed figure through eyes which spoke the thoughts she could not express: "Jean may need Fleur again. She will stay with him by the fire." Once too often, Marcel mused, he had gambled with the rotten spring ice, and now had barely missed paying for his rashness. To drown in a hole like a muskrat, after pulling out of the starvation days with a cache heavy with meat and fish, was unthinkable. But, after all, what did it matter? Life would be of small value now with Julie out of it. CHAPTER XX THE DEAD MAN TELLS HIS TALE When, late in May, the snow had left the open places reached by the sun and the ice cleared the rivers, Marcel was ready to make his first trip to the camp on the Ghost. Poor Antoine would have to lie content in a shallow grave among the boulders of the river shore, for the frost was still in the ground. Before the weather softened Jean had smoked the remainder of his meat and now he faced a ten-mile portage with his outfit. Before the trails went bad he could have freighted on the sled sufficient food for his journey home but had preferred to face the "break-up" in his own camp near a fish-lake and relay his meat over on his back in May. The memories of the winter aroused by the camp on the Ghost were too grim to attract him to the comfortable shack. One morning at sunrise, after lashing a pack on Fleur's broad back, he threw his tump-line over a bag of smoked meat and swinging it to his shoulders, started over the trail. In the middle of the forenoon he walked into the clearing on the Ghost and pushing off the head strap of his line, dropped his load. Glancing at the cache where he had left the body of Antoine Beaulieu lashed in canvas with the fur-packs and rifles of the dead men, Marcel muttered in surprise: "By Gar! Dat ees strange t'ing!" The scaffold was empty; the body of Antoine had been removed and not a vestige remained of the fur-packs and outfits of Jean's partners. Neither wolverines, lynxes nor bears, had they been able to overcome the fish-hook barriers guarding the uprights, would have stripped the platform in such fashion. Searching the soft earth, he found the faint tracks of moccasins which the recent rain had not obliterated. But down on the river shore the mud told the story. A canoe had landed there within a week, for in spite of the rain the deep impress of the feet of men carrying heavy loads still marked the beach. Since the ice went out someone who knew that the three men were wintering there, had travelled up the Ghost from the Whale, but why? They could not have been starving, for fish could then be had on the Whale for the setting of a net. Evidently they had buried Antoine and taken the fur-packs, rifles, and outfits of the two men to Whale River. Marcel searched for a message, in the phonetic writing employed throughout the north, burned into a blazed tree, or on a scrap of birch-bark, left in the shack, but found nothing. The cabin was as he had last seen it. They had thought him, also, dead somewhere in the "bush" and had left no word, or----Then the situation opened to him from the angle of view of the Cree visitors. A camp on the verge of starvation, witnessed by the depleted cache; a dead man stabbed to the heart, with his rifle and outfit beside him; also, the rifle and personal belongings, easily identified by his relatives, of a second man, who, if he were still alive, would have had them in his possession. Of the third man, who was to winter with them, no trace at the camp. Two dead and the third, possibly alive, if he had not starved out. And that third man was Jean Marcel. That was the grim tale which was travelling down the river ahead of him to the spring trade. Who killed Antoine Beaulieu, and where is Piquet? This was the question he would have to answer. This the factor and the kinsmen of his partners would demand of the third man, if he survived to reach the post. Yes, Whale River would anxiously await the return of Jean Marcel that spring, but would Whale River believe his story? Of the people of the post he had no doubt. Julie, Père Breton, the factor, Angus, Jules, he could count on. They knew him--were his friends. But the Crees, and half-breds; would they believe that Joe Piquet had been the evil genius of the tragedy on the Ghost, Joe Piquet, now dead and helpless to speak in his own defense? Would they believe in the innocence of the man who alone of the three partners had fought free of the long famine? Marcel's knowledge of the Indians' mental make-up told him that since the visit of the Crees to the camp his case was hopeless. They would readily believe that he had killed his partners for the remaining food, and, not anticipating the coming of a canoe in the spring to the camp, had gone after caribou, planning to secrete the body of Antoine, with its evidence of violence, on his return. Of those who had peopled the canoes starting for the up-river summer camps in July, many a face would now be absent when the Crees returned for this year's trade. Famine surely had come to more than one camp of the red hunters that winter; and doubtless, swift death in the night, also, among some of those, who, when caught by the rabbit plague and the absence of wintering caribou, like Piquet, went mad with hunger. Disease, too, as a hawk strikes a ptarmigan, would have struck down many a helpless child and woman marooned in snow-drifted tepee in the silent places. Old age would have claimed its toll in the bitter January winds. To the red hunters, starvation and tragic death wore familiar faces. In the wide north they were common enough. So, when in the spring, men loosed from the maw of the pitiless snows returned without comrade, wife or child, seeking succor at the fur-posts, with tales of death by starvation or disease, the absence of witnesses or evidence compelled the acceptance of their stories however suspicious the circumstances. There being no proof of guilt, and because, moreover, their tales were often true, there could be no punishment, except the covert condemnation of their fellows or the secret vengeance of kinsman or friend in the guise of a shot from the "bush" or knife thrust in the dark. He recalled the cases he knew or which he had heard discussed over many a camp-fire, of men on the East Coast, sole survivors of starvation camps, who would go to their graves privately branded as murderers by their fellows. Grim tales of his father returned to him; of the half-breed from Nichicun who, it was commonly believed, had eaten his partner; of Crees who had appeared in the spring at the posts without parents, or wives and children, to tell conflicting stories of death through disease or starvation; of the Frenchman at Mistassini--still a valued servant of the Company--who was known from Fort Albany to Whale River and from Rupert to the Peribonka, as the squaw-man who saved himself on the Fading Waters by deserting his Montagnais girl wife. These and many more, through lack of any proof of guilt, had escaped the long arm of the government which, through the fur-posts, reached to the uttermost valleys of the north. And so it must have been with Jean Marcel, however suspicious his story, had he buried Antoine somewhere in the snow, as he had Piquet, instead of lashing the body on the cache with its telltale death wound. As it was he already saw himself, though innocent, condemned in the court of Cree opinion as the slayer of his friend. As he came to a realization of how his case would look, even to the whites at Whale River, he cursed the dead man Piquet for bringing all this upon a guiltless man--for leaving him this black legacy of suspicion. Well, he swore to himself, they should believe his story at the post, for it was the truth; and if any man, white or red, openly doubted his innocence, he would have to answer to Jean Marcel. To be branded on the East Coast as the assassin of his partners was a bitter draught for the palate of the proud Frenchman. For generations the Marcels had borne an honored name in the Company's service and now for the last of them to be suspected of foul murder, was disgrace unthinkable. So ran his thoughts as he hurried back over the trail to his camp. Of one thing he felt sure. The situation brought about by the visit of the Crees demanded his presence at the post as soon after their arrival as his paddle could drive his canoe. From the appearance of the tracks on the beach they already had a good start and it would take two days for him to pack to the Ghost what meat and outfit he needed for the trip, besides his furs. The rest he could cache. CHAPTER XXI THE BLIND CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE Three days later, he had run the strong-water of the Ghost to Conjuror's Falls, where he exchanged Beaulieu's canoe for his own, cached the previous fall, and continued on to the Whale until the moon set, when he camped. Then next morning, long before the rising sun, reaching the smoking surface in his path, rolled the river mists back to fade on the ridges, Marcel, with Fleur in the bow, was well started on his three-hundred-mile journey. Travel as he might, he could not hope to overtake the canoe bearing the tale of the tragedy to Whale River; but each day when once the news had reached the post, the story, passed from mouth to mouth among the Crees, would gather size and distortion with Marcel not present to refute it. There was great need for speed, so he drove his canoe to the limit of his strength, running all rapids which skill and daring could outwit. Different, far, from the home-coming he had pictured through the last weeks, would be his return to Whale River. True, there would have been no long June days with Julie Breton, as in previous summers, no walks up the river shore when the low sun turned the Bay to burnished copper, and later, the twilight held deep into the night. If she were not already married her days would be too full to spare much time to her old friend Jean Marcel. But there would have been rest and ease, after the months of toil and famine--long talks with Jules and Angus, with worry behind him in the hills. Instead he was returning to his friends branded as a criminal by the evidence of the cache on the Ghost. At times, when the magic of the young spring, in the air, the forest, the hills, for a space swept clean his troubled brain of dark memory, he dreamed that the water-thrushes in the river willows called to him: "Sweet, sweet, sweet, Julie Breton!" That yellow warblers and friendly chickadees, from the spruces of the shore, hailed him as one of the elect, for was he not also a lover? That the kingfishers which scurried ahead of his boat gossiped to him of hidden nests. Deeply, as he paddled, he inhaled the scent of the flowering forest world, the fragrance of the northern spring, while his birch-bark rode the choked current. And then, the stark realization that he had lost her, and the shadow of his new trouble, would bring him rough awakening. Meeting no canoes of Cree hunters bound for the trade, for it was yet early, in nine days Marcel turned into the post. He smiled bitterly as he saw in the clearing a handful of tepees. Around the evening fires they had doubtless already convicted Jean Marcel, alive or dead. Familiar with the half-breed weakness for exaggeration, he wondered in what form the story of the cache on the Ghost had been retailed at the trade-house. Well, he should soon know. The howling of the post dogs announced his arrival, stirring Fleur after her long absence from the sight of her kind to a strenuous reply. Leaving his canoe on the beach Marcel went at once to the Mission, where the door was opened by the priest. "Jean Marcel!" The bearded face of the Oblat lighted with pleasure as he opened his arms to the wanderer. "You are back, well and strong? The terrible famine did not reach you?" he asked in French. Jean's deep-set eyes searched the priest's face for evidence of a change toward him but found the same frank, kindly look he had always known. "Yes, Father, I beat the famine but I have bad news. Antoine is dead. He was----" "Yes, I know," Père Breton hastily broke in. "They brought the word. It is terrible! And Piquet, is he dead also?" "Yes, Father," Marcel said quietly. "Joe Piquet was killed by Fleur, here, after he stabbed Antoine!" "_Juste Ciel!_ Killed by Fleur after he stabbed Antoine?" repeated the priest, staring at the husky. "Yes, I wish to tell you all first, Father, before I go to the trade-house--and Julie?" Jean inquired, his voice vibrant with fear of what the answer might be. "Put the dog in the stockade and I will call Julie." Ah, then she was not married. Marcel breathed with relief. "We have been very sad here, wondering whether you had starved--were alive," continued the priest. "The tale Piquet's uncle, Gaspard Lelac, and sons brought in day before yesterday made us think you also might have----" "Did they say Antoine had been stabbed?" interrupted Marcel, for the priest had avoided mention of the cause of Beaulieu's death. "They said they found his body." Père Henri still shunned the issue. "Where?" demanded Marcel. "Buried on the river shore!" "They lie!" As Marcel had anticipated, the half-breeds had embellished the sufficiently damning evidence of the cache. He realized that he faced a battle with men who would not scruple to lie when the stark facts already looked badly enough. "They never were truthful people, my son. We have hoped and prayed for your coming to clear up the mystery." Jean put Fleur in the stockade and returned to the house. Julie Breton stood in the doorway. "Welcome home, Jean!" she cried in French, giving him both hands. "Why--you are not thin!" She looked wonderingly at his face. "We thought--you also--had starved." Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at the man already numbered with the dead. Swept by conflicting emotions, Marcel swallowed hard. Were these sisterly tears of joy at his safe return or did she weep for the Jean Marcel she once knew, now dishonored? "There, there! _Ma petite!_" consoled Père Henri, stroking the dark head. "We have Jean here again, safe; all will be well in time." "Julie had you starved out in the 'bush,' Jean, when we heard their story," explained the priest. But the puzzled youth wondered why Père Henri did not mention the charges that the half-breeds must have made on reaching Whale River. Recovering her self-control Julie excused herself to prepare supper. Then before asking what the Lelacs had told the factor, Marcel related to the priest the grim details of the winter on the Ghost; of the deaths of Antoine and Piquet, of his fortunate meeting with the returning caribou, and of his discovery, on his return to the old camp, of the visit of the Lelacs' canoe. "Father, it looks bad for me. They found Antoine stabbed and Piquet's fur and outfit. I brought his rifle back to the camp and cached it with his stuff and Antoine's to bring it all down river in the spring to their people." At this the heavy brows of the priest lifted in surprise. Marcel continued: "The cache was empty. It was a starvation camp. Antoine was dead, and Piquet also, for his outfit was there. Seeing these things, what could anyone think? That the third man, Jean Marcel, did this and then went into the barrens for caribou. There he starved out, or else found meat and would return, when he could clear himself if able. Father, it was my wish to tell you my story before I heard the tale the Lelacs brought to the post. Then you could judge between us." The priest leaned forward in his chair and rested his hands on Marcel's shoulders. His eyes sought those of the younger man which met his gaze unwaveringly. "Jean Marcel," he said, "I have known you since your father brought you to Whale River as a child. You have never lied to me. True, the circumstances are unfortunate; but you have told me the truth. We did not believe that you had killed your comrades; you would have starved first; nor did Gillies or McCain or Jules believe in the truth of the charge of the Lelacs. They are waiting to hear your story. Also, since hearing your side, I see why the Lelacs are anxious to have it believed at the trade-house that you were responsible for the deaths of these men. They are grinding an axe of their own. It is not alone because they are kin of Piquet that they wish to discredit and injure you." "How do you mean, Father?" Marcel asked, curious as to the significance of the priest's last statement. "I will tell you later, my son. You should report at the trade-house now. They are waiting for you." Cheered with the knowledge that his old friends were still staunch, that the factor had waited for his return before expressing even an opinion, Marcel hurried to the trade-house. Meeting no one as he passed the scattered tepees, he flung open the slab-door of the log-building and with head high, entered. "Jean Marcel! By Gar, we hear you arrive!" roared the big Jules, rushing upon the youth with open arms. "You not starve out, eh?" Then Gillies and McCain, wringing his hand, added their welcome. Surely, he thought, with choked emotion, these men had not turned against him because of the tales of Lelac. "Jean, you had a hard winter with the rabbits gone," suggested Gillies. "You must have found the caribou this spring?" "Yes, I find de caribou, M'sieu, but I travel far for dem; eet was hard time een Mars." "And the dog, you didn't have to eat your dog, Jean?" asked McCain. Marcel's face hardened. "De dog and Jean, dey feast and dey starve togeder. I am no Cree dog-eater. Dat dog she save my life, one, two tam, dees winter, M'sieu." Never had the thought of sacrificing Fleur as a last resort entered the mind of Marcel in the lean days on the barrens. "Well, my lad," said Gillies heartily, "we are sure glad to have you back alive. We hear there was much starvation on the East Coast this year, with the rabbit plague and the scarcity of deer." They also, Marcel saw, were waiting to hear his story before alluding to the charges of the half-breed kinsmen of Piquet. "M'sieu Gillies," Jean began. "I weesh to tell you what happen on de Ghost. De Lelacs bring a tale to Whale Riviere dat ees not true." "We have paid no attention to them, Jean, trusting you would show up and could explain it all then. I know you and I know the Lelacs. I was sorry to hear about Antoine and Piquet but I don't think you had any part in it, lad. Be sure of that!" "T'anks, M'sieu." Then slowly and in great detail Marcel related to the three men, sitting with set faces, the gruesome history of the past winter. When he came to the night that Fleur had destroyed the crazed Piquet, the Hudson's Bay men turned to each other with exclamations of wonder and admiration. "That's a dog for you! She got his wind just in time!" muttered Gillies. "Tiens! Dat Fleur she is lak de wolf," added Jules. "You ask eef I eat her, M'sieu," Marcel turned on McCain grimly. "Could you eat de dog dat save your life?" "No, by God! I'd starve first!" thundered the Scotchman. "I love dat dog," said Jean quietly, and went on with his tale. Breathless, they heard how he had pushed deeper and deeper beyond the hunting grounds of the Crees into the nameless barrens until he reached streams flowing northeast into Ungava Bay, and at last met the returning caribou; how the great strength of Fleur beat the drag of the net, when he was slowly freezing in the lake; and then he came to his return to the Ghost. In detail Marcel enumerated the articles belonging to Antoine and Piquet which he had placed on the stage of the cache beside Beaulieu's body when he left for the Salmon country and which had been taken by the Lelacs to Whale River. "I lashed Antoine een hees shed-tent and put heem on de cache, for the wolverine and lynx would get heem een de snow." As Marcel talked McCain and Gillies exchanged significant looks. "Um!" muttered the factor, when Jean had finished. "Something queer here!" "What, M'sieu?" Marcel demanded. "Why, Lelac says he found the body of Antoine buried under stones on the shore and that there was nothing on the cache except the empty grub bags." "Dey say de fur and rifle was not dere?" "Yes, nothing on the cache!" "Den I must have de rifle and de fur; ees dat eet?" "Yes, that's what they insinuate." "Ah-hah!" Marcel scowled, thinking hard. "Dey say dey fin' noding, so do not turn over to you de rifle and fur-pack." "Yes, they claim you must have hidden them as you hid the body." "Den how do dey know Piquet ees dead too?" Marcel's dark features relaxed in a dry smile. It was not, then, solely the desire for vengeance on the murderer of their kin that had prompted the half-breeds to distort the facts. "They say his extra clothes and his outfit were in the cabin, only his rifle and fur missing. Now, Jean," he continued, "I am perfectly satisfied with your story. I believe every word of it. I knew your father and I know you. The Marcels are not liars. But the Lelacs are going to make trouble over the evidence they found at your camp. Suspicion always points to the survivor in a starvation camp, and you know the circumstances are against you, my lad." "M'sieu," Marcel protested. "Eef I keel Antoine, I would tak' heem into de bush and hide heem, I would not worry ovair de fox and wolverine." "Of course you would have hidden the body somewhere. We appreciate that. But as they are trying to put this thing on you they ignore that side of it. What you admit they found,--Antoine's body with a stab wound, and Piquet's outfit, makes it look bad to people who don't know you as we do. They won't believe that the famine got Piquet in the head. They'll say that's a tale you made up to get yourself off." Marcel went hot with anger. His impulse was to seek the Lelacs and have it out, then and there. But he possessed the cool judgment of a long line of ancestors whose lives had often depended on their heads, so he choked back his rage. "Now I don't want it carried down the coast that you killed your partners, Jean," went on Gillies. "Young as you are, you'll never live it down. And besides, there's no knowing what the government might do. I'll have to make a report, you know. So we've got to do some tall thinking between us before the hunters get in." While the factor talked, the swift brain of Marcel had struck upon a plan to trap and discredit the Lelacs, but he wished to think it over, alone, before proposing it at the trade-house, so held his tongue. When he was ready he would ask the factor to hold a hearing. Then he could put some questions to his accusers that would make them squirm. One question he did ask before packing his fur and outfit from the beach up to the Mission. "Have de Lelac traded dere fur, M'sieu?" "No, we haven't started the trade yet." "W'en dey trade dere fur weel you hold it from de oder fur, separate?" "Why, yes, I'll do that for you, but you can't hope to identify skins, Jean." A corner of Marcel's mouth curled in a quizzical smile. "Wait, M'sieu Gillies; I tell you later," and with a "Bon-soir!" he went out. CHAPTER XXII IN THE DEPTHS Although it would have been pure suicide for anyone to attempt to take Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury to his dog. So, refusing a room in the Mission House, he pitched his tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside him. Here his staunch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector Wallace had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and although no one knew exactly what had transpired, whether he had as yet become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that the Scotchman would shortly remove the sole obstacle to his marriage to Julie Breton. With head in hands, Jean Marcel listened to the news, none the less bitter because anticipated. The loyal Jules' crude attempt to console the brokenhearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat's-paw. Not only had he lost his heart's desire, but his name was now a byword at Whale River; the woman he held dear and his honor, both gone. There was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt. During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who, in his absence, had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for caribou on the barrens and in Fleur's rescue of her master from the lake. For the delicacy of the girl in avoiding the tragedy which was plainly claiming his thoughts, he was deeply grateful. Clearly from the first, she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. But with what was evidently a forced gaiety, the girl sought, on the night of his return, to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future--of the trying days ahead. "Come, Jean Marcel," she laughed, speaking to him, as always, in French, "are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not told me how you like this muslin gown." She pirouetted on her shapely moccasined feet challenging his approval. "Henri says I'm growing thin. Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie, the Montagnais cook at the Gillies'." The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding eyes softened as they followed the trim figure in the simple muslin gown. It was a rare picture indeed for a man who had but just finished seven months in the "bush," half the time with the spectre of starvation haunting his heels--this girl with the dusky eyes and hair, the vivid memory of whose face he had carried with him into the nameless barrens. But she belonged to another and he, Jean Marcel, was branded as a murderer at Whale River, even if he escaped the law. Presently, when Père Breton was called from the room to minister to a Cree convert, Julie became serious. "Jean Marcel, I have much to say to you; but it is hard--to begin." "I should think you would have little to say to Jean Marcel." "Why, because some half-breeds have brought a story to Whale River which was not true?" "Well, enough of it is true, Julie, to make the Indians believe, when they hear it, that Jean Marcel killed his partners to save himself from starvation." "Not if Père Breton and Monsieur Gillies have any influence with the Crees. They will not allow them to believe such a cruel falsehood," protested Julie, vehemently. Marcel smiled indulgently at the girl's ignorance of Cree psychology. "The harm is already done," he said. "One man is found stabbed; also the outfit of another gone. The third man comes back. No matter what M'sieu Gillies and Père Henri tell them they will believe the man guilty who got out alive." "They will not believe these Lelacs, when they are shown to be liars," she insisted, stamping her foot impatiently. "They have lied about the rifle and fur only, Julie. They are telling the truth when they say they found Antoine and some of Piquet's outfit. The rest does not matter except to make me a thief as well as murderer." "Oh, but it is all so unjust, so terrible to be accused like this when because of your good heart you wished to bury Antoine decently in the spring instead of leaving him in the snow where they would never have found him. It is too----" Julie Breton's voice broke with emotion. Through tears her dark eyes flashed in protest at the pass to which a blind fate had brought an innocent man. Marcel was deeply touched by this revelation of the girl's loyalty; but her tears roused his heart to a wild beating. Unable to speak, he faced her, his dark features illumined with the gratitude and love he could not voice. For a space he sat fighting for the mastery of his emotions. Then he said huskily: "Julie Breton, you give me great happiness--when you say you believe me--are still my friend." "Oh, la, la! Nonsense!" she cried, dabbing with, a handkerchief at her wet eyes as she recovered her poise, "you are a boy, so foolish, Jean. Do you think that we, your friends who know you, will permit this thing? It is impossible!" And changed the subject, nor did she allow him to return to it. CHAPTER XXIII IN THE EYES OF THE CREES Day by day the ebb-tide brought in the canoes of returning Crees. Gradually tepees filled the post clearing. And with the coming of the hunters from the three winds, was heard many a tale of famine in far valleys; of families blotted out; of little victims of starvation and disease; of the aged too frail to endure through the lean moons of the rabbit-plague until the return of the caribou, which had spelt life to those who waited. Tragedy there had been, as in every winter of famine; but however sinister were the secrets which, that spring, many a mute valley held locked in its green forests, no rumors of such, except the tale of the murders on the Ghost, had reached Whale River. Pitiless desertion of the aged and the helpless, death by violence, doubtless, the starving moon had shone upon; but none had lived to tell the tale, none had seen the evidence, except those who had profited with their lives, and their lips were forever sealed. And so, as Marcel had foreseen, to the gathering families of Crees who themselves had but lately escaped the maw of the winter, the tale of the Lelacs, expanding as it travelled, found ready acceptance. As yet, Jean, chafing under the odium of his position at the post, had not faced his accusers. But the plan of his defense which had been decided on after a conference with Gillies and Père Breton, depended for its success on the trading of their fur by the Lelacs, and the uncle and cousins of Joe Piquet for some reason had traded no fur. So the proud Frenchman went his way among the hunters at Whale River with a high head and silent tongue. Many of those who, the spring previous, had lauded his daring in entering the land of the Windigo and voyaging to the coast by the Big Salmon, now, at his appearance exchanged significant glances, avoiding the steady eyes of the man they had condemned without a hearing. Shawled women and girls, who formerly, at the trade, had cast approving glances at the wide-shouldered youth with the clean-cut features, now whispered pointedly as he passed and children often shrank from him in terror as from one defiled. But Marcel had been prepared for the effect of the tale of the Lelacs upon the mercurial red men, in the memories of many of whom still lurked the ghosts of deeds of their own whose ghastly details the ears of no man would ever hear. Since his return he had not once met the Lelacs face to face. Always they had hastily avoided him when he appeared on the way to his canoe or the trade-house. Jean had been strictly ordered by Gillies under no circumstances to seek trouble with his accusers or their friends, so he ignored them. And their disinclination to encounter the son of the famous André Marcel had not gone unmarked by the keen eyes of more than one old hunter. Many a red man and half-breed, friends of the father, who respected the son, had frankly expressed to him their disbelief in the charges of the Lelacs, accepting his story which Gillies had published to the Crees, that Beaulieu had been stabbed by Joe Piquet while Marcel was absent and Piquet killed later by the dog. Strongly they had urged him to make the Lelacs eat their lies, promising their support; but Jean had explained that it was necessary to wait; later his day would come. Occasionally when Marcel crossed the post clearing, pulsing with the varied life of the spring trade, to descend the cliff trail to his canoe, there marched by his side one whose name, also, was anathema with many of the Crees. That comrade was Fleur. The story of Piquet's death as told by Jean at the trade-house, though scouted by the Lelacs, had, nevertheless, left a deep impression; and the great dog, now called the "man-killer," who towered above the scrub huskies of the Indians as a mastiff over a poodle, was given a wide berth. But to avoid trouble with the Cree dogs, Jean kept Fleur for the most part in the Mission stockade. There Gillies and McCain and Jules had come to admire the bulk and bone of the husky they had last seen as a lumbering puppy, now in size and beauty far surpassing the Ungavas bought by the Company of the Esquimos. There, Crees, still friendly to Jean, lingered to gossip of the winter's hardships and stare in admiration at his dog. There, too, Julie romped with Fleur, grown somewhat dignified with the gravity of her approaching responsibilities. For, to the delight of Jean, Fleur was soon to present him with the dog-team of his dreams. Then when the umiaks of the Esquimos began to arrive from the coast, packed with tousle-headed children and the priceless sled-dogs, taking Fleur, Jean sought out his old friend Kovik of the Big Salmon. As he approached the skin lodge on the beach, beside which the kin of Fleur were made fast to prevent promiscuous fighting with strange dogs, she answered their surly greeting with so stiff a mane, so fierce a show of fangs, that Jean pulled her away by her rawhide leash, lest her reputation suffer further by adding fratricide to her crimes. Playmates of her puppyhood, mother who suckled her, she had forgotten utterly; vanished was all memory of her kin. She held but one allegiance, one love; the love approaching idolatry she bore the young master who had taken her in that far country from the strange men who beat her with clubs; who had brought her north again through wintry seas; who had companioned her through the long snows and in the dread days of the famine had shared with her his last meat. The center and sum of her existence was Jean Marcel. All other living things were as nothing. "Kekway!" cried the squat pair of Huskies, delighted at the appearance of the man who had given them back their first born. "Kekway!" chuckled a half-dozen round-faced children, shaking Jean's hand in turn. "Huh!" grunted the father, his eyes wide with wonder at the sight of Fleur, ears flat, muttering dire threats at her yelping brethren straining at their stakes, "dat good dog!" "Oui, she good dog," agreed Jean. "Soon I have dog-team lak Husky!" Shifting a critical eye from Fleur to his own dogs the Esquimo nodded. "Ha! Ha! You ketch boy in water, you get bes' dog." The Esquimo had not erred in his judgment of puppies. He had indeed given the man who had cheated the Big Salmon of his son the best of the litter. At sixteen months, Fleur stood inches higher at the shoulder and weighed twenty pounds more than her brothers. Truly, with the speed and stamina of their sire, the timber wolf, coupled with Fleur's courage and power, these puppies, whose advent he awaited, should make a dog-team unrivalled on the East Coast. "Cree up dere," continued the Esquimo, pointing toward the post clearing, "say de dog keel man." Marcel nodded gravely. "Oui, man try kill me, she kill heem." "Huh! De ol' dog keel bad Husky, on Kogaluk one tam." Fleur indeed had come from a fighting strain--dogs that would battle to the death or toil in the traces until they crumpled on the snow, for those they loved or to whom they owed allegiance. CHAPTER XXIV ON THE CLIFFS Marcel was walking on the high river shore above the post with Julie Breton and Fleur. Like a floor below them the surface of the Great Whale moved without ripple in the still June afternoon. Out over the Bay the sun hung in a veil of haze. Back at the post, even the huskies were quiet, lured into sleep by the softness of the air. It was such a day as Jean Marcel had dreamed of more than a year before, in January, back in the barrens, when powdery snow crystals danced in the air as the lifting sun-dogs turned white wastes of rolling tundra into a shimmering sea. He was again with Julie on the cliffs, but there was no joy in his heart. "The Lelacs have traded their fur," he said, breaking a long silence; "the hearing will take place soon, now." "Yes, I know, you were with Monsieur Gillies and Henri very late last night," she replied, watching the antics of an inquisitive Canada jay in an adjacent birch. "Yes, we had some work to do. The Lelacs will not like what we have to tell them." "I knew that you would be able to show the Crees what bad people these Lelacs are." "Yes, Julie, we shall prove them liars and thieves; but the stain on the name of Jean Marcel will remain. I cannot deny that Antoine was killed; the Crees will not believe my story." "Nonsense, Jean," she burst out, "you must make them believe you!" "Julie," he said, ignoring her words, "since my return I have wanted to tell you--that I wish you all happiness,"--he swallowed hard at the lump in his throat,--"I have heard that you leave Whale River soon." At the words the girl flushed but turned a level gaze on the man, who looked at the dim, blue shapes of the White Bear Hills far on the southern horizon. "You have not heard the truth," she said. "Monsieur Wallace has done me the honor to ask me to marry him, but Monsieur Wallace is still a Protestant." The words from Julie's own lips stung Marcel like the lash of a whip, but his face masked his emotion. Then she went on: "I wanted to talk to you last summer, for you are my dear friend, but you were here for so short a while and we had but a word when you left." Then the girl burst out impulsively, "Ah, Jean; don't look that way! Won't you ever forgive me? I am--so sorry, Jean. But--you are a boy. It could never be that way. Why, you are as a brother." Marcel's eyes still rested on the silhouetted hills to the south. He made no answer. "Won't you forget, Jean, and remain a friend--a brother?" He turned his sombre eyes to the girl. "Yes, I shall always be your friend--your brother, Julie," he said. "But I shall always love you--I can't help that. And there is nothing to forgive. I hoped--once--that you might--love Jean Marcel; but now--it is over. God bless you, Julie!" As he finished, Julie Breton's eyes were wet. Again Marcel gazed long into the south but with unseeing eyes. The girl was the first to break the silence. "Jean," she said, returning to the charges of the Lelacs, "you must not brood over what the Crees are saying. What matters it that the ignorant Indians, some of whom, if the truth were known, have eaten their own flesh and blood in starvation camps, do not believe you. For shame! You are a brave man, Jean Marcel. Show your courage at Whale River as you have shown it elsewhere." Sadly Marcel shook his head. "They will speak of me now, from Fort George to Mistassini, as the man who killed his partners." And in spite of Julie Breton's words of cheer he refused to see his case in any other light. They had turned and were approaching the post when the practised eye of Marcel caught the far flash of paddles toward the river mouth. For a space he watched the rhythmic gleams of light from dripping blades leaving the water in unison, which alone marked the approaching canoe on the flat river. Then he said: "There are four or six paddles. It must be a big Company boat from Fort George. I wonder what they come for during the trade." As Jean and Julie Breton entered the post clearing the great red flag of the Company, carrying the white letters H. B. C., was broken out at the flagpole in honor of the approaching visitors. The canoe, now but a short way below the post, was receiving the undivided attention of Esquimos, Crees and howling huskies crowding the shore. The boat was not a freighter for she rode high. No one but an officer of the Company travelled light with six paddles. It was an event at Whale River, and Indians and white men awaited the arrival of the big Peterborough with unconcealed interest. "It must be Inspector Wallace," said Jean. With a face radiant with joy in the unexpected arrival of Wallace, Julie Breton hastened to the high shore, while Marcel turned slowly back to the Mission stockade where his dog awaited him at the gate. As the canoe neared the beach the swart _voyageurs_, conscious of their Cree and Esquimo audience, put on a brave burst of speed. At each lunge of the narrow Cree blades, swung in unison with a straight arm, the craft buried its nose, pushing out a wide ripple. On they came spurred by the shouts from the shore, then at the order of the man in the bow, the crew raised their paddles and bow and stern men deftly swung the boat in to the Whale River landing amid the cheers of the Indians. "How ar' yuh, Gillies?" said Wallace, stepping from the canoe; and, looking past the factor to a woman's figure on the high shore, waved his cap. "Well, well, Mr. Wallace; we hardly expected to see you at Whale River so early," answered Gillies, drily, smiling at the eagerness of Wallace. "Anything happened to the steamer?" "Oh, no! The steamer is all right. She'll be here on time. I thought I'd run up the coast during the trade this year." Gillies winked surreptitiously at McCain. It was most peculiar for the Inspector of the East Coast to arrive before the accounts of the spring trade were made up. "How has the famine affected the fur with you, Gillies?" asked Wallace, as they proceeded up the cliff trail to the post clearing. "The Fort George and East Main people were hit pretty hard, a number of families wiped out." "Yes, I expected as much," said Gillies. "A few of our people were starved out or died of disease. Nine, all told, have been reported, four of them old and feeble. It was a tough winter with both the rabbits and the caribou gone; we have done only fairly well with the trade, considering." "What's this I hear about a murder by one of your Frenchmen?" Wallace suddenly demanded. "We met a canoe at the mouth of the river and heard that the bodies of two half-breeds who had met foul play were found this spring and that you have the third man here now?" "That's pure Indian talk, Mr. Wallace," Gillies protested forcibly. "I will give you the details later. A half-breed killed one of his partners and attempted to kill the other, Jean Marcel, the son of André Marcel; you remember André, our old head man. You saw Jean here last summer. He is one of our best men. In fact, I'm going to take him on here at the post, although he's only a boy. He's too valuable to keep in the bush." "Oh, yes! I remember him; friend of Father Breton. But we've got to put a stop to this promiscuous murder, Gillies. There's too much of this thing on the Bay, this killing and desertion in famine years, and no one punished for lack of evidence." "But this was no murder, Mr. Wallace," Gillies answered hotly. "You'll hear the story to-night from Marcel's lips, if you like. We have some pretty strong evidence against his accusers, also. This is a tale started by the relatives of one of the men to cover their own thieving." "Well, Gillies, your man may be innocent, but I want to catch one of these hunters who come into the posts with a tale of starvation as excuse for the disappearance of their partners or family. When the grub goes they desert, or do away with their people, and get off on their own story. I'd like to get some evidence against one of them. The government has sent pretty stiff orders to Moose for us to investigate these cases, and where we have proof, send the accused 'outside' for trial." "When you've talked to him, Mr. Wallace, I think you'll agree that he tells a straight story and that these Lelacs are lying." "I hope so," answered Wallace, and started for the Mission, where Julie Breton awaited him. CHAPTER XXV INSPECTOR WALLACE TAKES CHARGE That night when Inspector Wallace had heard the story of the murders on the Ghost, he sent for Jean Marcel, to whom it was quite evident, on reporting at the trade-house, that the relations between the former and Gillies had recently become somewhat strained. The face of the Inspector was noticeably red and Gillies' heavy brows contracted over eyes blazing with wrath. "Sit down!" said the Inspector as Marcel reported. "Now, Marcel," Wallace began, severely, "this case looks pretty bad for you. You go into the bush in the fall with two partners, and the body of one is found with a knife wound, together with the effects of the other, in the spring." "Yes, M'sieu!" assented Jean. "You say Piquet killed Beaulieu and was killed by your dog when he attacked you. All right! But suppose when you began to starve you had killed Beaulieu and Piquet to get the remaining grub, how would that, if it had happened, have changed the evidence at the camp?" "De bodee of Antoine on de cache," replied Jean coolly, "proves to any smart man dat I did not keel heem. Eef I keel heem I would geeve de bodee to de lynx and wolverines out in de snow. Den I would say he died of de famine, lak de Cree do, and no one could deny it." Marcel's narrowed eyes bored into those of the Inspector. He tried to forget that before him sat the man who had taken from him all he held dear, this man who now had it in his power to dishonor him as well--send him south for trial among strangers. "Well, the Lelacs say you did hide the body. But suppose you left it on the cache. You were safe. Why should anyone come to your camp and see it? You were two days' travel up the Ghost from Whale River. They surprised you while you were away hunting." With a look of disgust but retaining his self-control, Jean answered: "Eet was a ver' hard winter. De Cree were starve' and knew we camp up de Ghost. Dey might come tru de bush for grub any tam. Eef I keel heem would I wait till spring to hide him under stones, as Lelac say?" "Um!" The face of Inspector Wallace assumed a judicial expression. "The circumstantial evidence is against you. Of course, you have something in your favor, but if I were on a jury I'd have to convict you," Wallace said with an air of finality. "One moment, Mr. Wallace," growled Gillies. "How about the previous reputation of Marcel and the character of the whole Lelac tribe? Hasn't that got any weight with you? I believe this boy because I've always found him honest and straight, as his father was. We thought a lot of his father on this coast. I don't believe the Lelacs because they always were liars. But you've missed the real point of the whole matter." "What do you mean? The case is clear as a bell to me, Gillies." The Inspector colored, frowning on the stiff-necked factor. "Why, putting the previous reputation, here, of Marcel aside, if he had killed Beaulieu, would he have told us that Beaulieu was stabbed? Clearly not! He would have said that Antoine died of starvation and was not stabbed, for as soon as he heard they had not turned in the fur, he knew he had the Lelacs in his power and could prove them thieves and liars, and we all would have believed him. The story of the Lelacs as to the man having been murdered would not have held water a minute after the hearing proves them thieves. "Furthermore, he knew they could not prove their tale by the body of Beaulieu, either, left to rot on the shore there in the spring freshets. There would be no evidence for a canoe from the post to find." The Scotchman rose and pounded the slab table as he drove home his final point. "Why, Jean Marcel had it in his power, if he had been guilty, to have walked out of this trouble by simply giving the Lelacs the lie. But what did he do? He told his tale to Père Breton, here, before he learned what the Lelacs had said. "He freely admitted that Beaulieu had been stabbed when he might have denied it and got off scot free. Does that look like a guilty man? Answer me that!" thundered Gillies to his superior officer. The force of Gillies' argument was not lost on the unreceptive Wallace. The stone-hard features of Marcel reflected no emotion but deep in his heart smoldered a hatred of this Inspector of the Company, who, not satisfied with taking Julie Breton from him, now flouted his honor as a Marcel and a man. "Well?" demanded Gillies, impatiently, his frank glance holding the pale eyes of Wallace. "Yes, what you say, Gillies, has its weight, no doubt. If he had wanted to avoid this thing, he might have done it, when he learned that the Lelacs had held the fur. Still, I'll think it over. It may be best to send him 'outside' to be tried, as a warning to these people. I can't seem to swallow that tale of the dog killing Piquet, however. Sounds fishy to me!" "Have you seen the dog?" demanded Gillies. "No!" "Well, when you see her, you won't doubt it. She's the most powerful husky I've ever seen--weighs a hundred and forty pounds. She's got a litter due soon." "Oh, I'd like to take a pup or two back with me." "Well, you'll have to see Marcel about that," chuckled Gillies. "Her pups are worth a black fox skin. We'll have this hearing to-morrow, then, if it's agreeable to you, Mr. Wallace. When you see the Lelacs you may understand why we believe so strongly in Marcel." As Wallace went out, Gillies drew Jean aside. "I have little faith in Inspector Wallace, Jean. He would send you south for trial if he could find sufficient reason for it." "M'sieu Gillies, Jean Marcel will never go south to be tried by strange men for the thing he did not do." "What do you mean, my son? You would not make yourself an outlaw? It would be better to go." "I shall not go, M'sieu." And Colin Gillies believed in his heart that Marcel spoke the truth. CHAPTER XXVI THE WHELPS OF THE WOLF The following morning Jean Marcel forgot the cloud hanging over him in his joy at the event which had taken place since dawn. Rousing Julie and her brother, he led them to the stockade. There in all the pride of motherhood lay the great Fleur with five blind, roly-poly puppies, whimpering at her side. "Oh, the little dears!" cried Julie. "How pretty they are!" First speaking to Fleur and patting her head, Jean picked up a squirming ball of fur and as the mother whined anxiously, put it in Julie's arms. "Oh, mon cher!" cried the girl, nestling the warm little body to her cheek. "What a morsel of softness!" But when Père Breton reached to touch the puppy a rumble from Fleur's deep throat warned him that Julie alone was privileged to take such liberties with her offspring. Jean quieted the anxious mother, whose nose sought his hand. "See, Father, what a dog-team she has given me." One after another he proudly exhibited the puppies. "Mark the bone of their legs. They will make a famous team with Fleur as leader. Is it not so?" "They are a possession to be proud of, Jean," agreed the priest, standing discreetly out of reach, for Fleur's slant eyes never left him. "Which of them do you wish, Julie?" Jean asked. "One, you know, is for you." "Oh, Jean; you are too good!" cried the girl. "I should love this one, marked like Fleur," and she stooped to take the whimpering puppy in her arms, while Jean's hand rested on Fleur's massive head, lest the fear of the mother dog for the safety of her offspring should overpower her friendship for Julie. As the girl fearlessly reached and lifted the puppy, Fleur suddenly thrust forward her long muzzle and licked her hand. "_Bon!_" cried Jean, delighted. "Fleur would allow no one on earth to do that except you. The puppy's name must be Julie." In his joy at the coming of Fleur's family Marcel had forgotten, for the time being, the hearing. But later in the morning at the trade-house, Gillies, whose obstinacy had been deeply aroused by the attitude of Inspector Wallace, planned with the accused man how they should handle the Lelacs. For the factor had no intention of permitting Jean's exoneration to hang in the balance of the prejudiced mind of Wallace. The canny Scot realized that if the Lelacs were thoroughly discredited at the hearing at which the leaders of the Crees would be present; were shown to have an ulterior motive in their attempt to fix the crime upon Marcel, there would be a strong reaction in favor of Jean--that his story would be generally accepted; so to this end he carefully laid his plans. Wallace, busy prying into the books of the post, he did not take into his confidence, wishing to surprise him as well as the Crees by the bomb-shell the defense had in store for the Lelacs. At noon Wallace overheard Jules and McCain talking of Fleur's puppies which they had just seen. "By the way, McCain, where are these remarkable Ungava pups which you say were sired by a timber wolf?" "Over in the Mission stockade, sir." "I want to see them and the old dog, too. I'm rather curious to put my eyes on the husky that could kill a man with a loaded gun in his hands. That part of Marcel's story needs a bit of salt." "You won't doubt it when you see her! She's a whale of a husky," said McCain. "Well, I never saw the dog that could kill me with a rifle handy. I'll stroll over and take a look at her." "I'll show you the way." And McCain and Wallace went to the Mission. Arrived at the tent in the stockade they were greeted by a fierce rumble, like the muttering of an August south-wester making on the Bay. "We'd better not go near the tent, Mr. Wallace. I'll see if Jean's in the house. The dog won't allow anyone but Marcel near her." Ignoring the warning, Wallace approached the tent opening to look inside, but so fierce a snarl warned him off that he stepped back with considerably more speed than his dignity admitted. Red in the face, he glanced around to learn if his precipitous flight had had an audience. Shortly, McCain returned with Marcel, and Wallace, now that the dog's owner was near, again approached and peered into the tent. There was a deep growl from within, and with a cry of surprise the Inspector was hurled backward to the ground by the rush of a great, gray body. At the same instant, Jean Marcel, calling to Fleur, leaped headlong at his dog, seizing her before she could strike at the neck of the prostrate Wallace. Calming the husky, he held her while the discomfited Inspector got to his feet. "You should not go so near, M'sieu. She ees not use to stranger," said Jean brusquely. "I--I didn't think she was so cross," sputtered the ruffled Inspector. "Why, she's a regular wolf of a dog!" "Now, sir," demanded the secretly delighted McCain, "do you believe she could kill a man?" Surveying Fleur's gigantic frame critically as Jean stroked her glossy neck, soothing her with low words crooned into a hairy ear, the enlightened Inspector of the East Coast posts admitted: "Well, I don't know but what she could. I never saw such a beast for size and strength. Let's have a look at the pups." Jean brought from the tent the blind, squirming balls of fur. "They are beauties, Marcel! I'll buy a couple of them. They can go down by the steamer if they're weaned by that time. What do you want for them?" Marcel smiled inscrutably at Inspector Wallace and said: "M'sieu, dese pups are not to sell." "I know, but you don't want all of them. That would give you six dogs. All you need for a team is four." But Jean Marcel only shook his head, repeating: "Dey are not to sell!" CHAPTER XXVII THE TRAP IS SPRUNG The trading-room at Whale River was crowded with the treaty chiefs and older men among the Cree hunters chosen by the factor to be present at the hearing. Behind a huge table made from hewn spruce slabs, sat Inspector Wallace, Colin Gillies and McCain. In front and to one side were the swart half-breeds, Gaspard Lelac and his two sons. Facing them on the opposite side of the table was Jean Marcel, and behind him, his advisor, Père Breton, with Julie; for she had insisted on being present, and the smitten Wallace had readily agreed. The remainder of the room was occupied by the Crees, expectant, consumed with curiosity, for it had leaked out that certain matters connected with the tragedy on the Ghost which, heretofore, had not been divulged, would that afternoon be given light. Among the assembled half-breeds and Crees there were two distinct factions. Those who had readily accepted the story of the Lelacs with its sinister indictment of Marcel, among whom were the kinsmen of Antoine Beaulieu; and those, who, knowing Jean Marcel, as well as his unsavory accusers, had refused to accept the half-breeds' tale, and were waiting with eagerness to hear Marcel's defense; for as yet, Marcel, under orders from Gillies, had refused to discuss the case. Outside the trade-house, chattering groups of young men and Cree women were gathered, awaiting the outcome of the proceedings. Rising, Colin Gillies called for silence and addressed the Crees in their picturesque tongue: "The long snows have come and gone. Famine and suffering have again visited the hunters of Whale River. With the return of the rabbit plague, and the lack of deer, many of those who were here last year at the spring trade have gone to join their fathers. The Company is sad that its hunters and their families have suffered. Last autumn, three hunters went from this post to winter on the Ghost River. This spring but one returned. He is here now, for the reason that he travelled far into the great barrens to streams which join the Big Water many, many sleeps to the northeast, where at last he found the returning deer. "This spring, when the Ghost was free of ice, Gaspard Lelac and his sons, wishing to visit their kinsman, Joe Piquet, travelled to the camp of the three hunters. What they found there they will now tell as they told it to me when they came to Whale River. After you have learned their story, Jean Marcel, the man who returned, will relate what happened on the Ghost under the moons of the long snows. "The Company has sent to visit Whale River its chief of the East Coast, Inspector Wallace. He will hear the stories of these men and decide which of them speaks with a double tongue. It is for you, also, when they have spoken, to say whether Gaspard Lelac and his sons bring the truth to Whale River, or Jean Marcel. You know these men. Hear their talk and judge in your hearts between them. Gaspard Lelac has put the blood of Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet on the head of Jean Marcel. The fathers at Ottawa and the Chiefs of the Company at Winnipeg will not suffer one of their children to go unpunished who takes the life of another. "Listen to the speech of these men. Look with your eyes into their faces and upon what will be shown here, and judge who speaks with a double tongue and who from an honest heart. Gaspard Lelac will now tell what he saw and did." As Gillies finished, a murmur of approval filled the room, followed by a tense silence. Lelac, a grizzled French half-breed with small, closely-set eyes, which shifted here and there as he spoke, then rose and told in the Cree tongue the story he had retailed daily for the previous month. Wishing to visit his nephew Piquet, he said, and learn how he had weathered the hard winter, in May Lelac and his sons had poled up the Ghost to the camp. There they found an empty cache and part of the outfits of Beaulieu and Piquet, the latter of which they at once recognized. Alarmed, they searched the vicinity of the camp, and by chance, discovered the body of Beaulieu buried under stones on the shore. There was a knife wound in his chest. They continued the search in hope of finding Piquet, as his blankets and outfit, evidently unused for months and eaten by mice, were strong proof of his death, also; but failed to find the body. Of the fur-packs and rifles of the two men there was no trace, but a knife, identified later as belonging to Antoine, they brought back. There were no signs of the third man's outfit about the camp. If the third man was alive, what were they to believe? Antoine was dead, and Piquet, also, for his blankets were there. Someone had killed Antoine and Piquet. There was but one other, Marcel. So they travelled to Whale River with the news. The sons of Lelac glibly corroborated the story of their father. When they had finished, the trade-room buzzed with whispered comment. At a nod from Wallace, Gillies questioned the older Lelac in Cree for the benefit of the Indians. "You say that these blankets here, this knife and cooking kit, and the clothes and bags, were all that you found at the camp--that there were no fur and rifles on the cache?" "These were all we found--nothing else," replied Lelac, his small eyes wavering before the gaze of the factor. "You swear that you found nothing but these things," repeated Gillies, pointing to the articles on the floor in front of the table. "Nothing." The set face of Jean Marcel, which had remained expressionless during the Lelacs' statement, relaxed in a wide smile which did not escape many a shrewd pair of Cree eyes. "Jean Marcel will now relate what passed on the Ghost through the moons of the long snows." With the announcement, there was much stirring and shuffling of moccasins accompanied by suppressed exclamations and muttering, among the expectant Crees. But when Marcel rose, squared his wide shoulders, and with head high ran his eyes over the assembled Crees, friendly and hostile, to rest at length on the Lelacs, his lips curled with an expression of contempt, while the Indians and breeds relapsed into silence. Slowly, and in detail, Jean told in the Cree language how his partners had gone up-river when he started south on the trail of the dog-thieves; how he recaptured Fleur, and later reached the Ghost at the "freeze-up." The tale of his nine-hundred-mile journey to the south coast drew many an "Ah-hah!" of mingled surprise and admiration from those who remembered Marcel's voyage of the previous spring through the spirit-haunted valleys of the Salmon headwaters. With his familiarity with the Cree mental make-up and his French instinct for dramatic values, he held them breathless by the narration of this Odyssey of the north. Then Marcel described the long weeks when the three men fought starvation, with the deer and rabbits gone; how he travelled far into the land of the Windigo in search of beaver; and finally, he came to the break with his partners. The hard feeling which developed at the camp on the Ghost, Jean made no attempt to gloss over, but boldly told how the others had not played fair with the food, and he had left them to fight out the winter alone. Of the death of Piquet he spoke as one speaks of the extermination of vermin. An assassin in the night, Piquet had come to the tent of a sleeping man and the dog alone had saved his life. They called his dog the "man-killer." Would they have asked less of their own huskies? he demanded. But if any of them doubted, and he understood that the Lelacs were among these, that his dog could have killed Piquet, let them come to the tent in the Mission stockade by night--and learn for themselves. "_Nama_, no!" some Indian audibly protested, and for a space the room was a riot of laughter, for the Crees had seen Fleur, the "man-killer." But when the narrative of Marcel reached the discovery of the dead Antoine, stabbed to the heart in the shack on the Ghost, his voice broke with emotion. When he had found Antoine, killed in his sleep by Piquet, Marcel said that he had bitterly regretted that he had not taken Beaulieu with him, leaving Piquet to work out his own fate. Then Jean described how he had lashed the body of Antoine, sewed in a tent, on the platform cache, and placed the fur-packs and rifles beside it, when he left to go into the barrens for deer. Turning, the Frenchman pointed his finger at the scowling Lelacs, and cried dramatically, "When you came to the camp this spring, you did not find the body of Antoine Beaulieu buried on the shore; you found it on the cache sewed in a tent. If I had killed him would I not have hidden him somewhere in the snow where the starving lynx and wolverines would have done the rest? No, you found Antoine on the cache, and beside him were his rifle and fur-pack with those of Joe Piquet. What did you do with them?" His evil face distorted with rage, the elder Lelac snarled: "You lie, you got de fur and rifle hid." Suppressing the half-breeds, Wallace ordered Marcel to continue. Jean finished his story with the account of his long journey into the barrens beyond the Height-of-Land where the streams flowed northeast instead of west, his meeting with the returning deer, when weak with starvation, and his return to the Ghost to find that a canoe had preceded him there. As he resumed his seat, the eyes of Julie Breton were bright with tears. The priest leaned and grasped Jean's hand, whispering: "Well done, Jean Marcel!" It had been a dramatic narration and the audience, including Inspector Wallace to whom it was interpreted by Gillies, had been impressed by the frank and fearless manner of its telling. Angus McCain and big Jules smiled widely as they caught Marcel's eyes. Again Gillies rose. "Jules!" he called, and Duroc brought from an adjoining room a bundle of pelts, placing them on the long table. Again the room hummed with the whispering of the curious audience. The surprised Lelacs, now in a panic, talked excitedly, heads together. "Marcel, examine these pelts and if you notice anything about them, make a statement," said Gillies, conducting the examination for the benefit of the Crees, in their native tongue, and translating to Wallace. With great care, as his Cree audience craned their necks to watch what the Frenchman was doing, Jean, first examining each pelt, slowly divided the bundle of skins into three separate heaps. "Have you anything to say?" "Yes, M'sieu. This large pile here, I know nothing about; but this heap here, were all pelts trapped last winter by Antoine Beaulieu." A murmur passed through the crowded room. Here surely was something of interest. Lelac rose and started to look at the pelts when big Jules pushed him roughly back on the bench. "You stay where you are, Lelac, or I'll put a guard over you!" rasped Gillies. "This pile here," continued Jean, "belonged to Joe Piquet." "How do you recognize them?" demanded Gillies. "All these have Antoine's mark, one little slit behind the right fore-leg. These with two slits behind the left fore-leg were the pelts of Piquet. My mark was three slits in front of the left hind leg. When we started trapping from the same camp, we agreed on these marks." The air of the trade-room was heavy with suspense. "You swear to these marks?" "Yes, M'sieu." "François Maskigan!" The treaty-chief of the South Branch Crees, a man of middle age, with great authority among the Indians, stepped forward. "François, you have heard what Marcel says of the marks on these skins?" The chief nodded, "_Enh_, yes." "Look at them and see if he speaks rightly." It took the Indian but a few minutes to check the distinguishing marks on the pelts and examine the large pile which Marcel had said possessed none. "Are the marks on these pelts as Marcel says?" "Yes, they are there, these marks as he says." The cowed Lelacs, their dark faces now twisted with fear, awaited the next words of Gillies. Then the irate factor turned on them. "Gaspard Lelac!" he roared. The face of Lelac paled to a sickly white as his furtive eyes met the factor's. "All this fur, here, you and your sons traded in last week; your own fur, and the pelts of Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, dead men. I have held them separate from the rest. You are thieves and liars!" The bomb had exploded. At the words of the factor, the trade-room became a bedlam of chattering and excited Indians. In the north, to steal the fur of another is one of the cardinal sins. The supporters of Marcel loudly exulted in the turn the hearing had taken, while the deluded adherents of the Lelacs, maddened by the villainy of men who had stolen from the dead and accused another, loudly cursed the half-breeds. Nonplussed, paralyzed by the trick of the factor, instigated by the adroit Marcel, the Lelacs sent murderous looks at Jean who smiled contemptuously in their faces. Gillies' deep bass quieted the uproar. "Jules!" he called the second time. All were on tiptoe to learn what further surprise the stalwart Jules had in store for them, when he entered the room with two rifles, which he laid on the table, while the Lelacs stared in wide-eyed amazement. "Where did you get these rifles?" asked Gillies. "In the tepee of Lelac, just now, hidden under blankets." "Whose rifles were they, Marcel?" Marcel examined the guns. "This 30-30 gun belonged to Piquet. This is the rifle of Antoine." With a cry, a tall half-breed roughly shouldered his way to the front of the excited Crees. "You thieves!" he cried, straining to reach the Lelacs with the knife which he held in his hand. But sinewy arms seized him and the frenzied uncle of Antoine Beaulieu was pushed, struggling, from the room. It was the final straw. The mercurial Crees had turned as quickly from the Lelacs to Marcel as, in the first instance, they had credited the tale of the half-breeds. Now, with the Lelacs proven liars and thieves, Jean's explanation of the deaths of his partners, as Gillies foresaw, had, without corroboration, and on his word as a man, only, been at once accepted. Calling for silence Gillies again spoke to the hunters. "You have heard the words of these men. You have judged who has spoken with a double tongue; who, with the guns of dead men hidden in a tepee, have traded their fur and put their blood upon the head of another. Do you believe Jean Marcel when he says that Piquet killed Antoine Beaulieu and went out to kill him also, or do you believe the men who stole the guns and fur of a dead man which belong to his kinsmen?" "_Enh! Enh!_ Jean Marcel speaks truth!" cried the Crees, and the chattering mob poured into the post clearing to carry the news to the curious young men and the women, who waited. Meanwhile Père Breton embraced the happy Marcel while the unchecked tears welled in Julie's eyes. Then Gillies and McCain wrung the Frenchman's hand until he grimaced. But the big Jules, patiently waiting his turn, pounced upon Jean with a fierce hug and, in spite of his protests carrying him like a child in his great arms from the trade-house, showed the man they had maligned, to the Crees, who now loudly cheered him. Turning to Gillies, the Inspector said gravely: "These Lelacs go south for trial. I'll make an example of their thieving." But Colin Gillies had no intention of having the half-breeds sent "outside" for trial, if he could prevent it. It would mean that Jean and he, himself, with Jules, would have to go as witnesses. He could take care of the Lelacs in his own way. He had punished men before. "That would leave us very short-handed here. The famine has reduced the trade this year a third. If we want to make a showing next season, we can't spend six months travelling down below for a trial." "Yes, that would mean your going and we can't afford to injure the trade; but I ought to make a report on this murder business in famine years." "If you get the government into this, it will hurt us, Mr. Wallace. Why can't we handle this matter as we have handled it for two centuries?" protested Gillies. "A report will only place the Company in a bad light--make them think we can't control the Crees." "Well, perhaps you're right," admitted Wallace. "I'm out to make a showing on the East Coast and I don't want to handicap you." So Gillies had his way. CHAPTER XXVIII BITTER-SWEET To Jean Marcel it had been a happy moment--that of his exoneration by the hunters of Whale River. For weeks, with rage in his heart, he had silently borne the black looks of the Crees whom he could not avoid in going to his net and crossing the post clearing to the trade-house. For weeks his name had been a byword at the spring trade--Marcel, the man who had murdered his partners. But now the stain of infamy had been washed clean from an honored name. In his humble grave in the Mission Cemetery, André Marcel could now sleep in peace, for in the eyes of the small world of the East Coast, his son had come scathless through the long snows. The tale would not now travel down the coast in the Inspector's canoe that another white man had turned murderer for the scanty food of his friends. And with his acquittal by the Company and the Crees, his love for Julie Breton, more poignant from its very hopelessness, gave him no rest. As he struggled with renunciation, he brought himself to realize that, after all, it had been but presumption on his part to hope that this girl with her education of years in a Quebec convent, her acquaintance with the ways of the great world "outside," should look upon a humble Company hunter as a possible husband. He had all along mistaken her kindness, her friendship, for something more which she had never felt. In comparison with Wallace who, Jean had heard Gillies say, might some day go to Winnipeg as Assistant Commissioner of the Company, he was as nothing. Doomed by his inheritance and his training to a life beyond the pale of civilization, he could offer Julie Breton little but a love that knew no bounds, no frontiers; that would find no trail, which led to her, too long; no water too vast; no height too sheer; to separate them, did she but call him. So, in the hour of his triumph, the soul-sick Marcel went to one who never had failed him; who loved him with a singleness of heart but rarely paralleled by human kind; who, however humble his lot, would give him the worship accorded to no king--his dog. Seated beside Fleur with her squealing children crawling over him, he circled her great neck with his arms and told his troubles to a hairy ear. She sought his hand with her tongue, her throat rumbling with content, for had she not there on the grass in the soft June sun, all her world--her puppies and her God, Jean Marcel? There, Julie Breton, having in vain announced supper from the Mission door, found them, man and dog, and led Marcel away, protesting. The girl wore the frock she had donned in honor of his return, and never to Jean had she seemed so vibrant with life, never had the color bathed her dark face so exquisitely, nor the tumbled masses of her hair so allured him. But as he entered the Mission, he saw Inspector Wallace seated in conversation with the priest, and his heart went cold. During the meal, served by a Cree woman, the admiring eyes of Wallace seldom left Julie's face. At first he seemed surprised at the presence of Marcel at the table but the priest made it quite evident to the Company man that Jean was as one of the family. However, as the Frenchman rarely joined in the conversation and early excused himself, leaving Wallace a free field, the Inspector's temper at what might have seemed presumption in a Company hunter was unmarred. July came and to the surprise of Gillies and Whale River, the big Company canoe still remained under its tarpaulin on the post landing. That the priest looked kindly on the possibility of such a brother-in-law was evident from his hospitality to Wallace, but what piqued the curiosity of Colin Gillies and McCain was whether Wallace, a Scotch Protestant, had as yet accepted the Catholic faith, for the Oblat, Père Breton, could not marry his sister to a man of another religious belief. However, deep in the spell of the charming Julie, Inspector Wallace stayed on after the trade was over, giving as his reason his desire to go south with the Company steamer which shortly would be due. Although to Jean she was the same merry Julie, each morning visiting the stockade to play with Fleur's puppies, who now had their eyes well open and were beginning to find an uncertain balance, he avoided her, rarely seeing her except at meal time. Of the change in their relations he never spoke, but man-like he was hurt that she failed to take him to task for his moodiness. In the evening, now, she walked on the river-shore with Wallace, and talked through the twilight when the sun lingered below the rim of the world in the west. Jean Marcel had gone out of her life. He ceased to mention the Inspector's name, and absented himself from meals when the Scotchman was expected. Julie had said: "Jean, you are one of us, always welcome. Why do you stay away when Monsieur Wallace comes?" And he had answered: "You know why I stay away, Julie Breton." That was all. CHAPTER XXIX THE FANGS OF THE HALF-BREEDS One night when Jean returned late from his nets after a long paddle, seeking the exhaustion that would bring sleep and temporary respite from his grief, a canoe manned by three men drifted alongshore toward his beached canoe. Occupied with his thoughts, Marcel took no notice of the craft. Removing from the boat the fish he had caught, he was about to lift and place it bottom up on the beach when the bow of the approaching birch-bark suddenly swung sharply and jammed into the stern of his own. With an exclamation of irritation at the clumsiness of the people in the offending canoe, Jean looked up to stare into the faces of the three Lelacs. "You are good canoeman," he sneered, roughly pushing with his paddle the half-breeds' canoe from his own. That the act was intentional, he knew, but he was surprised that the Lelacs, convicted of theft, and on parole at the post awaiting the Company's decision as to their punishment, would dare to start trouble. As Jean shoved off the Lelacs' canoe, the half-breeds, as if at a preconcerted signal, shouted loudly: "W'at you do to us, Jean Marcel? Ough! Why you beat me wid de paddle? He try to keel us!" The near beach was deserted, but the shouts in the still night were audible on the post clearing above. The uproar waked the sleeping huskies at the few remaining Esquimo tepees on the shore, whose howling quickly aroused the post dogs. It was evident to Jean that his enemies had chosen their time and place. Obeying scrupulously the orders of Gillies since the trial, Marcel had avoided the Lelacs, holding in check the just wrath which had prompted him to take personal vengeance upon his traducers. Now, instead, they had sought him, but from their actions, intended to make him seem the aggressor. "Bon!" he muttered between his teeth. Life had little value to him now, he would give these thieves what they were after. "You 'fraid to come on shore? You squeal lak' rabbit; you t'ief!" he taunted. Continuing to shout that Marcel was attacking them, the Lelacs landed their canoe and the elder son, evidently drunk, lurched toward the man who waited. "Rabbit, am I?" roared the frenzied half-breed, and struck savagely at Jean with his paddle. Dodging the blow, before the breed could recover his balance, the Frenchman lunged with his one hundred and seventy pounds behind his fist into Lelac's jaw, hurling him reeling into the water ten feet away. Then the two Lelacs reached him. Gasping for breath, the younger brother fell backward, helpless from a kick in the pit of his stomach as the maddened Marcel grappled with the father. Over and over they rolled on the beach, Lelac, frenzied by drink, snarling with hate of the man he had tried to destroy, fighting like a trapped wolverine; the no less infuriated Marcel resolved now to rid Whale River forever of this vermin. It was not long before the bands of steel cable which swathed the arms, shoulders and back of Jean Marcel overcame the delirious strength of the crazed half-breed, and Lelac was forced down and held on his back. Then like the jaws of a wolf-trap, the fingers of Marcel's right hand shut on the throat of the under man. The bloodshot eyes of Lelac bulged from their sockets. Blood filled the distorted face. The mouth gaped for air, barred by the vise on his throat. In a last feeble effort to free himself, a helpless hand clawed limply at Marcel's wrist--then he relaxed, unconscious, on the beach. Getting to his feet, Jean looked for the others, to see the younger brother still nursing his stomach, when an oath sounded in his ears and, struck from the rear, a sharp twinge bit through his shoulder, as he stumbled forward. Leaping away from a second lunge, and drawing his knife with his left hand, Marcel slashed wildly, driving before him the half-breed whom the water had revived. Then, as he fought to reach him, the shape of his retreating enemy slowly faded from Marcel's vision; his strength ebbed; the knife slipped from his fingers as darkness shut down upon him, and he reeled senseless to the stones. With a snarl of triumph, Lelac, crouched on the defensive, sprang to the crumpled figure, a hand raised to drive home the knife-thrust, when something sang shrilly through the air. The upraised arm fell. With a groan, the half-breed pitched on his face, the slender shaft of a seal-spear quivering in his back. Close by, a kayak silently slid to the shore and a squat Husky, his broad face knotted with fear, ran to the unconscious Marcel. Swiftly cutting the shirt from the Frenchman's back, he was staunching the flow of blood from the knife wound, when people from the post clearing, headed by Jules Duroc, reached the beach. "By Gar! Jean Marcel!" gasped Jules recognizing his friend. "He ees cut bad?" The Husky shook his head. "He not kill." Staring at the dead man transfixed by the spear and his unconscious father, Jules roared: "De t'ief, dey try _revanche_ on Jean Marcel!" Stripping off his own shirt, Jules bandaged Marcel's shoulder. As he worked, one thing he told himself. Had they killed Marcel, the Lelacs would not have gone south for trial. Father and son would never have left the beach at Whale River alive. Then he said to the gathering Crees, "Tak' dem!" pointing to the younger Lelac now shedding maudlin tears over his dead brother, and to the half-choked father, resuscitated by a rough immersion in the river from unfriendly hands. Seizing the pair, rapidly sobering and now fearful for their fate, the Crees kicked them up the cliff trail. "Tiens!" exclaimed Jules to the Husky, finishing the bandaging. "Dey try keel Marcel but he lay out two w'en he get de cut?" The Husky nodded, "A-hah! I hear holler an' dey run on heem. He put all down. One in water, he get up an' cut heem wid knife. He fall and, whish! I spear dat one." "By Gar! You good man wid de seal-spear, John Kovik." And Jules wrung the Esquimo's hand. "I cum fast een kayak to fight for heem; I too slow," and the Husky shook his head sadly. "Ah, you cum jus' een time. You save hees life." The Husky placed a hand on the thick hair of the senseless man, as he said, "He ketch boy, Salmon Rive'. He frien' of me!" Jean Marcel's bread upon the waters had returned to him. With the unconscious Marcel in his arms, Jules Duroc climbed the cliff, the grateful Kovik at his heels, to meet the inhabitants of Whale River on the clearing. The news of the fight on the beach had spread swiftly through the post and many and fierce were the threats made against the Lelacs as they were shut in a small shack and placed under guard. In front of the trade-house, Gillies, followed by McCain and Wallace, met Jules with his burden. "How did this happen, Jules? Is he badly hurt?" demanded the factor. Jules explained briefly. "Stabbed in the back? Too bad! Too bad! Take him to the Mission Hospital." "Well, Gillies, this settles it! The Lelacs go south for trial, now, and they won't need you as a witness either," announced Wallace. "Yes, we'll have to get rid of them," admitted the factor. "They were crazy to do this after what has happened. I should have shut them up. Too bad Jean didn't use his knife instead of his hands on them!" "Or his feet!" added McCain. "The Husky says he put one Lelac out of business with a kick and choked the old man unconscious, when the one who was knocked into the river stabbed him. He fought them with his bare hands. I take off my hat to Jean Marcel." "Who started this affair, anyway?" asked Wallace. "The Lelacs, under a cloud here, couldn't have dared to." Gillies turned on his chief. "What do we care who started it? Haven't they tried to ruin Marcel? I ordered him to keep away from them, but didn't he have sufficient cause to start--anything?" "The Crees say the Lelacs got drunk on sugar-beer and were waiting for Jean to get back from down river," broke in McCain, fearing a row between Gillies and the Inspector. "John Kovik, the Husky, saw them rush him, and John got there in time to throw his seal-spear at young Lelac, after he had stabbed Marcel from behind." "Oh, that explains it; Marcel was defending himself," said the ruffled Inspector. "Yes, and you will notice, Mr. Wallace," rasped Gillies, "that Marcel fought them with his hands, until he was cut, one man against three. If he had used his knife on the old man, he wouldn't have been hurt. Does that prove what we've told you about him?" It was at this point that Julie Breton and her brother, late in hearing the news, reached Jules carrying his burden, whose bandages were now reddening with blood. "Oh, Jules, is he badly hurt?" cried the girl, peering in the dusk at the ashen face of Marcel. Then she noticed the bandages, and putting her hands to her face, moaned: "Jean Marcel, what have they done to you; what have they done to you?" "Eet bleed hard, Ma'm'selle," Jules said softly, "but eet ees onlee een de shouldair. Don' cry, Ma'm'selle Julie!" Supporting the sobbing girl, Père Breton ordered: "Carry him to the Mission, Jules." "Yes, Father!" And Jean Marcel returned again to a room in the Mission. Tenderly rough hands bathed and dressed the knife wound and through the night Père Breton sat by his patient, who moaned and tossed in the delirium which the fever brought. CHAPTER XXX CREE JUSTICE Deep in the night a long, mournful howl, repeated again and again, roused the sleeping post. Straightway the dogs of the factor and the Crees, followed by the Esquimos' huskies on the beach, were pointing their noses at the moon in dismal chorus. With muttered curse and protest from tepee, shack and factor's quarters, the wakened people of the post, covering their ears, sought sleep, for no hour is sacred to the moon-baying husky and no one may suppress him. One wakes, and lifting his nose, pours out his canine soul in sleep-shattering lament, when, promptly, every husky within hearing takes up the wail. The post dogs, having alternately and in chorus, to their hearts' content and according to the custom of their fathers, transformed the calm July night into a horror of sound, with noses buried in bushy tails again sought sleep. Once more the mellow light of the moon bathed the sleeping fur-post, when from the stockade behind the Mission rose a long drawn note of grief. The dark brows of Père Breton, watching beside the delirious Marcel, contracted. "Could it be?" he queried aloud. Curious, the priest glanced at his patient, then went outside to the stockade. There, with gray nose thrust between the pickets, stood Fleur. As he approached, the dog growled, then sniffing, recognized a friend of the master, who sometimes fed her, and whined. "What is the matter, Fleur? Do you miss Jean Marcel?" At the mention of the loved name, the dog lifted her massive head and the deep throat again vibrated with the utterance of her grief for one who had not returned. "She has waked to find the blanket of Jean Marcel empty," mused the priest, "and mourns for him." Père Breton returned to his vigil beside the wounded man. When the early dawn flushed the east, the grieving Fleur was still at her post at the stockade gate awaiting the return of Jean Marcel. And not until the sun lifted above the blue hills of the valley of the Whale, did she cease her lament to seek her complaining puppies. At daylight McCain and Jules coming to relieve the weary priest found Julie sitting with him. The wound was a long slashing one, but the lungs of Marcel seemed to have escaped. The fever would run its course. There was little to do but wait, and hope against infection. Greeting Julie, whose dark eyes betrayed a lack of sleep, whose face reflected an agony of anxiety, the men called Père Breton outside the Mission. "The Lelacs will not go south for trial, Father," said McCain, drily. "What do you mean? Won't go south; why not?" demanded the astonished priest. "Well, because there's no need of it now," went on McCain mysteriously. "No need of it! I don't understand. They have done enough harm here. If they don't go, the Crees will do something----" "The Crees _have_ done something," interrupted McCain. "You don't mean----" queried the priest, light slowly dawning upon him. "Yes, just that. They overpowered and bound the guard, last night, and--well, they made a good job of it!" "Killed the prisoners?" the priest slowly shook his head. McCain nodded. "We found them both knifed in the heart. On the old man was a piece of birch-bark, with the words: 'This work done by friends of Jean Marcel.'" The priest raised his hands. "It would have been better to send them south. Still, they were evil men, and deserved their fate. Tell nothing of it to Julie. She has taken this thing very hard." CHAPTER XXXI THE WAY OF A DOG When Wallace and Gillies had surveyed the bodies of the dead half-breeds, the factor turned grimly to his chief. "Well, Wallace, I don't see how we can send the Lelacs south for trial, now; they wouldn't keep that long." "Gillies," said the Inspector with a frown, ignoring the ghastly witticism, "I want you to run down the men who did this. Whether they deserved it or not, I won't have men murdered in this district without trial. The lawlessness of the East Coast has got to stop." Gillies turned away, suppressing with difficulty his anger. Shortly in control of his voice, he answered: "Mr. Wallace, I have put in many years, boy and man, on this coast and I think I understand the Crees. To punish the men who did this, provided we knew who they were, would be the worst thing the Company could do. When the Lelacs stole Beaulieu's fur and rifle, they put themselves outside the Cree law, and as sure as the sun will set in Hudson's Bay to-night, the Lelacs would never have got out of the bush alive this winter." "I know," objected Wallace, "but to overpower our guards and kill them under our noses----" "What of it? The Lelacs had robbed a dead man and would have killed Jean Marcel, if he hadn't been a son of André Marcel, who was a wolf in a fight. The Lelacs were three-quarter Cree and the Indians here have a way of meting out justice to their own people in a case like this that even Canadian officials might envy. You may be sure that the Lelacs were formally tried and condemned in some tepee last night before this thing happened." "These two guards must have been asleep," complained Wallace. "Well, we'll never know, Mr. Wallace. They say that they were thrown from behind and didn't recognize the men who did it. Even if they did, they wouldn't tell who they were, and it's useless to try to make them. The Crees have taken the Lelacs off our hands. They have saved us time and money by ridding us of these vermin. In my opinion we should thank rather than attempt to punish them." So Inspector Wallace slowly cooled off and in the afternoon went to the Mission to make his daily call on Julie Breton only to be informed, to his surprise, that she could not see him. Meanwhile the condition of the wounded man was unchanged, but Père Breton faced a problem which he deemed necessary to discuss with his friends Jules Duroc and McCain. Throughout the day, Fleur had fretted in the stockade, running back and forth followed by her complaining puppies, thrusting her nose between the pickets to whine and howl by turns, mourning the strange absence of Marcel. "Fleur will not grant sleep to Whale River to-night, unless something is done," said the priest to the two men who were acting in turn as assistant nurses. "Why can't we bring her in; let her see him and sniff his hand; it might quiet her?" suggested McCain. "It will only make her worse to shut her up somewhere else." "By Gar! Who weel tak' dat dog out again?" objected Jules. "Once she here, she nevaire leeve de room." "Yes, she will, Jules. She'll go back to her pups after a while. We'll bring them outside under the window and let 'em squeal. She'll go back to 'em then." "I am strong man," said Jules, "but I not love to hold dat dog. She weel eat Jean Marcel, she so glad to see heem, an' we mus' keep her off de bed." At that moment Julie entered the room. "I will take Fleur to see him; she will behave for me," volunteered the girl. So not without serious misgivings, it was arranged that the grieving Fleur should be shown her master. That night when Julie had fed Fleur, she opened the stockade gate and stroking the great head of the dog, said slowly: "Fleur would see Jean, Jean Marcel?" At the sound of the master's name, Fleur's ears went forward, her slant eyes turning here and there for a sight of the familiar figure. Then with a whine she looked at Julie as if for explanation. "Fleur will see Jean, soon. Will Fleur behave for Julie?" With a yelp the husky leaped through the gate and ran to and fro outside, sniffing the air; then as if she knew the master were not there, returned, shaggy body trembling, every nerve tense with anticipation, slant eyes eagerly questioning as she whimpered her impatience. Taking the dog by her plaited collar of caribou hide, to it Julie knotted a rope and led her into the Mission where McCain, Jules and Père Breton waited. "Fleur will be good and not hurt Jean. She must not leap on his bed. He is very sick." Seeming to sense that something was about to happen having to do with Marcel, Fleur met the girl's hand with a swift lick of her tongue. With the rope trailing behind, the end of which Jules and McCain seized to control the dog in case she became unmanageable, Julie Breton opened the door of Marcel's room, where with fever-flushed face the unconscious man lay on a low cot, one arm hanging limply to the floor. When the husky saw the motionless figure, she pricked her ears, thrusting her muzzle forward, and sniffed, and as her nose revealed the glad news that here at last lay the lost Jean Marcel, she raised her head and yelped wildly. Then swiftly muzzling Marcel's inert body she started to spring upon the bunk to wake him, when Julie Breton's arms circled her neck and aided by the drag on the rope, checked her. "Down, Fleur! No! No! You must not hurt Jean." Seeming to sense that the mute Marcel was not to be roughly played with, the intelligent dog, whimpering like one of her puppies, caressed the free hand of the sick man, then, ignoring the weight on the rope dragging her back, she strained forward to reach his neck with her tongue, for his head was turned from her. But Jean Marcel did not return her caress. Puzzled by his indifference, then sensing that harm had come to the unconscious Marcel, the dog raised her head over the cot and rocked the room with a wail of sorrow. The wounded man sighed and turning, moaned: "They took Fleur and now they take Julie. There is nothing left--nothing left!" At the words, the nose of the overjoyed dog reached the hot face of Marcel, but his eyes did not see her. Again Julie's strong arms circled Fleur's neck, restraining her. The slant eyes of the husky looked long into the pale face which showed no recognition; then she quietly sat down, resting her nose on his arm. And for hours, with Julie seated beside her, Fleur kept vigil beside the bed, until the priest and McCain insisted on the dog's removal. When Jules brought a crying puppy outside the window of the sick room, for a time Fleur listened to the call of her offspring without removing her eyes from Marcel's face. But at length, maternal instinct temporarily conquered the desire to watch by the stricken man. Her unweaned puppies depended on her for life and for the moment mother love prevailed. With a final caress of the limp hand of Marcel, reluctantly, with head down and tail dragging, she followed Julie to the stockade. CHAPTER XXXII FROM THE FAR FRONTIERS For days Marcel's youth and strength battled with the fever aggravated by infection in the deep wound. All that Gillies and Père Breton could do for the stricken man was done, but barring the simple remedies which stock the medicine chest of a post in the far north and the most limited knowledge of surgery possessed by the factors, the recovery of a patient depends wholly upon his vitality and constitution. With medical aid beyond reach, men die or fight back to health through the toughness of their fiber alone. There was a time when Jean Marcel journeyed far toward the dim hills of a land from which there is no trail home for the feet of the _voyageur_. There were nights when Julie Breton sat with her brother and Jules, or McCain, stark fear in their hearts that the sun would never again lift above the Whale River hills for Jean Marcel, never again his daring paddle flash in sunlit white-water, or his snow-shoes etch their webbed trail on the white floor of the silent places. And during these days the impatient Wallace chafed with longing for the society of Julie whose pity for the sick man had made of her an indefatigable nurse. A few words in the morning and an hour or two at night was all the time she allotted the man to whom she had given her heart. To the demand of the Inspector in the presence of Père Breton that Julie should substitute a Cree woman as nurse, she had replied: "He has no one but us. His people are dead. He has been like a brother to me. I can do no less than care for him, poor boy!" "Yes," added Père Breton, "he is as my son. Julie is right," and added, with a smile, "you two will have much time in the future to see each other." So Wallace had been forced to make the best of it. By the time that the steamer, _Inenew_, from Charlton Island, appeared with the English mail, and the supplies and trade-goods for the coming year, Jean Marcel had fought his way back from the frontiers of death. So relieved seemed the girl, who had given lavishly of her young strength, that she allowed Mrs. Gillies to take her place in the sick room while she spent with Wallace the last days of his stay at Whale River. Once more the post people saw the lovers constantly together and more than one head shook sadly at the thought of the one who had lost, lying hurt, in heart and body, on a cot at the Mission, while another took his place beside Julie Breton. At last, the steamer sailed for Fort George and no one in the group gathered at the landing doubted that the heart of Julie Breton went with it when they saw the light in her dark eyes as she bade the handsome Wallace good-bye. It was an open secret now, communicated by Wallace to the factor, that he was to become a Catholic that autumn, and in June take Julie Breton as a bride away to East Main. * * * * * During the tense days when the fever heightened and the life of Jean Marcel hung on the turn of a leaf, there had been no repetition of the visit of Fleur to the sick room. But so loudly did she wail her complaint at her enforced absence from the man battling for his life, so near in the Mission house, that it was necessary to confine her with her puppies at a distance. Once again conscious of his surroundings and rapidly gaining strength, Marcel insisted on seeing his dog. So, daily, under watchful guard, Fleur was taken into the room, often with a clumsy puppy, round and fluffy, who alternately nibbled with needle-pointed milk-teeth at Jean's extended hand, making a great to-do of snarling in mock anger, or rolled squealing on its back on the floor, while Fleur sprawled contentedly by the cot, tail beating the floor, love in her slant eyes for the master who now had found his voice, whose face once more shone with the old smile, which was her life. CHAPTER XXXIII RENUNCIATION August drew to a close. The post clearing and the beach at Whale River were again bare of tepee and lodge of the hunters of fur who had repaired to their summer camps where fish were plentiful, to wait for the great flights of snowy geese that the first frosts would drive south from Arctic Islands. Daily the vitality and youth of Marcel were giving him back his strength, and no remonstrance of the Bretons availed to keep him quiet once his legs had mastered the distance to the trade-house. Except for a slight pallor in the lean face and the loss of weight, due to confinement, to his friends he was once more the Jean Marcel they had known, but for weeks, a sudden twisting of his firm mouth marking a twinge in the back, recalled only too vividly to them all the knife-thrust of Lelac. When, rid of the fever, and again conscious, Jean had become strong enough to talk, he repeatedly voiced his gratitude to Julie for her loyalty as nurse, but she invariably covered his mouth with her hand refusing to hear him. Grown stronger and sitting up, he had often repeated his thanks, raising his face to hers with a twinkle in his dark eyes, in the hope that her manner of suppressing him might be continued; but she had tantalizingly refused to humor the convalescent. "I shall close your mouth no longer, Monsieur," she had said with a grimace. "You will soon be the big, strong Jean Marcel we have always known and must not expect to be a helpless baby forever. And now that you can use your right arm, I shall no longer cut up your fish." "But it is with great pain that I move my arm, Julie," he had protested in a feeble effort to enlist her sympathy and so prolong the personal ministrations he craved. "Bah! When before has the great Jean Marcel feared pain? It is only a ruse, Monsieur. I am too busy, now that you can help yourself, to treat you as a child." And so, reluctantly, Marcel had resigned himself to doing without the aid of the nimble fingers of Julie Breton. The fierce bitterness in his heart, which, before the fight on the beach with the Lelacs had made of the days an endless torment, gave place, on his recovery, to a state of mind more sane. Deep and lasting as was his wound, the realization of the girl's devoted care of him had, during his convalescence, numbed the old rawness. Gratitude and his innate manhood shamed Marcel into a suppression of his grief and the showing of a brave face to Julie Breton and the little world of Whale River. In his extremity she had stood staunchly by his side. She had been his friend, indeed. He deserved no more. And now in his prayers, for he was a devout believer in the teachings of Père Breton, he asked for her happiness. One evening found three friends, Julie, Jean Marcel and Fleur, again walking on the shore of the Great Whale in the mellow sunset. Romping with puppy awkwardness, Fleur's progeny roved near them. The hush of an August night was upon the land. Below, the young ebb ran silently without ripple. Not a leaf stirred in the scrub edging the trail. The dead sun, master artist, had limned the heavens with all the varied magic of his palette, and the gray bay, often sullenly restless under low-banked clouds, or blanketed with mist, now reached out, a shimmering floor, to the rim of the world. In silence the two, mute with the peace of the moment, watched the heightening splendor of the western skies. Disdaining the alluring scents of the neighboring scrub, which her puppies were exploring, Fleur kept to Marcel's side where her nose might find his hand, for she had not forgotten the days of their recent separation. "What you did for me I can never repay." Marcel broke the silence, his eyes on the White Bear Hills, sapphire blue on southern horizon. The girl turned impatiently. "Monsieur Jean Marcel, what I have done, I would do for any friend. I am weary of hearing you speak of it. Have you no eyes for the sunset the good God has given us? Let us speak of that." He smiled as one smiles at a child. "_Bien!_ We shall speak no more of it then, Ma'm'selle Breton. But this you shall hear. I am sorry that I acted like a boy about M'sieu Wallace. You will forgive me?" "There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I know you were hurt. It was natural for you to feel the way you did." "But I showed little of the man, Julie. I was hurt here," and he placed his hand on his heart, "and I was a child." She smiled wistfully, slowly shaking her head. "I fear you were very like a man, Jean. But you are going away and I may not be here in the spring--may not see you for a long time--so I want to tell you now how proud I have been of you this summer." He looked up quizzically. "Yes, you have made a great name on the East Coast this summer, Jean Marcel. When you were ill the Crees talked of little else--of your travelling where no Indian had dared to go until you found the caribou; your winning, over those terrible Lelacs and proving your innocence; your fighting them with bare hands, because you knew no fear." The face of Marcel reddened as the girl continued. "You are brave and you have a great heart and a wise head, Jean Marcel; some day you will be a factor of the Company. Wherever I may be, I shall think of you and always be proud that you are my friend." Inarticulate, numb with the torture of hopeless love, Marcel listened to Julie Breton's farewell. CHAPTER XXXIV THE VOICE OF THE WINDIGO When the first flight of snowy geese, southward bound, flashed in an undulating white cloud over Whale River, the canoe of Jean Marcel was loaded with supplies for a winter in the land of the Windigo. And in memory of Antoine Beaulieu, he was taking with him as comrade and partner the eighteen-year-old cousin of the dead man whose kinsmen had humbly made their amends for their stand against Marcel before the hearing. Young Michel Beaulieu, of stouter fibre than Antoine, had at length overcome his scruples against entering the land of dread, through his admiration for Marcel's daring and his confidence in the man whose reputation since the hearing and the fight with the Lelacs had been now firmly established with the Whale River Crees. When Marcel had repeatedly assured the boy that he had neither seen the trail of _Matchi Manito_, the devil, nor once heard the wailing of a giant Windigo through all the long snows of the past winter in the Salmon country, Michel's pride at the offer had finally conquered his fears. So leaving the puppy he had given Julie as the nucleus for a Mission dog-team, and presenting Gillies with another, Marcel packed the three remaining children of Fleur whom he had named in honor of his three staunch friends, Colin, Jules and Angus, into the canoe already deep with supplies, and gripping the hands of those who had assembled on the beach, eased the craft into the flood-tide. "Good-bye and good luck, Jean!" called Gillies. "De rabbit weel be few; net beeg cache of feesh before de freeze-up!" urged the practical Jules. "No fear, Jules. We ketch all de feesh en de lac," laughed Jean. Then his eyes sought Julie Breton's sober face as he said in French: "I will not come back for Christmas, Julie. The pups will not be old enough for the trail." With the conviction that he was saying good-bye to Julie Breton forever--that on his return in June, she would be far in the south with Wallace, he pushed off as she called, "_Bon voyage, Jean! Dieu vous benisse!_" (God bless you!) When the paddles of Jean and Michel drove the boat into the stream, the whining Fleur, beholding her world moving away from her, plunged into the river after the _voyageurs_. "Go back, Fleur!" ordered Jean sternly. "You travel de shore; de cano' ees too full wid de pup." So the protesting Fleur turned back to follow the shore. The puppies, yet too young and clumsy to keep abreast of the tide-driven canoe, on the broken beach of the river, had to be freighted. When the boat was well out in the flood, Marcel waved his cap with a last "A'voir!" Far up-stream, a half-hour later, rhythmic flashes, growing swiftly fainter and fainter, until they faded from sight, marked for many a long moon the last of Jean Marcel. * * * * * September waned, and the laggard rear-guard of the brant and Hutchins geese, riding the first stinging northers, passed south in the wake of the wavies. On the heels of September followed a week of mellow October days lulling the north into temporary forgetfulness of the menace of the bitter months to come. Then the unleashed winds from the Arctic freighted with the first of the long snows beat down the coast and river valleys, locking the land with ice. But far in the Windigo-haunted hills of the forbidden land of the Crees a man and a boy, snug in snow-banked tepee, laughed as the winds whined through November nights and the snow made deep in the timber, for their cache was heaped high with frozen trout, whitefish and caribou. With the coming of the snow, the puppies, young as they were, soon learned that the life of a husky was not all mad pursuit of rabbit or wood-mouse and stalking of ptarmigan; not all rioting through the "bush," on the trail of some mysterious four-footed forest denizen; not alone the gulping of a supper of toothsome whitefish or trout, followed by a long nap curled in a cosy hole in the snow, gray noses thrust into bushy tails. Although their wolf-blood made them, at first, less amenable than the average husky puppy to the discipline of collar and traces, their great mother, through the force of her example as lead-dog and the swift punishment she meted out to any culprit, contributed as much as Jean's own efforts to the breaking of the puppies to harness. Jules, the largest, marked like his mother with slate-gray patches on head and back was all dog; but the rogues, Colin and Angus, mottled with the lighter gray of their sire, and with his rangier build, inherited much of his wolf nature. Many a whipping from the long lash of plaited caribou hide, many a sharp nip from Fleur's white teeth, were required to teach the young wolves the manners of camp and trail; to bend their wild wills to the habit of instant obedience to the voice of Jean Marcel. But Fleur was a conscientious mother and under her stern tutelage and the firm but kind treatment of Jean,--who loved to rough and wrestle the puppies in the dry snow, rolling them on their backs and holding them helpless in the grip of his sinewy hands--as the shaggy ruffians grew in the wisdom of trace and trail, so in their wild natures ripened love for the master who fed and romped with them, meting out punishment to him alone who had sinned. In search of black and silver foxes, whose pelts, worth in the world of cities their weight in gold, are the chief inspiration of the red hunter's dreams, Jean had run his new trap-lines far in the valleys of the Salmon watershed. But to the increasing satisfaction of the still worried Michel, the sole noises of the night which had yet met his fearful ears, had been the scream of lynx, the occasional caterwauling of wolverine and the hunting chorus of timber wolves. But darkness still held potential terror for the lad in whom, at his mother's knee, had been instilled dread of the demon-infested bad-lands north of the Ghost, and he never camped alone. January came with its withering winds, burning and cracking the faces of the hunters following their trap-lines; swirling with fine snow, which struck like shot, and stung like the lash of whips. Often when facing the drive of a blizzard even the hardy Fleur, wrinkling her nose with pain, would stop and turn her back on the needle-pointed barrage. At times when the fierce cold, freezing all moisture from the atmosphere, filled the air with powdery crystals of ice, the true sun, flanked by sun-dogs in a ringed halo, lifted above the shimmering barrens, dazzlingly bright. One night when Jean and Michel, camped in the timber at the end of the farthest line of fox traps, had turned into their robes before a hot fire, in front of which in a snow hole they had stretched a shed tent both as windbreak and heat-reflector, a low wail, more sob than cry of night prowler, drifted up the valley. "You hear dat?" whispered Michel. The hairy throat of Fleur, burrowed in the snow close to the tent, rumbled like distant thunder. Marcel, already fast drifting into sleep, muttered crossly: "Eet ees de Windigo come to eat you, Michel." Again upon the hushed valley under star-encrusted heavens where the borealis flickered and pulsed and streamed in fantastic traceries of fire, broke a wailing sob. With a cry Michel sat up turning a face gray with fear to the man beside him. Again Fleur growled, her lifted nose sniffing the freezing air, to send her awakened puppies into a chorus of snarls and yelps. Raised on an elbow, Marcel sleepily asked: "What de trouble, Michel? You and Fleur hear de Windigo?" "Listen!" insisted the boy. "I nevaire hear dat soun' before." Silencing the dog, Jean pushed back his hood to free his ears, smiling into the blanched face of the wild-eyed boy beside him. Shortly the noiseless night was marred by a sobbing moan, as if some stricken creature writhed under the torture of mangled flesh. Marcel knew that neither wolf, lynx, nor wolverine--the "Injun-devil" of the superstitious--was responsible for the sound. What could it be? he queried. No furred prowler of the night, and he knew the varied voices of them all, had such a muffled cry. Puzzled and curious he left his rabbit-skin robes and stood with the terrified Michel beside the fire. In an uproar, the dogs ran into the "bush" with manes bristling and bared fangs, to hurl the husky challenge down the valley at the invisible menace. "Eet ees de Windigo! Dey tell me at Whale Riviere not to come een dees countree! De Windigo an' Matchi Manito ees loose here," whimpered Michel through chattering teeth. Jean Marcel did not know what it was that made night horrible with its moaning but he intended to learn at once. The lungs behind that noise could be pierced by rifle bullet and the cold steel of his knife. There was not a creature in the north with which Fleur would not readily battle. He would soon learn if the hide of a Windigo was tough enough to turn the knife-like fangs of Fleur, and the bullets of his 30-30. Seizing Michel by the shoulders he shook the boy roughly. "I tell you, Michel, de devil dat mak' dat soun' travel on four feet. You tie up de pup an' wait here. Fleur an' I go an' breeng back hees skin." But the panic-stricken Michel would not be left alone, and when he had fastened the excited puppies, with shaking hands he drew his rifle from its skin case and joined Marcel. Holding with difficulty on her rawhide leash the aroused Fleur leaping ahead in the soft footing, Marcel snow-shoed through the timber in the direction from which the sound had come. After travelling some time they stopped to listen. From somewhere ahead, seemingly but a few hundred yards down the valley, floated the eerie sobbing. Michel's gun slipped to the snow from his palsied hands. Turning, Jean gripped the boy's arm. "Why you come? You no good to shoot. De Windigo eat you w'ile you hunt for your gun." Picking up the rifle, the boy threw off the mittens fastened to his sleeve by thongs, and gritting his teeth, followed Marcel and Fleur. Shortly they stopped again to listen. Straight ahead through the spruce the moaning rose and fell. Fleur, frantic to reach the mysterious enemy, plunged forward dragging Marcel, followed by the quaking boy who held his cocked rifle in readiness for the rush of beast or devil. Passing through scrub, a small clearing opened up before them. Checking Fleur, Marcel peered through the dim light of the forest into the opening lit by the stars, when the clearing echoed with the uncanny sound. Marcel's keen eyes strained across the star-lit snow into the murk beyond, as Michel gasped in his ears: "By Gar! I see noding dere! Eet ees de Windigo for sure!" But the Frenchman was staring fixedly at a clump of spruce on the opposite edge of the opening. As the unearthly sobbing rose again into the night, he loosed the maddened dog and followed. They were close to the spruce, when a great gray shape suddenly rose from the snow directly in their path. For an instant a pair of pale wings flapped wildly in their faces. Then a squawk of terror was smothered as the fangs of Fleur struck at the feathered shape of a huge snowy owl. A wrench of the dog's powerful neck, and the ghostly hunter of the northern nights had made his last patrol, victim of his own curiosity. With a loud laugh Jean turned to the dazed Michel: "Tak' good look at de Windigo, Michel. My fox trap hold heem fas' w'ile he seeng to de star." The amazed Michel stared at the white demon in the fox trap with open mouth. "I t'ink--dat h'owl--de Windigo for sure," he stuttered. "I nevaire hear de h'owl cry dat way myself, Michel, but I know dat Fleur and my gun mak' any Windigo een dees countree look whiter dan dat bird. W'en we come near dees place I expect somet'ing een dat fox trap." And strangely, through the remaining moons of the long snows, the sleep of the lad was not again disturbed by the wailing of Windigos seeking to devour a young half-breed Cree by the name of Michel Beaulieu. CHAPTER XXXV RAW WOUNDS June once again found Marcel paddling into Whale River. The sight of the high-roofed Mission, where, in the past, he had known so much of joy and pain, quickened his stroke. He wondered whether she had gone away with Wallace at Christmas, or whether there would be a wedding when the trade was over and the steamer would take them to East Main. Avoiding the Mission until he had learned from Jules what he so longed to know, Marcel went up to the trade-house where he found Gillies and McCain. Too proud to speak of what was nearest his heart, he told his friends of his winter in the Salmon country. It had paid him well, his long portage from the Ghost, the previous September, to the untrapped valleys to the north. When, unlashing his fur-pack, he tossed on the counter three glossy black-fox pelts and six skins of soft silver-gray, alone worth well over a thousand dollars, even at the low prices of the far north, the eyes of Gillies and Angus McCain bulged in amazement. Cross fox, shading from the black of the back and shoulder to rich mahogany, followed; dark sheeny marten--the Hudson's Bay sable of commerce--and thick gray pelts of the fisher. Otter, lynx and mink made up the balance of the fur. "Great Scott! the Salmon headwaters must be alive with fur!" exclaimed Gillies examining the skins, "and most of them are prime." "Dere ees much fur een dat country," laughed Jean, "eef de Windigo don' ketch you, eh, Michel?" Michel, proud of his part in so successful a winter and in having bearded the demons of the Salmon in their dens and lived to tell the tale, blushed at the memory of the snowy owl. "This is the largest catch of fur traded in my time at Whale River, Jean," said Gillies. "What are you going to do with all your credit? You can't use it on yourself; you'll have to get married and build a shack here." Blood darkened the bronzed face, but Marcel made no reply. He had indeed wrung a handsome toll from the haunted hills, which, tabooed by Cree trappers for generations, were tracked by the padded feet of countless fur-bearers. After allowing Michel a generous interest in the fur, Marcel found that he had increased his credit at the post by over two thousand dollars, giving him in all a trade credit of twenty-six hundred dollars with the Company. He could in truth afford to marry and build a shack if he were made a Company servant, but the girl----Then he heard Gillies' voice. "Jean, I want you and Angus to go up to the Komaluk Islands with a York boat. The whalers are getting the Husky trade which we ought to have. They will ruin them with whiskey." "Ver' well, M'sieu!" Marcel drew a breath of relief. If she were not already married, he would be only too glad to go north--to be spared seeing Julie Breton made the wife of Wallace. Then, at last, Jules appeared. After the customary hug, Jean drew the big head man outside, demanding in French: "Is she here still? They were not married at Christmas? When do they marry?" Jules shook his head. "A letter came by the Christmas mail. By the Company he was ordered at once to Winnipeg. He is there now and will not come this summer." "And Julie, is she well?" "Yes." "When, then, will they marry?" Jules shrugged his great shoulders. "Christmas maybe, perhaps next June. No one knows." Marcel was strangely elated at the news. Julie was not yet out of his life. She would be at Whale River on his return from the north. Even if he were held all summer she would be there as of old. The welcome of Julie and Père Breton at the Mission temporarily drove from Marcel's thoughts the coming separation. Far into the night the three friends talked while Julie's skillful fingers were busy with her trousseau. She spoke of the postponement of her wedding, due to the presence of Inspector Wallace at the headquarters of the Company at Winnipeg. Julie's olive skin flushed with her pride, as she said that he had been mentioned already as the next Chief Inspector. Wallace had already become a Catholic, but the uncertainty of the time of his return to the East Coast might cause the delay of the ceremony until the following June. Marcel's hungry eyes did not leave the girl's face as she talked of her future--the future he had dreamed of sharing. But the wound was still raw and he was glad to escape the acute suffering which her nearness caused, by leaving Fleur and her puppies in Julie's care, and starting with McCain the following morning, in a York boat loaded with trade-goods, for the north coast. In August the York boat returned from the Komaluk Islands and Jean drew his supplies for another winter on Big Salmon waters. To Gillies, who urged him to accept a regular berth, and put his team of half-breed wolves on the mail-route to Rupert, for the winter previous the scarcity of good dogs along the coast had been the cause of the Christmas mail not reaching Whale River until the second of January, Marcel turned a deaf ear. In another year, he said, he would carry the mail up the coast, but his puppies were still too young to be pushed hard through a blizzard. Another year and he would show the posts down the coast what a real dog-team could do. Glancing at McCain, Gillies shook his head resignedly, for he knew well why Jean Marcel wished to avoid Whale River. On the morning of his departure, as Jean stood with Michel on the beach by the canoe, surrounded by his four impatient dogs, Julie stooped and kissed the white marking between Fleur's ears, whispering a good-bye. Turning her head in response, the dog's moist nose and rough tongue reached the girl's hand. "Lucky Fleur!" Jean said to his friends. "It's sure worth while being a dog, sometimes," drawled Angus McCain with a grimace. But Julie Breton ignored the remarks, wishing Marcel Godspeed. Through the day as they travelled Marcel looked on the high shores of the Salmon with unseeing eyes, for in them was the vision of a girl bending over a great dog. CHAPTER XXXVI DREAMS Christmas was but a week distant. For the first time in years Jean Marcel possessed a dog-team, and through the long December nights he had come to a decision to talk to Julie Breton once more, as in the old days, before she left Whale River forever. Led by Fleur, Colin, Angus and Jules, now grown to huge huskies, already abreast of their mother in height and bulk of bone, and showing the wolf strain in their rangy gait and in red lower-lids of their amber eyes, were jingling down the river trail to the festivities at the post. For, from Fort Chimo, west across the wide north, to Rampart House, Christmas and New Years are kept. From far and wide come dog-teams of the red hunters down the frozen river trails for the feasting and merrymaking at the fur-posts. Two weeks, "fourteen sleeps" on the trail, going and coming, is not held by many a hardy hunter and his family too high a price to pay for a few short days of trading and gossip and dancing. There are many who trap too far from the posts and in country too inaccessible to make the journey possible, but throughout the white desolation of the fur lands the spirit of Christmas is strong and yearly the frozen valleys echo to the tinkling of the bells of dog-teams and the laughter of the children of the snows. Over the beaten river trail, ice-hardened by the passage of many sleds preceding them, romped Fleur and her sons, toying with the weight of the two men and the food bags on the sled. At times, Jean and Michel ran behind the team to stretch their legs and start their chilled blood, for it was forty below zero. But to the dogs, travelling without wind at forty below on a beaten trail, was sheer delight. Often, on the high barrens of the Salmon they had slept soundly in their snow holes at minus sixty. As Jean watched his great lead-dog, her thick coat of slate-gray and white glossy with superb vitality, set a pace for her rangy sons which sent the white miles sliding swiftly past, his heart sang. Good all day for a thousand pounds, they were, on a broken trail, and since November he had in vain sought the limit of their staying power. Not yet the equals of their mother in pulling strength, at eighteen months their wolf-blood had already given the puppies her stamina. What a team to bring the Christmas mails up the coast from East Main! he thought, idly whirling the whip of plaited caribou hide which had never flecked the ears of Fleur, but which he sometimes needed when the excitable Colin or Angus scented game and, puppy-like, started to bolt. No dogs on the coast could take the trail from these sons of Fleur. No dog-team he had ever seen could break-out and trot away with a thousand pounds. That winter they had done it with a load of caribou meat on the barrens. Yes, next year he would accept Gillies' offer and put Fleur and her sons on the winter-mail--Fleur, and the team she had given him; his Fleur, whom he had followed and fought for: who had in turn battled for his life. "Marche, Fleur!" he called, his eyes bright with his thoughts. The lead-dog leaped from a swinging trot into a long lope, straightening the traces, followed by the team keen for a run. Away they raced in the good going of the hard trail. Then, in early afternoon when the sun hung low in the dim west, the men turned into the thick timber of the shores, where, sheltered from the wind, they shovelled out a camp ground with their snow-shoes and built a roaring fire while the puppies, ravenous for their supper, yelped and fretted until Jean threw them the frozen fish which they caught in the air and bolted. Before Jean and Michel had boiled their tea and caribou stew, four shaggy shapes with noses in tails were asleep in the snow, indifferent to the sting of the strengthening cold which made the spruces around them snap, and split the river ice with the boom of cannon. Wrapped in his fur robe before the fire, Marcel lay wondering if he should find Julie Breton still at Whale River. Hours later, waking with a groan, Marcel sat upright in his blankets. Near him the tired Michel snored peacefully. Throwing a circle of light on the surrounding spruce, huge embers of the fire still burned. The moon was dead, a veil of haze masking the dim stars. It was bitter cold. Half out of his covering, the startled _voyageur_ shivered, but it was not from the bite of the air. It was the stark poignancy of the dream from which he had escaped, that left him cold. He had stood by the big chute of the Conjuror's Falls on the Ghost, known as the "Chute of Death," and as he gazed into the boiling maelstrom of white-water, the blanched face of Julie Breton had looked up at him, her lips moving in hopeless appeal, as she was swept from sight. Into the roaring flume he had plunged headlong, frenziedly seeking her, as he vainly fought down through the gorge, buffeted and mauled by the churning water, but though he hunted the length of the river below, never found her. Again, he was travelling with Fleur and the team in a blizzard, when out of the smother of snow before him beckoned the wraith of Julie Breton--always just ahead, always beckoning to him. Pushing his dogs to their utmost he never drew nearer, never reached the wistful face he loved, luring him through the curtain of snow. Marcel freshened the fire and lighted his pipe. It was long before he threw off the grip of his dreams and slept. CHAPTER XXXVII FOR LOVE OF A GIRL Two days before Christmas the team of Jean Marcel, its harness brave with colored worsted, meeting the snarls of hostile Cree curs with the like threat of white fangs, jingled gaily past sleep-house and tepees, and drew up before the log trade-house at Whale River. Returning the greeting of the Crees who hailed him, he threw open the slab-door of the building. "Bon jour, Jean, eet ees well dees Chreesmas you come." The grave face of Jules Duroc checked the jest on Marcel's lips as he shook his friend's hand. "You are sad, mon ami; what has happened to the merry Jules?" Jean asked. "Ah, Jean Marcel! Dere ees bad news for you at Whale River." Across Marcel's brain flashed the memory of his dreams. Julie! Something had happened to Julie Breton. His speeding heart shook him as an engine a boat. A vise on his throat smothered the questions he strove to ask. His lips twitched, but from them came no words, as his questioning eyes held those of Jules. "Yes, eet ees as you t'ink, Jean Marcel. She ees ver' seek." Marcel's hands closed on Jules' arms as he demanded hoarsely: "Mon Dieu! W'at ees eet, Jules? Tell me, w'at ees eet?" "She has de bad arm. Cut de han' wid a knife." Blood-poisoning, because of his medical ignorance, held less terror for Marcel than some strange fever, insidious and mysterious. He had feared that Julie Breton had a dread disease against which the crude skill of the north is helpless. So, as he hastened to the Mission where he found Mrs. Gillies installed as nurse, his hopes rose, for a wound in the hand could not be fatal. From the anxious-eyed Père Breton who met him at the door, Jean learned the story. Ten days before, Julie had cut her hand with a knife while preparing frozen fish for cooking. For days she had ignored the wound, when the hand, suddenly reddening, began to swell, causing much pain. Gillies and her brother had opened the inflamed wound, cleansing it with bichloride, but in spite of their efforts, the swelling had increased, advancing to the elbow. She was now running a high fever, suffering great pain and frequently delirious. They realized that the proper treatment was an opening of the lymphatic glands of forearm and elbow to reach the poison slowly working upward, but did not dare attempt it. The priest told Marcel that in such cases if the poison was not absorbed into the circulation or reached by operation, it would extend to the arm-pit, then to the neck, with fatal termination. Jean Marcel listened with head in hands to the despairing brother. Then he asked: "Is there at Fort George or East Main, no one who could help her?" "At Fort George, Monsieur Hunter who has been lately ordered there to the Protestant church, is a medical missionary. We learned this to-day when the Christmas mail arrived. But they were five days coming from Fort George with their poor dogs. It will take you eight days to make the round trip and even in a week it may be too late--too late----" He finished with a groan. "Father, I will go and bring this missionary. I shall return before a week." "God speed you, my son! The mail team is worn out and we were sending a team of the Crees, but they have no dogs like yours." Mrs. Gillies led Marcel into Julie Breton's room and left them. On her white bed, with wayward masses of dusky hair tumbled on her pillow, lay Julie Breton, moaning low in the delirium of high fever. On a pillow at her side lay her bandaged left arm. As Marcel looked long at the flushed face with its parted lips murmuring incoherently, the muscles of his jaw flexed through the frost-blackened skin as he clenched his teeth at his helplessness to aid her--this stricken girl for whom he would have given his life. Then he knelt, and lifting the limp hand on the coverlet, pressed it long to his lips, rose, and went out. When Mrs. Gillies returned she found the right hand of Julie Breton wet--and understood. First feeding and loosing his dogs in the stockade Marcel hurried to the trade-house. There he obtained from Jules five days' rations of whitefish for the dogs, and some pemmican, hard bread and tea. "You t'ink you can mak' For' George een t'ree day?" Jules shook his head doubtfully. "Eet nevaire been made een t'ree day, Jean." "No one evair before on de East Coast travel as I travel, Jules," was the low reply. Gillies, Père Breton and McCain, talking earnestly, entered the room to overhear Marcel's words. "Welcome back, Jean; you are going to Fort George instead of Baptiste?" the factor asked, shaking Marcel's hand. "Yes, M'sieu, my team ees stronger team dan Baptiste's." "When do you start?" "Een leetle tam; I jus' feed my dogs." "Are they in good shape? They must be tired from the river trail." "Dey will fly, M'sieu." "Thank heaven for that, lad. We've got just one good dog left in the mail team--the one you gave me. The rest are scrubs and they came in to-day dead beat. Two of our Ungavas died in November." "M'sieu," said Marcel quietly, "my dogs will make For' George een t'ree days." "It's never been done, Jean, but I hope you will." When Marcel brought his refreshed dogs to the trade-house an hour later for his rations, a silent group of men awaited him. As Fleur trotted up, ears pricked, mystified at being routed out and harnessed in the dark, after she had eaten and curled up for the night, they were eagerly inspected by the factor. "Why, the pups have grown inches since you left here in August, Jean. They're almost as big as Fleur, now," said Gillies, throwing the light from his lantern on the team. "Tiens! Dat two rear dog look lak' timber wolves," cried Jules, as Colin and Angus turned their red-lidded, amber eyes lazily toward him, opening cavernous mouths in wide yawns, for they were still sleepy. Fleur, alive to the subdued tones of Jean Marcel and sensing something unusual, muzzled her master's hand for answer. "What a team! What a team!" exclaimed McCain. "Never have the Huskies brought four such dogs here. They ought to walk away with a thousand pounds. Are they fast, Jean?" "Dey can take a thousand all day, M'sieu. W'en you see me again, you will know how fast dey are. A'voir!" Marcel gripped the hands of the others, then turned to Père Breton, the muscles of his dark face working with suffering. "Father," he said, "if she should wake and can understand, tell her--tell her to wait--a little longer till Jean and Fleur return. If--if she--cannot wait for us--tell her that Fleur and Jean Marcel will follow her--out to the sunset." Then he turned, cracked his whip, hoarsely shouted: "Marche, Fleur!" and disappeared with his dogs into the night. CHAPTER XXXVIII THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE One hundred and fifty miles down the wind-harassed East Coast, was a man who could save Julie Breton. The mind of Marcel held one thought only as his hurrying dogs loped down the river trail to the Bay. Dark though it was, for the stars were veiled, Fleur never faltered, keeping the trail by instinct and the feel of her feet. Reaching the Bay the trail swung south skirting the beach, often cutting inland to avoid circling long points and shoulders of shore; at the Cape of the Winds--the midwinter vortex of unleashed Arctic blasts--making a deep cut to the sheltered valley of the Little Salmon. Marcel was too dog-wise to push his huskies as they swung south on the sea-ice, for no sled-dogs work well after eating. As the late moon slowly lifted, he shook his head, for it was a moon of snow. If only the weather held until he could bring his man from Fort George, but fate was against him. That he could average fifty miles a day going and coming, with the light sled, he was confident. He knew what hearts beat in those shaggy breasts in front--what stamina he had never put to the supreme test, lay in their massive frames. He knew that Fleur would set her sons a pace, at the call of Jean Marcel, that would eat the frozen miles to Fort George, as they had never before slid past a dog-runner. But once a December norther struck down upon them on their return, burying the trail in drift, with its shot-like drive in the teeth of man and dogs, it would kill their speed, as a cliff stops wind. He had intended to camp for a few hours, later in the night, to rest his dogs, but the warning of the ringed moon flicked him with fear, as a whiplash stings a lagging husky. It meant in December, snow and wind. He must race that wind to the lee of Big Island, so he pushed on through the night over the frozen shell of the Bay, stopping only once to boil tea and rest his over-willing dogs. As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskies with ice-hung lips and flews swung in from the trail skirting the lee shore of Big Island and the driver in belted caribou capote, a rim of ice from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire from cedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican, and feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constant toil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind. At noon he shook off the sleep which weighted his limbs, forced himself from his blankets, ate and pushed on. Although the air smelled of snow, and in the north, brooding, low-banked clouds hugged the Bay, snow and wind still held off. In early afternoon as the sun buried itself in the ice-fields, muffled rays lit the bald shoulders of the distant Cape of the Four Winds, seventy miles from his goal. "Haw, Fleur!" he called, and the lead-dog swung inland, to the left, on the short-cut across the Cape. As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With their superb vitality and staying power, they had travelled steadily through the night, after a half day on the river. Led by their tireless mother, each hour they had put five miles of snowy trail behind them. With the weather steady, Marcel had no doubt of when he would reach Whale River, for the weight of an extra man on the sled would be little felt on a hard trail and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snow and wind hanging over him, he travelled with a heavy heart. On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icy trail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that a December blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike down upon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night. Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by the iron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood of timber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel to push on and on, responded with all her matchless stamina. At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, he thought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas indeed for Jean Marcel. Then he slept. The next afternoon as they passed Wastikun, the Isle of Graves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on the dog-team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel, knowing what miles of drifts; what toil breaking trail to give footing to his team in the soft snow; what days of battling the drive of the wind whipping their faces with needle-pointed fury, awaited their return, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might now reach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had not waited, but over weary, had gone out into the sunset. In the early evening, forty-eight hours out of Whale River, four white wraiths of huskies with a ghost-like driver, turned in to the trade-house at Fort George. The spent dogs lay down, dropping their frosted masks in the snow, the froth from their mouths rimming their lips with ice. Sheeted in white from hood to moccasins, the _voyageur_ entered the trade-house in a swirl of snow and called for the factor. A bearded man engaged in conversation with another white man, behind the trade counter, rose at Jean's entrance. "I am from Whale River, M'sieu. My name is Jean Marcel. Here ees a lettair from M'sieu Gillies." Marcel handed an oil-skin envelope to McKenzie, the factor, who surveyed with curiosity the ice-crusted stranger with haggard eyes who came to Fort George on Christmas night. At the mention of Whale River, the man who had been in conversation with McKenzie behind the counter, also rose to his feet. And Marcel, who had not seen his face, now recognized him. It was Inspector Wallace. "Too bad! Too bad!" muttered the factor, reading the note, "and we're in for a December blizzard." "What is it, McKenzie?" demanded Wallace, coming from behind the counter and reaching for Gillies' note. The narrowed eyes of Marcel watched the face of Wallace contract with pain as he read of the peril of the woman he loved. "Tell me what you know, Marcel!" Wallace demanded brokenly. Jean briefly explained Julie's desperate condition. "When did you leave Whale River?" "Two day ago." "What," cried McKenzie, "you came through in two days from Whale River? Lord, man! I never heard of such travelling. Your dogs must be marvels!" "I came in two day, M'sieu," repeated Marcel, "because she weel not leeve many day onless she have help." "Why, man, I can't believe it. It's never been done. When did you sleep?" The factor called to a Company Indian who entered the room, "Albert, take care of his dogs and feed them." "Dey are wild, M'sieu. I weel go wid heem." Marcel started to go out with the Indian, for his huskies sorely needed attention, then stopped to stare in wonder at Wallace, who had slumped into a chair, head in hands. For a moment the hunter looked at the inert Inspector; then his lip curled, his frost-blackened face reflecting his scorn, as he said: "W'ere ees dees missionary, M'sieu? We mus' start een a few hours, w'en my dogs have rest." "What, start in the teeth of this? Listen to it!" The drumming of wind and shot-like snow on the trade-house windows steadily increased in fury. The muscles of Marcel's face stiffened into stone as he grimly insisted: "We mus' start to-night." "You are crazy, man; you need sleep," protested McKenzie. "I know it's a life and death matter. But you wouldn't help that girl at Whale River by losing the trail to-night and freezing. I'll see Hunter at once, but I can't allow him to go to his death. If the blow eases by morning, he can start." Again Marcel turned, waiting for Wallace, who nervously paced the floor, to speak. Then with a shrug he said: "M'sieu Wallace weel wish to start to-night? I have de bes' lead-dog on dees coast. She weel not lose de trail." "What do you mean--Monsieur Wallace?" blurted the factor. Wallace raised a face on which agony and indecision were plainly written. But it was Jean Marcel who answered, with all the scorn of his tortured heart. "_She ees de fiancée--of M'sieu Wallace._" "Oh, I--I didn't--understand!" stumbled the embarrassed McKenzie, reddening to his eyes. "But--I can't advise you to start to-night, Mr. Wallace." The factor went to the door. As he lifted the heavy latch, in spite of his bulk the power of the wind hurled him backward. The door crashed against the log-wall, while the room was filled with driving snow. "You see what it's like, Wallace! No dog-team would have a chance on this coast to-night--not a chance." "Yes," agreed Wallace, avoiding Marcel's eyes. Then he went on, "You understand, McKenzie, I'm knocked clean off my feet by this news. But--we'll want to start, at least, by morning--sooner, if the dogs are rested--that is, of course, if it's possible." Deliberately ignoring the man who had thus bared his soul, Marcel drew the factor to one side. "Mon Dieu, M'sieu!" he pleaded in low tones. "She weel not leeve. Onless we start at once, we shall be too late. Tak' me to de doctor!" The agonized face of the hunter softened McKenzie. "Well, all right, if Hunter will go and Mr. Wallace insists, but it's madness. I'll go over to the Mission now and talk to the doctor." When Jean had seen to the feeding of his tired dogs whom he left asleep in a shack, he hurried through the driving snow with the Company Indian to the Protestant Mission House, where he found McKenzie alone with the missionary. As he entered the lighted room, the Reverend Hunter, a tall, athletic-looking man of thirty, welcomed him, bidding him remove his capote and moccasins and thaw out at the hot box-stove. "Mr. McKenzie has shown me Gillies' message, Marcel. Now tell me all you know about the case," said the missionary. Briefly Marcel described the condition of Julie Breton--Gillies' crude attempt at surgery; the advance toward the shoulder of the swelling and inflammation, with the increasing fever. When he had finished he cried in desperation: "M'sieu, I have at Whale River credit for t'ree t'ousand dollar. Eet ees all----" Hunter's lifted hand checked him. "Marcel, first I am a preacher of the gospel; also, I am a doctor of medicine. I came into the north to minister to the bodies as well as to the souls of its people. Do not speak of money. This case demands that we start at once. Have you good dogs?" The drawn face of Marcel lighted with gratitude. Troubled and mystified by the attitude of Wallace, McKenzie broke in, "He's surely got the best dogs on this coast--made a record trip down. But, Mr. Hunter, I'll not agree to your starting in this hell outside. You must wait until daylight. The Inspector has decided that it would be impossible to keep the trail." "I came here to aid those _in extremis_," replied the missionary. "I will take the risk to save this girl. It's a matter of days and we may be too late as it is." "T'anks, M'sieu, her brother, Père Breton, weel not forget your kindness; and I--I weel nevaire forget." The eyes of Marcel glowed with gratitude. "Then it's understood that you start at daylight, if the wind won't blow you off the ice. I'll see you then." And McKenzie, looking hard at Marcel and Hunter, went out. When the factor had closed the door, Jean turned to Dr. Hunter. "Thees man who marries her een June, ees afraid to go. Weel Mr. Hunter start wid me at midnight?" The big missionary gripped Marcel's hand as he said with a smile, "I did not promise McKenzie I would not go. At midnight we start for Whale River." CHAPTER XXXIX THE HATE OF THE LONG SNOWS In the unwritten law of the north no one in peril shall ask for succor in vain. So universal is this creed, so general its acceptance and observance throughout the vast land of silence, that when word is brought in to settlement, fur-post, or lonely cabin, that help is needed, it is a matter of course that a relief party takes the trail, however long and hazardous. And so it was with John Hunter, clergyman, physician, and man. New to the north, he had come from England at the call for volunteers to shepherd the souls and bodies of the people of the solitudes, and without hesitation, he agreed to undertake a journey which the older heads at Fort George knew might well culminate in the discovery later, by a searching party, of two stiffened bodies buried beside a starved dog-team, somewhere in the drifts behind the Cape of the Four Winds. Marcel and the dogs were in sore need of a few hours' rest for the grilling duel with snow and wind, before them, so, when he had eaten, Jean turned into a bed in the Mission. At midnight Jean hitched his dogs and waked Hunter. Leaving Fort George asleep in the smother of snow, down to the river trail, into the white drive of the norther plunged the dog-team. Giving the trail-wise Fleur her head in the black night, Jean, with Hunter, followed the sled carrying their food and robes. Turning from the swept river ice into the Bay, dogs and men met the full beat of the blasts with heads lowered to ease the hammering of the pin-pointed scourge whipping their faces. With the neighboring shore smothered in murk, Marcel, trusting to Fleur's instinct to keep the trail over the blurred white floor which only increased the blackness above, followed the sled he could barely see. Speed against the wind was impossible, and at all hazards he must keep the trail, for if they swung to the west on the sea-ice they were doomed to wander until they froze. He would push on and camp, until daylight, in the lee of the Isle of Graves. With the light they would begin to travel. Then on the open ice, where there was little drift, he would give Fleur and her pups the chance to prove their mettle, for there would be little rest. And beyond, at the rendezvous of the winds, they would have ten miles inland through the drifts. The unproven sons of Fleur would indeed need the stamina of wolves to take them through the days to come. At last the trail, which the lead-dog had held solely by keeping her nose to the ice, ran in under the bold shore of Wastikun. There, after feeding the dogs, they burrowed into the snow in the lee of the cliffs wrapped in their fur robes. With the wind, the temperature had risen and men and dogs slept hard until dawn. Then, hot tea, bread and pemmican spurred the fighting heart of Marcel with hope. The wind had eased, but powdery snow still drove down blanketing the near shore. Daylight found them on their way. Due to the wind there was as yet little drift on the trail over the Bay ice and the freshened dogs, with lowered heads, swung up the coast at a trot. All day with but short respite, men and dogs battled on against the norther. The mouth of the Little Salmon was the goal Marcel had set for himself--the river valley from which they would cut overland behind the gray cape, to the north coast. Forty miles away it lay--forty cruel miles of the torturing beat of shot-like snow on the faces of men and dogs; forty miles of endless pull and drag for the iron thews of Fleur and the whelps of the wolf. This was the mark which the now ruthless Frenchman, with but one thought, one vision, set for the shaggy beasts he loved. Hunter, game though he was, at last was forced to ride on the sled, so fierce was their pace into the wind. Steadily the great beasts ate up the miles. At noon, floundering through drifts like the billows of a broken sea, with Marcel ahead breaking trail, they crossed Caribou Point, Hunter, refusing to burden the dogs, wallowing behind the sled. There they boiled tea, then pushed on to the mouth of the Roggan. At Ominuk, night fell like a tent, and again a white wraith of a lead-dog, blinded by the fury she faced, kept the trail by instinct, backed loyally by her brood of ice-sheathed wolves, foot-sore, trail-worn, following with low noises her tireless feet. The coast swung sharply. They were in the lee of the Cape. But a few miles farther and a long rest in the sheltered river valley awaited them. Marcel stopped his dogs and went to Fleur, lying on the trail, her hot breath freezing as it left her panting mouth. Kneeling on the snow beside her with his back to the drive, he examined each hairy paw for pad-cracks or balled snow between the toes, but the feet of the Ungava were iron; then he took in his hands her great head with its battered nose, blood-caked from the snow barrage she had faced all day. Rubbing the ice from her masked eyes, Jean placed his hooded face against his dog's; she turned her nose and her rough tongue touched his frost-blackened cheek. "Fleur," he said, "we are doing it for Julie--you and Jean Marcel. We mus' mak' de Salmon to-night. Some day we weel hav' de beeg sleep--you and Jean." Again he stroked her massive head with his red, unmittened hand, then for an instant resting his face against the scarred nose, sprang to his feet. With a glance at the paws and a word for each of the whining puppies whose white tails switched in answer, Jean cracked his whip and shouted, "Marche!" Late that night a huge fire burned in the timber of the sheltered mouth of the Little Salmon. Two men and a dog-team ate ravenously, then slept like the dead, while over them roared the norther, rocking the spruce and jack-pine in the river bottom, heaping the drifts high on the Whale River trail. In three days of gruelling toil Marcel had got within ninety miles of his goal--within a day and a half of Whale River had the trail been ice hard. But now it would be days longer--how many he dared not guess. Had the weather held for him, four days from the night of his starting would have seen him home; for on an iced trail, at his call, his great dogs would have run like wolves at the rallying cry of the pack. As he drew his stiffened legs from the rabbit-skins to freshen the fire at dawn, he bit his cracked lips until they bled, at the thought of what the blizzard had meant to Julie Breton, waiting, waiting for the dog-team creeping up the East Coast, hobbled and held back by head-wind and drift. The dogs had won a long rest and Marcel did not start breaking trail inland until after daylight. With the sunrise the wind had increased and the heart-sick Marcel groaned at the strength-sapping floundering in breast-high drifts which faced his devoted dogs, when he needed them fresh for the race up the sea-ice of the coast beyond. Before he slept, he had weighed the toil of ten miles of drift-barred short-cut across the Cape, against doubling the headland on the ice, but he had decided that no men or dogs could face the maelstrom of wind and snow which churned around its bald buttresses; no strength could force its way--no endurance prevail, against it. With Marcel in the lead as trail-breaker and the missionary, who took the punishment without murmur, like the man he was, following the sled, Fleur led her sons up to their Calvary in the hills. As they left the valley and reached the open tundra above, they met the full force of the wind. For an instant men and dogs stopped dead in their tracks, then with heads down they hurled themselves into the white fury which had buried the trail beyond all following. On pushed the desperate Frenchman in the direction of the north coast, followed by Fleur with her whitened nose at the tails of his snow-shoes. At times, when the force of the snow-swirls sucked their very breath, men and dogs threw themselves panting on the snow, until, with wind regained, they stumbled on. Often plunging to their collars in the new snow, the huskies travelled solely by leaps, until, stalled nose-deep, tangled in traces and held by the drag of the overturned sled, Marcel and the exhausted Hunter came to their rescue. Heart-breaking mile after mile of the country over which Marcel had sped two days before, they painfully put behind them. At noon, the man who lived his creed crumpled in the snow. Wrapping him in robes, Marcel lashed him on the sled and went on, the vision of a dying girl on a white cot at Whale River ever in his eyes. Through a break in the snow, before the light waned, Marcel made out, dim in the north, the silhouette of Big Island. He was over the divide and well on his way to the coast. With the night, the wind eased, though the snow held, and although he was off the trail, the new snow on the exposed north slope of the Cape was either wind-packed or swept from the frozen tundra, and again the exhausted dogs found good footing. For some time the team had been working easily down hill, Marcel often forced to brake the toboggan with his feet. He knew he had worked to the west of the trail, and was swinging in a circle to regain it. Worried by the sting of the cold, which was growing increasingly bitter as the wind fell off, he stopped to rub the muffled, frost-cracked face and hands of his spent passenger, cheering him with the promise of a roaring fire. When he started the team, Colin, stiffened by the rest, limped badly, and Jules, who had bucked the deep snow all day like a veteran of the mail-teams, gamely following his herculean mother, hobbled along, head and tail down, with a wrenched shoulder. It was high time they found a camping place. With the falling wind they would freeze in the open. So he pushed on through the murk, seeking the beach where there was wood and a lee. They were swiftly dropping down to the sea-ice but snow and darkness drew around them an impenetrable curtain. Seizing the gee-pole, Marcel had thrown his weight back on the sled to keep it off the dogs on a descent when suddenly Fleur, whose white back he could barely see moving in front, with a whine stopped dead in her tracks and flattened on the snow. Her tired sons at once lay down behind her. The sled slid into Angus and stopped. Mystified, Marcel called: "Marche, Fleur! Marche!" fearing to find, when she rose, that his rock and anchor had suddenly broken on the trail. But the great dog, ignoring the command, raised her nose in a low growl as Marcel reached her. "What troubles you, Fleur?" he asked, on his knees beside her, brushing the crusted snow from her ears and slant eyes. Again Fleur whined mysteriously. "Where ees de pain, Fleur? Get up!" he ordered sharply, thinking to learn where her iron body had received its hurt. But the dog lay rigid, her throat still rumbling. "By Gar, dis ees queer t'ing!" muttered Marcel, his mittened hand on the massive head. Then some strange impulse led him to advance into the black wall, when, with fierce protest, Fleur, jerking Jules to his feet, leaped forward, straining to reach him. The Frenchman, checked by the dog's action, stared into the darkness, until, at length, he saw that the white tundra at his feet fell away before his snow-shoes and he looked out into gray space. As he crouched peering ahead, his senses slowly warned him that he stood on a shoulder of cliff falling sheer to the invisible beach below. He had driven his dogs to the lip of a ghastly death; and Julie---- Turning back, he flung himself beside the trembling Fleur and with his arm circling the great neck, kissed the battered nose. Fleur, with the uncanny instinct of the born lead-dog, had scented the open space, divined the danger, had known--and lain down, saving them all. Swinging his team off the brow of the cliff, he worked back and finally down to the beach, and his muffled passenger, drowsy, with swiftly numbing limbs, never knew that he had ridden calmly, that night, out to the doors of doom. In the lee of an island Marcel made camp and boiled life-giving tea,--the panacea of the north--and pemmican, on a hot fire, which soon revived the frozen Hunter. To his joy, he realized that the back of the blizzard was broken, for as the wind and snow eased, the temperature rapidly fell to an Arctic cold. With Whale River eighty miles away; his dogs broken by lack of rest and stiff from the wrenching and exhaustion of the battle with the deep snow; his own legs twinging with "mal raquette"; Marcel thanked God, for the dawn would see the wind dead and if his team did not fail him, in two days he would reach the post. CHAPTER XL "HE'S GOT HIS MAN!" Whale River was astir. Before the trade-house groups of Crees critically inspected the dogs of Baptiste Laval, who fretted and yelped, eagerly waiting the "_Marche!_" which would send them off on the river trail. Inside, the grave-faced Gillies gave big Jules his parting instructions. "He never started home in that blizzard, Jules; McKenzie wouldn't allow the missionary to take such a chance. But Jean surely left yesterday morning and with fresh dogs he'll come through in four days, even with a heavy trail. You ought to meet him this side the Cape." "Yes, M'sieu. But I t'ink he travel more fas' dan dat. I see heem to-morrow, maybe." "No, he never started that last day of the blow. It would have been suicide. Poor lad! he must have been half crazy, with her on his mind." "How ees she dis noon, M'sieu?" "The fever holds about the same--no worse; but she must be operated on very soon. The poison is extending. If you meet them at the Cape you ought to get the doctor here a day ahead of Jean, with his tired dogs." Surrounded by the Crees who were wishing them luck on their trip to meet and relay Marcel home, Baptiste had cracked his dog-whip with a loud, "_Marche!_" when an Indian with arms raised to attract attention came running from the shore across the clearing. "Whoa!" shouted Jules, and Baptiste checked his dogs. "What does he say?" called Angus McCain. "A dog-team down river? Do you hear that, Gillies?" "Husky," replied the factor drily. "Couldn't possibly be Marcel!" "No, he couldn't have come through that norther," agreed McCain. "What's that he says, Jules?" demanded Gillies. Jules Duroc, hands and shoulders in motion, was talking excitedly to the Cree who had joined the group by the sled. Turning suddenly, he ran back to the factor. "Felix say dat a team crawl up de riviere trail lak' dey ver' tired. He watch dem long tam." "That's queer, but it's some Husky--can't be Marcel. Why, good Lord, man! he hasn't been away six days." Angus disappeared, to return with an old brass-bound telescope and hurried to the river shore with Jules, followed by the scoffing Gillies. To the naked eye, a black spot was discernible on the river ice. "There are two men following a team," announced Angus, the glass at his eye. "They're barely moving. Now they've stopped; the dogs must be played out. The driver's trying to get them up! Now he's got them going!" Gillies took the telescope and looked for a long space. Suddenly to those who watched him, waiting for his report, his hand visibly shook. Turning to Jules, he bellowed: "Jules, you travel like all hell for that dog-team! God only knows how they got here alive, but there's only one lead-dog on this coast that reaches to a man's middle. That team crawling in out there is Jean Marcel's--God bless him!--_and he's got his man!_" With a roar Jules leaped on the sled and lashed the team headlong down the cliff trail to the ice. Madly they raced down-river under the spur of the rawhide goad. "Run to the Mission, someone, and tell Père Breton that Jean Marcel is back!" continued Gillies. At the words, willing feet started with the message. The eyes of Colin Gillies were blurred as he watched through the glass the slow approach of those who had but lately fought free from the maw of the pitiless snows. Now he could recognize the massive lead-dog, limping at a slow walk, her great head down. Behind her swayed the crippled whelps of the wolf, tails brushing the ice, tongues lolling as they swung their lowered heads from side to side, battling through the last mile on stiffened legs, giving their last ounce at the call of their gaunt master who reeled behind them. Far in the rear a tall figure barely moved along the trail. At the yelp of Jules' approaching team the dogs of Marcel pricked drooping ears. Stopping them, Jean waited for Hunter. "Dey sen' team. Eet ees ovair, M'sieu! We mak' Whale Riviere een t'ree day and half, but she--she may not be dere." Too tired to speak, Hunter slumped on the sled. With a yell, Jules reached Marcel and gathered him into his arms. "By Gar, Jean! You crazee fool; you stop for noding! Tiens! I damn glad to see you, Jean Marcel!" The fearful Marcel gasped out the question, "Julie! Ees she dere? Does she leeve?" "Oui, mon ami; she ees alive. You save her life." Staggering to his lead-dog the overjoyed man threw himself beside her on the trail where she sprawled panting. "We 'ave save her," he cried. "Julie--has waited for Jean and Fleur." Taking the missionary on his sled, Jules tried to force Marcel to ride as well, but the _voyageur_ threw him off. "No, no!" he cried. "We weel feenish on our feet--Fleur, de wolf and Jean Marcel." So back to the post Jules raced with Hunter. A cheering mob of Indians met dogs and master on the river ice and carried Marcel, protesting, up the cliff trail, where Gillies and Angus were waiting. "I reach For' George de night of second day, but de dreef and wind at de Cape----" He was checked by a hug from the blubbering McCain as Colin Gillies, with eyes blurred by tears, welcomed him home. "You have saved her, Jean," said the factor, "now you must sleep." With hands raised in wonder he turned to the group. "Shades of André Marcel! Two days to Fort George! It will never be done again." Then they took the swaying Marcel, asleep on his feet, and his dogs, away to a long, warm rest. But the Crees sat late that night smoking much Company plug as they shook their heads over the feat of the son of André Marcel who feared neither Windigo nor blizzard. And later, the tale travelled down to the southern posts and out to Fort Churchill on the west coast and from there on to the Great Slave and the Peace, of how the mad Marcel had driven his flying wolves one hundred and fifty miles in two sleeps, and returned, without rest, in three, in the teeth of a Hudson's Bay norther. And hearing it, old runners of the trails shook their heads in disbelief, saying it was not in dogs or men to do such a thing; but they did not know the love and despair in the heart of Jean Marcel which spurred him to his goal, nor did they fathom the blind devotion of his great lead-dog, who, with her matchless endurance and that of her sons, had made it possible. CHAPTER XLI AS YE SOW Fresh from a London hospital though he was, John Hunter found that the condition of Julie Breton demanded the exercise of all his skill as a surgeon. But the operation, aided by the girl's young strength and vitality, was successful, and she slowly overcame the grip of the infection. Four days after Marcel reeled into Whale River with his battered dogs, bringing the man who was winning back life for Julie Breton, an exhausted dog-team limped in from the south. Rushing into the trade-house the white-faced Wallace grasped Gillies' hand, hoarsely demanding: "Does she live, Gillies?" "She's all right, Mr. Wallace; doing well, the doctor says," answered Gillies. "She's going to pull through, thanks to Jean Marcel and Dr. Hunter. I take my hat off to those two men." Wallace's eyes shifted to the floor as he ventured: "When did they get in?" "Oh, they came through against that blow in three days and a half. The greatest feat of man and dogs in my time. When did you leave East Main?" Wallace stared incredulously at Colin Gillies' wooden face. "East Main? Why, didn't Marcel tell you?" "No," replied Gillies, but he did not say that his wife had been told by Hunter of the presence of Wallace at Fort George the night Marcel brought the news. However, the factor did not further embarrass his chief by questions. And Wallace did not see fit to inform him that not until the wind died, two days after the relief party started, had he left Fort George. "I suppose she's too sick to see me?" the nervous Inspector hazarded. "Yes, no one sees her except Mrs. Gillies and Hunter." "Well, I'll look up Father Breton," and Wallace went out followed by an expression in Colin Gillies' face which the Inspector would not have cared to see. For a week Wallace remained at Whale River and then, assured by Dr. Hunter of Julie's safety, left, to return later. When, meeting Marcel in the trade-house, he had attempted to thank him, the cold glitter in the eyes of the Frenchman as he listened with impassive face to the halting words of the Inspector of the East Coast, filled Colin Gillies with inward delight. When Gillies bade good-bye to his chief, he said casually, "Well, I suppose we'll have a wedding here in June, Mr. Wallace." "Yes, Gillies, Father Breton and I are only waiting for Julie to set the date. Good-bye; I'll be up the coast next month," and was off. But what piqued Gillies' curiosity was whether Dr. Hunter had told Père Breton just what happened at Fort George when the tragic call for help came in on Christmas night. Jean Marcel's mouth had been shut like a sprung trap, even Jules and Angus did not know; of that, Gillies was sure. But why had the doctor not told Père Breton, as well as Mrs. Gillies? He was Julie's brother and ought to know. If Hunter had enlightened the priest, then Colin Gillies was no judge of men, for he had always admired the Oblat. The first week in February Julie Breton was sitting up, and Mr. Hunter bade good-bye to the staunch friends he had made at Whale River. Not always are the relations between Oblat or Jesuit, and Protestant missionaries, unduly cordial in the land of their labors, but when the Reverend Hunter left the Mission House at Whale River, there remained in the hearts of Père Breton, his sister and Jean Marcel, a love for the doctor, clergyman and man which the years did not dim. One day, later on, Marcel and Fleur were making their afternoon call on Julie, who was propped in bed, her hair hanging in two thick braids. "We leave in a few days," Jean said in French. "Michel is anxious to get back to his traps." "Oh, don't go so soon, Jean. I haven't yet had an opportunity to talk to you as I wished." "If you mean to thank me, I am glad of that," he said, his lips curling in a faint smile. "Why should I not thank you, Jean Marcel, who risked your life like a madman to help me? I do now thank you with all my heart. But for you, I would not be here. Dr. Hunter told me I could not have lived had he arrived one day later." With a gesture of impatience Marcel turned in his chair and gazed through the window on the world of snow. The dark eyes in the pale face of the girl were strangely soft as they rested on the sinewy strength of the man's figure; then lifted to the strong profile, with its bony jaw and bold, aquiline nose. "You do not care for my thanks, Jean?" she asked. "Please!" he begged. "It is over, that! You are well again! I am happy; and will go back to my trap-lines." "But it is not all over with Julie Breton," she insisted. He turned with brows raised questioningly. "It has left her--changed. She will never be the same." "What do you mean? Dr. Hunter said you would be as strong as ever, by spring." "Ah, but I do not speak of my body, Jean Marcel." He gazed in perplexity at her wistful face. In a moment his eyes again sought the window. For a long space, she was silent. Then a suppressed sob roused him from his bitter thoughts and he heard the strained voice of the girl. "I know all," she said. "What do you mean?" "Mrs. Gillies, and Dr. Hunter--when I asked him--told me--long ago. We have kept it from Père Henri. It seems years, for I have been thinking much since then--lying awake, thinking." "Julie, what has been worrying you? Don't let what I did cause you pain," he pleaded, not catching the significance of her words. "It's all right, Julie. You owe me nothing--I understand." "Ah, but you do not understand," she said, smiling at the man's averted face. "Julie, I have suffered, but I want you to be happy. Don't think of Jean Marcel." "But it is of Jean Marcel of the great heart that I must think--have been thinking, for days and days." She was sitting erect, tense; her pale face drawn with emotion. "I tell you I know it all," she cried, "how they--_he_, feared to start in the storm--and waited--ordered you to wait. But no wind or snow could hold Jean Marcel, and in spite of them, he brought Dr. Hunter to Whale River--and saved Julie Breton." Dumb with surprise at her knowledge of what he thought he and Hunter alone knew--at the scorn in her voice, Marcel listened with pounding heart. "Yes, they told me," she went on, "how Jean Marcel heard the news when he reached Whale River and, without sleep, that night hurried south for help, swifter than men had ever travelled, because Julie Breton was in peril. Dr. Hunter has told me all; how you and Fleur fought wind and snow to bring him to Whale River--and Julie Breton. And now you ask her not to thank you--you who gave her back her life." Only the low sobbing of the girl broke the silence. In a moment the paroxysm passed, and she looked through tears at the man who sat with bowed head in hands, as she faltered: "Ah, will you not see--not understand? Must I tell you--that I--love--Jean Marcel?" Dazed, Jean rose. With a hoarse cry of "Julie!" he groped to the bed and took her in his yearning arms. After the years--she had come home. Later, Mrs. Gillies looked in to see a dusky head on the shoulder of the man who knelt by the bed, and on the coverlet beside them the great head of Fleur, who gazed up into two illumined faces through narrow eyes which seemed to comprehend as her bushy tail slowly swept to and fro. * * * * * In June there was a wedding at Whale River, with an honored guest who journeyed up the coast from Fort George for the ceremony, John Hunter. The Mission church overflowed with post people and the visiting Crees, few of whom but had known some kindness from Julie Breton. In the robes of his order, Père Breton faced the bride and groom. Beside the former, gravely stood the matron of honor; her gown of slate-gray and snowy white, carefully groomed for the occasion by the faithful Jules, glossy with superb vitality; her great neck circled by a white ribbon knotted in a bow--which it had required days to accustom her to wear--in strange contrast to the massive dignity of the head. From priest to bride and groom, curiously her slant eyes shifted, in wonder at the proceeding. The ceremony over, the bride impulsively kissed the slate-gray head of the dog while a hum of approval swept the church. Then, before repairing with their friends to the Mission House, where the groaning table awaited them, Julie and Jean Marcel, accompanied by Fleur, went to the stockade. Three gray noses thrust through the pickets whined a welcome. Three gigantic, wolfish huskies met them at the gate with wild yelps and the mad swishing of tails. Then the happy Jean and Julie gave the whelps of the wolf their share of the wedding feast. _The greatest pleasure in life is that of reading. Why not then own the books of great novelists when the price is so small_ ¶ _Of all the amusements which can possibly be imagined for a hard-working man, after his daily toil, or in its intervals, there is nothing like reading an entertaining book. It calls for no bodily exertion. It transports him into a livelier, and gayer, and more diversified and interesting scene, and while he enjoys himself there he may forget the evils of the present moment. Nay, it accompanies him to his next day's work, and gives him something to think of besides the mere mechanical drudgery of his every-day occupation--something he can enjoy while absent, and look forward with pleasure to return to._ _Ask your dealer for a list of the titles in Burt's Popular Priced Fiction_ _In buying the books bearing the A. L. Burt Company imprint you are assured of wholesome, entertaining and instructive reading_ _THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION AT A POPULAR PRICE_ =Sinister Mark, The.= Lee Thayer. =Sin That Was His, The.= Frank L. Packard. =Sir or Madam.= Berta Ruck. =Sisters-in-Law.= Gertrude Atherton. =Sky Line of Spruce.= Edison Marshall. =Slayer of Souls, The.= Robert W. Chambers. =Smiles: A Rose of the Cumberlands.= Eliot H. Robinson. =Snowdrift.= James B. Hendryx. =Snowshoe Trail, The.= Edison Marshall. =Son of His Father, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Son of Tarzan, The.= Edgar Rice Burroughs. =Souls for Sale.= Rupert Hughes. (Photoplay Ed.). =Speckled Bird, A.= Augusta Evans Wilson. =Spirit of the Border, The.= Zane Grey. (New Edition). =Spirit-of-Iron.= Harwood Steele. =Spoilers, The.= Rex Beach. (Photoplay Ed.). =Spoilers of the Valley, The.= Robert Watson. =Star Dust.= Fannie Hurst. =Steele of the Royal Mounted.= James Oliver Curwood. =Step on the Stair, The.= Anna Katherine Green. =Still Jim.= Honoré Willsie. =Story of Foss River Ranch, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Story of Marco, The.= Eleanor H. Porter. =Strange Case of Cavendish, The.= Randall Parrish. =Strawberry Acres.= Grace S. Richmond. =Strength of the Pines, The.= Edison Marshall. =Subconscious Courtship, The.= Berta Ruck. =Substitute Millionaire, The.= Hulbert Footner. =Sudden Jim.= Clarence B. Kelland. =Sweethearts Unmet.= Berta Ruck. =Sweet Stranger.= Berta Ruck. =Tales of Chinatown.= Sax Rohmer. =Tales of Secret Egypt.= Sax Rohmer. =Tales of Sherlock Holmes.= A. Conan Doyle. =Talkers, The.= Robert W. Chambers. =Talisman, The.= Sir Walter Scott (Photoplay Ed.). Screened as Richard the Lion Hearted. =Taming of Zenas Henry, The.= Sara Ware Basset. =Tarzan of the Apes.= Edgar Rice Burroughs. =Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar.= Edgar Rice Burroughs. =Tattooed Arm, The.= Isabel Ostrander. =Tempting of Tavernake, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Tess of the D'Urbervilles.= Thomas Hardy. (Photoplay Ed.). =Tex.= Clarence E. Mulford. =Texan, The.= James B. Hendryx. =Thankful's Inheritance.= Joseph C. Lincoln. =That Affair at "The Cedars."= Lee Thayer. =That Printer of Udell's.= Harold Bell Wright. =Their Yesterdays.= Harold Bell Wright. =Thief of Bagdad, The.= Achmed Abdullah. (Photoplay Ed.) =Thieves' Wit.= Hulbert Footner. =Thirteenth Commandment, The.= Rupert Hughes. =This Side of Paradise.= F. Scott Fitzgerald. =Thoroughbred, The.= Henry Kitchell Webster. =Thread of Flame, The.= Basil King. =Three Black Bags.= Marion Polk Angelloti. =Three Men and a Maid.= P. G. Wodehouse. =Three Musketeers, The.= Alexander Dumas. =Three of Hearts, The.= Berta Ruck. =Through the Shadows with O. Henry.= Al. Jennings. =Thunderbolt, The.= Clyde Perrin. =Timber.= Harold Titus. =Timber Pirate.= Charles Christopher Jenkins. =Tish.= Mary Roberts Rinehart. =To Him That Hath.= Ralph Connor. =Toilers of the Sea, The.= Victor Hugo. (Photoplay Ed.). =Toll of the Sands.= Paul Delaney. =Trail of the Axe, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Trailin'.= Max Brand. =Trail to Yesterday, The.= Chas. A. Seltzer. =Treasure of Heaven, The.= Marie Corelli. =Trigger of Conscience, The.= Robert Orr Chipperfield. =Triumph of John Kars, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel, The.= Baroness Orczy. =Trodden Gold.= Howard Vincent O'Brien. =Trooper O'Neill.= George Goodchild. =Trouble at the Pinelands, The.= Ernest M. Porter. =T. Tembarom.= Frances Hodgson Burnett. =Tumbleweeds.= Hal G. Evarts. =Turn of the Tide.= Eleanor H. Porter. =Twenty-fourth of June.= Grace S. Richmond. =Twins of Suffering Creek, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Two-Gun Man, The.= Chas. A. Seltzer. =Two-Gun Man, The.= Robert Ames Bennet. =Two-Gun Sue.= Douglas Grant. =Typee.= Herman Melville. =Tyrrel of the Cow Country.= Robert Ames Bennet. =Under Handicap.= Jackson Gregory. =Under the Country Sky.= Grace S. Richmond. =Uneasy Street.= Arthur Somers Roche. =Unlatched Door, The.= Lee Thayer. =Unpardonable Sin, The.= Major Rupert Hughes. =Unseen Ear, The.= Natalie Sumner Lincoln. =Untamed, The.= Max Brand. =Up and Coming.= Nalbro Bartley. =Up From Slavery.= Booker T. Washington. =Ursula Trent.= W. L. George. =Valiants of Virginia, The.= Hallie Erminie Rives. =Valley of Content, The.= Blanche Upright. =Valley of Fear, The.= Sir A. Conan Doyle. =Valley of Gold, The.= David Howarth. =Valley of the Sun, The.= William M. McCoy. =Vandemark's Folly.= Herbert Quick. =Vanguards of the Plains.= Margaret Hill McCarter. =Vanished Messenger, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Vanishing of Betty Varian, The.= Carolyn Wells. =Vanity Fair.= Wm. M. Thackeray. (Photoplay Ed.). =Vashti.= Augusta Evans Wilson. =Viola Gwyn.= George Barr McCutcheon. =Virginia of Elk Creek Valley.= Mary Ellen Chase. =Virtuous Wives.= Owen Johnson. =Voice of the Pack, The.= Edison Marshall. =Wagon Wheel, The.= William Patterson White. =Wall Between, The.= Sara Ware Bassett. =Wall of Men, A.= Margaret Hill McCarter. =Wasted Generation, The.= Owen Johnson. =Watchers of the Plains, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Way of an Eagle, The.= Ethel M. Dell. =Way of the Strong, The.= Ridgwell Cullum. =Way of These Women, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim. =We Can't Have Everything.= Major Rupert Hughes. =Weavers, The.= Gilbert Parker. =West Broadway.= Nina Wilcox Putnam. =West Wind Drift.= George Barr McCutcheon. =What's the World Coming To?= Rupert Hughes. =What Will People Say?= Rupert Hughes. =Wheels Within Wheels.= Carolyn Wells. =Whelps of the Wolf, The.= George Marsh. =When a Man's a Man.= Harold Bell Wright. (Photoplay Ed.). =When Egypt Went Broke.= Holman Day. =Where the Sun Swings North.= Barnett Willoughby. =Where There's a Will.= Mary Roberts Rinehart. Transcriber's Notes: Page 41: Changed etes to êtes Page 52: Changed Companee to Company Page 66: Changed uninterruped to uninterrupted Page 113: Changed eyrie to eerie Page 273: Changed matchles to matchless 
21462	----	The Frontier Fort; Stirring Times in the North-West Territory of British America, by W H G Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ Another well-written yarn by Kingston, with a background of Indian territory in the Red River area of North America. Plenty of action, ambushes, shootings, fast rides on horseback, and other incidents apparently typical of the life of those days and in such a place. ________________________________________________________________________ THE FRONTIER FORT; STIRRING TIMES IN THE NORTH-WEST TERRITORY OF BRITISH AMERICA, BY W H G KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. A party of travellers were wending their way across a wide-spreading prairie in the north-west territory of America. As far as the eye could reach, the ground was covered with waving tufts of dark-green grass, interspersed with flowers of varied hue, among which could be distinguished the yellow marigold and lilac bergamot, with bluebells, harebells, and asters, innumerable; while here and there rose-bushes, covered with gorgeous bloom, appeared above the particoloured carpet spread over the country. On the north side the prairie was bounded by softly rounded knolls, between which tiny lakelets were visible, shining in the bright rays of the glowing sun. To the northward a silvery stream could be seen meandering, bordered by willows, aspens, osiers, and other trees of considerable height, breaking the line of the horizon. "I am delighted with your country, Burnett; I had no idea such lovely scenery and so much rich soil existed on this side of the Rocky Mountains," said one of the travellers, addressing another, who rode alongside him. "I hope, before many years are over, to see this fair region covered with populous towns and villages, and flourishing farms." "That time is far distant, I suspect," answered Mr Burnett, a head clerk of the Hudson's Bay Company, in charge of the party; "and I can only say that I hope so, for when it comes, our vocation will be well-nigh gone, as the Company will have to shut up shop--" "And retire on well-won fortunes," laughingly added the first speaker, Reginald Loraine. He was a young Englishman of good fortune and family, who had lately come out to make a tour in Canada; but having heard conflicting reports of the north-west territory, he had been induced to continue his journey westward, intending to proceed as far as the foot of the Rocky Mountains, and to return, before the termination of the summer, from Fort Edmonton, down the Saskatchewan, and through Lake Winnipeg to the Red River. His intelligence, high spirits, and good humour made him an agreeable companion. He was never put out by any mishaps or inconveniences. His personal appearance was also much in his favour; while he was a good rider, and possessed of activity and endurance, equal, if not superior, to any of the rest of the party, long accustomed though they were to the mode of life they were leading. From the sentiments he uttered, and the expression of his handsome countenance, it might have been surmised that he possessed many other qualities of a higher character. Young Hector Mackintosh, who had come with him from Toronto, declared, indeed, that he never wished to have a stauncher fellow at his back in a skirmish with Redskins, or in a fight with a grizzly, and that he was as high-minded and generous as he was brave. Hector, who was now curvetting over the prairie on a tough little mustang, had been at school at Toronto, whence he was returning to rejoin his father, Captain Mackintosh, now a chief officer, or factor, in charge of Fort Duncan, a Company's post to the south-west, situated on the borders of the Blackfeet territory. It was a somewhat dangerous position, which only a man of courage and resolution would willingly have occupied. Following at some little distance those who have been mentioned, came three other horsemen, whose shouts of laughter, interspersed occasionally with snatches of songs, could be heard far across the prairie. The centre of the three was a short, portly gentleman, with a somewhat rubicund countenance--Doctor McCrab, just appointed surgeon to one of the forts in the west. On either side of him rode two young clerks. One of them was Dan Maloney, a light-hearted Irishman, with whom the jolly Doctor amused himself by exchanging jokes, capping verses, and singing duets which set all the laws of harmony at defiance. The other was Allan Keith, who, from similarity of taste and mental qualities, had won the regard of Reginald Loraine; indeed, except in point of wealth, the two young men greatly resembled each other. Some way behind the gentlemen came a long team of Red River wooden carts, escorted by several persons on horseback, under charge of Jacques Leblanc, a French half-breed, who, from his reputed knowledge of the country in all directions, had been selected to act as guide to the whole party. The carts, which had only two wheels, were built entirely of wood, and each was dragged by a single horse. Some carried the travellers' tents, cooking utensils, a tool-chest, and additional axletrees, their arms and ammunition, together with their clothes, spare blankets, and waterproofs. The other carts were laden with stores of all sorts for the forts to the westward. Accompanying the carts was a drove of loose horses--the animals now rearing and kicking and biting at each other--now moving along steadily, under the management of a single driver, Francois Chabot, also a French half-breed. He had seldom to use his long whip to keep them in order; and even the most restless showed no inclination to leave their companions. They were intended to supply the travellers with a change of steeds once or twice in the day; for in making long journeys, when day after day forty or fifty miles have to be got over between sunrise and sunset, one horse seldom possesses sufficient strength and endurance to carry his rider the whole distance. When a horse shows signs of fatigue, his saddle is removed to the back of another, and he contentedly runs on with the herd. The horses were mostly small, and many of them sorry-looking steeds; but they had, notwithstanding, carried their riders without showing signs of fatigue, or growing thinner. Their only food was the grass they could pick up while the party were encamped at night, or during their noon-day halt, neither beans nor corn being given them. Reginald Loraine and the Doctor had provided themselves with English saddles; the rest of the party bestrode those of native manufacture, which were merely large pads of dressed leather, stuffed with hair or grass, and having a broad and fringed crupper. Several of them were trimmed and handsomely adorned with quills, the talent of the manufacturer being especially exerted in ornamenting the saddle-cloths. The stirrups were formed of curved pieces of wood, hanging by leather thongs to the primitive saddle. The bridles might more properly be called halters. They consisted of a thong of raw hide, thirty feet in length, called an _atscacha_. One end was tied round the animal's lower jaw, and the other, after being brought over the neck to the rider's hand, was allowed to drag on the ground some fifteen feet behind. It requires care, particularly by those in the rear, not to tread on the thongs trailing behind. By so doing, the mouth of the horse receives a jerk which seldom fails to make it rear and curvet from side to side. The object of this long thong is to enable the rider, when he dismounts, to hold his horse while he fires at a foe; or, should he be thrown by the animal stumbling in a rabbit-burrow, to prevent it running off. The long thong serves also as a halter, ever ready to tie it up, or to catch it when at liberty. Even the gentlemen who used English bridles found it convenient to have these halters secured to their horses' heads. Day after day the travellers had been making their way along the Fertile Belt, the name given to a broad tract of country extending between the Red River and the base of the Rocky Mountains, bordered on the north by forests, lakes, and rivers, and on the south by that sandy and desert region which extends along the whole frontier of the United States. The party rode steadily on, every man carrying his rifle at his back; for although the natives were generally friendly, it was considered wise to be prepared, lest so rich a booty as the carts would afford might tempt them. At night, too, a constant watch was kept on the horses, as the Crees roaming over that part of the country are notorious horse-stealers, and would have considered it a creditable feat to have carried off as many of the travellers' steeds as they could catch. They had proceeded some distance, when, shading his eyes with his hand, Mr Burnett looked out eagerly ahead. "What is it you see?" asked Loraine, imitating his example. "A party of horsemen, whom I at first thought might be Blackfeet on the war-path, but I am satisfied they are Red River men, on a buffalo hunt," answered Burnett. "We shall soon know. See, Leblanc has gone forward to ascertain who they are." The guide in a short time returned, saying that the strangers were Red River hunters; that they had just sighted buffalo, and would be glad if any of the gentlemen of the party would join them. Loraine and Hector were delighted to accept the invitation, and Allan Keith and Maloney were anxious to try their skill as hunters. While they galloped on to join the half-breeds, Burnett and his men moved towards the spot which had been fixed on for camping at night. The buffalo hunt need not be described, except to say that the young Englishmen won the admiration of their new friends by their courage and dexterity, each having brought a couple of the shaggy monsters to the ground. The travellers spent the evening with their new friends, the hunters, who, as soon as the buffalo they had last killed had been turned into pemmican, intended to return to the Red River. Next morning they continued their journey westward, pushing on at greater speed than usual, to make up for lost time, Burnett being very anxious to reach the fort by the day he was expected. The country was generally lovely, being well wooded, with numerous lakelets, now rising into softly rounded knolls, and occasionally opening out into a wide, fair landscape. The soil was of rich loam, and the vegetation luxuriant, sprinkled with flowers of many tints. They had been moving on for a couple of hours or more, when Loraine, looking to the southward, observed a remarkable appearance in the horizon, which wore an unearthly ashen hue. Pointing it out to Burnett, he asked-- "Can that be produced by a prairie fire?" "No; but if I mistake not, we shall have, before long, a flight of locusts passing over our heads. That peculiar look of the sky is produced by the light reflected from their transparent wings." As he spoke, the whole sky appeared to be changing from blue to silvery white, then to ashy grey and lead colour; while, opposite to the sun, the prevailing hue was a silver white--perceptibly flashing, the air seeming as if rilled with flakes of snow. "The insects are flying from five hundred to a thousand feet above our heads; and I hope we may get clear of them before we camp, or they will play mischief with everything made of leather, which is left exposed," observed Burnett. He was, however, disappointed; for, in a short time, the locusts descended--the whole air became filled with them, until they reached the ground, where they clung to the blades of grass in countless multitudes. During the remainder of the day the creatures continued coming on; and when the party at length stopped at night, they had to clear away the ground to form their camp. The voracity of the insects was proved by the way they attacked and destroyed several articles of clothing, which had carelessly been left on the grass. The travellers found, indeed, that the only way to protect their property was to pile it up in the carts out of reach. Dan Maloney appeared with a melancholy countenance, exhibiting a leather bag and a pair of woollen trousers, which he had thrown down outside the tent, eaten through and through in all directions. At night the insects, fortunately, did not move. Early in the morning they were found busily feeding; but as soon as the sun had evaporated the dew, they began taking short flights, and then cloud after cloud rose, and pursued their way to the northward. Burnett assured his companions that he had never seen so large a flight before; and, as far as he could ascertain, many years had passed without the country receiving a similar visitation. Scarcely had the locusts disappeared, than what looked like a thick, black fog-bank was seen rising from the direction whence they had come. It approached nearer and nearer. Leblanc, riding forward, pointed it out to Burnett. "The prairie is on fire," he remarked. "I know it is; I saw it from the first. But I don't think it will come near us." "I am not quite so sure of that. It comes on fast, and the grass here is very long," said the guide. "Then we'll make our way to yonder knoll, where it is shorter," said Burnett, who was not to be put out by Indians, locusts, or prairie fires. The word was given to drag the carts towards the spot Burnett had indicated. "A fire on the prairie is a serious matter, is it not?" observed Loraine, in a tone of inquiry. "I do not much fear it, notwithstanding," answered Burnett. "We shall have a storm before long, I suspect, and that will fight the flames." "I should have thought that a storm would be more likely to fan them into greater fury," remarked Loraine, who considered that Burnett was not sufficiently alive to the dangers they might have to encounter from the fire. "Not if it rains as I expect it will," observed Burnett. "Look at that cloud ahead. It contains a torrent sufficient to extinguish the fiercest flames." Loraine had hitherto been admiring the beautiful appearance of the sky. To the south it was of that bright blue such as is seldom seen in the British Isles. To the west it was bordered with vast, billowy clouds of the softest, snowy white. Beneath the black cloud, which was every instant extending, were grey masses whirling on at a terrific rate; while, suddenly, to the north and east the expanse of heaven assumed a dun-coloured hue, vivid with lightning, where rain appeared to be descending in torrents. The whole atmosphere was charged with electricity. The lightning rushed towards the earth, in straight and zig-zag currents, the thunder varying from the sharp rattle of musketry to the roar of artillery. Still no rain had fallen from overhead, while scarcely a breath of air was blowing. Meantime, however, the fire came rushing on across the prairie, the flames, as they caught the tall grass, growing brighter and brighter, every now and then rising and expanding, as they seized on shrubs and trees in their onward course. Burnett at last seemed to think that matters were growing serious, and made a signal to the drivers of the carts to push forward. There was no necessity, as they were doing their utmost to urge on their steeds by uttering strange oaths and by the liberal use of their whips. "We must try and get to the other side of the knoll, and camp; for we as yet have only seen the beginning of the storm," remarked Burnett. Scarcely had he said this, than, with the suddenness of a tornado, the wind came rushing down upon them; at first, without a drop of rain, but so fiercely that the horses were forced from the track. Again and again it seemed hopeless to drive against it. The lightning flashed more vividly than before; the thunder roared; while the fire advanced across the prairie like a fiery host bent on their destruction. "I say, I don't see why we should lose our lives, even though Burnett thinks it is his duty to stick by the carts," said Hector, riding up to Loraine. "We can gallop ahead, in spite of the wind; it will be better than being turned into Guy Fawkeses." Loraine was much inclined to follow his young friend's advice; indeed, he suspected the rest of the party would soon leave the carts to their fates, and try to save themselves by flight from the fiery sea, which was tossing and heaving not a quarter of a mile away from them. He would not go, however, without first urging Burnett, the other clerks, and the Doctor to try and save themselves. He had turned his horse for the purpose, when the rain came down thick and furious, with even greater suddenness than the wind had arisen. They saw that it almost immediately produced an effect on the fire. It was a struggle between the two elements. At first it seemed doubtful, however, which would prove victorious; but water, they trusted, had gained the day; for, mingled with the rain came hail, not only ordinary hail, but mixed with lumps half an inch to an inch across. "Och! I'd as soon have a whack from an honest shillaly as be pelted by thim threacherous lumps," cried Dan Maloney. The travellers in vain raised their hands to protect their heads from the hail. The long line of horses and carts was broken. Some of the poor creatures clung to the road, struggling desperately. Others were driven on to the prairie, and turning their backs to the storm, stood still or moved sideways, with cowering heads, their manes and tails floating wildly, like those of Highland shelties. Hector declared that he could hear the hissing of the rain as it fell on the hitherto victorious fire, effectually, however, quenching it. A few minutes after the storm had broken, the whole ground to the left was a blackened expanse. The danger was passed, and they hastened on to the foot of the knoll, where a lakelet, fringed by aspens and poplars, afforded them good camping ground. With astonishing speed the arrangements for the night were made; every man exerted himself. The horses were unharnessed, the erratic ones hobbled, the tents pitched, and the travellers assembled round the blazing fires which were quickly lighted to dry their saturated clothing. Almost before these arrangements were made, the storm passed away. The setting sun burst forth again until not a blot was left in the sky, save fragments of mist to the south and south-east. It was too late to think of moving on again, and Leblanc was glad of the opportunity of halting to repair some of the carts with the ever serviceable "Shaganappi," a large supply of which was carried for the purpose, as also to mend the harness and other gear which had been broken by the restive movements of the horses during the storm. In the mean time, while Francois, another Canadian, who acted as cook, was preparing the evening meal, Loraine and Hector took their guns to shoot some ducks which were seen on the other side of the lakelet. Having knocked over several birds, before returning they took a refreshing plunge in the water, which was sufficiently deep for the purpose. The twilight had faded away into darkness before the whole party were seated round the camp-fires, discussing their suppers with such appetites as few fail to obtain while travelling in that region. Supper was over; and "early to bed, and early to rise" being a standing order, those of the party who enjoyed the luxury of tents retired within, while the rest lay down, wrapped in their blankets, beneath the carts arranged, as usual, in a circle to serve as a defence against any attacks of hostile Indians. Although Burnett did not expect any annoyance of the sort, he considered it his duty to take the precautions which no traveller at that period omitted to make. Two or three men were also stationed as sentries to keep watch, especially on the horses. Loraine had seen Hector, who shared his tent, fall fast asleep; but not being inclined to close his own eyes, he stepped out of his tent to take a look at the stars which shone from the heavens, undimmed by a single cloud. Happening to turn his eyes towards the summit of the knoll, he was somewhat surprised to see what he felt sure was a human figure, the outline being distinctly marked against the sky. The man was evidently taking a survey of the camp. Loraine, thinking it possible that he might be a scout sent out by a party of Blackfeet, made his way to the nearest sentry to tell him to be on the watch, and to ask his opinion on the subject. By the time he had reached the sentry, however, the figure had disappeared. The sentry thought he might have been mistaken; but when Loraine made him understand what he had seen, he went round to the other men on watch, and urged them to be on the alert and to keep the horses well together. Loraine was just going back to his tent, when he heard a shout. It was answered by the sentry on the south side of the camp; and a conversation in a language he could not understand took place. On going up to them, he could dimly distinguish an Indian of somewhat diminutive size and of deformed figure. "What does he want?" inquired Loraine. "He says, as far as I can make out, that his chief, who will be here directly, sent him to find out who we are; for he thought at first, when he saw our camp-fire, that we might be Crees, or a party of Blackfeet, for such he knows are at present out on the war-path," answered the sentry. "Tell him that we shall be glad to see his chief, whoever he is, if he comes as a friend," said Loraine. "Until I know his business, I will not arouse Mr Burnett, who requires a good rest; and I dare say it will keep until to-morrow morning." The sentry spoke to the hump-backed Indian, who quickly disappeared in the gloom; and Loraine walked up and down, waiting for his return. "You must not be thrown off your guard, Pierre, lest some trick should be intended," he remarked, recollecting the numberless tales of Indian treachery he had heard. "I know the coquins (rogues) too well for that," answered Pierre. In a short time, Loraine saw through the gloom two persons on horseback, with a couple of led horses, approaching. They rode fearlessly up to the camp. The first, from the white hair hanging down under his fur cap, and his snowy beard, and wrinkled, weather-beaten features, though he sat upright and firmly in his saddle, was apparently an old man. His costume, consisting of a leathern coat and leggings, fringed in the usual fashion, and the rifle slung at his back, showed that he was one of the free white hunters, or trappers, who have been wont for many a year to roam amid the prairies and forests in the north-west in search of peltries. The other person, leading the two pack horses, Loraine recognised as the hump-backed Indian who had just before come to the camp. "I am glad to have fallen in with you, friends," said the old man, dismounting. "You keep early hours and a careful watch. I expected to have seen you carousing, and quaffing the accursed fire-water, as so many of you travellers from the Far East are wont to do. To say the truth, when I first caught sight of your camp-fires, I was uncertain whether they were those of Crees or Blackfeet; and as I had no fancy to fall in with the one or the other, I sent on my lad Greensnake to learn the state of the case." "Then he was the person I saw at the top of the hillock out there," observed Loraine. "Not he; he would not have exposed himself in that fashion," said the old man. "Then my eyes must have deceived me, after all," said Loraine. "I'm sure Mr Burnett, the leader of our party, will welcome you to the camp; but he is asleep at present, and I should be sorry to disturb him unnecessarily. I will, however, call up one of the men to get ready some supper for you and your attendant." "I shall be glad of some food, for I have not fired a shot for the last three days, and my stock of provisions has run short," replied the old man. He now called up Greensnake, took off the saddles from the led horses, and unloaded the baggage animals, placing the packs inside the circle of carts. Meantime, Loraine found out where Francois was sleeping, and, arousing him, told him to get some food ready for their unexpected guests. Francois at first eyed the strangers askance. Satisfied, however, at length, that he was a white man, and perhaps a person of more importance than his costume might betoken, he set diligently to work to boil the kettle and fry some buffalo meat; the old hunter, who had taken a seat on a pile of wood near the fire, looking complacently on. Loraine having assisted Francois in preparing the supper, prompted by good feeling, and perhaps slightly by curiosity, took a seat by the side of the stranger, that he might attend to his wants. Immediately afterwards, the lad who has been introduced as Greensnake glided noiselessly up in a fashion appropriate to his name, and squatted down close to his master, waiting patiently until Loraine handed him a share of the food. Having no cause to conceal the object of their journey, Loraine explained that he and his companions were bound for Fort Edmonton, and were pushing on as fast as they could travel, without the risk of knocking up their horses. "I wish that you were directing your course rather to Fort Duncan, for I suspect that Captain Mackintosh and his small garrison are greatly in want of assistance. From some information brought me by Greensnake, I suspect that the Blackfeet have formed a plot to take it. Hearing that the Captain holds the Indians cheaply, and is not likely to be warned by what I might tell him, I am on my way to Fort Edmonton to advise that he should be put on his guard, and that assistance may be sent him without delay." Loraine was struck by the old man's mode of expressing himself--so different to the slang language used in general by the rough trappers and traders of the Far West. "This is important information, indeed!" he said, feeling anxious about the safety of his young friend's family, and especially of that young friend's two sisters; for although he had never seen them, Hector had shown him their portraits, one of which, called Sybil, possessed a face of rare loveliness. Effie, the younger, was very attractive; but Hector declared that there never was, or never could be, anybody like Sybil. Hector had told him that the portrait, not being his own, he could not give it to him, but that he was welcome to look at it as often as he liked--a privilege of which, it must be confessed, Reginald frequently took advantage; and he had resolved, if possible, to pay a visit to the residence of the fair original. Even had this not been the case, his chivalry would have made him eager to set off to the assistance of Hector's relatives. He felt that the matter was of so much importance that he should be justified in calling up Mr Burnett to discuss what measures should be taken. He, of course, knew that Hector would be as anxious to go as he was; he, therefore, let him sleep on. Burnett, who did not appear very well satisfied at being aroused from his slumbers, came and sat down to hear the old man's account. He questioned him narrowly, apparently not altogether crediting his statements. "You may think what you will, Mr Burnett; but people are not apt in general to doubt the word of Isaac Sass," said the old man at length, in an offended tone. "Are you Isaac Sass?" exclaimed Burnett. "I have often heard of you. Then, I say, I don't doubt your word. But why are you so sure that the fort will be attacked?" "For a strong reason, which, as I don't wish to keep you longer from your rest, I will give in the morning." "A word for yourself, friend Sass, I ken?" observed Burnett. "No, no; I can do without sleep," answered Isaac Sass; "but before I lie down, I wish to know--yes or no--whether you will direct your course towards Fort Duncan, instead of going on to Edmonton." "I wish that I could do as you suggest," answered Burnett. "If Captain Mackintosh wants help, I should like to give it him; but I must carry out my instructions, at all costs. It would not do to run the risk of getting our train plundered, as both stores and ammunition are much wanted at Edmonton." "But will you allow one of your factors to be exposed to the danger our friend here has spoken of?" exclaimed Loraine. "I should be unwilling under any other circumstances to part company; but I feel bound, whether or not I can get anybody to go with me, to set off with my friend, young Mackintosh, to warn his family, and give them such assistance as we can." "You, of course, are at liberty to go, Mr Loraine; and, as young Mackintosh was committed to your care, to take him with you," answered Burnett, somewhat stiffly. "But duty is duty. I must obey my orders, and those are, to conduct this train to Edmonton with as little delay as possible. I have no discretionary power to go out of the way, under any excuse whatever." "But, surely, you would not object to one of the clerks, and some few of the men who could be spared, accompanying me!" exclaimed Loraine. "Even a small addition to the number would be of consequence in the defence of the fort, should it be attacked; and that it will be so, our friend here seems to think there is every probability." "I have explained how I am situated in the matter, Mr Loraine," said Mr Burnett, in the same tone as before; "and I think it right to say, that, without a guide and a body of men well-armed, you and young Mackintosh will be unable to accomplish the journey. You will either lose yourselves and be starved, or be attacked and cut off by the Blackfeet. The Crees are not to be trusted either; for though they are civil enough to us, knowing that we have the power to punish them, yet they would steal our horses if they could; and, looking upon you as strangers, they would not only take your horses, but your scalps into the bargain." "I shall not be afraid of meeting either them or the Blackfeet," answered Loraine. "What do you say, friend?" he added, turning to Isaac Sass. "Can I, or can I not, get to Fort Duncan, and warn the garrison of the danger which threatens them?" The old hunter looked up at the countenance of the young Englishman, without speaking for a few seconds. He then said, "If pluck and courage would enable a man to do it, you would; but I cannot say how much you know about the country and the ways of the Redskins. It would not be an easy matter for any man, as there are several war parties out--of that I have certain knowledge; and I had no small difficulty in keeping clear of them. I wish that I could go with you, but I cannot get along as fast as I used to do, and my beasts are pretty well knocked up. But this is what I'll do: I'll send my lad Greensnake with you; whatever I tell him to do, he'll do, and prove as true as steel. People call him an idiot; but he's no more an idiot than I am, if a person knows how to get the sense out of him, and that's what I do." Greensnake, on hearing his name mentioned, glanced up with a pleased look, and nodded at his master, as a dog often does when spoken about. "I gladly accept your offer, and will give him any reward you think right for his services," said Loraine. "I should like to set off to-night." "That would be impossible, as the lad and your horses want rest," answered the old trapper. "To-morrow morning he shall be at your service, and perhaps by that time Mr Burnett will have thought the matter over, and will send two or three of his men to accompany you. I will take the duties of those who go, and he knows I am worth something." "Well, well, I'll think it over, and to-morrow morning let you know my decision," said Burnett. "Now, Mr Loraine, I'd advise you to lie down and get some rest, or you won't be fit for the work you propose to undertake." Loraine, hoping that Burnett would consent to spare him a few men, followed his advice, and turned into his camp bed, while the old hunter, wrapping himself in his buffalo robe, lay down with his feet to the fire, as did Greensnake in a horse-cloth, which he took from the baggage he had deposited inside the camp. CHAPTER TWO. Burnett was duly impressed with a sense of his responsibilities. He really wished to send assistance to Fort Duncan, but felt the importance of conveying his charge safely to Fort Edmonton, and he was too prudent to run any risk, by weakening his escort. He, therefore, determined to commence the journey at an earlier hour than usual, and to push forward as fast as possible. He recollected the half-breeds from whom they had parted only three days before, and whom they had left encamped. If they could be overtaken, some of them might be induced to go to Fort Duncan by the prospect of a brush with their sworn enemies, the Blackfeet. "Perhaps this young Englishman will agree to go back and obtain their assistance, and he will render far greater service to the captain than if he were to go alone," thought Burnett. "I will propose the plan to him to-morrow morning, and allow Allan Keith to accompany him. The two seem to pull well together; and as soon as we get to Edmonton we will send off as many men as can be spared." Satisfied with his plan, Burnett pulled his blanket round him, and was just dropping off to sleep, when he heard the distant neigh of a horse. "That was not one of our animals!" he exclaimed, starting to his feet. As he did so, he saw the old man and his Indian boy sitting up. "What sound was that, Sass?" he asked. "Blackfeet are not far off, I guess," was the answer. Loraine, who had been unable to sleep, hearing what was said, came out of his tent. "Is there a chance of the camp being attacked?" he asked. "They'll not attack the camp, but they'll steal our horses if they can," answered Burnett. "Depend on that; if we don't keep a look-out they'll have half of them away before morning," observed Sass; and turning to Loraine, he added, "You said just now that you caught sight of a figure on the top of the hill, and as that was not Greensnake or me, I have a notion that it was one of the Blackfeet." "Why didn't you tell me of that before?" inquired Burnett. "Because I thought I was mistaken, and that it was not of sufficient consequence to arouse you," answered Loraine. "It may be of the greatest importance; even now the rascals may have enticed off some of our horses," exclaimed Burnett, taking his gun, and going up to where the men lay asleep. A light touch on the shoulder, and a whisper in the ear, were sufficient to arouse them. He having also called up the Doctor and the two clerks, hurried on to where the men were on watch outside. They also had heard the sounds, and were on the alert. They were certain that as yet all the horses were safe. They were joined by most of the other men; two or three only, by Burnett's orders, having remained behind to extinguish the fires. Just at this juncture several horses, feeding on the rich pasture not a hundred yards off, came galloping up, and would have passed the camp had not the men rushed out and stopped them. This proved without doubt that enemies were in the neighbourhood. Accordingly, several men, well-armed, went out and brought up the remainder of the horses, which they at once tethered either to the carts or to stakes firmly fixed in the ground; then each with his gun loaded with buck-shot, crawled out through the long grass, so that they could not be seen, even by the sharp eyes of the Blackfeet, and arranged themselves in a circle at the distance of about eighty yards from the camp. The night was dark, and perfect silence was maintained, so that even the most watchful enemy could not have discovered what the travellers were about. Burnett having thus made all necessary arrangements for the security of the camp, directed Allan Keith and Maloney each to take his turn in watching, and again lay down, his example being followed by the rest of the party who were not required on duty. The most sharp-eyed Redskins would have found it difficult to discover what the travellers were about. Allan Keith was the only person who remained on foot. Having visited the horses, and ascertained that the men in charge of them were awake, he went on, intending to make the circuit of the camp, to assure himself that the men were on the alert. Thinking it unnecessary to crawl along the ground, from supposing that in the darkness he could not be seen at any distance, he walked upright, and had just got close to the outer circle where he expected to find one of the men on watch, when an arrow whistled close to his head. The scout, who must have been close in front of him, immediately began to crawl along, like a snake through the grass, in the direction whence the arrow had come. Allan was as courageous as most persons; but it would have been folly to have exposed himself to the risk of another shot. He, therefore, wisely crouched down in the spot which had been occupied by the man who had gone forward in pursuit of the intruder. He listened with open ears, but not a sound could he hear, nor could his eyes pierce the darkness beyond a few yards from where he lay. He waited and waited, until he began to fear that the scout must have been caught by the savages, and killed before he had had time to cry out. That the other scouts were on the watch, he had no doubt, and would take care that no Indians approached without being discovered. He had remained in his recumbent position for some time, when he at length heard a rustling in the grass, and the scout rejoined him. "The coquin has escaped us, monsieur," whispered the Canadian. "I wish that I had shot him, but by firing I should have discovered our position, and we should have had a score of arrows or bullets flying about our ears." After the warning he had received, Allan, imitating the example of the scout, crawled along the ground to the different posts, and finding all the men on the alert, returned in the same fashion to the camp. Night went by, and no other alarm was raised. At early dawn Burnett, having aroused the whole camp, gave them the information Isaac Sass had brought. There was no lack of volunteers, among whom was Allan Keith, eager to accompany Loraine to Fort Duncan. He was somewhat less disappointed than would otherwise have been the case at being refused permission to go, when Burnett explained his plan of sending him in search of the half-breed hunters, to collect among them as many recruits as he could obtain to increase the garrison at Fort Duncan. "I, at all events, will go with you!" exclaimed Hector, turning to Loraine. "We have a compass, and as I know the direction in which the fort lies, I shall not be afraid of missing my way." "You forget the Redskins, and that you must be on your guard at night, or you'll have your horses stolen," observed old Sass. "You will also have to look out for game to support yourselves. However, if you take Greensnake with you, he'll help you to kill game, and will give due notice if enemies are near you." "Yes, although I should have been glad to have had more companions, I am ready to set out at once," said Loraine. "I am sorry I cannot spare any of my men," observed Burnett. "Two or three, indeed, would make but little difference, and the smaller your party the better for safety's sake. However, you must let your horses breakfast, for they got but little feeding last night, thanks to the Blackfeet." While these and other arrangements were being made, the scouts came in. It was evident, they reported, from the tracks round the camp, that they had been surrounded by a large band, who would probably have stolen all their horses had they not been on their guard. The scouts, they added, had followed to a considerable distance the tracks which led away to the westward, and it was their opinion that the Indians would keep ahead, and not make another attempt to steal the horses till they fancied that the party were off their guard. It was so far satisfactory to have discovered the direction the Indians had taken, as Loraine might thus proceed southward and Allan Keith make his way eastward on the trail of the buffalo hunters, without the risk of encountering them. "I will spare no exertion to get as soon as possible to the fort with as many men as I can induce to accompany me," said Allan, as he warmly shook hands with Loraine. "I heartily wish that I could have gone with you; but I must obey the orders of my chief. I am well acquainted with the family of Captain Mackintosh; pray give them my respects, and say how deeply I regret not being able to proceed at once to the fort." Allan looked somewhat conscious as he said this. Loraine promised to deliver his messages; and the horses having now had time to feed, the three parties separated. Allan, accompanied by Pierre, rode off to the eastward; Mr Burnett and the train continued their journey to the west; while Loraine and his two companions took a southerly course. "Good-bye, good-bye, my young friends," cried Dr McCrab, after riding a short distance with Loraine and Hector. "Whatever you do; don't let the Redskins take your scalps, my boys. Keep your powder dry, and your larder well stored, and you'll get through. I heartily wish that I could go with you; but I ride too heavy a weight, and should certainly delay you if we had to run for it with a pack of howling savages at our tails: the chances are, I should come off second best," said the good-natured medico, when, shaking hands, he turned his horse's head and galloped off to overtake the train brought up by Isaac Sass and his pack animals. The country being level, the train could be seen for a long distance, creeping on like a huge snake through the grass. As Loraine looked round, a uniform and well-defined horizon met his eye. So destitute was the country in general of all landmarks, that he was thankful to have a good compass to guide his course, in addition to the assistance of the young hump-backed Indian, who depended on his instinct alone. Loraine and Hector had each a spare horse, which carried their changes of clothes, a store of powder and shot, and such provisions and cooking utensils as they were likely to require. The young Indian frequently raised himself in his stirrups, and sometimes even stood upon the back of his horse, to take a look round, but dropped quickly down again into his saddle, satisfied that no foes were in the neighbourhood. "It was fortunate that the Blackfeet came about the camp last night, and then took themselves off to the westward, as we are the less likely to have them on our trail," observed Hector, who was highly delighted to be able to go home at once, instead of having to make a long circuit, as he had expected, through Edmonton. Though he had heard the report of old Sass, he had not realised the danger in which his family might be placed. He rattled on as was his wont, never failing to find subjects of conversation. "I did not suppose that there would be much risk, or I should not have proposed your coming with me," observed Loraine. "I was, besides, unwilling to make my appearance at the fort without you, lest Captain Mackintosh should look upon me as an impostor." "I am very sure my father would not do that, or my mother or sister either, or Sybil. They'll make a good deal of you, I can tell you; for it is not often they see a gentleman at the fort, except Allan Keith, who comes whenever he can. He is, I suspect, a great admirer of my sister; and I am not surprised, for she is a dear, good girl, and worthy of the best fellow in the country." "Which sister?" very naturally asked Loraine. "You showed me the portraits of two." "I have only one. Sybil is not really my sister, though I called her so, and she is like a sister to us all. My father and mother adopted her before Effie or any of us were born; and as they were as fond of her as they could have been had she been their own child, she has lived on with us ever since. She's as pretty as she looks in her portrait, and as good and bright as she is pretty, and we boys love her as much as we do Effie." This account naturally increased Loraine's desire to see the original of the beautiful picture; but a sense of delicacy prevented him further questioning his young companion about her, being well assured that he would before long tell him all he knew. Hector, indeed, talked away for the whole party, for Greensnake never uttered a word except from absolute necessity, and then it was in Cree. Hector, however, remembered enough to make out the meaning, having known the language before he went to school, and he translated what was said to Loraine. They had got to some distance from the camp, when Hector, turning round, observed two animals following. "Holloa! What are these?" he exclaimed. "Can they be wolves?" "If they are," said Loraine, "and they come near enough, we must shoot them, or they may interfere with our horses at night, especially as they are likely to pick up companions on the way." "Very well; then we will stop at once, and do you fire at one of the brutes, and I will try to kill the other," said Hector. "What do you say, Greensnake?" he asked in Cree. The hump-backed Indian grunted out an unintelligible reply, and pointed ahead. "He doesn't think it worth while to stop," remarked Hector. "Nor do I," said Loraine; and they accordingly pushed on at the pace they had before been going. After a while, Hector, looking back, exclaimed, "Why, they are not wolves at all, but a couple of dogs--Old Buster, who belongs to the Doctor, and Dan Maloney's Muskey! They took a great fancy to me, for I used to play with them; but I had no idea of enticing them away from their masters." "They must have found out that we are not with the train, and bolting, followed up our trail," remarked Loraine. "We cannot drive them back now." The dogs were quickly up to the riders, and seemed highly delighted to find Hector, jumping up on either side of him. The prairie which Loraine and his companions were traversing was almost treeless; but not many years before it had been covered with a pine forest, destroyed by one of the ruthless prairie fires which so often sweep over the north-west territory. Here and there, however, by the sides of streams, or pools, numerous aspens--the fastest growing trees in that region--had again sprung up, their stems being of considerable thickness, while their light foliage gave a cheerful aspect to the otherwise dreary scenery. When the ground allowed it, they occasionally put their horses into a gallop--a pace well suited to their tempers. At the same time, they knew that they must not run the risk of knocking up their animals, or they would fail in their object of making a quick journey. They had gone on for some time, when Hector's tough little horse suddenly came down, and threw him over its head. "Don't care for me," he cried; "but I'm afraid my horse has broken its leg." The animal had put its foot into a badger-hole. After making some violent struggles, however, it recovered itself, and Hector, getting hold of its bridle, remounted. "We must keep a better look-out for the badger-holes. It wouldn't be pleasant to have to continue our journey on foot," he said, laughing. Having stopped by the side of a pool to take a mid-day meal, give their horses water, and allow them to crop as much grass as they could during the time, the travellers pushed on until nightfall, when they encamped under shelter of a grove of aspens, close to a stream, which flowed into the South Saskatchewan. By Greensnake's advice, only a small fire was lighted, which was to be put out when they had cooked their supper. As soon as he had finished his meal, the Indian, taking his blanket, went and lay down close to where the horses which had been hobbled were feeding; while Loraine and Hector rolled themselves in their buffalo robes, leaving the two dogs to keep watch by their sides. CHAPTER THREE. Fort Duncan, to which it is time the reader should be introduced, lay bathed in the ruddy glow of the setting sun, whose rays tinged the branches of the groves of aspen, birch, poplar, and spruce, which could be seen at some distance away, both to the east and west. It stood on the top of some high ground, rising abruptly from the margin of a stream flowing by on the north side. The fort consisted of a square palisade, thirty feet or so in height, with rough wooden towers at each angle, connected by a narrow platform, which ran round inside the walls, a few feet below their summit. The only entrance was by a gate, flanked by two additional towers. This could be secured by strong bars, but was destitute of ditch, draw-bridge, or portcullis. The interior of the quadrangle was occupied by the residence of the chief factor and clerks, a hall used as an audience room, and a store-house, besides the dwellings of the hunters and their wives and children, and other persons forming the garrison. The land immediately round the fort had been cleared of trees; but there was a forest on one side, and scattered groups of timber on the other, affording abundance of wood for building purposes and fuel. There was much beauty in the surrounding scenery, especially when the roses were in full bloom, and other flowers of varied hue enamelled the prairie. In a room of the fort, furnished with far more elegance than is generally seen in the north-west territory, sat two young ladies. Though both attractive, they differed greatly from each other. The youngest, of small figure, was fair, with light hair and blue, laughing eyes, her rosy mouth constantly wreathed in smiles. The elder was somewhat taller, of a richer colour, with dark brown hair, and was even more attractive in appearance than her companion. They were busily employed with their needles, talking in the mean time on some interesting subject, when their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a fine lad, who, although a couple of years older, might have been known by his strong resemblance to be the brother of Hector Mackintosh. "Come along, Sybil--come along, Effie--if you want to see a war-chief, thoroughly got up in his finest toggery," exclaimed Norman. "He is Mysticoose, or the Roaring Bull, not a very romantic name--a great leader among the Blackfeet. He has come to sell several packages of peltries and a whole lot of buffalo robes. He'll probably take his departure before long; so if you want to inspect him, you must come at once." "Do you, Sybil, wish to see this savage chief?" asked Effie. "By all means," answered Sybil. "I should like to make a sketch of him while he is bartering his peltries." And she took up a sketchbook and pencil from the table. "Let me bring your paint-box," said Effie, "for you will make a much more interesting drawing if you colour it." "I will try, if Norman will get a mug of water and hold it for me. We must not let the chief discover what we are about, or the poor savage may fancy we are bewitching him," said Sybil, laughing. On going out of the house, they proceeded to the spot in front of the store where the trading business was transacted. Captain Mackintosh, a fine-looking man of middle age, and two of his clerks, stood on one side, a quantity of goods piled up near them; while on the other was seen an Indian chief, standing near several bales of peltries, and attended by a band of nearly twenty followers. His appearance was picturesque in the extreme. His head was adorned with a circlet of tall plumes. His dress consisted of a coat of dressed deer-skin, tastefully ornamented with beads and quill-work, as were his leggings, with long tassels, while a white wolf-skin cloak hung over one shoulder, and necklaces, composed of the teeth of bears and other animals, hung about his neck. He had been keenly bargaining with his host; but no sooner did the young ladies appear than he glanced towards them, his eyes wandering from one to the other, until they settled on Sybil with a look of evident admiration. She, however having begun her sketch, continued drawing, regarding the Indian much as if he had been a lay figure dressed up to copy. Captain Mackintosh had at length to recall his attention to the matter they were engaged on. The assistants on each side continued to weigh the peltries, and hand over the articles given in exchange; but the young chief seemed to have lost all the interest he had previously shown, and instead of haggling as before over the price, made no objection to any of the goods offered him, which his attendants packed up as they received them, and carried out of the fort. The trading being over, instead of following his people, the young chief advanced to Captain Mackintosh, and addressed him in a long speech, the meaning of which neither Sybil nor Effie could understand. Had they done so, they would have been very much surprised to find that Mysticoose was offering to make Sybil his wife, and to give in exchange for her, peltries and robes sufficient to fill the store-house of the fort. Captain Mackintosh answered, with due caution, that it was not the custom of English ladies to marry unless they could give their hearts to the persons who desired to possess them, nor that of fathers to receive payment; but that he would tell his daughter of the honour the chief intended her, although he would hold out no prospect that she would consent to quit her home, and become the bride of one whose people differed so much in their habits and customs, as well as in their religion, from his. On this, Mysticoose declared that he would be ready to learn the religion of the pale-faces and adopt their customs, and entreated that he might be allowed the opportunity of declaring his sentiments to the maiden. Captain Mackintosh, though very much annoyed, kept his countenance as well as his temper, and endeavoured to persuade the chief that he could find a far more suitable wife among his own people, with whose beauty he would be satisfied, and who would labour for him like her sisters in general. All he could say, however, did not appear to have any effect in turning the young chief from his purpose; but, on the contrary, he grew more and more eager, as if determined to succeed. All the time Sybil, unconscious that she was the subject of conversation, went on with her sketch; and as she drew rapidly, she succeeded in producing a very exact portrait of the savage warrior. Norman, who had been attending to his duties in the store, now returned, and looking over Sybil's shoulder exclaimed-- "Capital! It's Mysticoose himself." Snatching it from her hand, he held it up to the chief, saying, "What do you think of that, my friend? It's wonderfully like you, isn't it?" Mysticoose started as he saw it, without making any reply; and rapidly advancing towards the young lady, endeavoured to take her hand. She instinctively drew back, and stepped behind Effie. On meeting with this rebuff, the chief stopped short, and addressed Sybil, expressing in glowing language his admiration of her charms. Though she could not understand his words, she could not fail to suspect their meaning. Norman, however, who was sufficiently acquainted with the language of the Blackfeet to make out the meaning of the speech-- though the expressions were too elaborate for him to follow--not possessing the discretion of his father, burst out laughing. "What's all that you're saying?" he exclaimed. "Just face-about, and march out of this fort in double-quick time, or we may be obliged to send you off in a way you may not be pleased with." Scarcely had Norman uttered these words, than the chief, placing his hand on the hilt of his scalping-knife, cast a glance full of anger at the speaker, but had so far command of himself as not to draw it. Captain Mackintosh now saw that it was time to interfere, and, speaking in Indian, rebuked Norman for uncourteously treating their guest: and then, placing his hand in a friendly way on the shoulder of the chief, told him that he would consider the matter, advising him to retire, as it would be soon time for closing the gates of the fort, and expressing his regret that he could not, under the circumstances, afford him the hospitality he would have desired. The chief appeared to be pacified, his countenance assuming its usual calm expression; and after he had cast another look of admiration at Sybil, he walked with a dignified step towards the gate. Captain Mackintosh, who accompanied him, shook hands in a cordial way, and expressed a hope that nothing which had been said would cause a feeling of irritation to remain on his mind, and that he would continue to trade at the fort on the same friendly terms as hitherto. The chief made no reply, but stalked on towards his tents, which were pitched at some little distance from the fort. As soon as he had reached them, the gate was shut, and the usual guard placed to watch the proceedings of the Indians outside. The young ladies, who had agreed to take a ride with Norman, were somewhat disappointed on finding that Captain Mackintosh considered it would be imprudent for them to go outside the fort while Sybil's admirer remained in the neighbourhood. "He is really a handsome fellow," said Norman, laughing, as he looked on the portrait. "You've done him justice too. Perhaps some day you may change your mind; though I cannot say that I should approve of his carrying you off to become Queen of the Roaring Bulls." "Don't talk such nonsense, Norman," said Sybil. "I am vexed with myself for having gone out to take his portrait. I had no idea that the savage would even have looked at me. I have a great mind to tear up the picture." "Pray don't do that," said Effie; "it is too well drawn to be destroyed, and I want to show it to mamma, who will, I am sure, admire it." Mrs Mackintosh, who had been somewhat unwell, had not left her chamber; but in the evening she came into the sitting-room, when the portrait was shown her; and Norman related in his own way what had happened. "I am sorry for it," she remarked. "I do not trust the Indians, and I am afraid that this savage chief may cause us some annoyance. I wish that you had not vexed him, Norman. You must in future be more cautious, and pray do not, on any account, go to a distance from the fort for some time to come. Sybil and Effie must give up their rides for the present, unless they go out with a strong party." "My father doesn't think the fellow will trouble us, as we parted on good terms with him," answered Norman. "The chances are that he takes himself off to-morrow, and will speedily forget all about Sybil." When Captain Mackintosh afterwards came in, though he tried to make light of the matter, his wife fancied that he looked much more anxious than usual. Still Norman insisted that Mysticoose and his people would take their departure the next morning, and that they should then no longer be troubled by them. Strict watch was kept at night, and all remained quiet in the Indian camp. Next morning the tents were still there, and no sign was perceived that the occupants had any intention of moving. The day went by; but though the tents remained, the young chief did not make his appearance. Norman was considerably put out. "I have no notion that the girls should be kept prisoners on account of an impudent Redskin," he exclaimed. "I will go out to the tents, and advise the chief and his party, now that they have transacted their business, to take themselves off." "No, no, Norman, stay quiet, my lad," answered his father; "they'll not go faster for being ordered off; and it is just possible that the young chief may take it into his head to do you some harm. It will be a poor satisfaction to punish him afterwards." "I am not afraid of him, or of any other savage like him," said Norman. "Well, well, stay within the fort until I give you leave to go out," said his father. "Young blood quickly gets up, and a quarrel may ensue, which it is better to avoid." Norman promised to obey; and, to vent his feelings by himself, went up to the platform, which was dignified by being called the ramparts, that he might take a look cut, and ascertain if there were any signs of moving in the camp of the Blackfeet. He watched in vain, though he made out in the far distance two figures on the prairie going in a south-westerly direction. The sun was nearly setting when he returned to the house. He found his mother and Sybil engaged in their usual work. "It is too provoking to have that fellow stopping out there, as if he were laying siege to the fort. My father won't allow me to go out, but I must get some one to inquire the chief's intentions. It is absurd in him to suppose that Sybil would ever be induced to marry him. He can have no object in remaining, as his admiration cannot be very deep, for he has only seen her once for a few minutes." "I am not quite certain about that," remarked Sybil; "I think that he has seen me more than once. Don't you remember, when we were out riding, meeting with an Indian, whom you said was one of the Blackfeet, and who made Effie and me a long speech, though as we did not understand a word he said, we could not reply, but you talked to him, and laughed in his face. I thought that I recognised his features, though he was dressed and painted in so different a way that I may have been mistaken." "I remember perfectly, but it never struck me that he was Mysticoose, though I cannot positively say that he was not," answered Norman. "I don't exactly remember what he said, but I fancy that he was praising the pale-faces generally, and expressing his desire to be their friend." "Well, we cannot account for the wayward fancies of the Red men," observed Mrs Mackintosh; "but your father is anxious to retain their friendship, and would be unwilling to do anything to offend them. You must have patience; and I dare say in a day or two we shall be rid of our visitors." "I am very sorry to have been the cause of the annoyance; and had I dreamed of the result, I would have kept out of the way of the chief," said Sybil, half laughing. "Well, if the Blackfeet don't go to-morrow, something must be done to make them move off," exclaimed Hector. Captain Mackintosh, though he did not say so, was really as much annoyed as his son. No buffalo were to be seen in the neighbourhood, and it was evident, therefore, that the Indians did not remain for the sake of hunting. Among the men in the fort was an experienced _voyageur_ and trapper, Le Brun by name, well versed in all Indian ways. The captain having consulted him, he volunteered to go out at night, and try to ascertain what the Indians were about. "We must never trust those Redskins," he observed; "they don't remain here without an object." His offer was accepted. Soon after dark he lowered himself down at the rear of the fort, and crept round, making a wide circuit, so that, should any of the Blackfeet be on the watch, he might escape observation. Captain Mackintosh directed a man to wait with a rope, to help him in again on the same side. A careful look-out was kept during his absence round the fort. Some time having passed, and Le Brun not making his appearance, Captain Mackintosh began to fear that he had been discovered by the Indians, and captured. They would scarcely, however, he thought, venture to put him to death. Two hours or more went by; still he did not return. The Captain, therefore, began to consider whether it would be expedient to send out another man to try and ascertain what had happened. He was turning over in his mind who he should employ in this somewhat dangerous service, when Norman came up to him. "Let me go," he said; "I am sure that I can get up to the camp without being discovered, and I will be exceedingly cautious. It is not, indeed, likely that the Indians will be on the watch; for, should they have caught Le Brun, they will not suppose that we shall send another person to look for him. I will only get near enough to hear what they are saying, and creep away again as noiselessly as a lynx." "No, no, Norman; I am convinced of your courage and discretion, but I cannot allow you to risk your life for such an object," said his father. "But I run no risk of losing my life," answered Norman; "they would not venture to kill me." "They would not if they knew who you were; but finding a spy in their neighbourhood, they might shoot you down without inquiry," observed Captain Mackintosh. "I don't want to be shot," said Norman; "depend upon it, I'll take good care to avoid that." At length, Captain Mackintosh, reflecting that he could not send any one else on an expedition to the dangers of which he was unwilling to expose his own son, gave permission, charging Norman to approach the camp with the greatest possible caution, and only to do so provided he could hear the voices of the Indians, and had reason to believe that they were sitting in council. Norman, well pleased at the confidence placed in him, hurried off to prepare for his expedition, by putting on a dark suit, which would assist in concealing him from view. Taking his gun, and sticking a brace of pistols in his belt, he descended, as Le Brun had done; but, to reach the camp, he took a route on the side opposite that which the scout had chosen. At first he walked upright, that he might the better ascertain the course to take. There were lights in each of the towers of the fort, which assisted him. No other objects were visible, even at the distance of a hundred yards. As he got nearer the tents, he hoped to be able to make them out against the sky. After he had gone some distance, he stooped down and began to creep along in the Indian fashion, trailing his gun. Every now and then he stopped to listen for sounds. He was, he calculated, approaching the camp, when he fancied he heard a rustling near him. It approached. He lay perfectly quiet. It might be a snake or some animal. His eyes were of but little assistance. "Should it be an Indian, I must try to take the fellow prisoner; but it may be a hard matter to do that, unless he is unarmed, and then I must hold a pistol to his head, and threaten to shoot him if he cries out." He had scarcely thought this, when he saw the head of a man lifted up as if going to gaze around. Strong and active, with good nerves, he was about to spring on the person, and seize him by the throat, when the other must have made him out, and he heard a voice whisper-- "C'est moi, Le Brun!" Norman, greatly relieved, made himself known. "Venez avec moi, vite!" and the Canadian led the way, crawling along the ground towards the lights glimmering from the fort. It was not until they had been hauled up, and were safe inside, that Le Brun spoke. He had, he told Captain Mackintosh, got close up to the camp, where he heard the sounds of many voices, and the tramp of feet, as if a large number of persons were collected, although only one fire burned in the midst of the tents. He was afraid of approaching nearer, lest he should be discovered. He waited in the expectation that the leaders would gather round the fire, as is their wont, to discuss their plans. He was rewarded for his patience, although they were too far off to enable him to see them distinctly. He, however, counted at least six warriors, who took their places at the fire, and one after the other got up and addressed their companions. A few words only reached him; but he heard enough to be convinced that they were discussing a plan to take possession of the fort, but its details he was unable to make out. He had gone round the camp, and while returning on the side opposite to that from which he had set off, had fallen in with Norman. "We must take care to be doubly vigilant, then," said Captain Mackintosh. He at once cautioned the men to be on the watch; but before the ladies he made light of the matter, not wishing to cause them unnecessary anxiety. He felt pretty certain, indeed, that the Blackfeet would not openly attempt to take the fort, even though their numbers had, as Le Brun supposed, been much increased. Night passed away without the slightest alarm. The next day matters remained to all appearance as on the preceding one. The tents were there, and a few Indians only--some on horseback, others on foot--were seen moving about in the neighbourhood, but none came near the fort. Le Brun suggested that if they had any treacherous design in view, they were probably waiting until the hunters, who made excursions to bring in game two or three times a week, had been seen to leave the fort, and that they would then, when fewer people were within, try and carry out their plan, whatever that might be. He suggested that a party should leave the fort after mid-day with several pack horses, as if they intended to make a long excursion. That they should go away to the south-east, and, as soon as they were out of sight, cross the river and come back again after dark, on the north side. If the Indians really intended treachery, they would certainly take the opportunity of attempting to carry it out. Captain Mackintosh approved of the plan, and Norman thought it an excellent one. "I should so like to disappoint those rascals, and catch them in their own trap," he said. The horses (or the guard, as the stud belonging to a fort is called) were kept in a meadow on the opposite side of the river, where they were tolerably safe from any attempts which the marauding bands on the south might make to carry them off. Some time passed before those required could be brought across. As soon as they arrived, Le Brun, with eight well-armed men, with as many spare horses, set off on their pretended hunting expedition. They took care to pass sufficiently near the Indian camp to be easily seen. "Le Brun was right in his suspicions!" exclaimed Norman from the ramparts, addressing his father, who was walking below. "Here comes Mysticoose with a dozen followers, dressed in their gayest attire, for I can see their ornaments glistening in the rays of the sun. Perhaps he has come to ask for Sybil's answer to his offer; if so, we can give him a very short one." "We will say nothing to offend him," answered Captain Mackintosh, who had joined his son; "but it will be prudent, knowing what we do, not to admit these gentlemen inside the gate. I will go out and meet them, and you and the other men cover me with your rifles. Let the Indians have a glimpse of your arms, and I am sure that they will attempt no violence." The arrangements were quickly made. As soon as the chief and his party drew near, Captain Mackintosh went out of the fort, directing the men at the gate to close it should the Indians show any intention of making a rush to get in. Advancing a short distance, he called to Mysticoose to dismount, and explain the object of his visit. The chief looked up at the ramparts, and, seeing the gleaming rifle-barrels, did as he was directed. Giving the bridle of his horse to one of his followers, he then advanced, and, putting out his hand in a cordial manner, said-- "Why does my white brother look upon me as an enemy? I have traded fairly, and wish to trade again. I have now brought some more peltries, not to trade, but to present to him as an earnest of my goodwill. Let him, then, admit me and my followers within the gates, that I may offer my present as presents should be offered, and have the happiness of gazing once more on the fair lily of the prairie, after whom my heart pants, as does the weary stag for the refreshing stream." Mysticoose uttered much more in the same strain before he stopped. Captain Mackintosh replied that he was always glad to see his friend, but as it was late in the day he regretted that he could not admit the chief and his followers, but that the next morning, if they wished to come, he should be happy to receive them; and although he would not refuse the present they had brought, he must insist on returning one of equal value in goods, as he could not promise that the fair lily, as he described his daughter, would be willing to show herself, and begged the chief to understand clearly that she had sufficiently considered the matter, and could not become his bride. Whatever were the Indian's feelings, he concealed them, and made an equally courteous reply, intimating that, notwithstanding what his white brother had said, he should come as proposed with a larger present, and a greater number of followers to convey it. He then, shaking hands as before, returned to his horse, and remounting, rode off with his companions. "I hope, after all, that the Indian intends no treachery," observed Captain Mackintosh, as he re-entered the fort; and the gates were closed for the night. "Still we must be on our guard." "I should think so, sir," said Norman; "and we shall soon hear what Le Brun has to say on the subject." About a couple of hours after dark, Le Brun and his party arrived, and, having left their horses on the other side of the stream, noiselessly entered the fort. At an early hour the next day the young chief, with nearly twenty followers, was seen approaching. Captain Mackintosh at once placed his men in positions commanding the entrance, so that, should the Indians show any treacherous intentions, the gate might forthwith be shut. His great object was to prevent bloodshed; at the same time, while showing that he was not unprepared for treachery, he did not wish to offend his guest. As a precautionary measure, he resolved not to admit more than half their number, and he placed men ready to close the gates directly the party had entered. Mysticoose rode up with the air of a gallant in days of yore, and throwing the rein to one of his attendants, he, with the larger number of his followers, dismounted and advanced towards Captain Mackintosh, who stood ready to receive him. "I can only allow ten to enter," said the captain; "the rest must remain outside with the horses." The chief, appearing not to think this unreasonable, directed the rest of his followers to keep back. His countenance fell, however, when, having entered the gate, he looked round and saw the hunters whom he supposed to be at a distance, standing on either side with arms in their hands. He hesitated and stopped short. "Does my white brother think I come intending treachery?" he asked. "He has been deceived by some one. My object is to present these peltries to him, hoping that he will give me, not the goods he spoke of, but the fair lily, his daughter, and I will promise to bring him ten times the amount before another summer has begun." Captain Mackintosh replied that he had already said all that he could say on that subject. But the chief was not satisfied with his refusal, and began another long speech, which, as Norman remarked, "Though it might have a head, there seemed but little chance of seeing its tail." He advised his father to try and cut it short. Meantime, Le Brun, having slipped away, unseen by the Indians, had gone up on the ramparts, crept round to a part whence he could observe their tents. He had not been long there when he saw a large body of men issuing forth, and rapidly approaching the fort. Hurrying down, he gave the information to Captain Mackintosh. "There is no time to lose, monsieur," he said. "If we don't turn these fellows out, they'll try to obtain possession of the fort, as I suspect they all along intended to do." On hearing this, Captain Mackintosh ordered his men, who had been drawn up on either side, to close round their visitors, and some, who had been concealed, to show themselves. The chief, on seeing this, stopped short in his speech, knowing that his treacherous design, it such he had intended, must have been discovered. "What does this mean?" he asked, in a tone which showed that his self-confident air was more assumed than real. "It means, my friend, that you must quit the fort if you do not wish to be shut up within it, and come another day to finish your address," answered Captain Mackintosh. "I wish to be your friend, but I must be obeyed." The appearance of the garrison showed the chief that the captain was in earnest; and though he and his followers looked as if they were about to make a rush, thinking better of it, they beat a hasty retreat, when the gate was closed behind them. This was not done too soon, for they had got but a short distance off when a number of warriors from the camp, uttering loud shouts, galloped up, evidently expecting to indulge in the plunder of the fort. The young chief, no longer able to constrain the rage he felt at his disappointment, turning round, made gestures significant of his intended vengeance; then, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped off beyond range of any rifle-shot which he might well have expected would be sent after him. He was seen at a distance haranguing his people; but if he was urging them at once to attack the fort, they did not appear willing to risk their lives in an attempt which was likely to prove a failure. The following day, having struck camp, they moved away to the southward, and Le Brun, who followed them to a considerable distance, reported that they appeared to have no intention of stopping in the neighbourhood, but were probably returning to the lodges of their tribe. Greatly relieved by this information, the inmates of Fort Duncan pursued their usual avocations without any apprehension of further annoyance from Mysticoose and his people. CHAPTER FOUR. We must now return to the two travellers and their strange guide. Although Loraine had slept but little the previous night, he could not close his eyes. He enjoyed the excitement of the life he was leading, but he did not hide from himself its dangers, and he felt the responsibility of having induced young Hector to accompany him. He was also anxious to arrive at the fort, for he had become much interested in its inmates. Although it was supposed that the Blackfeet had gone to the westward, he thought it possible that some of them might have remained behind, and followed up the trail of his party. He had, however, great confidence in the watchfulness of Greensnake, and he hoped also that the dogs would give due notice should any enemies approach. "If we pass over this night in safety, I think that we shall get through the rest of our journey without difficulty," he said to himself. "We have accomplished well-nigh fifty miles to-day, and, as our horses will have a good feed to-night, we may ride another fifty to-morrow, and by keeping that up, we shall, as far as I can calculate, reach Fort Duncan in four or five days." He was about to drop off to sleep, when he was again aroused by a continuous howl in the distance. After listening for some time, he was convinced that it was produced by wolves. He fancied from the sound that there must have been hundreds of them. It grew nearer and nearer. The animals were coming that way. They might attack him and Hector, or, at all events, the horses, and either kill them or put them to flight. He looked at the fire. By their guide's advice he had allowed it to burn low, so that no flames casting their light around should betray the position of the camp to prowling Indians. Still it was better, he thought, to run even that risk than to allow the savage brutes to get into the camp. He, therefore, having thrown some more sticks on the fire, which quickly blazed up, awoke Hector, who naturally inquired what was the matter. "Do you not hear the howling of wolves?" asked Loraine. "Get your rifle ready." "But Greensnake advised us not to fire, lest we should discover our camp to the Indians," said Hector; "and I don't fancy that at this time of the year wolves would be daring enough to attack us." "They may, however, attack the horses," answered Loraine. "I will go and warn him, so that he may collect them." "He is on the alert, depend upon that," said Hector; "and well knows what to do." "It is wise to be on the safe side," answered Loraine, getting up. "Stay by our saddles and provisions, and I will try to find him." He set off towards where he supposed the horses were feeding. As soon as he had got beyond the range of the light thrown from the fire, the darkness became so great that he could with difficulty avoid running against the trunks of the trees. He stretched out his gun before him to try and feel the way. Two or three times he saved himself by this precaution. At last he thought that he must have reached the spot where Greensnake ought to be found; but though he called out to him, no answer came. He shouted louder and louder, still there was no reply, nor could he distinguish the forms of any of the horses against the sky. He could hear, however, the sound of the yelping and barking of the wolves, apparently much nearer than before. Still he went on, forgetting that he ran the risk of losing sight of the fire. At length, turning round to look for it, intending to go back to the camp, what was his dismay on being unable to discover the slightest glimmering of light in any direction! He had proceeded further than he had supposed, and regretted his folly, for he was well aware how easily he might lose himself. The sky overhead was obscured, so that the stars afforded him no guide. He thought that he had turned completely round, but of this he could not be quite certain, and he feared that by going on he might only get further and further from the fire. He shouted out-- "Hector, Hector, don't move; but only shout in return, that I may know where to find you." Instead of Hector's voice, the barking and yelping of the wolves alone reached his ear. Probably his shouts had been drowned by the fearful din they had been making. They served, however, partly to guide him; but they seemed so near that he expected every moment to be assailed by them; and in the darkness it would be a difficult matter to defend himself. Still, being a man of courage and determination, he resolved to face the danger; and keeping as direct a course as the impediments in his way would allow, he directed his steps towards the spot whence it appeared to him the sounds proceeded. He, of course, could move but slowly. He had gone, as he supposed, far enough to reach the camp, or, at all events, to be in sight of the fire, when he heard a shot, which came, it seemed to him, from a point rather more to the left than that towards which he was making his way. He had no doubt that it had been fired by Hector, and he immediately turned, hoping soon to catch sight of the fire. He was unwilling to discharge his own gun, not knowing at what moment he might require it to defend himself from the wolves. He, therefore, only shouted as before. He listened, and fancied that above the yelping chorus he could distinguish Hector's voice. Presently, to his infinite relief, he caught sight of the gleam of the fire, more distant, however, than he had supposed it could possibly be. He made towards it as fast as he could venture to move; notwithstanding his caution, he first ran against a tree, and soon afterwards stumbled at a fallen log. He could now clearly distinguish the spot where the fire was burning, by the lurid light which it cast on the neighbouring trees; and, with more confidence than before, he was hurrying on, when he saw to his right a number of glowing eyeballs, and the yelping of the wolves sounded closer than ever. Waiting until a pair of the glowing balls were only a few feet off, he fired. They disappeared. A fearful yell from the whole pack followed. He could see a number of dark forms surrounding him. There was no time to reload, so, clubbing his rifle, he swept it round and round on every side. He felt it striking every now and then on the heads of the creatures which were thus providentially kept at bay. The fire became more distinct; but the wolves continued to leap and snarl and yelp as savagely as at first; and, notwithstanding the blows he was dealing about, one of the brutes seized him by the coat, and another, still more daring, flew at his throat, and though it failed to bite him, caught him by the collar, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he saved himself from being dragged down. He was afraid that Hector, hearing the sound of the wolves, and not seeing him, might fire; he, therefore, shouted at the top of his voice, to show his whereabouts. Presently, he saw his young friend holding a couple of flaming brands in his hands, come rushing towards him, accompanied by the two dogs, who, springing forward with furious barks, attacked his savage assailants. The assistance came only just in time, for the wolves had nearly succeeded in pulling him to the ground. The dogs at once sprang upon the brute hanging to his collar, which let go its hold to defend itself, when a blow on its head from Loraine's rifle prevented it from offering further resistance. The dogs then flew at the other wolf, which also let go; while Hector, dashing the burning brands in the faces of the rest of the pack, put them to flight, enabling him and Loraine to get back almost breathless to the camp. The brave dogs were following the wolves, and would probably soon have been torn to pieces had they not promptly been called back. "What can have become of Greensnake?" exclaimed Hector, as soon as they had time and breath to speak. "I hope that he has not played us false, and gone off with the horses." "I have no fear of that," answered Loraine. "The old hunter would not have sent him with us unless he had perfect confidence in his honesty. Perhaps he heard the wolves coming long before we did, and took them to some place of security." "He was more likely to have driven them into the camp, where we could have assisted in protecting them," observed Hector. "I am afraid that he has been surprised by a band of Blackfeet, or Sircees, who are notorious horse-stealers, and that they have carried off him as well as the animals. If so, we shall be left in a pretty plight." "We have our guns and dogs, and a fair stock of ammunition, to obtain food, and our compass to guide us; and if we find that we have lost our horses, we must push forward on foot," answered Loraine. "But I am grievously annoyed at the prospect of being unable to reach the fort as soon as we expected; however, we must try to make our way on foot, and although we may be longer about it than we had hoped, we may still arrive in time to be of service. It is useless, however, talking over the matter at present. The best thing you can do is to lie down, and get some sleep while I keep watch." "No, no," said Hector. "I have had my share already; but pray do you lie down, and I will watch." At length Loraine consented to do this, expecting to be able to arouse himself in a short time; while Hector, taking his rifle in hand, began to walk up and down, anxiously looking out for Greensnake. The wolves, however, still snarling and yelping a short distance off, would, it at length occurred to him, prevent the guide from making his appearance till the morning. Having now time for thought, he recollected the warning Greensnake had given; and he reflected that possibly at any moment, should a party of Blackfeet have been in the neighbourhood, and heard the reports of their rifles, guided by the light of their fire, they might come suddenly upon them. He kept, therefore, a vigilant watch with his ears rather than his eyes, listening for any sound which might indicate their approach, and trusting also to the dogs, which were on the alert, and accompanied him whenever he moved a few feet from the camp. When he returned they went back again, and lay down near the fire, with their noses on their paws, and ears erect, showing that they were wide awake. At length Loraine awoke, and insisted on Hector's lying down, who, before he did so, mentioned the ideas which had occurred to him. "Never mind now what you think, but go to sleep," said Loraine. "I'll keep a bright look-out; depend upon that." Soon after this the wolves, attracted possibly by a passing stag or some other game, greatly to his relief, scampered off, their cries becoming less and less distinct as they got to a distance. The night seemed interminably long, but the morning came at length. Loraine aroused Hector, and having made up the fire, intending to come back for breakfast, he charged the dogs to watch over the baggage, and then set out in search of Greensnake and the horses. Loraine endeavoured to trace the course he had taken during the night, but the trail was so indistinct that he could not be certain in what direction he had gone. As he and Hector advanced, they looked round for the horses, but they were not near the spot to which Greensnake had taken them on the previous evening, nor were they anywhere to be seen. They came, however, upon what Hector believed were their tracks; but as they were scattered about over a wide space of ground, he could not be positive as to what course they had taken. Loraine still argued that the guide would return, and that it would be prudent to go back to camp and wait for his appearance. This they accordingly did, shooting on their way a couple of ducks, which served them for breakfast, the remains being given to the dogs. After some time Loraine went to the top of the highest point near at hand--a small knoll or hillock--that he might take a look-out for the missing horses, but he soon came back without having seen them. "I think we should wait a little longer," he observed. "The young Indian may have thought it prudent to go to a considerable distance on account of the wolves. He may have slept until the morning, or may have stopped to catch and cook some food." "I will have another look round," said Hector. "A few ducks won't come amiss, if I can kill them on the way, either to us or our dogs, before we finally make a start;" and, calling the two dogs, he set off, they willingly accompanying him. While Hector was away from the camp Loraine thoughtfully employed himself in examining their baggage, and in selecting such articles of food and clothing as they could carry on their backs, and in doing them up in two packs, making the heaviest for himself. He was thus engaged when he heard a couple of shots, but concluding that Hector had fired at some ducks, as he proposed, went on with his occupation. As he looked at their saddle-bags and valises, he regretted having to leave them, but without horses he saw no possibility of carrying them. Noon was approaching, Hector had not returned, and he became seriously anxious; so, taking his gun, he set out to look for him. "If he returns while I am away, he will, I hope, guess why I have gone, and will remain quietly here for my return," he said to himself. As he walked along he searched on every side, but Hector was nowhere to be seen. The dreadful thought occurred that his young friend might have met with some accident, or that, should Indians have carried off Greensnake, they might have entrapped him also. His own position was trying in the extreme; but being a man of courage, he nerved himself up to encounter whatever might happen. As he was casting his eyes around, he caught sight of a small, dark object on the ground. He hastened on. It was a powder-flask. It, however, was certainly not Hector's. He had no doubt that it belonged to Greensnake. A short distance beyond he came on a ramrod. The ground was covered with a rich grass, and there were signs of horses having fed on it, so that no doubt remained on his mind that it was here Greensnake had been during the night, and on further examination he discovered traces of the animals' feet moving to the eastward, but he was unable to ascertain whether Hector had passed that way. Had he done so, he would probably have followed up the trail of the horses. Loraine, therefore, hurried on in the same direction. He marked as carefully as he could the course he was taking, examining his compass to guide himself. Several times he thought that it would be better to retrace his steps, lest Hector should have returned during his absence to the camp. He was at length on the point of doing so when he saw before him a wood. At the same instant, he fancied that he heard the bark of a dog. He hurried forward, feeling sure that it was that either of Muskey or Buster, and he hoped that, if so, Hector was not far off, and had escaped being captured by Indians. In a short time he again heard the dogs bark, and as he approached the wood a voice, which he knew was Hector's, shouted out-- "Take care, there's a big she-grizzly, with a couple of cubs, in that thicket. I wounded her, and she's very savage." "Where are you?" asked Loraine. "Here, up a tree," cried Hector. "Whenever I attempt to descend, she rushes out, and I have dropped my gun, so that I have no chance of killing her." "Come down then, and find your gun, and I will stand by to shoot the bear if she appears." "She got hold of my gun and broke it to pieces, so that you must not depend upon my help," cried Hector. "You'll do better to get up here, and kill her when she shows herself." "I'll take post behind the tree, and when she sees you descending, perhaps she will come out from the cover," answered Loraine. The dogs meantime were barking furiously outside the thicket. No sooner did Hector begin to descend than the bear, which had apparently had her eyes fixed on him, came waddling out from her place of concealment, growling savagely. The two dogs wisely scampered off out of her reach, and Hector sprang up again. Loraine then stepped out from behind the trunk, when the bear rose on her hind quarters, growling and showing her fangs. The opportunity was as favourable as he could desire. He took a steady aim, and over she rolled. At this, Hector gave a shout of satisfaction, while the dogs came back, though afraid to approach, as she was still struggling violently. Loraine then reloaded, and advancing, sent another shot crashing through her brain. The two cubs had come out, and looked as if inclined to give battle, but the dogs kept them at bay, giving time to Loraine to load again, when he fired and killed one of them, and the next was settled in the same way. Hector, who had come down from his perch, expressed his regret at having caused his friend so much anxiety. He had been following up the track of the horses, when he caught sight of the bear, which he unwisely fired at and wounded. She at first had gone off with her cubs, but just as he had reached the wood, she had turned and rushed at him. He had again fired, but having no time to reload, in attempting to escape up the tree had dropped his gun, when the bear, seizing it, had gnawed and twisted it in such a manner as to render it perfectly useless. Had not the dogs held her in check, he acknowledged that he should have been caught. "Had we our horses, we might supply ourselves with bears' flesh sufficient to last for the whole of our journey; as it is, we can only take as much as we can conveniently carry," observed Loraine. They speedily, if not very scientifically, cut off a portion of the meat, which they did up with strips of the cubs' hides into two packages, the dogs meantime enjoying a magnificent feast off the remains. They then retired to the camp, still as much in the dark as ever as to what had become of Greensnake and the horses. "I don't know what I shall do without my gun," said Hector, as they walked along. "If we meet with enemies, I shall be unable to help you to fight; nor can I kill any game." Loraine did his best to comfort him. "We must keep out of the way of enemies, and my gun will enable me to obtain as much food as we shall require, while you can assist me with your advice, as you know more about the country than I do," he observed. When Loraine pointed to the articles they must abandon, Hector suggested that they should be placed _en cache_ by hanging them up to the bough of a tree, deep in the wood, so as to be concealed from passers-by. They might thus some day have an opportunity of sending for them. "There, you see how at once you can help me," remarked Loraine. "I have been sadly puzzled to know what to do with them." Having taken a substantial meal of bears' flesh, they carefully put out their fire, and obliterated as far as they could the traces of their encampment. They then strapped on their packs, and Hector supplying himself with a pointed stick, in the place of his damaged rifle, they set off, followed by the dogs, in the direction, as they supposed, of Fort Duncan. CHAPTER FIVE. For many a mile the weary travellers tramped on. In vain they looked out for Greensnake, and had too much reason to fear that he had been entrapped by the Blackfeet, and probably murdered. The country, though often fertile and beautiful, was in some places sandy and barren, and utterly destitute of water. The whole day, their flasks having been emptied, they had not a drop to quench their burning thirst, and when they did at length reach a pool, the liquid in it was so bitter and stagnant that they dared scarcely to taste a drop, even after straining it through a handkerchief. The food they had brought with them was also running short, and they had been unable to shoot any game to supply its place. Two or three buffalo had been seen in the distance, but had made off before they could get within shot; and several deer had passed, but being to leeward, scented them, and scampered away as they approached. "Though we cannot find large game, we must look out for small," observed Hector. "Perhaps we shall meet with some beavers, musk-rats, or badgers; we must not be particular." "Not if we are starving," answered Loraine; "but I should prefer a hare or duck, or a prairie-hen." At length a broad stream appeared before them. They hurried forward to quench their thirst, and then sat down to consider how it was to be crossed. They could both swim, but their packs and Loraine's gun, as well as their clothes, had to be floated across. There are, fortunately, neither alligators nor voracious fish in the rivers of those latitudes, and so Hector proposed that they should build a raft of rushes and dried branches on which to place their clothes, their packs, and the gun, and tow it over. It was soon formed, though Loraine feared it was a somewhat frail structure, even for the duty it was intended to perform. The passage was accomplished with difficulty, and with the loss of Loraine's gun, which slipped off into the deepest water. They lamented this serious loss, but Loraine having supplied himself with a pointed stick, they set off, endeavouring to keep up each other's spirits as they marched on. They had still their compass to steer by, but their direct progress was on some days very slow, as they had to turn aside to avoid extensive marshes and lakelets. Their food at length came to an end, and, in spite of all Hector's efforts, he was unable to trap any animals. They several times saw beavers, which got away from them, and the ducks and other water-fowls only appeared to fly off with derisive quacks at their impotent attempts to knock them down, so Hector declared. The dogs were growing thinner and thinner, and at length Buster, who had dropped behind, did not come up to them. In vain they called him, but, unwilling to lose time by returning, they went on, hoping that the dog would overtake them at their camp. He did not appear, however. "Perhaps he took it into his head that we might eat him," said Hector, looking at poor Muskey, who wagged his tail as he spoke, wondering if he was to have anything for supper. "Should you mind eating Muskey?" asked Hector. "I should be very unwilling to kill the poor dog; but if we can find no food to-morrow, it must be done, I fear, to save our lives," answered Loraine. Although they lighted a fire, they lay down that night supperless. At daybreak they set off, hoping to reach a lakelet in which Hector thought that he might catch some white fish. They were becoming faint, and no water was to be seen. At length they entered a wood, close to which they found an abundance of choke-berries, as well as gooseberries and currants, which served to appease the gnawings of hunger, although the poor dog looked as if he wished that he could have something more substantial; and about mid-day, they each managed, almost at the same moment, to knock over a small bird. So great was their hunger that they immediately halted, and, lighting a fire, cooked and ate them. Darkness coming on, all hope of obtaining food that night was given up. Loraine offered to kill Muskey. "No, no; let him live to-night, and perhaps to-morrow morning he may assist in catching something," answered Hector. They lay down close to the fire, but neither could for some time sleep. Hector was very feverish, and Loraine himself began to feel ill. He saw that his young companion was very unlikely to be able to proceed, and he determined to set off next morning in search of water. At last he closed his eyes, and, to his surprise, when he awoke he found that the sun had arisen. Hector was still sleeping. The fire had gone out, and Muskey lay with his nose on his paws, watching his masters. "I must manage to get the dog to remain behind and guard him," he thought; "I will try to find water by myself." Hector awoke just as he was about to set off, and tried to get up; but his strength failed, and he sank down again on the ground. "Hold out for a few hours longer, and I trust I shall obtain relief for you," said Loraine. "Get Muskey to stay, and he will assist in defending you should any enemies appear." To prevent the dog from following him, Loraine fastened a strap round its neck, and put the end into Hector's hand. The dog, making no resistance, lay down by his side. Loraine set off towards a knoll which he saw at a little distance, hoping from thence to be able to ascertain in what direction water was to be found. He walked as fast as his strength would allow. On reaching the knoll he looked anxiously round on every side. Before long he saw what appeared to be the gleam of water, near a wood of willow and aspen, and tottered forward, every instant expecting to find the water, but it seemed to be further off than he had supposed. At last he saw the grove of willows, and he was sure that the water would be found near it. The grove was reached, but no water could he see. "It must be close at hand," he said aloud; "it would be useless to attempt returning until I have found it." By a strenuous effort he aroused himself, and pushed forward. His strength was failing: he felt as if he were in a dream. In vain he tried to move his feet. At length he sank fainting to the ground, beneath the shade of a tree. How long he had thus remained, he could not tell, when he heard a human voice. At first he thought it was Hector calling to him for help. He tried to rise, but before he could regain his feet he sank back to his former position. "This is dreadful," he thought. "I must help that poor lad. His friends at the fort, if we do not reach it, will be surprised by savages and cut off. Those two young girls--what a dreadful fate will be theirs! I must try and recover myself." And once more he endeavoured to get up. Again he heard a voice; it was much nearer; and opening his eyes, he saw a figure standing over him. It was that of Isaac Sass. "Right glad I am to find you!" exclaimed the old man, stooping down; "but you seem in a sad plight. What has become of your young companion? I trust no harm has befallen him." "Water, water!" answered Loraine, faintly. "Take water to him; he wants it more than I do." "You want it bad enough, I guess," said the trapper; and, unslinging his flask, he poured some of the refreshing liquid down Loraine's throat. It quickly revived him. "Take him water," he said; "he is out there." And he pointed in the direction where he had left Hector. The old man shouted; and, presently, who should appear but Greensnake, mounted on a horse, accompanied by three others, which he at once secured to some neighbouring trees. Isaac then handed a flask of water to the young Indian, who, receiving some directions which Loraine could not understand, set off at full gallop towards the spot where Hector had been left. "Will he find him?" asked Loraine, anxiously. "No fear of that," said Sass. "When you have recovered we will follow. Here, take some food, if you can swallow it." Loraine was better able to eat than he expected. "I brought a couple of horses for you and your companion, besides yonder pack animal; for I guessed whereabouts I should find you, though I thought you would have made better progress than you have done, and I did not expect to come upon your trail for another day or two." Loraine having briefly explained what had happened, inquired how the old trapper had fallen in with Greensnake. "The lad was carried off by a party of Sircees, who stole your horses; but, believing him to be an idiot, they failed to keep a watch over him, and he easily managed to escape on one of the fleetest of their animals, and made his way towards Fort Edmonton. I, knowing the difficulties you would be in without horses, at once set off to find you, though I little expected that you would have been reduced to this sad plight. And now do you think you could mount, and see how it fares with your friend?" "I will try, at all events," said Loraine, feeling very anxious about Hector. With the aid of the old trapper he got into the saddle. When once there he felt capable of going as fast as the horse could gallop. They set off, the trapper leading the other horse. As they neared the spot, Loraine's mind misgave him. Had Hector survived the hardships he had endured? He himself felt how nearly he had succumbed, and he wished that he had begged the old trapper to go on at once, and left the Indian with him. "Cheer up, cheer up, friend," said Sass, surmising the thoughts passing through his mind. "Youth is tough, and hunger and thirst don't kill a man for a long time." At last the spot was reached. Loraine threw himself from his horse, and nearly fell to the ground in doing so, forgetting how weak he was. Greensnake was bending over Hector, supporting his head with one hand, while he was feeding him with the other; Musky, who was looking on, evidently having recognised the Indian as a friend. Loraine hurried forward. "All right," exclaimed Sass; "speak to your friend, my boy." "Yes, yes, thanks to this Indian," answered Hector, faintly. "I knew it would be so," observed old Sass, addressing Loraine. "We'll camp here, as neither of you are fit for travelling, and while you attend to the lad, Greensnake and I will light a fire and put up a hut for you, and then I'll see about getting some game." These arrangements were soon made, and old Sass set off with his gun to shoot any creature he might come across fit for the pot. Hector had so far recovered as to be able to sit up, and to show that he was likely to do justice to the fare the old trapper expected to provide for the party. CHAPTER SIX. The inhabitants of Fort Duncan were spending their time much as usual, and had almost ceased to trouble themselves about the threats of Mysticoose, who had, they believed, returned to his lodges, having seen the hopelessness of inducing the English chief to give him his daughter in marriage. The hunters were out every day in search of buffalo, sometimes several days together, while the young ladies, accompanied by their father and brother, and two or three attendants, took their rides as they had been accustomed to do, without fear of encountering enemies. They were about, one afternoon, to take a ride, when a small party of mounted Indians--who, as they had several pack horses, were evidently coming to trade--were seen approaching the fort. "We must wait to receive these fellows," said Captain Mackintosh, "and I am afraid, my girls, there will be little chance for you afterwards to get your gallop." "Oh, papa, Norman can come with us, if you can spare him; it would be a pity to lose this lovely day," said Effie. Sybil said nothing, and Captain Mackintosh, perhaps against his better judgment, consented to let the girls go, supposing that the new comers would be too fully engaged in trading to notice them. They accordingly mounted, and accompanied by Norman and two of the men who usually acted as their body guard, set out a short time before the Indians arrived at the camp. No one in the fort observed that one of the savages turned round his horse and galloped off in the direction from whence they had come. As there were not more than a dozen men, and as they, according to custom, had deposited their arms outside the fort, they were admitted without hesitation. Captain Mackintosh, well acquainted with the various Indian nations, was struck by the appearance of their features, which were those of the Blackfeet, although they wore none of the distinctive ornaments of that tribe, and introduced themselves as Peagons, whose territory lies to the southward. Their chief, a plausibly mannered man, stated that they had been induced to come to Fort Duncan by hearing that better value was given for peltries there than was to be obtained from the Long Knives. They seemed, however, in no hurry to begin business, and begged that food might be provided for the party, as they had gone several days without shooting a buffalo, hinting that some fire-water would be a welcome addition, though they did not appear surprised when Captain Mackintosh refused to supply the pernicious beverage. The visitors did ample justice to the feast placed before them, and would apparently have continued eating as long as any meat remained, had not Captain Mackintosh suggested that darkness would come on before they had time to commence trading. At length, therefore, one of the packs was undone, and business proceeded in the usual way. They were thus engaged, when a little hump-backed Indian, whom nobody had observed, crept in at the gate of the fort, and making his way up to where Captain Mackintosh was superintending affairs, drew a piece of paper from a leathern pouch and put it into his hand. Captain Mackintosh having read it attentively, directing his head clerk to go on with the trading, beckoned to the hump-backed Indian to accompany him out of ear-shot of the trading party, and having questioned him and received his answers, he summoned Le Brun. Though the Captain had betrayed no emotion in presence of the strange looking little Indian, his chief hunter remarked his agitation. "What has happened, Monsieur Capitaine?" he asked. "This is a matter of life and death, and I know that I can trust you, Le Brun," said Captain Mackintosh, not directly answering him. "Take the fleetest of our horses and ride after Monsieur Norman and the young ladies. Spare neither spur nor whip. Desire them to return immediately to the fort, as hard as they can gallop. Here, take this with you," and he wrote a few words on a slip of paper to be delivered to Norman. "Monsieur Capitaine can depend on me. I will make La Froule fly like the whirlwind," said Le Brun, and doubling up the paper, he hurried away to obey the order he had received. "I would that I could go myself," murmured Captain Mackintosh, "but my duty compels me to be here, and even for my dear children's sake, I must not desert my post when danger threatens." It was some time before Le Brun could catch the horse he had selected. Captain Mackintosh endeavoured to conceal his anxiety, especially from his visitors, whose keen eyes had been watching him narrowly though in no other way did they show that they suspected the little hump-backed Indian had come with any information relating to them. Captain Mackintosh, who had gone up to the platform, gave a sigh of relief, as he at length saw Le Brun gallop off at full speed in the direction the riding party had taken. Having seen Le Brun off, Captain Mackintosh returned to superintend the trading, which the Indians seemed inclined to prolong more than usual. They haggled over every article, and insisted on their peltries being weighed more than once, on the pretence that there was some mistake, or that the scales were out of order. They examined the goods offered to them over and over again, handing them round to each other, and criticising their quality. They then requested that tobacco might be supplied to them, as they were inclined to have a smoke before proceeding further. One of them then got up and spoke. The meaning of his speech was difficult to understand, though uttered with that flow of language of which most Indians have the command. Captain Mackintosh bore all this with the necessary patience. He did not wish to come to a rupture with his visitors, though from the warning he had received, he strongly suspected that treachery was intended. As time went on, he became more and more anxious at not seeing the girls and Hector return. At length he went to the platform, but not a glimpse of the riding party could he discover. On his return he found the Indians still smoking their pipes. He inquired whether they intended to sell the remainder of their peltries, when one of them getting up stated that they wished to hold a council on the subject, and asked permission to sleep in the fort, that they might be prepared the next morning to continue their trading. Captain Mackintosh replied that he had made it a rule to allow no strangers to sleep within the fort, that they might leave their peltries if they chose, that they would be perfectly safe, and that they could sleep in the hut built expressly for the purpose outside the gate. This answer appeared somewhat to disconcert the traders, and one of them rising, offered to go on again with the business after they had been supplied with some more food, for which, as he expressed it, their souls yearned. Captain Mackintosh answered that a feast should be prepared for them, but that as the gates were closed at a certain hour, they must not take it amiss at being requested to leave the fort before that time. While their spokesman was making his address, the dark eyes of the other Indians were wandering around in every direction. Perhaps they began to have an idea that their intentions were suspected, when they perceived that all the men in the fort had pistols in their belts, and swords by their sides, and their rifles in their hands. While the traders were waiting for the promised feast, Captain Mackintosh again went to the platform. Just as he reached it, he saw a single horseman galloping at headlong speed towards the fort, and in the distance, as if pursuing him, he observed an extended line of mounted savages. His heart misgave him on discovering that the fugitive was Le Brun, who, not even casting a glance over his shoulder, made straight for the gate. Captain Mackintosh hurried down to meet him. "What has happened?" he inquired, with difficulty commanding his voice. "Where are the young ladies and my son?" "Monsieur, I cannot tell, though I fear the worst," answered Le Brun, throwing himself from his panting horse, which stood covered with foam at the gate. "I was on the track of the young ladies, and Monsieur Norman, when I saw far away a large troop of Indians. I endeavoured to avoid them, but was discovered, and they came thundering across the prairie in pursuit of me. I fled for my life, feeling sure that they would take my scalp, should I be overtaken, and that is all I know. I would have died to save the young ladies, but it was beyond my power to help them." While he was speaking a shout was heard from one of the Indians, who had remained with the horses outside the gate. In an instant the visitors sprang to their feet, and drawing their tomahawks from beneath their cloaks, uttering similar cries, rushed towards the white men standing round. An athletic savage was about to strike Captain Mackintosh, when a shot, fired by the hump-backed Indian, pierced his heart. Another savage shared the same fate. The remainder fought desperately, their aim evidently being to keep the gate open until the arrival of the approaching horsemen. The instant the alarm was given several of the garrison, who had remained concealed, appeared from various quarters, and furiously attacking the treacherous Indians, shot several of them down, the remainder being allowed to make their escape through the gate, which was immediately closed and strongly barred behind them. So rapidly had everything been done that up to this time scarcely a minute had elapsed since Le Brun had entered the fort. Before it was perceived what he was about to do, the hump-backed Indian had struck his knife into the breasts of those who had fallen, several of whom were still struggling on the ground. We must now return to the riding party. They cantered gaily on, enjoying the pure fresh air, the exhilarating exercise, and the scenery, notwithstanding that its general features were well known to them. To the south and west extended the level prairies, covered in many places with rich grass, though in others sandy and barren, while to the east rose a ridge of tree-covered hills, through which the river forced its way, bordered by maples, willows, and elms. On the other side of the river the hills swept round, rising almost abruptly from its margin, with here and there small fertile valleys dividing the heights. To the south-east was a lake of some size, also fringed by graceful trees, beyond which appeared another blue distant range, adding much to the picturesque beauty of the landscape. On approaching the northern end of the lake, they saw a splendid flock of pelicans floating on its calm surface, sailing round and round, but as they got nearer, the birds spreading their wings, flew majestically off until they disappeared in the distance. Magpies, grackles, cat birds, and many other of the winged tribe, appeared in considerable numbers among the trees, or disporting themselves on the lake or river. "It is so long since we have had a gallop, that I vote we take a good long one," exclaimed Norman; and Sybil and Effie, whose spirits had also risen, expressed their readiness to do as he proposed. "Then let us take the circuit of the lake," said Norman. "I have gone round it several times; and there is plenty of hard ground, though there are some swampy places which it won't do to ride into." They had, however, not gone far, when Norman, whose horse was higher than those of his sisters, observed in the distance to the south-west a large body of mounted men, whom he knew from their numbers, and the prevailing colour of their ranks, must be Indians. He pointed them out to his companions, "They are probably bound either for the fort, or are on a hunting expedition to the eastward, but I cannot yet make out in what direction they are going," he observed. "However, I conclude that they are friends, and should they come near us, I will go forward and meet them. It is always better to show that one wishes to be on good terms with the Redskins, and have no fear of them. You girls, however, keep back. Since the lesson Sybil received, it is as well you should not let them see you pale-faces, if you can help it." The young ladies laughed, and Norman soon afterwards observing that the horsemen were approaching, dashed forward to meet them as he proposed. He had got some little way when he saw that the strangers had put their horses to their topmost speed, and he remarked at their head a tall chief who was galloping on, urging his steed by whip and spur. "I don't like their looks," he thought. "That fellow is very much like Mysticoose. It will be wiser for the girls to keep clear of them." Turning round, therefore, he rode back as hard as he could go, and as he rejoined Sybil, and Effie, he advised them to give their horses the whip so that they might not risk an encounter with the strangers. On looking round he saw that the latter were coming directly after them. "On, girls, on!" he cried out. "I wish that we had turned sooner; but our horses are in good wind and we can keep ahead of these fellows, even should they try to overtake us." Norman's horse was a powerful one: the young ladies being light weights, and accustomed to riding, giving the rein to their steeds they flew over the ground. Their attendants, who did not like the appearance of the strangers, making good use of whip and spur, managed to keep up with them. "There's a ford right ahead, across the river; we will make for it," shouted Norman. "We can then keep along the northern bank. It will be much safer than attempting to reach the fort by the direct track, which would bring us close to those fellows." Towards the ford, therefore, they directed their course. Trusting to the fleetness of their steeds, they had reason to hope that they should keep ahead of their pursuers; for the Indians' horses, though strong and possessed of great endurance, were incapable, they knew, of going at any great speed. Norman, looking back, however, saw with vexation that the Indian chief, spurring on his animal, was fast distancing most of his followers, somewhat scattered, though not far off. There were several other savages endeavouring to keep up with him. Again and again, Norman urged Sybil and his sister to give the rein to their steeds. "Never fear. Stick on; the animals won't come down," he shouted. They both kept up their courage, though fully alive to their dangerous position. Sybil, indeed, suspected that Mysticoose was at the head of the party, and that his object was to capture her. She nerved herself up, however, for whatever might occur. Though Norman had assured them that there was no risk of their horses falling, she saw, as she approached the river, that the ground was becoming more uneven. Rocks and the stumps of trees, burnt in a recent fire, cropped up here and there, and fallen logs, some so close together that the horses in leaping might stumble over others further off. Beyond, the ground appeared marshy, and though it might not be too soft for them to get over, they would be delayed until their pursuers had overtaken them. Still, the girls holding their reins ready to lift their horses should they stumble, continued urging them on with their whips, and Norman, as he looked at them, wondered at their nerve and apparently calm demeanour. He carried a brace of pistols in his belt, and the two men had their buffalo guns, short weapons, useful for a close encounter, and he resolved to fight to the last rather than let his sister and Sybil be captured. He knew at the same time, how hopeless it would be to contend with their numerous, well-armed enemies. The rough ground was crossed, the marshy spot was reached, and the horses dashed on, floundering through it, their feet at times sinking so deep that it appeared impossible to draw them out again, while even Norman had to stick tight to keep his seat. He scarcely dared look round, but he fancied that he could hear the clattering of horses hoofs on the hard ground they had just before passed over. "Hold on!" he shouted, "we shall soon get through the marsh and the savages will find it no easy matter to follow us!" Though he said this, he knew there was the ford to be crossed, and that could only be done at a walking pace, so that before they could get to the other side, the savages would already have reached the margin of the stream. Once more he turned round. The chief and half a dozen of his followers were already on the borders of the marsh, some going on one side, some on the other, to find a harder part for crossing. Happily, however, just then, the young ladies' steeds reached firmer ground, and sprang forward. They were now making directly for the ford, and Norman hoped once more, though almost against hope, that they might get across in time to obtain another good start of their pursuers. The savages, however, knowing the nature of the ground better than they did, had succeeded in passing it much more rapidly, and Norman saw that in a few minutes they would be up to them. He had almost lost all hope of escape when two horsemen, evidently white men, appeared on the brow of the ridge on the opposite side. A glance must have shown them the state of affairs, and at the risk of breaking their necks, they came rattling down the steep descent, the horses sometimes sliding almost on their haunches, sometimes leaping forward. "That is Hector!" cried Norman, recognising his brother; and then the thought occurred to him that he and his companion would share the fate to which it appeared likely they were doomed. Hector and his companion, who, as may be supposed, was Loraine, regardless of the danger into which they were running, dashed forward, and without stopping, plunged into the ford to meet the fugitives, who had all by this time began the passage. The appearance of only two white men did not deter the Redskins from continuing the pursuit, and having, their guns in their hands, got within thirty yards or so of the two attendants, they fired. Both shots took effect. One poor fellow fell from his horse; the other, though wounded, clung on still, endeavouring to escape. The Indians came pressing on. One of them, who had got abreast of his chief, attempted to grapple with Hector, and Mysticoose himself was about to seize Sybil, when Loraine, dashing forward and levelling a pistol, shot him in the arm. The limb hung powerless at his side. But notwithstanding, taking the reins in his teeth, the savage chief again attempted with his other hand to take hold of her, while, fearing that she would escape him, he shouted to his followers, who, with fearful shrieks, were pressing on. Her horse, terrified by the sound, bounding forward, she escaped him. Enraged at his failure, he lifted his tomahawk to hurl it at her head, when Loraine with the butt of a pistol struck down his arm; and at that instant a horseman was seen on the top of the ridge. The stranger was old Sass. At a glance he took in the state of affairs. Instead of descending, however, he turned round and shouted loudly in Cree-- "Come on, come on! Here are your enemies, here are your enemies! We've a fine band of them in our power. Quick, quick, or they will escape us!" Then, as if his followers were close behind, he began to descend almost as rapidly as had the younger men. The Blackfeet, evidently believing that in another minute a large body of their foes would be upon them, turned their horses' heads, and without looking again at the top of the ridge, began a rapid retreat, carrying Mysticoose along with them, their flight hastened by the loud shout which, Hector and Norman setting the example, was raised by the white men. Norman had not forgotten the poor fellow who had fallen in his defence, and succeeded in catching him as he came to the surface, and dragging him to the shore. "We must get to the top of the hill and show ourselves, or the Blackfeet may suspect the trick we played them," said old Sass. "That done, we'll ride as fast as our horses' legs can carry us to Fort Duncan. I'll help you with that poor fellow," he added, addressing Norman. "Here, friend, mount your horse; many a man has ridden a score of miles with a worse wound." The half-breed, knowing that his life depended upon his following the advice, succeeded in getting into his saddle, when the whole party, winding their way up the height, which was of no great elevation, showed themselves on the summit, appearing as if they were the front rank of a body of horsemen about to descend to the river. Such was the idea, in all probability, that the Blackfeet entertained as they were seen in the distance galloping off to the south-west. The party had to make a considerable circuit, and notwithstanding their wish to hurry forward were compelled frequently to proceed at a foot pace, although they pushed on whenever the ground would allow. On reaching the top of the hill overlooking the prairie on the southern side of the river, they caught sight of the Blackfeet band in the distance, galloping, it appeared, towards the fort. Whether they themselves were perceived, they could not tell; but Norman fancied that he saw a band separate from the rest, and direct their course towards the river. It would have answered no purpose to stop and ascertain this, though, should such be the case, it was more necessary than ever to gain the fort without delay. Descending the hill, they pushed forward as before; but Norman cast many an uneasy glance to the left, fearing that the savages might, having swam their horses across the river, pounce suddenly out upon them. They had got about half-way, when the sound of distant firing reached their ears. "Where can that come from?" asked Hector, who was riding with his brother. "From the fort, I am afraid," answered Norman. "The Blackfeet must have attacked it, hoping to get in while some of the garrison are away; but my father will, I trust, have been prepared for them, though I am afraid that some traders, who arrived just before we set off, must have come with treacherous designs, and will try to help their friends outside." "I thought before this that a fine fellow who came with us--Allan Keith, one of your clerks--would have arrived with a party of half-breeds, whom he expected to enlist," said Hector. "We calculated that he would have been here, as we were greatly delayed on our journey," and he briefly related the adventures Loraine and he had met with. "Hurrah! Here's a level place. We can push on," cried Norman; and the party, putting their horses into a gallop, dashed forward. As they did so, rapid firing, echoing among the hills, was again and again heard, evidently coming from the direction of the fort. CHAPTER SEVEN. The glowing sun was touching the line where the blue sky and prairie met, his rays casting a ruddy hue over the calm surface of the river, when the party, conducted by Norman, reached the northern bank opposite the fort, they having been delayed by attending to the wounded man, who could with difficulty be brought along. As they descended the slope to the river they caught sight of a body of horsemen galloping away across the prairie. Norman, as he watched them, was certain that they were the savages who had pursued his party. "Thank Heaven, the Redskins have been defeated!" exclaimed Hector; "but had it not been for the warning you sent my father, friend Sass, the case might have been very different." Norman now hailed at the top of his voice for a boat. In a short time two men were seen launching one from a shed close to the water. They quickly brought her across. As she would not carry the whole of the party, the two young ladies, and, at their request, the wounded men, were first ferried over. Captain Mackintosh stood on the bank to receive them, and, as Sybil and Effie threw themselves into his arms, their feelings at length giving way, they burst into tears. "There is nothing more to fear; we have driven off the Blackfeet, and they have received a lesson which they will not soon forget, I trust," he said. He then inquired how they had been preserved. They were both eloquent in describing the way Hector and Loraine, with their old companion, had rescued them; but there was no time to say much just then. While some of the garrison, who had come down for the purpose, carried the wounded men into the fort, the rest of the party were ferried across the river. Captain Mackintosh gave a fatherly greeting to Hector, who then introduced Loraine. "I have to thank you, sir, for the brave way in which you saved this young lady from the clutches of the savage chief. Had it not been for your gallantry, she might have been carried off. As the fellow has, however escaped, we must still keep careful watch for her protection." Loraine expressed himself appropriately, saying how rejoiced he was to have been of service, and that it made ample amends to him for his disappointment in not having arrived in time to warn Captain Mackintosh of the Indians' plot to surprise the fort. Old Sass, who had modestly kept out of the way, now came in for his share of thanks; and the whole garrison, when they heard of the clever way in which he had frightened off the Blackfeet, were enthusiastic in their expressions of admiration at his conduct. The hump-backed Indian, who, as may be supposed, was no other than Greensnake, was also made much of, all acknowledging that it was through the warning he had brought that they were put on their guard against the intended treachery of their cunning enemies. The bodies of the Indians, and other signs of the strife, had been removed before the party had entered the fort. The young ladies at once disappeared into the house, under charge of Mrs Mackintosh, whose maternal feelings had been fearfully tried during their absence. They did not appear again until the evening, when Hector declared that they looked as blooming as ever. Loraine soon won the regard of Captain Mackintosh and Norman. Every hour the young Englishman remained in the society of the original of the beautiful picture he so much admired, endeared her more and more to him; and it is not surprising that a girl who had seen so few gentlemen, except her brothers and some of the Hudson's Bay clerks, should have given him her heart in return. Loraine was not a man to trifle with a girl's affections, and sooner than he might otherwise have done, he expressed his wishes to Captain Mackintosh. "I conclude Hector has told you that Sybil is not my daughter, though she is as dear to me as if she were," answered Captain Mackintosh. "I am, in truth, utterly ignorant of her parentage. Soon after my marriage, while quartered in Upper Canada, my wife and I made an excursion through Lake Ontario and the Sault Sainte Marie to the shores of Lake Superior. We intended proceeding across the lake to the then wild region of the west. "While staying at a small cottage on the north side of the falls of Sainte Marie, the very day before we were to sail, a heavy gale came on. As we were unable to embark, not to disappoint my wife, I proposed to make an excursion, partly on foot and partly on horseback, as far as we could proceed along the north shore of the lake to Groscap, a conical hill which we could see rising to a considerable elevation in the distance. We found the path far more difficult than we had expected, and at length, our object unaccomplished, we turned our steps homeward. We had not got far when the rain began to come down in torrents, and we were glad to take shelter in a log hut of the roughest description, built on some rising ground a short way from the shore of the lake. It was unoccupied, but as there was a hearth and chimney, we directed our attendants to obtain some fuel and lighted a fire to dry our drenched garments. In vain we waited for the weather to clear. Darkness coming on, we found that we must spend the night in the hut, not a pleasant prospect, but it was preferable to making our way through the forest with the rain pouring down on our heads. "The wind howled and whistled, the waves dashed furiously against the shore, the trees bent and writhed beneath the blast, and my fear was that some of those surrounding the hut might be uprooted and crush in the roof. I went frequently to the door, in the hopes of discovering a rent in the clouds which might enable me to hold out some prospect to my wife of the cessation of the storm. While looking up at the sky I fancied that I heard the plaintive cry of a child. The next moment I thought that it must be that of some wild animal, and was about to re-enter the hut when it was repeated. Telling my wife what I was about to do, I desired the two men to accompany me, and groped my way through the darkness in the direction whence the sound had come. Again I heard the cry, and, guided by it, I almost stumbled over a woman lying on the ground, with a child in her arms. The woman was speechless, but was uttering low moans. I took the child in my arms and hurried back to the hut, while the men followed me, conveying the almost inanimate form of the woman. "`Heaven has sent us here to rescue the little creature,' exclaimed my wife, as I put the infant in her arms. "She lost no time in taking off its wet clothes and wrapping it up in a shawl. "`It is a little girl,' she said, `and I trust has received no injury. We must attend to the poor mother,' she added, as the men brought in the body of the woman and laid her before the blazing fire. `Why, she cannot be the mother of this child; she is an Indian, and the child is beautifully fair,' exclaimed my wife, as, giving me the baby, she knelt down by the side of the woman to try and restore her to animation. All her efforts, however, were in vain. Before many minutes had past she had breathed her last. We took off some of the few ornaments she wore about her dress, to assist us in identifying her, and the men then placed the body at the further end of the hut. "We had, as you may suppose, no sleep that night; my wife, indeed, was fully occupied in nursing the baby. Providentially I had brought, instead of wine, a bottle of milk for my wife, very little of which she had drank, and with this she was happily able to feed the child. "How the woman and child had come to be in the position in which we had found them, I could not tell; but our guides asserted that they must have escaped from a wrecked canoe, and possibly others of the party might have got safe on shore and would be able to tell us to whom the child belonged. "When morning came the storm cleared off, and though my wife was anxious to get back to our lodgings, I set off to explore the beach with one of our guides. We went a considerable distance in both directions, but no one could we discover, nor a trace of a canoe or boat of any sort. If the woman had escaped therefore, as we supposed, from a canoe, it must have foundered or been knocked to pieces on the rocks, and the fragments and bodies of those on board have been driven far out again on the lake. "After our vain search, we commenced our journey, my wife carrying the little girl in her arms. On our way we called at the Hudson's Bay Company's post, situated above the falls, where the hospitable superintendent begged us to remain, and offered to take care of the child until its friends could be discovered. My wife, however, refused to part with her treasure-trove, as she called the little foundling, and so strongly expressed her wish to adopt her, that, having none of our own, I consented, provided no relative appeared to claim her. On seeing the ornaments which we had taken from the Indian woman, the superintendent pronounced them to be those worn by Crees, and thought by their means he might discover the child's relatives. "He at once sent to the hut to bury the poor woman, and we remained at our cottage until we could receive the information our friend promised to obtain. He had not expected any canoe from the west, and could not account for the one which was supposed to be lost. "We waited on, but as the superintendent of the post could obtain no information in the neighbourhood, and told us that it might be many months before he could get any from the Far West, whence there could be little doubt the canoe had come, we returned to Toronto with the child. She became our adopted daughter, and from that day to this, notwithstanding all our inquiries, we have been unable to learn her parentage. Though we soon afterwards had a child of our own, she ever retained the same hold on our affections which she had at first enjoyed." "I cannot but suppose that so lovely a creature must be of gentle birth," exclaimed Loraine; "but whether she is or not, with your leave, if she consents to be mine, I will marry her as soon as a clergyman can be found to unite us." "Although we shall all be sorry to part from her, I will throw no obstacle in the way of what may tend to her happiness as well as yours," answered Captain Mackintosh, shaking Loraine by the hand. As it may be supposed, the young lover felt pretty sure of the answer Sybil would give him, nor was he mistaken. Norman and Hector looked somewhat grave. "And so you intend to carry off Sybil," exclaimed the latter. "I almost wish that I hadn't brought you to the fort, old fellow. But one good thing is that you cannot take her away until you are married, and you may have to wait a long time for that." Effie felt the expected parting with Sybil more than any one else. She was also anxious, and as much out of spirits as it seemed possible for so happy a creature to be, for Hector had naturally told her that Allan Keith had gone to obtain reinforcements for the garrison of the fort, and had expressed his surprise that they had not long before this arrived. On his first arrival a room had been assigned to Isaac Sass, and he had been invited to the captain's table, when, notwithstanding his rough appearance, he showed that he was a man of good education, though ignorant of the events which had of late taken place in the world. He generally sat opposite to Sybil, and it was remarked that his eyes were often fixed intently on her, but that he withdrew them whenever he saw that he was observed. He would follow her about the fort, or when she went out to walk in its immediate neighbourhood, as if wishing to watch over her safety, and when he occasionally addressed her his voice assumed a softness contrasting greatly with the somewhat harsh tone in which he ordinarily spoke. "If ever angels come on earth, that sweet sister of yours is one of them," he remarked to Hector one day, while he stood watching Sybil at a distance. "I will tell her what you say," answered Hector, laughing. "And I'll ask her if she is really one. Perhaps she may be, for, do you know that she is not my sister?" and Hector told him the story of her discovery. Isaac Sass made no reply, but seemed to be pondering deeply on what he had heard. He continued to watch Sybil with even greater interest than before, and managed to obtain from Captain Mackintosh a confirmation of the account Hector had given him. He said nothing, however, in reply; but his manner showed that he was laying some restraint on himself, during the remainder of the time he remained at Fort Duncan. Although Captain Mackintosh paid him every attention, grateful to him for the service he had rendered, the old man, however, appeared at length to grow weary of inactivity, and began to speak of taking his departure with Greensnake for the north. "It is seldom nowadays that I come near the country of the Blackfeet," he said, addressing Captain Mackintosh. "It may be a long time before you see me here again. It may be I shall never return; but I shall often think of the time I spent with you and your English friends." Before, however, old Isaac took his departure two horsemen were seen approaching the fort from the westward. Their steeds, as they came to the gate, showed that they had ridden hard. One was a white man and the other an Indian. The first dismounted and entered the gate. "My name is Harvey," he said, shaking hands with Captain Mackintosh, who advanced to meet him. "I am in charge of the missionary station at White Fish Lake, and have come to ask your assistance for my people, whom the Blackfeet have threatened to destroy. I have felt it my duty to obtain, if possible, the means of protecting them." "I am well acquainted with your name," answered Captain Mackintosh, who knew Mr Harvey to be a devoted Christian man, one of those brave pioneers of Christianity who, in obedience to the commands of our blessed Lord, have, with their lives in their hands, ventured into the wilds among the savage races of the Far West to win precious souls for Him. "I would gladly help you," he answered, "but this fort has only lately been attacked, and I should not be justified in weakening the garrison by sending away any of my people. I will, however, thankfully receive you and your family, and those of your flock whom you may wish to bring with you, while the others move northward beyond the reach of their enemies. Even were I to spare you half a dozen men, they would be of little use in repelling an attack of the daring Blackfeet." "I feel that you are right, and that I must remove my family, and leave our house and garden to be destroyed," answered Mr Harvey. "Pray do not misunderstand me, and suppose that I mistrust God's protecting care; but I know that He would have us take all reasonable measures for our safety, and fly from earthly, as he directs us to escape from spiritual, foes." "We will discuss the matter after you have rested, and I have had time to think it over," answered Captain Mackintosh. "It is my private wish as well as my public duty to afford every assistance in my power to missionaries labouring among the Indians, and you may depend on my doing all I justly can to afford you the aid you wish. However, I now advise you to lie down and rest while some food is preparing." Mr Harvey acknowledged that he was very tired, and gratefully accepted the offer, before paying his respects to the ladies of the family. Sybil looked somewhat confused when she heard that a clergyman had arrived at the fort. "You need not be alarmed," said Effie, somewhat slily. "From what papa says, he can only remain a few hours. He has to hurry back to his station, and declines remaining even one night." What might have been Loraine's wish need not be said, but Mr Harvey promised, should his life be spared, to return shortly to perform the ceremony which was to make Sybil his. Captain Mackintosh, after reflecting, agreed to send five of his men, under the orders of Le Brun, to protect Mr Harvey's station, for he guessed that, without the prospect of booty, notwithstanding their threats, the Blackfeet would not venture to attack it, even though opposed by so small a number; for, if successful, they would gain but little, and would be certain to lose several men. Le Brun, a brave fellow, laughed at the notion. Just as Mr Harvey was about to set out, old Sass and Greensnake appeared mounted at the gate. "I'll go with you, friend," he said, addressing the clergyman. "Though I've not had much to do with parsons in my day, I want to have a talk with you, and maybe if those villains, the Blackfeet, try to give you any trouble, I may be of as much use as those six men you are taking with muskets and pistols." Before finally starting, the old man bade adieu to Captain Mackintosh and his family, as also to Loraine. He gazed in Sybil's face as he took her hand. "I have not prayed for many a day, but if God will hear the prayers of such an outcast as I am, I will ask Him to bless you and make you happy with the noble young Englishman to whom you have given your heart. It is my belief that he will prove true and faithful." He spoke in a similar strain to Loraine; and turning, with an evident effort, to where Greensnake was holding his horse, mounted, and joined Mr Harvey, who had already left the fort. CHAPTER EIGHT. Life in a fort in the Far West is not as monotonous as may be supposed. There is a variety of work to be done. The hunters are employed in procuring buffalo, deer, and other game for provisions during the many winter months. The meat has to be preserved in summer by being converted into pemmican, and in winter by being placed in deep pits, with floors of ice between each intervening layer of meat, and then covered up with snow. When the fort is in the neighbourhood of a lake or river, fish have to be caught and preserved. This is done by salting them in summer, and freezing them as soon as the cold becomes intense enough. Numerous horses have to be attended to, and dogs trained for dragging the sleighs when the snow covers the ground, the only mode then possible of travelling. Sleighs, carts, snow-shoes, and harness of all sorts, have to be manufactured, and moccasins and winter clothing prepared. In the neighbourhood of some forts gardens containing vegetables, and fields of maize, wheat, and oats have to be attended to. In others boats and canoes are built, while at all the gunsmith has constant work in repairing damaged fire-arms. Trappers are constantly coming and going, bringing peltries, buffalo, deer, and wolf-skins, as well as other produce of the chase. Some are half-breeds, others white men, but the greater number pure Indians. Some arrive with several bales, others only bring a few skins to exchange for powder and shot, and a new trap or two. Then the skins obtained have to be sorted, repacked, and despatched either to York factory in the north, or to Fort Garry in the south; while stores and provisions at certain periods arrive, and the men transporting them have to be entertained until they are ready to return to head-quarters. Such was the existence which the inmates of Fort Duncan were leading. Under other circumstances Loraine might soon have grown tired of so limited a sphere of action, but every day he became more and more attached--if that were possible--to Sybil; and although he had intended to perform the journey across the Rocky Mountains to Vancouver's Island, he could not bring himself to leave her exposed to dangers such as those from which she had lately been preserved. Sybil had no wish to let him go, for though short as was the time since they had first met, he had become all in all to her; and no wonder when Hector, who had opportunities of knowing him well, declared that he was one of the finest, noblest, best fellows he had ever fell in with, right-minded, true and brave; and Sybil was convinced that this account was not exaggerated. Next to Loraine, Hector's chief friend was Allan Keith, whom he considered almost the equal of the first. He had become very anxious at the non-appearance of Allan and the half-breed hunters he had hoped to enlist. Either he must have failed in inducing them to accompany him, or he had encountered some hostile Indians on the way, which was not very likely, or had been compelled to make a wide circuit to avoid them. At last Hector asked his father's permission to take two or three men with him, and to travel northward in the direction Keith would most likely come, in the hopes of falling in with him, and giving assistance should it be required. "He may have met with some such misadventure as Loraine and I did; or he may have expended his ammunition and be starving," he observed. Effie was very grateful to Hector when she heard of his proposal. "I won't ask you to accompany me, Loraine," he said to his friend, "for I suspect that Sybil would greatly object to your going away; and as you are less accustomed to the style of life than our men, you would knock up sooner than they would. I wish that old Sass had been here with his boy Greensnake; they would, by some means or other, have discovered him, wherever he is." Loraine made no reply. He certainly had no wish to go, and he agreed with Hector that the hunters were more accustomed to the style of life they would have to lead than he was; still, in his anxiety to assist Keith, he was ready to sacrifice much, but if a sufficient number of men from the fort could be spared, his aid would not be required. To Hector's disappointment, however, Captain Mackintosh objected to his taking any men from the fort. "The best hunters are required to go out in search of game, and the garrison is already weakened by those who have accompanied Mr Harvey," he remarked. "Although I am as anxious as you are about Keith, yet duty compels me to refuse your request, and I cannot let you go alone, or even with one man. Had Le Brun been here I might have sent him, as he is worth two or three others; but unless Mr Harvey abandons his station and takes refuge in the fort, it may be some time before he returns, and I hope before then we shall either see or hear of Keith." Still Hector did not abandon his plan. Norman was ready to go; and Loraine, when he found that no one else could be spared, without consulting Sybil, volunteered to accompany him. Captain Mackintosh finding that his sons were so bent on the expedition, and that their guest was ready to sacrifice his own inclination, on further considering the matter, gave his consent, and agreed to send one of the best hunters and guides with them, provided they promised not to be absent more than ten days, and to leave behind them marks by which their trail could be followed up. Effie thanked Loraine warmly; and even Sybil acknowledged that as he was going from a generous motive, she could not venture to ask him to stay behind. The undertaking being determined on, the party rapidly made their preparations. Having crossed the river where the horses were waiting for them, they set out. Besides those they rode, each person had a spare horse on which were carried a few light articles required for camping. Sybil and Effie stood on the ramparts facing the river, and bade them adieu, as they wound their way up the hill on the opposite bank. Effie felt happier than she had been for some time; and it was now her part to console Sybil for Loraine's absence, assuring her that the party would not return without bringing tidings of Allan. Several of the hunters had been out for three days in search of buffalo. They were expected back that night; but as they did not make their appearance, the gates were closed as usual, and sentries posted to keep watch at night. Towards morning the man on duty in one of the towers, saw through the gloom a horseman coming at full speed towards the fort. "Vite, vite, open the gate; I am well-nigh done for," he shouted. "The rest have been killed, and I have had a hard matter to escape from the savages." The sentry gave the alarm, the gates were opened, and Jacques Robe, one of the hunters, rode in. He almost fell from his horse into the arms of two of the men who had hastened out to meet him. An arrow was in his side, and he was bleeding from other wounds. The gates being closed, Captain Mackintosh directed the wounded man to be carried to his house, and as soon as he had sent the garrison to the ramparts to be ready should the enemy appear, he hastened to attend to him. The poor fellow's wounds though severe were not likely to prove mortal. The arrow was extracted by sawing off the head, the other hurts being bound up, the bullets having happily not lodged in his body. Captain Mackintosh then left his patient to the care of his wife and went out to make further arrangements for the defence. He now regretted having allowed his sons and Loraine to go away, contrary to his better judgment. They could not, however, as yet have got to any distance; and as their assistance would be of the greatest value he resolved at once to recall them. He hoped that they would be able to return in time to assist in the defence of the fort, as probably the Blackfeet, knowing that notice would be given of their approach by the escape of Jacques Robe, would not venture to attack it, if such was their intention, until the following night. He therefore ordered Jules Buffet, an active and intelligent scout, to cross the river and hasten as fast as his horse would carry him after the party. "They will not hesitate about returning when they hear what is likely to occur," he observed. Jules, stuffing some pemmican and bread into his pouch, without loss of a moment set off. It was still too dark to observe his movements; but the man who had gone to assist him in catching and saddling his horse, reported that he had started in safety, and that knowing the country, in spite of the obscurity, he would have no difficulty in carrying out his instructions. Captain Mackintosh laid strict injunctions on Sybil and his wife and daughter, on no account to leave the shelter of the house, observing, "It will become still darker than it is at present before day breaks, and it is possible that during the time the savages may take the opportunity of sending a shower of arrows into the fort. With our reduced numbers, I must not venture to send out scouts to ascertain their position; they may be still at a distance, or they may be creeping up towards the fort hoping to take us by surprise." The ladies exhibited the courage that might have been expected of them when they, without fear, came to live in that remote fort, situated, as they well knew, in the neighbourhood of hostile tribes. Mrs Mackintosh got lint and bandages and cordials ready, in case any of the garrison should be wounded. Captain Mackintosh then went round the fort to encourage the scanty garrison, and to see that they were on the watch. He endeavoured to pierce the gloom, but could distinguish no objects moving on the prairie. Still, he knew well the various tricks to which the Redskins were likely to resort. They might be close by, creeping up on hands and knees among the grass, or along the bank of the river so as to attack the fort at the real as well as in front. He prepared for both contingencies, posting careful men at every assailable point. The minutes went slowly by. He greatly missed his sons, and Loraine, who would have been of essential service in watching the more dangerous points. Le Brun, a most trustworthy man, was away, and two of his best hunters and scouts had been killed, while another lay wounded and useless. Still he endeavoured to make up for the limited number of his men by his own energy and watchfulness. As he hurried round and round, he praised those who were most on the alert, and warned the others of the dangers of negligence. He more than once went down to examine his watch, and ascertain how the time was passing, for of course no lights were shown on the ramparts, and then again he hurried up to look over the prairie. At length a bright streak appeared across the eastern sky. The light increased, and it was with a sigh of heart-felt relief, when at last, being able to see across the prairie, he discovered that not a single object was moving over its broad expanse. "It is as I thought, then," he said to himself; "the Blackfeet have deemed it prudent not to show themselves until they can catch us off our guard. We shall have, I trust, a day's rest, and by the evening my boys and their brave friends will have returned; and even should poor Keith have met with disaster, Burnett may send us reinforcements from Edmonton. I pray that the savages have not paid a visit to Harvey's station, or it may have gone hard with him. Now I may go down and console Mrs Mackintosh and the girls, and get some breakfast;" and the gallant Captain, having again charged the sentries to keep on the alert, returned to his house. The day wore on, and had it not been for Jacques Robe's positive assertion that he had escaped from an unusually large body of Blackfeet, it might have been supposed that there was no cause for alarm. Not even a buffalo or deer appeared. That, however, was not unusual; indeed, the only cause to create suspicion was that no traders, either Indians or others, arrived at the fort. Noon had passed, and had Jules Buffet ridden as fast as he proposed, Loraine and his companions might soon return. Still they did not appear. Sybil and Effie frequently went to the southern platform to look out, but returned each time disappointed. Captain Mackintosh, who had gone to the top of the look-out tower, swept with his telescope the horizon to the south and west, towards which the glowing sun was once more sinking. As he looked, he fancied that he could detect objects moving above the tall grass, embrowned with the tints of autumn. If they were Indians they probably did not suppose that they could be discovered at so great a distance. They might, indeed, have been only a herd of deer scampering across the plain. Still, as he looked again and again through his glass, he fancied that he could distinguish the plumed heads and shoulders of Indian warriors. "They shall not catch us napping, at all events," he said to himself; "and I trust to Heaven to enable us to make good use of the means at our disposal." He was unwilling to leave his post, while there was sufficient daylight to give him a chance of ascertaining whether the objects he saw were mounted Indians or not: he knew that at such a distance men on foot could not possibly be seen. He had much less to fear from men on horseback than from the stealthy approach of savages on foot, who might creep up almost unperceived close to the walls. At length the increasing shadows of evening shrouded the view, and he made another round to warn the sentries, as before, to be on the alert, telling them that they might expect to be attacked before morning. Just as he reached the river side of the platform, he heard a shout. It was Norman's voice, asking for a boat to be sent over. He immediately, therefore, ordered two of the men usually employed in the service to pull across, and in a short time his sons and Loraine entered the fort. It need not be said that they were welcomed by those who had been so long looking for them. Jules Buffet had fulfilled his promise by pushing forward at full speed, and had overtaken them just as his horse fell utterly exhausted, while they were making their noon-day halt. They had galloped back on fresh horses, which at the end of the ride seemed scarcely able to stand. "But we have managed it," cried Hector, "and now I hope the Redskins won't disappoint us. I wish, however, that we could have brought Allan Keith; but we met with no signs of him or his party, and he may be still a hundred miles away or more." The addition of five persons in whom he could trust, made Captain Mackintosh hope more than ever that he should be able successfully to resist the expected attack of the Blackfeet. That they would come that night he felt almost certain, as also that the great object of their young chief Mysticoose was to carry off Sybil. He had, however, probably induced his people to undertake the expedition by promising them the pillage of the fort. They had a few years before this surprised Bow Fort, which afforded them a rich booty, and they might naturally expect to succeed in capturing Fort Duncan, which was not better provided with the means of defence. Never, however, before the recent attempt of Mysticoose to take it by treachery, had it been attacked. The fresh arrivals, after taking some food, lay down to get the rest they so much required, Captain Mackintosh promising to call them should any signs of the approaching enemy be discovered. Each man on the ramparts was provided with a lantern, kept shaded until required, to throw a light on the ground round the fort, which, as was rightly expected, would tend greatly to disconcert the assailants, should they creep up with the expectation of effecting a surprise. Hour after hour went by. "They intend, I suspect, as I thought they would yesterday morning, to make their attack a short time before daylight, when they fancy we shall be weary with watching, and off our guard," observed Captain Mackintosh to Loraine, who had joined him on the platform. "Then we may expect them before long," said Loraine, looking at his watch by the light of a lantern. Scarcely had he spoken, than an arrow flew between him and Captain Mackintosh. He had just time to shout to his people to get under cover, when a whole flight came whistling over their heads, followed by a terrific war whoop, the most fearful sound of which the human voice is capable. The men in the garrison shouted in return, several of them well accustomed to the noise giving vent to derisive laughter. "The painted savages fancy that we are to be frightened by yells like yon," cried Sandy Macpherson, an old Scotchman, who had been since his youth in the service of the company. "They may shoot their arrows and shout as loud as they like, but it won't help them to get inside the fort, lads, I ken. Wait till we can see their heads, and then send a shower of bullets among them, but dinna fire till the captain gives the word, an' then blaze away as fast as ye can load." "Bravo, Sandy! That's just what we must do," cried Hector, who was passing at the moment, having been sent round by his father to see that the men were at their proper stations. A shout from Sandy, of "There they are!" and the word to fire, produced a blaze of light round the fort. The Blackfeet, many of whom had muskets, fired in return, and then countless dark forms were seen dashing forward, some to attempt to scale the walls, others to force open the gate. CHAPTER NINE. So resolutely carried on was the attack of the Indians, that Captain Mackintosh could not help fearing that it must succeed. Two of his men had been killed, and both his sons were wounded, although they refused to retire, and continued firing through the loop-holed walls. The fiercest attack was made on the gate, which Mysticoose evidently hoped to break open, and to force his way in. Loraine undertook to defend it to the last. Captain Mackintosh, knowing that he would do so, was able to turn his attention to other points. Notwithstanding the desperate manner in which they came on to the attack, the assailants were kept at bay; but so much powder had at length been expended, that Captain Mackintosh found to his dismay that the stock was running short. "We must manage to hold out until daylight, and then, through Heaven's mercy, the savages may be induced to give up the attempt," he observed to Sandy, who brought him the alarming information. "Ay, sir, that we will; and when the powder is done, we will take to our pikes and bayonets. The Redskins will have no mind to face them." The savage chief seemed resolved, however, to succeed. Again and again he and his followers rushed up to the gate, which they assailed with their axes, hewing at the stout wood in the expectation of cutting it through. Many fell in the attempt by the hot fire kept up on them from either side. At last they were driven back, and the garrison gave vent to a loud cheer, confident that the enemy were about to take to flight. For a short interval the fighting ceased; but the savages, urged by Mysticoose, again came on, this time to make another effort to scale the palisades. Some stood on the backs of their companions, trying to reach the summit; others tugged away at the stout timbers, endeavouring to pull them down; but they resisted all their efforts. The defenders of the fort rushed here and there, striking fierce blows with their axes wherever an Indian showed himself, thrusting with their pikes, and hurling back their assailants. Still, it was too likely that numbers would prevail. On either side the Indians were swarming up, and one man had often to contend with a dozen before others of the defenders could come to his assistance. Several more of the garrison had been wounded; but no one, while he had strength to wield a weapon, retired from his post. At last the Indians, finding that so many of their party had fallen, and that, in spite of all their efforts, they were unable to climb over the palisades, desisted from the attempt, and again retired out of gunshot. Though they could not be seen, their voices were heard on three sides of the fort, showing that they had not altogether abandoned the attempt. "I wonder what they will do next?" said Hector to his brother. "Do you think they have had enough of it?" "If that fellow Mysticoose has escaped, I'm afraid he'll urge them to come on again," answered Norman. "It still wants an hour to daylight, and they are up to some trick or other, you may depend upon that. Perhaps they are creeping round to try and get in at the rear of the fort by climbing up on that side, thinking that we should not guard it so carefully as the front. Come along, let us try and find out what they are about." They accordingly hurried up to the ramparts overlooking the river; but when they peered down through the gloom, they could see nothing moving. They urged the men on guard to keep a watchful look-out. "No fear about our doing that," was the answer. "The Redskins have had enough of climbing over for the present. They are more likely again to try and beat down the gate." Still the shouts and shrieks in the distance continued. Hector and Norman returned to their posts in front. They had scarcely got there when Hector's sharp eyes perceived some dark objects moving along the ground. He would have taken them, under other circumstances, for a herd of buffalo, so shapeless did they seem. He immediately warned the rest of the garrison. The objects came nearer and nearer. It was evident that they were men carrying loads on their backs, who, bounding on before a fire could be opened on them, got close up to the gates at the foot of the palisades. The next instant a number of Indians were observed making off at full speed. They were fired at; but so rapid were their movements, that most of them effected their escape without being hit. Scarcely had the firing ceased, than small flames were seen rising out of the loads left close to the fort, which it was now discovered were faggots, brought by the savages for the purpose of burning down the palisades. Loraine, on seeing this, volunteered to head a party to drag away the faggots before the flames should have time to blaze up; but just as he was about to set out, and the gates were being opened, some more Indians, protected by a band of horsemen, were seen approaching, laden with an additional supply of faggots, with which, using them as shields, they endeavoured to protect themselves from the fire of the garrison. But by this time many of the men, having only a round or two of ammunition remaining, were unwilling to expend it, and the savages as before escaped with slight loss. "The faggots may blaze up, my boys," cried Captain Mackintosh; "but it will take some time to burn down our palisades." His heart, however, began to sink, as he thought that too probably the enemy would succeed in their design. Loraine, seeing the fearful danger to which the fort was exposed, again offered to rush out at the head of a party of men, and endeavour to drag away the burning branches. There was a risk, however, that while they were so engaged, the enemy might make a rush for the gate. Already the flames were ascending. As they burned brightly, their glare would expose him and his followers to view. Still, the position of affairs required that the risk, great as it was, should be run. Dense volumes of smoke were coming through the interstices of the palisades, and the circle of flame which rose up round the fort showed that no time must be lost. Captain Mackintosh sent those who had most ammunition to fire away at the enemy, should they approach. The gates were opened, and Loraine, with his followers, issued forth armed with pikes, to drag away the burning mass. Those at the gate were soon hurled to a distance. They then began to labour away at those spots where the greatest danger was threatened to the palisades. So rapid were their movements that it was some time before their object was discovered by the Indians, who, however, at length perceived what they were about, and, uttering a war whoop, came rushing towards them. In vain the party from above endeavoured to keep the savages in check. Loraine ran a fearful risk of being cut off. Captain Mackintosh, seeing the danger to which he was exposed, shouted to him to retire, while the men within stood ready to close the gates the moment he and his companions had entered. Although warned that the enemy were drawing near, he laboured on to the last, when, turning round, he saw, by the light of the flames, the savages, with tomahawks uplifted, scarcely a dozen paces from him. His first impulse was to stop and encounter Mysticoose; but by so doing he would delay, he knew, the closing of the gate, and the savages might succeed in entering. A tomahawk whirled by his head. In another moment he would have a dozen enemies upon him. He sprang back after his companion, and the gate was closed against their assailants, who at once, to wreak their vengeance, began to throw back the blazing faggots against it. A few shots were fired at the enemy, and then not a single report was heard. Every grain of powder in the fort had been expended. The Blackfeet had in the mean time been collecting a fresh supply of faggots, and now, finding themselves unmolested, brought them up to the stockades. At length the stout gate, having caught fire, showed signs of giving way, while the forked flames appeared in all directions between the palisades. In vain the bold hunters sprang here and there with buckets of water--for the fort was well supplied--and dashed it against the burning timbers. It was too evident that ere long the whole front of the fort would be one mass of fire. "Never fear, lads," cried old Sandy Macpherson, as he saw to a certainty what would happen. "Even when the walls come down, the Redskins won't be in a hurry to make their way over them. We may still keep the `varmints' at bay for a good time longer, and then just take shelter in the big house, and they'll no get into that in a hurry, while we make good play with our pikes and bayonets." If Sandy did not forget that the savages, as soon as they got into the inner part of the fort, would set fire to the buildings, he thought it prudent not to say so. In the mean time, Loraine began to fear that notwithstanding the heroic efforts he and his companions were making, the helpless ones, whom they were ready to sacrifice their lives to protect, would fall into the power of the savages. Language, indeed, cannot describe his feelings. Rather would he have seen his beautiful Sybil dead than carried off by the Indian. "Would it not be possible to get through the back of the fort, and to place the ladies in the boat, then either to carry them down the river, or enable them to make their escape to the northward?" he asked of Captain Mackintosh. "Surely it would be safer than defending them in the house." "I much fear that the savages, though we do not see them, are watching the banks, and that the attempt would be unsuccessful; yet, as a last resource, we must try it," answered Captain Mackintosh. "I will commit them to your charge." Loraine's feelings prompted him eagerly to accept the office, and yet, influenced by a high motive, he replied-- "I would propose that your sons should escort them. They are well acquainted with the navigation of the river, and would be more likely to find their way across the country than I should." "My boys and I must remain at our posts and defend the fort to the last," said Captain Mackintosh. "You must go, my friend. We have but a short time to prepare. Old Sandy shall accompany you. The boat will hold no more. Go on, and let my wife and poor girls know what we have decided, and I will make the required arrangements." "I will do as you desire," answered Loraine. In building the fort, the timbers had been so placed that an opening could easily be formed on such an emergency as now occurred. Captain Mackintosh, summoning Sandy, they together removed part of the wood-work. Sandy was about to step through the opening, when he hurriedly drew back, and replacing the timbers exclaimed-- "The Redskins have found us out. I saw half a score of them creeping along the bank. Quick, quick, captain, and stop up the gap!" All hope of enabling the ladies to escape as he proposed had to be abandoned, and Captain Mackintosh, with a sad heart, leaving Sandy to watch the spot, went back to tell them of the impossibility of carrying out their projected plan. Scarcely had he reached the building than the towers on either side of the gate, which were blazing furiously, and a large portion of the front, fell down outwards with a loud crash. A fearful yell of exultation was uttered by the savages, but the encircling flames and the burning timbers still kept them at bay. In a short time, however, the flames would burn out, and they might spring over the smouldering logs. Disheartened by the desperate way in which their attacks had been met, and not aware that the garrison were destitute of ammunition, they kept at a distance, feeling confident that their prey could not escape them. As the flames decreased, Captain Mackintosh ordered the men to retreat into the two chief buildings, urging them to hold out bravely to the last. He feared, however, with too much reason, that although they might prolong their resistance, their ultimate destruction was inevitable. Every moment the flames in front were decreasing, although on either side they were creeping along the stockades, threatening everything with speedy destruction. The savages, hovering round, had been waiting for the moment when they might force their way over the burning ruins. It came at last. Again uttering their fearful war whoops, they came rushing on, confident of success, when a cheer was heard from the left, followed by a rattling fire of musketry. The fierce warriors turned and fled. Their chief himself, who was distinguished by his tall figure and waving plume, was seen to fall. Some of his followers endeavoured to lift him from the ground, but fled with the rest, and in another minute a large body of horsemen galloped up, who were seen, as the glare of the burning stockades fell on them, to be mostly half-breed hunters, led by a white man. "Hurrah! Hurrah! It's Allan Keith," cried Hector, who had been on the look-out through one of the barricaded windows. In an instant the door was thrown open. The men of the garrison rushed to the burning walls, some with axes to cut them down, others with buckets of water to extinguish the flames. While the half-breeds were pursuing the flying foe, another party appeared on the right, and in a short time Dr McCrab and Dan Maloney, who had led them, were heartily greeting Captain Mackintosh and his companions, and congratulating them on their narrow escape. "Faith, my boy, I'm mighty glad that we've come just in the nick of time, and that we shouldn't have done, I'm after thinking, if it hadn't been for falling in with old Isaac Sass, and his impish follower, Master Greensnake," exclaimed Maloney, as he shook Hector's hand. "He told us if we wanted to save you, to put our best feet foremost while he showed us the course to take. It's my belief, too, that he afterwards managed to fall in with Allan Keith and his party, or it's possible they might have arrived as we should have done, just in time to be too late." The men belonging to the fort had been successful in extinguishing the flames, though the whole front was either in ruins or presented a fearfully shattered and blackened appearance. Dr McCrab, with coat off and sleeves tucked up, was busily employed in attending to the wounded men, while Loraine was assisting Sybil and Mrs Mackintosh in calming the fears of poor Effie, who, not seeing Allan Keith among those who had just arrived, had feared that some accident had happened to him. He soon, however, with his active horsemen, having driven the enemy to a distance, arrived unhurt, and his appearance quickly tranquillised her mind. "We must not, however, forget our friend Mr Harvey," exclaimed Captain Mackintosh. "The Blackfeet may possibly direct their course towards his station and revenge themselves for their failure here by attempting its destruction." On hearing this remark, Allan Keith and Loraine offered to lead a party of men to the assistance of the missionary, and about thirty of the hunters having volunteered to accompany them, fresh horses were brought across the river, and they immediately set out. Norman and Hector, notwithstanding their wounds, wished to go, but the Doctor refused to allow them, and insisted on their turning in and getting the rest they greatly needed. Not an hour was lost in commencing the repairs of the fort, that it might be in a condition to resist any further attack which the Indians might venture to make on it. A few men were also sent to bury the Blackfeet, who had fallen either in the attack or flight. Among the bodies that of Mysticoose himself was found, his followers being unable to carry him away. He was buried in the common grave at a distance from the fort. Of course a watch was kept at night, though it was not thought probable that the Indians, even should they discover the absence of Loraine and Keith, would renew the attack. A week passed by. The sawyers and carpenters had worked so energetically, that already the fort had assumed its former appearance, with some improvements to add to its strength. There was no time to be lost, as winter was approaching, and most of the men who had arrived under Dan Maloney and Dr McCrab, had to return to Fort Edmonton. Sybil and Effie had at first kept up their spirits, but they were growing anxious at the non-appearance of Loraine and Keith. Evening was approaching, when a shout was raised by the sentry on the western watch-tower, that a large train was coming across the prairie, on which Norman and Hector, with several other inmates of the fort, hastened up the platform to take a look at it. "I am much mistaken, if they are not Loraine and Keith and their party," exclaimed Hector. "They have carts with them, so there can be no doubt about their being white men," said Norman. Hector getting a telescope soon discovered that he was right in his conjectures. As the train drew nearer, the gates were opened, and a large party hurried out to meet the newcomers, who proved to be not only those who were expected, but Mr Harvey and his family, with several Indians who had accompanied them. "He came," he said, "to ask for protection for himself and his wife and children, as well as for the converts, until it could be ascertained that the Blackfeet had finally left the district." It need not be said that Loraine and Keith had warmly urged him to take this step. Captain Mackintosh, giving him a hearty welcome, assured him of the use he would be to the inmates of the fort. "In truth, my dear friend," he observed, "I believe you can do more real good among my half heathen people, than you could to any of the few Indians who would visit you during the winter." Mr Harvey, besides his wife, had two daughters, nearly grown up, and a son, who, there could be no doubt, would prove a great addition to the society at the fort, the inmates of which had little chance of enjoying much communication with the outer world for many months to come. Soon after his arrival, Mr Harvey inquired for Isaac Sass. "I half expected to have found him here," he observed to Captain Mackintosh, "though he left without saying in what direction he was going. I am thankful to believe that his visit to me was of spiritual benefit to him; for, opening his heart, he confessed that he had been a careless liver, having endeavoured, though in vain, to put God out of his thoughts. I was the instrument of bringing his mind into a better state, and I trust that in a contrite spirit he sought forgiveness from God through the gracious means He has offered to sinners. Before leaving me, he put into my hands a packet to be delivered to you; and from what he said, I suspect that he is deeply interested in the young lady whom I believed to be your daughter, until he assured me that such was not the case. He had recognised her by her likeness to one whom he truly loved, but who had been lost to him for ever, though, I conclude, you will learn his history from the contents of the packet which I now give you." Captain Mackintosh, on opening the packet, found it contained a long manuscript written in a large but somewhat shaky hand. It would occupy too much space were it to be copied. His life, like that of many others, had been an adventurous one. His true name was Hugh Lindsay, and his family was an old and good one. Having left home at an early age, he entered the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, and had every reason to expect to become one of its leading members, when his family so strongly expressed their annoyance at hearing of his marriage with a beautiful half-Cree girl, that he ceased to hold any communication with them. He had not long after this quarrelled with his employers, when he left their service, and commenced the life of a free trader and trapper. For some time he had considerable success, and as his wife had presented him with a daughter, whom he devotedly loved, he was doubly anxious to gain the means of supporting and educating her in the rank of a lady. Neither he nor her mother, however, could bear to part with her. At an early age she was seen and admired by Donald Grey, a young clerk in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, who sought for and obtained her hand. He, however, had managed, as his father-in-law had done, to quarrel with the chief officer of the fort where he was stationed, and having some means of his own, had taken up his residence at the Red River Settlement. After living there a year, and becoming the father of a little girl, he received intelligence from England that he had inherited a good property. He had embarked with his young wife and child and a Cree nurse, intending to proceed through the Lake of the Woods, across Lake Superior to Canada. From that day, weeks, months, and years went by, and the old trapper, still supposing that they had arrived safely in England, waited in vain to receive intelligence of them. It is necessary here to remark that when the superintendent at the company's post on the Sault Saint Marie made inquiries of the chief factors and other officers throughout the north-west territory, they replied that no person connected with them was missing, or had crossed Lake Superior at the time he mentioned. From the American traders also he could obtain no information. Not until Isaac Sass, or more properly, Hugh Lindsay, heard Captain Mackintosh describe the way Sybil had been discovered, did he suspect the fate of his daughter and son-in-law. He had accounted for never having received a letter from them, by supposing that on reaching the old country, and occupying a new sphere of life, they had forgotten him, or had not taken the trouble to write. His wife, dying soon after their daughter's marriage, he had taken to the wild life he had from that time forward led, believing that he himself was forgotten by his kindred, and endeavouring in a misanthropical spirit to banish from his mind all thoughts of the past. On seeing Sybil, a chord had been struck in his heart, and on hearing her history, he was at once convinced, from her extraordinary likeness to his own child, that she was her daughter though fairer, and of a more refined beauty, such as mental culture gives; but for her sake he was unwilling to make himself known, believing that neither she nor Loraine would be gratified at finding that she was the grand-daughter of a rough old trapper. He especially fancied that the gentlemanly young Englishman would object to him, and having himself a bad opinion of human nature, he supposed that it might even cause him to give up Sybil. Still, after he had been brought to a better state of mind by Mr Harvey, he could not resist the temptation of writing a sketch of his history, and by informing his grand-daughter of her birth and parentage, enable her, as he hoped, to gain the property which would have been her father's. He added all the information he possessed for the discovery of Ronald Grey's family, and whether or not he had ever arrived in England. While listening to this narrative which Captain Mackintosh read to him, Loraine exclaimed, "Grey was my mother's name, and I remember hearing that a cousin of hers had gone out to the north-west territory, in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, and that although property had been left him he had not returned to claim it, and has never since been heard of. Ultimately it came to my mother, through whom it forms a portion of the fortune I possess, and I will willingly resign it to the rightful heiress." "I don't suppose that she, with equal willingness, will deprive you of it," said Captain Mackintosh, laughing. Mr Harvey again expressed his regret that the old man had not remained behind with him, though he added, "I felt confident he has embraced the truth as it is in Christ Jesus, and I fully expect to see him again before long." The wounded men having recovered under the care of Dr McCrab, he and Dan Maloney returned, with a portion of their followers, to Fort Edmonton, while the half-breeds set off eastward for their homes at the Red River. Allan Keith, much to his own satisfaction, having had permission to remain at Fort Duncan with the rest, to reinforce its garrison. It was fully expected that the old trapper would some day make his appearance, but time went by, and no tidings could be gained of him. Before Mr Harvey returned in the spring to his mission station, he united Sybil and Effie to the two gentlemen to whom they had given their hearts. Loraine and his bride immediately set off for the Red River, intending to proceed from thence to Canada, on their way to England, while Allan Keith took his to a fort, to the charge of which he had been appointed. Loraine, by means of the information Captain Mackintosh had given him, and such as he was able to obtain at the Red River, was able to prove that his wife was the daughter of Ronald Grey, but was saved a vast amount of legal expenses by her refusal to claim the property of which he was already in possession. Some time afterwards, Allan Keith and Effie came over to pay them a visit. They brought some deeply interesting information. Search had for a long time been fruitlessly made for the old hunter, until at length, Norman and Hector Mackintosh, when on an exploring expedition, had discovered on a tree-covered hill, overlooking a calm lake, a solitary grave. Over it had been placed, in regular order, a pile of huge logs, cut by an Indian axe. Searching further, they found in a hut hard by, a hump-backed Indian, life apparently ebbing fast away. He pointed above. "I am going," he whispered, "to that heaven of which my friend and protector, he who lies yonder, has told me, through the merits of One who died for sinful men. I have fulfilled his last wish, which was to be buried, and but yesterday finished my task. It has been a long one, for the trees were hard to cut down, and now I go with joy to meet him, in the happy land from which there is no return. I am thankful that you have come to know where he is laid." In the hopes of resuscitating the poor lad, Norman and Hector endeavoured to make him take some nourishment, but he was in too exhausted a condition to swallow the food, and he breathed his last just as the setting sun cast a bright glow across the calm waters on the old trapper's grave. 
9649	----	THE CAMPFIRE AND TRAIL SERIES WITH TRAPPER JIM IN THE NORTH WOODS BY LAWRENCE J. LESLIE 1913 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. WHAT LUCK DID FOR THE CHUMS II. HOW POOR TOBY WAS "RESCUED" III. WHAT WOODCRAFT MEANT IV. THE SECRETS OF TRAPPING V. WHAT CAME DOWN THE CHIMNEY VI. STEVE STARTS GAME VII. THE UNWELCOME GUEST VIII. SMOKING THE INTRUDER OUT IX. BEFORE THE BLAZING LOGS X. THE TRAIL OF THE CLOG XI. "STEADY, STEVE, STEADY!" XII. THE END OF A THIEF XIII. A GLIMPSE OF THE SILVER FOX XIV. THE PURSUIT XV. GLORIOUS NEWS XVI. SURPRISING BRUIN--Conclusion WITH TRAPPER JIM IN THE NORTH WOODS. [Illustration: "THE SILVER FOX!"] CHAPTER I. WHAT LUCK DID FOR THE CHUMS. "It was a long trip, fellows, but we're here at last, thank goodness!" "Yes, away up in the North Woods, at the hunting lodge of Trapper Jim!" "Say, it's hard to believe, and that's a fact. What do you say about it, you old stutterer, Toby Jucklin?" "B-b-bully!" exploded the boy, whose broad shoulders, encased in a blue flannel shirt, had been pounded when this question was put directly at him. There were five of them, half-grown boys all, lounging about in the most comfortable fashion they could imagine in the log cabin which Old Jim Ruggles occupied every fall and winter. "Trapper Jim" they called him, and these boys from Carson had long been yearning to accept the hearty invitation given to spend a week or two with the veteran woodsman. A year or so back Jim had dropped down to see his brother Alfred, who was a retired lawyer living in their home town. And it was at this time they first found themselves drawn toward Jim Ruggles. When he heard of several little camping experiences which had befallen Toby Jucklin and his chums, the trapper had struck up a warm friendship with the boy who seemed to be the natural leader of the lot, Max Hastings. Well, they had been writing back and forth this long time. Eagerly had the boys planned a visit to the North Woods, and bent all their energies toward accomplishing that result. And now, at last, they found themselves under the shelter of the roof that topped Old Jim's cabin. Their dreams had come true, so that several weeks of delightful experiences in the great Northern forest lay before them. Besides Toby Jucklin, who stuttered violently at times, and Max Hastings, who had had considerable previous experience in outdoor life, there were Steve Dowdy, whose quick temper and readiness to act without considering the consequences had long since gained him the name of "Touch-and-Go Steve"; Owen Hastings, a cousin to Max, and who, being a great reader, knew more or less about the theory of things; and last, but not least, a boy who went by the singular name of "Bandy-legs" Griffin. At home and in school they called him Clarence; but his comrades, just as all boys will do, early in his life seized upon the fact of his lower limbs being unusually short to dub him "Bandy-legs." Strange to say, the Griffin lad never seemed to show the least resentment in connection with this queer nickname. If the truth were told, he really preferred having it, spoken by boyish lips, than to receive that detested name of Clarence. These five boys had come together with the idea of having a good time in the great outdoors during vacation days. And Fortune had been very kind to them right in the start. Although Max always declared that it was some remark of his cousin that put him on the track, and Owen on his part vowed that the glory must rest with Max alone, still the fact remained that once the idea popped up it was eagerly seized upon by both boys. They needed more or less cash with which to purchase tents, guns, and such other things as appeal to boys who yearn to camp out, fish, hunt, and enjoy the experiences of outdoor life. As the Glorious Fourth had exhausted their savings banks, this bright idea was hailed with more or less glee by the other three members of the club. It was not an original plan, but that mattered nothing. Success was what they sought, and to attain it the boys were quite willing to follow any old beaten path. An account of valuable pearls being found in mussels that were picked up along certain streams located in Indiana, Arkansas, and other states, suggested the possibility of like treasures near at home. Now, Carson, their native town, lay upon the Evergreen River; and this stream had two branches, called the Big Sunflower and the Elder. The boys knew that there were hundreds of mussels to be found up the former stream. They had seen the shells left by hungry muskrats, and even gathered a few to admire the rainbow-hued inside coating, which Owen told them was used in the manufacture of pearl buttons. But up to that time no one apparently had dreamed that there might be a snug little fortune awaiting the party who just started in to gather the mussels along the Big Sunflower. This Max and his chums had done. Their success had created quite an excitement around Carson. When it was learned what was going on, farm hands deserted their daily tasks; boys quit loafing away the vacation days, and even some of those who toiled in the factories were missing from their looms. Everybody hunted for pearls. The little Big Sunflower never saw such goings on. They combed its waters over every rod of the whole mile where the fresh-water clams seemed to exist. When the furor was over, and there were hardly half a hundred wretched mussels left in the waters that had once upon a time fairly teemed with them, the results were very disappointing. Two or three small pearls had been found, it is true, but the majority of the seekers had to be satisfied with steamed mussels, or fresh-water clam chowder, as a reward for their hard work. The wide-awake boys who first conceived the idea had taken the cream of the pickings. And from a portion of the money secured through the sale of these beautiful pearls they had purchased everything needed to fill the heart of a camper with delight. Here, as the afternoon sun headed down toward the western horizon, the boys, having arrived by way of a buckboard wagon at noon, were looking into the flames of Trapper Jim's big fire in the log cabin, and mentally shaking hands with each other in mutual congratulation over their good fortune. There was a decided tang of frost in the air, which told that the summer season was gone and early fall arrived. It might seem strange that these boys, who in October might be expected to be deep in the fall school term, should be away from home and up in the wilderness. That was where Good Luck remembered them again, and the explanation is simple enough. Even in the well-managed town of Carson, school directors sometimes neglected their work. And in this year, when the vacation period was three quarters over, the discovery was made that the big building was in such a bad condition that certain extensive repairs would have to be made. In consequence, greatly to the delight of the older scholars, it was decided that school for them could not take up until the middle of November. As soon as Max learned of this delightful fact he knew the time had come for their long-promised visit to Trapper Jim. They had been tempted to go during the summer months, but as there was little to do in the woods at that period of the year save fishing, the boys had been holding off. Now they could expect to use their guns; to see how Jim set his cunning traps that netted him such rich rewards each winter season, and to enjoy to the full that most glorious time of the whole year in the woods, the autumn season, when the leaves are colored by the early frosts and the first ice forms on the shores of the little trout streams. As the afternoon passed they recovered from the effects of the long railroad journey overnight and the joggling buckboard experience. A thousand questions had been fired at Jim, who was a good-humored old fellow with a great love for boys in his heart. "Take things kind of easy to-day, boys," he kept on saying, when they wanted to know why he didn't get busy and show them all the wonderful things he had in store for his lively young visitors. "I want you to rest up and be in good trim for to-morrow. Plenty of time to begin work then. Knock around and see what it looks like where Old Jim has had his hunting lodge this seven years back." So they did busy themselves prying into things. And between that hour and dark there were very few spots around the immediate neighborhood that they had not examined. Jim's stock of well-kept Victor steel traps were commented on, and stories listened to in connection with this one or that. No wonder the hunting instinct in the lads was pretty well aroused by the time they had heard some of these stirring accounts. "If the whole bunch of traps could only talk, now," declared Owen, as he handled a big one meant for bear, "wouldn't they make the shivers run up and down our backbones, though?" Trapper Jim only smiled. He had a thousand things to tell the boys, but, of course, he did not want to exhaust the subject in the beginning. By degrees they should hear all about his many adventures. It would be his daily pleasures to thrill his boy visitors with these truthful stories as they gathered each night around the roaring fire and rested after the day's work. The shades of night, their very first night in those wonderful North Woods of which they had dreamed so long, were fast gathering now. Already the shadows had issued forth from their hiding places, and the woods began to assume a certain gloomy look. Later on, the moon, being just past the full, would rise above the top of the distant hills toward the east. Then the woods might not seem so strangely mysterious. "When you're ready to begin getting supper, Uncle Jim," said Max, "you must let us lend a hand. We don't know it all by a long sight, but we can cook some, and eat--wait till you see Steve begin, and Toby--Why, hello, here we've been chattering away like a flock of crows and never noticed that our chum Toby was missing all the while!" "Missing!" echoed Steve, jumping up eagerly at the prospect of their first adventure coming along; and no doubt already picturing all of them stalking through the big timber, lanterns and torches in hand, searching for the absent chum. "Who saw him last?" asked Max. "Why, a little before dark," Owen answered, promptly, "I noticed him prowling around out among the trees. He called out that a cottontail rabbit had jumped up and was just daring him to chase after her." "Looks like he accepted the dare, all right," said Bandy-legs. "Where's a lantern? I choose a lantern. You other fellows can carry the torches, because I got burned the last time I tried that game." Steve was already beginning to hunt around as he talked, when Trapper Jim, who had meanwhile gone and opened the door of the cabin, called to them to be still. "I thought I heard him right then," he said, "and it sounded to me like he was calling for help. Get both those lanterns, boys, and light 'em. We've got to look into this thing right away." CHAPTER II. HOW POOR TOBY WAS "RESCUED." Of course the greatest excitement followed this announcement on the part of the old trapper. Steve darted this way and that, fairly wild to do something; and Bandy-legs, too, showed himself anxious to help. But, as usual, it was cool Max, assisted by Owen, who managed to light the two lanterns. Steve pounced on the first one that was ready, true to his word. "Come on, you slow pokes!" he exclaimed, making for the door; "why, our poor chum might be drowning for all we know, and us wasting time here." "Oh, I reckon it ain't so bad as that," remarked Trapper Jim. "Hard to drown a tall boy in a three-foot deep crick. Besides, he's _up_ the wind from here, while the water lies the other way. That's one reason none of us heard him before." They were all hurrying along by now. Bandy-legs, being a little timid, and not altogether liking the looks of the dark woods, had picked up the gun belonging to Max. "My goodness!" he called out after the others, being in the rear of the little procession, "there's no telling how long poor old Toby might 'a' been letting out his whoops, and with that door shut we didn't hear him." "Well, we can right now, all right!" called back Steve, who was running neck and neck with the trapper, swinging his lighted lantern in such a reckless, haphazard fashion that he was in momentary danger of smashing the useful article against some tree. They could all hear Toby calling very clearly now. "Help! Oh, h-h-help!" "One thing sure," Max remarked; "Toby hasn't tumbled down into a hollow tree stump! His yells sound too plain for that." "Oh, shucks; forget it!" said Bandy-legs. Some time before, while the boys were hunting for Bandy-legs, who had become lost in a large swamp not twenty miles away from Carson, they had finally found him, caged fast inside a large hollow stump. He had climbed to the top of this to take an observation, when the rotten wood, giving way, had allowed him to fall inside. It had been a bitter experience for Bandy-legs, and his chums never mentioned it without him shivering, as memory again carried him back to the hours of suffering he had spent in his woody prison. As they advanced the cries grew louder: "H-h-help! Boys, oh, b-b-boys, come q-q-quick! I can't h-h-hold on much longer!" "Say, he must be away up in a tree!" exclaimed Steve. "No, his voice sounds closer to the ground than that," declared Max. "Tell you what," panted Bandy-legs from behind, "he's just gone and fell over some old cliff, that's what. You know how clumsy Toby is." That sounded rather queer, since it was the speaker himself who had always been getting into scrapes because of this trait. "Cliff!" snorted Steve, "like to know how anybody could ever fall up a cliff. You mean a precipice, silly." "Guess I do," admitted Bandy-legs, "but it's all the same. If you're on top it's a precipice, and if you're down below--" "Listen to him holler, would you?" interrupted Steve. "Hold on, Toby, we're coming as fast as we c'n sprint! Keep up a little longer! It's all right! Your pards are on the job!" Max thought he saw Trapper Jim laughing about this time. From this he imagined the other must have guessed the true state of affairs, and that poor Toby could not be in such desperate straits as they believed. The darkness was intense there under the trees. Several times did impulsive Steve stumble over obstacles which in his eagerness he had failed to notice. Trapper Jim was doubtless sizing the various boys up by degrees, and long before now he had read most of their leading characteristics. But anyone would be able to know the headstrong nature of Steve Dowdy, after being in his company for an hour. "Where are you, Toby, old fellow?" called Steve. "H-h-here! L-l-lookout, or you'll f-f-fall over, too," came weakly from a point just ahead of them. "Oh, didn't I tell you?" shouted Bandy-legs. "It is a _precipice_ after all, and p'r'aps an awful high one! Hold on, Toby, don't you dare let loose when we're right at hand." Max had felt a thrill again at the prospect of such a peril threatening Toby. But another look at Trapper Jim reassured him. "Yes," said Jim, "be mighty careful how you step, boys. Get down on your hands and knees and creep up here to the edge of the awful chasm. Now, hold the lanterns down, so we can all of us see." Cautiously did the alarmed Steve do as he was told. Four pairs of eager eyes took in the situation. Amazement staggered the boys for the space of ten seconds. Then they burst out into loud laughter. And no wonder. Toby was hanging there all right, red of face from his long-continued exertion, and looking appealingly up to his chums. He had caught hold of a friendly stout root as he found himself going over, and to this he clung, digging his toes from time to time into the face of the "precipice," and in this way managing to sustain himself, though almost completely exhausted by the alarm and strain combined. "Ain't you g-g-goin' to h-h-help me?" he gasped, amazed no doubt to hear his heartless chums laughing at his misfortune. "Let go, Toby!" cried Max. "Yes, drop down and take a rest!" added Steve, who could enjoy a joke to the utmost when it was on Toby, with whom he often had words; though all the same they were quite fond of each other. "W-w-want me to get s-s-smashed, d-d-don't you?" answered back the indignant boy, as he continued to clutch that root, as though he believed it to be the only thing between himself and destruction. "Look down, you loon!" cried Steve. "Call that a big drop? Why, I declare the ground ain't more'n six inches down below your feet! Shucks; did I ever hear the like!" Toby did twist his neck the best he could and look. Then with a glad cry he released his hold on the friendly root to fall in a heap. "Let's get down to him," said Trapper Jim, "he must be pretty well used up, I reckon. Perhaps he's been hangin' thar half an hour'n more." "But whatever made him do such a silly thing?" asked Steve, as they proceeded to go around the edge of the little "sink," led by the trapper, who knew every foot of ground. "Well, I don't know that it was so queer after all," declared Jim; "you see, when he fell over here in the dark, how was Toby to know whether he was hanging over a precipice ten feet deep or a hundred? All he could do was to keep hold of that root and holler for help." "And he did that to beat the band," declared Owen. "I guess it was all real to him," the trapper went on to say; "and chances are, when he heard the trickling of this little brook that runs through the sink here, he thought it was a river away below him. Oh, I can feel for Toby all right. I once had an experience myself something like his. But here we are down. How're you feeling, son?" "P-p-pretty r-r-rocky," declared Toby, who was sitting up when they reached him, and seemed to be trembling all over, as the result of the nervous strain to which he had been subjected. "Don't blame you a bit," declared Max, who saw that the poor chap had in truth suffered considerably. "Lots of fellows would have thought the same as you did, Toby. I might myself, if I'd slipped down that way in the dark. Here, grab hold with me, Steve, and we'll help Toby home." "Anyhow," admitted Toby, as they put their arms about him, "I'm g-g-glad you did c-c-come. R-r-reckon I'd f-f-fainted if I just had to let g-g-go." "Rats! I don't believe it," scoffed the unbelieving Steve. Once they reached the trapper's cabin, and came under the cheerful influence of that crackling fire, even Toby's spirits rose again. He had by this time recovered some of his usual grit, and could afford to laugh with the rest at his recent experience. It was about as Trapper Jim suspected. Toby had been tempted to follow the lame rabbit for some little distance into the woods. Finally, finding that he had gone pretty far, and with night closing in rapidly all around him, the boy had started to return. Becoming a little confused, he had stumbled one way and another, and in the end fallen over the edge of the shallow sink. Throwing out his hands even as he felt himself falling, he had caught hold of the projecting root. Here he had hung, trying again and again to climb up, but in vain; and quite sure that a terrible void lay beyond his dangling legs. At first Toby had been too alarmed to even think of calling for help. But as time went by, and he realized the desperate nature of his predicament, he tried to shout. This was never an easy task to the stuttering boy, and doubtless he made a sorry mess out of it. But all's well that ends well. Toby had been gallantly rescued, and now the five chums were doing their level best to assist Trapper Jim prepare supper. Would they ever forget the delights of that first meal under the roof of the forest cabin? Often had they partaken of a camp dinner, but never before had it seemed to have the same flavor as this one did, surrounded as they were with those bunches of suggestive steel traps, the furs that told of Jim's prowess in other days, and above all having the presence of the grizzled trapper himself, a veritable storehouse of wonderful information and thrilling experiences. And after the meal was finished they made themselves as comfortable as each could arrange it, using all Jim's furs in the bargain. "Now, let's lay out the programme for to-morrow," suggested Max. "Me to try for the first deer," spoke up Steve, quickly. "Squirrel stew, like we had for supper to-night, is all very well, but it ain't in the same class with fresh venison. Yum, yum, my mouth fairly waters for it, boys!" "Some like venison and some say gray nut-fed squirrels," remarked Trapper Jim. "As for me, give me squirrel every time." "But we ought to try and get one deer anyway, hadn't we?" Steve pleaded. "Sure we will," replied the owner of the cabin, heartily, "and I hope it falls to your gun, Steve, seeing you dote on venison so. But it might be to-morrow I'd like to set a few of my traps, and reckoned that some of you boys'd want to watch me do the job." "That's right," cried Owen and Max together, their eyes fairly sparkling with delight at the anticipated treat. So they talked on, and Trapper Jim told lots of mighty interesting things as he smoked his old black pipe and sent curling wreaths of blue smoke up the broad throat of the chimney. "Wonder if the moon ain't up long before now?" remarked Steve, finally. "Go and find out," suggested Bandy-legs. Whereupon Steve arose, stretched his cramped legs, and, going over to the door, opened it. They saw him pass out, and as the trapper had started to relate another of his deeply interesting experiences the boys devoted their attention to him. But it was not three minutes later when Steve came rushing into the cabin, his eyes filled with excitement, and his voice raised to almost a shout as he cried out: "Wolves; a whole pack of 'em comin' tearin' mad this way!" CHAPTER III. WHAT WOODCRAFT MEANT. "Wolves! Oh, my gracious! You don't say!" cried Bandy-legs, making a dive for the two sleeping bunks that Steve had built along one side of the inside wall of the cabin. Of course there was an immediate scurrying around. All the other boys were on their feet instantly, even tired Toby with the rest. Max instinctively threw a glance toward the corner where his faithful gun stood. He did not jump to secure it, however, because something caused him to first of all steal a quick look at Trapper Jim. When he discovered that worthy with a broad smile upon his face, Max decided that after all the danger could hardly be as severe as indications pointed. Meanwhile Steve had managed to slam the door shut, and was holding it so with his whole weight while he tried to adjust the bar properly in its twin sockets. Steve was trembling all over with excitement. A thing like this was apt to stir him up tremendously. "Why don't some of you lend a hand here?" he kept calling out. "Plague take that clumsy old bar, won't it ever take hold? Get my gun for me, can't you, Bandy-legs? Listen to the varmints a-tryin' to break in, would you. Wow! Ain't they mad I fooled them, though? Say, I wonder now if they'd think to get on the roof and come down the chimbly. Hand me my gun, Bandy-legs! Get a move on you!" By this time Jim was doubled up with laughter. "Hold on you cannon-ball express boy," he remarked, as he stepped over and began to take away the bar which Steve had managed to get in place with so much trouble; "I guess we'll have to let these critters come in. They look on Uncle Jim's cabin as their home." "What, wolves!" gasped Steve. "Well, hardly, but my two dogs, Ajax and Don," replied the trapper. "You see, I didn't want them along when I borrowed that buckboard and team to fetch you all here. So I left 'em with a neighbor three miles off, and told him to set 'em loose to-night. So you thought they were wolves, did you, Steve? Well, I guess they look somethin' that way, and the moonlight was a little deceivin', too." With that he threw open the door. Immediately a couple of shaggy dogs bounded in and began barking furiously as they jumped up at their master, showing all the symptoms of great joy. "Sho, one'd think they hadn't seen me for a whole month, instead of only a few hours," laughed Trapper Jim, as he fondled the dogs. Then the five boys in turn were introduced, as gravely as though Ajax and Don might be human beings. "They're quick to catch on," remarked Trapper Jim. "They know now you're all friends of mine, and you can depend on 'em to stand by you through thick and thin." "What are they good for?" asked Bandy-legs. "This smaller one is reckoned the best 'coon dog in the woods," replied the other, patting the head of Don. "If there's a striped-tail in the district and I set him to working, he'll get him up a tree sooner or later. And when the animal is knocked to the ground Don knows just how to get the right grip on his throat." "But his ears are all slit, and his head looks like it had been scratched and gouged a whole lot," remarked Steve. "Well, old 'coons, they've got pretty sharp claws sometimes, ain't they, Don?" continued the old trapper. "And in the excitement a dog can't always just defend himself, eh, old fellow! They will get a dig in once in a while, spite of us." Don barked three times, just as if he understood every single word his master was saying. "And how about Ajax?" Bandy-legs continued. "He's a general all-around dog, and ain't afraid of anything that walks. Why, boys, I've known him to tackle and kill the biggest lynx ever seen in these parts, and that's something few dogs could do." "What's a lynx?" asked Bandy-legs. "A species of wildcat that sometimes strays down this way across the Canada border," replied the trapper. "Generally speaking, he's bigger'n the other and fierce as all get out. Fact is, I believe I'd sooner have a panther tackle me than a full-grown, ugly tempered lynx. Some people call it the 'woods devil,' and they hit it pretty near right, too." "Hasn't a lynx got some sort of mark about him that makes him look different from the ordinary bobcat?" asked Owen. "Why, yes," replied Trapper Jim, "there's some difference in the beasts; but I reckon the little tassels that kinder adorn the ears of the lynx mark him most of all." "Looks like a full house, now," remarked Max, who had not hesitated to make up with both the dogs, being very fond of their kind. "Oh, while I have company Ajax and Don'll have to sleep in the shed or lean-to outside," remarked the master of the dogs. "Of course, when I'm here all by myself they stay indoors with me. And I tell you, lads, they make a fellow feel less lonely in the long winter days and nights. Dogs are men's best friends--that is, the right kind of dogs. They become greatly attached to you, too." Toby just then seemed to become greatly excited. Finding it difficult to express himself as he wanted, he pointed straight at Steve, and was heard to say: "A-a-attached to you! S-s-sure they do; S-s-steve knows! Saw one attached to h-h-him once. Wouldn't h-h-hardly let go." At that there were loud shouts, and even Steve himself could hardly keep from grinning at the recollection of the picture Toby's words recalled. "'Spose you fellers never _will_ get over that affair," he remarked, as he put his hand behind him, just as if after all these months he still felt a pain where the dog had bitten him. "Cost me a good pair of trousers, too, in the bargain. It was a bulldog," he added, turning toward Trapper Jim, "and he was so much attached to me that he followed me halfway 'over a seven-foot fence. Would have gone the whole thing only the cloth gave way and he lost his grip." "Well, that showed a warm, generous nature," remarked Trapper Jim; "some dogs are marked that way." "This one was," declared Steve. "But I got even with the critter." "How was that?" asked the other, looking a little serious; for, himself a lover of dogs, he never liked to hear of one being abused. "I got me one of those little liquid pistols, you know, and laid for my old enemy," Steve continued; "he saw me passing by and came bouncing out to try my other leg. But he changed his mind in a big hurry. And, say, you just ought to 'a' heard him yelp when he turned around and faced the other way." "You didn't blind the poor beast, I hope?" remarked Jim. "Oh, nothin' to speak of," said Steve, gayly. "He was all right the next day. Ammonia smarts like fun for awhile, but it goes off. But, listen, whenever I passed that house, if old Beauty was sitting on the steps like he used to do, as soon as he glimpsed me, would you believe it, he'd turn tail and run quick for the back yard and watch me around the comer of the house." "You had him tamed, all right," said Max. "We called it an even break, and let it go at that," said Steve. When the boys began to yawn, and betrayed unmistakable evidences of being sleepy, their host showed them how he had arranged it so that they could all sleep comfortably. There were only two wooden bunks, one above the other. Trapper Jim was to occupy the lower one, and turn about, the five boys were to have the other. This necessitated four of them sleeping on the floor each night. But as there were plenty of soft furs handy, and the boys announced that they always enjoyed being able to stretch out on the ground, Jim knew he would have no trouble on this score. So the first night passed. Perhaps none of them slept as well as usual. This nearly always turns out to be the case with those who go into the wilderness for a spell. The change from home comforts and soft beds to the hardships that attend roughing it can be set down as the principal cause. However, nothing serious occurred during the night calculated to disturb them. It is true Toby did fall out of the upper berth once, landing on a couple of the others with a thump, but then such a little matter was hardly worth mentioning between friends. And they could understand how Toby must be dreaming of his recent trouble, as he hung over that terrible abyss by his hold on a single root. Perhaps the root gave way in his dreams, and Toby made a frantic effort to save himself. Morning came at last. Breakfast was cooked and eaten with considerable eagerness, for immediately it was over the boys expected to accompany their host while he made his first tour of the season, intending to set a few traps in places that had been marked as favorable to the carrying out of his business. They could hardly wait for Trapper Jim to get through his chores. Presently Jim went over several lots of hanging traps and selected those he wished to use on the first day. How he seemed to handle certain ones fondly, as though they carried with them memories of stirring events in the dim past. They all looked pretty much alike to the boys, but Jim undoubtedly had certain little familiar marks by means of which he recognized each individual trap. He mentioned some of their peculiar histories as he picked out his "lucky" traps. "This one held two mink at a pop twice now, something I never knew to happen before," he remarked. "And this old rusty one was lost a whole season. When I happened to find it, there was a piece of bone and some fur between the jaws, showing that the poor little critter had gnawed off its own foot rather than die of starvation. Made me fell bad, that did. A good trapper seldom allows such a thing to happen." "Do mink really set themselves free that way?" asked Owen. "They will, if given half a chance," was Jim's reply. "That's one reason we always try to fix it so that mink, otter, muskrats, fisher, and all animals that are trapped along the edge of streams manage to drown themselves soon after they are caught. It saves the pelt from being injured, too, by their crazy efforts to break away." "And what of that trap over there? You seem to be taking mighty good care of it," said Max, who was deeply interested in everything the trapper was doing. "Well, I hadn't ought to complain about that trap," came the answer. "Year before last it caught me a silver fox, as the black fox is called. And perhaps you know that a prime black fox pelt is worth as high as several thousand dollars." "Hear that, will you!" exclaimed Steve. "H-h-how much d-d-did you g-g-get for it?" asked Toby. "Well," Jim went on to say, "it wasn't a Number One, but they allowed I ought to get eight-fifty for it; which check was enclosed in the letter I'll show you some day. I keep it to prove the truth of my story." "A bully good day's work, eh?" remarked Steve. "Best that ever came my way," admitted the other. "Gee, wonder now if we'd be lucky enough to set eyes on a silver fox worth a cool thousand or more?" ventured Bandy-legs. "It is barely possible you may, boys," remarked the trapper; "because I saw a beauty two or three times during the summer. And I'm kind of hoping there may be some sort of magic about this same trap to coax him to put his foot in it." "A single fox skin fetching thousands of dollars!" remarked Steve, as if hardly able to grasp it as the truth. "Whew, that beats finding pearls in the shells of mussels all hollow!" "Yes," Owen broke in, "and even Ted Shafter and his crowd hunting wild ginseng roots and selling it to the wholesale drug house at big money doesn't cut so much of a figure after all, does it?" "One thing I want to ask you, boys, right in the start," the trapper took occasion to say; "while you're up with me you must promise never to shoot at a fox, a mink, a marten, an otter, or in fact any small fur-bearing animal." "We give you our word, all right, Uncle Jim," said Steve, readily. "Of course," continued the old trapper, "my one reason for asking this is to keep you from ruining good pelts. It would be pretty tough now if after I caught that black fox I found that his skin had been so badly torn by birdshot that it wasn't worth handling." "That's right, it would," admitted Owen. "You can depend on us to hold back," Max added, sincerely. "Well, this is about all the traps I care to put out to-day," and as he spoke Jim made them up in two bundles, one of which he gave to Toby and the other to Bandy-legs. He saw that, ordinarily, these two were the least important members of the club. And in the kindness of his heart he wished to make them feel that he needed their especial help. So Toby and the other chum slung the traps over their shoulders with ill-concealed pleasure in that they had been singled out for such attention by the old trapper. "Then you don't mean to set Old Tom to-day," asked Owen, pointing to a big trap, whose weight and grim-looking jaws announced that it was intended for large game. Old Jim smiled and shook his head, as he replied: "Hardly any use, unless we run across bear tracks. Such a thing might happen, you know; because it did snow last night, and there's a good inch on the ground right now." "But, hold on," said Owen, "I understood that bears always went to sleep in the fall and stayed in some cave or a hollow tree till spring came." "They do," answered the trapper, "but generally hang around till the first real hard blizzard comes along. This little snow don't count, and every day a bear is able to be around hunting roots and such things, why, the less he has to live on his own fat, you know, But we're all ready now, so come along, boys." The dogs were left at the cabin, which Jim did not even shut up. He knew Ajax and Don would stay close at home; for the sight of the strings of traps told the intelligent dogs they could not be allowed to accompany their master on this expedition. An hour later, and Jim was showing the eager and curious boys who remained at a little distance, so that their scent might not cause the cautious mink to abandon his usual trail, just how he set a trap in order to catch the cunning little animal, and make him drown himself with the weight of the trap. The snare was set at the mouth of a hole in the bank of a creek, and which, Jim informed them, was one of many visited by the male mink each night as they wandered up and down the stream. He used some animal "scent" contained in a small bottle to help attract his prey. Then, after destroying all evidences of his having been there as much as he possibly could, Trapper Jim rejoined the boys. "Now we'll head for the marsh where I put several traps day before yesterday and mean to add a few more to-day," he remarked. "As we go, I'll try to explain just why a man has to be so very careful whenever he matches his wits against those of a wily and timid little beast." They hung upon every word Jim uttered, for these secrets of the woods were things all of them had long wanted to know. What could musty old school books teach them that could equal the knowledge they imbibed straight out of the fountain of experience. It was while Jim was holding forth in his most effective manner, so as to thrill every one of his boy friends, that they saw him come to a sudden stop. His eyes were fastened upon the white ground just in front of them, and as he pointed with his gun he electrified the boys by saying: "Mebbe after all we might have use of Old Tom to-morrow, for there's the tracks of a big bear." CHAPTER IV. THE SECRETS OF TRAPPING. "Bully!" cried Steve, looking almost as happy as he did on that never-to-be-forgotten day when they found their first lovely pearl in a mussel taken from the Big Sunflower River. "A b-b-bear!" exclaimed Toby. "L-l-let me s-s-see." All of them were soon eagerly examining the marks so plainly described in the light snow. Bruin had evidently shuffled along here, heading for some favorite place in the neighboring marsh, where he knew food was still to be found. "We'd better leave the old chap alone for a bit," announced Jim. "When I can make sure by his coming back to his den the same way that he's got a regular trail, we'll lay for him." "I'd like to get in a shot with my gun," declared Steve. "H-h-ho! Much g-g-good your N-n-number Seven shot'd d-d-do against his t-t-tough old hide!" jeered Toby. "Get out! You don't think I'm such a ninny as that, I hope," answered Steve, indignantly. "Hey, take a look at that shell, and this one, too, will you? Know why that black cross is on them? Course you don't. Well, I'll tell you." "H-h-hurry up then and t-t-tell me." "They're buckshot shells," declared Steve. "Each one's got just twelve buckshot inside, all as big as pistol bullets. And at short range they're calculated to bring down a deer like fun. I'd be willing to take my chances against a black bear, given a good opening to hit him back of his foreleg. Now you know a heap more'n you did before, Toby Jucklin." "S-s-sure," answered the other, nodding his head good-naturedly. "But remember," said Jim at this juncture, "a good bearskin is worth all the way from five to twenty dollars to me. But after you've made a sieve out of it with twelve or twenty-four buckshot from that scatter gun, why, I hardly think I could give it away." "So Steve, please restrain your bear-killing feeling just now," said Max. "Whether we get him in a trap or shoot him on the run the bear steaks will taste just as good; won't they, Uncle Jim?" "I reckon you're right," replied the trapper, without any great animation; for doubtless he had found bear meat pretty tough eating, and given his choice would any day have much preferred the porterhouse steak which Steve had so often at home that he turned up his nose at it. When they arrived at the marsh where the countless muskrats had their homes, a new species of interest was aroused. Jim showed them how he had to employ entirely new tactics when dealing with the muskrats than in connection with the mink. The former were banded together in colonies, and the trapper had to be constantly on the alert lest in capturing one prize he frighten the whole family away. "But I learned my business many years ago," the old trapper declared, with considerable pride, "when beaver lived in the North Woods. There never were more wary little animals than those same beaver, and the man who could circumvent 'em had a right to call himself smart." After setting three traps he led the way to a place where he had left one baited on the occasion of his previous visit to the marsh. "You see, here's where I set it on the bank," he remarked, "and the chain ran down there to a stake in deep water." "But it ain't here now, Uncle Jim," said Steve. "Because a curious and hungry musquash, anxious to reach the bait I stuck on a splinter of wood just above the trap, set it off." "And then sprang back into the water, because that was his natural way of doing when alarmed, and soon drowned there. Was that the way it worked, Uncle Jim?" asked Max. The old trapper looked fondly at him and answered: "Exactly as you say, son. Men who trap these cunning small fur-bearing animals never get tired of studying their habits; and the one who enters most fully into the life and instincts of mink, 'coon, marten, otter, fisher, or even the humble muskrat, is the fellow who succeeds best in his business." "B-b-but all the m-m-muskrats I ever saw could swim and s-s-stay under w-w-water's long as they p-p-pleased," Toby broke out with. "That's a mistake," said Trapper Jim. "None of these animals can live under water all the time like a fish. They have to come up to breathe just so often. Beaver have houses made of mud and sticks. The entrances to these are always down below: but you find the tops of all beaver houses above the surface." "But," said Steve, "I've seen muskrats dive just as Toby says, and waited with a club to have 'em come to the top of the water again; but lots of times I'd have to chuck it up as no good. How did that happen, Uncle Jim?" "That is easily explained," answered the trapper. "Just as alligators do, so mink, otter, and muskrats have holes that run up into the bank of a stream, their nest being always above ordinary high water. When you missed seeing your rat it was because he happened to be near enough to dive down, enter his tunnel, and make his way up to his nest. You see, there are lots of queer things to be learned, if you only keep your eyes and ears open when in these woods." "But show us if you really did get one in your trap," urged Bandy-legs, who knew much less about all these things than any one of the chums, yet felt considerable eagerness to learn. So with a stick that had a fork at the end Jim felt around in the water at a point he supposed he would find something. And, sure enough, he presently caught the chain and speedily pulled out the trap. It was not empty. A plump-looking muskrat was caught by both forelegs. "You got him, all right, sure," commented Steve. Trapper Jim was taking the victim out, and carefully resetting the trap in the same place it had been before; after which he renewed the bait. "Like as not I'll have another to-morrow, and for days to come," he remarked; "unless they get suspicious on account of the scent we leave by touching things. I try to kill that all I can. But when animals are unusually timid, it's often necessary to come in a boat, and do it all without setting a foot on shore, because, you know, water leaves neither trail nor scent." "Yes, the sharpest-nosed hound in the world is knocked out, I've read, when the game takes to the water." It was Owen who made this remark, and the trapper nodded his head in approval as he added: "I see you are a great reader, my boy. That's a mighty fine thing. There's only one that's better--proving the truth of things by actual experience. And while you're up here in the grand old North Woods with me I hope you'll pick up a lot of useful information that you never would find in any school books. Now we're ready to visit the second trap that was set a little farther along." To the satisfaction of the trapper this furnished a victim equal in size to the first one. "I didn't know muskrats counted for much, Uncle Jim," remarked Steve, who saw the sparkle in the old man's eyes as he handled the second prize. "Oh well, the skins didn't pay for the trouble years ago," he said in reply, "but of late years good furs are getting so scarce that they are using heaps of muskrat pelts, generally dyed and sold under another name. It is a good serviceable fur, and if taken up North answers the purpose very well." "Why do you say 'up North'?" asked Owen. "Max there can tell you, I'm sure," laughed the trapper. "Oh, well," remarked the one mentioned, "I do happen to know that the farther north you go the better the fur. And, of course, that means a higher price in the market, since all pelts are graded according to size and quality." "That means, I suppose," said Owen, "that a muskrat skin taken away up in Northern Michigan or Canada is more valuable than the same sized pelt that was captured down, say, in Florida." "Often worth twice or three times as much," remarked the trapper. "Stands to reason, too, since the little critters don't have much need of thick hides where the weather is generally warm." "I can see through that all right," Steve admitted, "but ain't they queer lookin' little rascals, though! Some plump, too!" "Fat as butter this season," observed Jim. "And I'm just longing to see how they taste. Last year they didn't just seem to suit my particular brand of appetite." "What's that?" almost shouted Steve, "say, Uncle Jim, you're just trying to give me taffy now, sure you are." "That's where you're mistaken Steve," said the trapper, smiling at the horrified expression on the boy's face. "But--you don't mean to say you _eat_ muskrats?" demanded Steve. "Do I? Well, you wait and see how I'll tackle these this very evening. And if we're lucky enough to find a third one in my other set trap, why, you boys can have a look in, too." "Me eat rats?" cried Steve, scornfully. "Mebbe I might if I had to do it or starve to death; but not when I've got other stuff to line my stomach with, I'm no Chinaman, Uncle Jim." "Well, you'll change your tune before long," remarked the other, "and it's a mistake to class these clean little animals with common rats. The Indian name for him is musquash, and thousands of people appreciate the fact that his meat is as sweet as that of a squirrel." "And I've been told," said Max, "much more tender." "That's a fact," declared Jim, "I've got so I never try to fry a squirrel nowadays unless he's been parboiled first. They're the toughest little critters that run around on four legs." When they arrived at the third trap it was found to contain another "victim of misplaced confidence," as Old Jim called it. "Plenty to go around now, boys," remarked the trapper. "You'll have to excuse me," said Steve, shuddering. And yet before three days went by Steve had been induced to taste the musquash, as Trapper Jim prepared them, and found the dish so good that afterwards his tin pannikin was shoved forward for a second helping as often as any of the others. On the way home, after all the traps they had brought had been set, Bandy-legs noticed a tree that stood up black and grim, as though a fire had destroyed it at some time. "Yes," said Jim, when his attention was directed that way, "quite a few years ago we had a big fire up this way that did heaps of damage. And I've noticed that the conditions this fall are just about the same as that year. Why, we've hardly had any rain at all in the last two months." "The woods must be pretty dry then, I should think," Max remarked. "Dry as tinder," replied the other. "This little snow will all disappear, and unless we get a heavy fall soon, it wouldn't surprise me if some careless campers or deer hunters let their camp fire get into the brush when the wind is blowing great guns. Then there'll be the mischief to pay. But I hope it won't be any one of you boys." Each and every one of them solemnly declared that he was firmly resolved to be unusually careful. Finally they reached the cabin. In the afternoon Old Jim skinned the three musquash, and showed the boys how he fastened the hides on stretching boards, which would cause them to retain their shape while they dried. "We never put skins in the sun or near a fire to dry," he observed, seeing that most of the boys were anxious to learn all they could. "The best way is to stand 'em in the shade where the breeze can play on 'em. But, of course, you mustn't let the pelts get wet while they're drying." Sure enough, Jim cut up the musquash, and gave evidences of satisfaction at finding them so plump. As the afternoon began to wane Bandy-legs surprised his chums by actually volunteering to go out and gather wood for the fire. This was really such an unusual occurrence that Max surveyed the other curiously as he passed out. He wondered if Bandy-legs, generally quite lazy, had seen the error of his ways and meant to reform. It appeared that Max was not the only one who thought this action odd, for Owen spoke of it. "What d'ye suppose struck that boy?" he remarked. "Never knew him to volunteer to do a thing before," declared Max. "I should say not," Steve broke in. "Generally speaking, we have to use a stuffed club on Bandy-legs to get him to do anything but eat." Toby chuckled. "Gr-g-great s-s-stunt," he ejaculated, "g-g-got him anxious to t-t-try stewed m-m-m-m--" But that name was really too much for Toby, who had to be satisfied by pointing at the kettle in which Trapper Jim had placed the dismembered musquash. At this the others laughed. They were lounging around in the cabin at the time. A small blaze burned in the big fireplace at the bottom of the wide-throated chimney. "What I want to know," remarked Owen, who had been examining one of the skins stretched on the thin board, "is why they fix these different ways. I've read that some skins are cured with the fur out and others with it in; some split and others dried whole." "Glad you mentioned that," said Jim, looking pleased. "Skins are of all kinds. Some we dry cased, without cutting. I'm going to show you the whole business by degrees, if we're lucky enough--" He stopped short in what he was saying, and seemed to cock his head on one side, as though listening. "Say, I guess there must be some kind of bird or animal in your old chimney, Uncle Jim," remarked Steve. "I thought I heard it, too," Owen declared. All listened. "There it goes again," said Steve; "and something dropped down right then. I was thinking of that story you told us where a bear came down through the big chimney of a cabin. Wow! Listen to that, would you?" As Steve cried out in this way, the rattling in the chimney suddenly grew into an alarming noise. Then a large object fell with a crash into the fire. CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME DOWN THE CHIMNEY. "It's a bear!" whooped Steve, as he made a headlong dash for the corner where his double barrel stood. Forgotten just then was the injunction of the old trapper that they should not shoot any thing that wore fur, as it would cheat him out of all his expected profits. If a bear became so bold as to enter the cabin by way of the chimney he must surely be treated, with scant ceremony. Buckshot or birdshot, it mattered little which the gun contained, since at close quarters the load would carry like a large bullet. But Steve had not even managed to lay a hand on his gun, when he was amazed to hear above the barking of the two dogs, loud shrieks of laughter from Max, Owen, and Toby. Even the hoarser notes of the trapper seemed to join in. And when there chanced to be a little break in all this racket, Steve caught a wailing voice crying aloud: "Put me out! Somebody throw a bucket of water over me, and put me out! I'm all a-fire! Why can't you help a feller?" A figure was dancing around like mad, now slapping at his trousers leg, and then trying to reach the middle of his back, where his coat seemed to be smoldering. It was Bandy-legs. Steve instantly recognized his chum, and this fact, taken with the noise in the chimney, gave the thing away. Bandy-legs had tried to play a prank on them, and, as usual, made a sorry mess of it. While sitting there and looking at the wide-throated chimney, perhaps his mind went out to what Jim had told about the curious bear which, hunting around on the roof of a cabin to ascertain where that fine odor of hams came from, fell down the chimney. He would climb upon the roof and lower a make-believe wildcat, fashioned out of an old moth-eaten skin Jim had thrown away. That accounted for Bandy-legs' astonishing announcement that he would go out and gather some of the wood for the night. It also explained to Max just why he had been stout string that lay upon the trapper's table. This would be needed in the carrying out of his trick. But, like the incautious bear, Bandy-legs had also leaned too far over the top of the chimney. Perhaps he wanted, not to sniff the smoked hams below, as in the case of Bruin, but to hear the shouts of consternation when his make-believe bobcat landed in the fireplace, apparently jumping up and down as Bandy-legs jerked the string. The consequence had been that he fell into the opening, and, landing on all fours, scattered the little fire in every direction. But seeing that the boy's clothes were really on fire in several places, Max grabbed up the first thing he could think of that might be depended on to extinguish the smoldering cloth. "Hold on, that's my supper!" shouted Trapper Jim, clutching the hand of Max before he could empty the kettle. "Here's the water-bucket; use that." And Max did so, drenching poor dancing Bandy-legs from head to foot with the contents of the pail. "That's the time Bandy-legs came near getting more than his share of the grub," declared Owen, who was busily engaged stamping out some of the smoldering brands that had been scattered around so promiscuously when the sprawling figure of the boy landed in their midst. "Somebody carry that old skin outside," said Trapper Jim. "It's burning more or less, and we'll have the cabin so full of smell we won't be able to stay in it much longer." Toby volunteered to do this, although he had to handle the thing carefully so as not to get burned. "I'll go after another bucket of water," remarked Max; "and I'd advise our practical joker here to jump out of those wet duds and get into some dry ones in a hurry." Bandy-legs, looking disgusted and rather silly, was beginning to shiver, as the door, which now stood open to ventilate the cabin, allowed the chilly air of approaching evening to enter. "Guess I will," he remarked; "'cause I've got that wood to gather." "You bet you have," declared Steve; "we don't let you off from that job. And when you've got your hand in, we'll expect you to take care of the fuel business right along, see?" "See you in Guinea first," muttered Bandy-legs, bristling up. They could never coax him to tell what he had really intended doing at the time his treacherous heels slipped on the roof, and he fell down the big opening through which the smoke escaped. Still, no one needed explanations. The fact of his lowering the old abandoned pelt, bundled up so as to look as much like a live bobcat as possible, spoke for itself. Somehow or other this trip seemed to be particularly hard on practical jokers. Owen gravely remarked that all who were ordinarily given to playing pranks would take notice. "Needn't look at me that way when you say that," remarked Steve. "I used to be a great hand for jokes, but never again. I've reformed, I have." "Y-y-yes, like f-f-fun you have," scoffed Toby, who knew Steve "like a book," and had no faith in his professed change of heart. After a while things looked comfortable again. The fire burned cheerily on the hearth and Jim's kettle, hanging from an iron bar that could be let down, steamed and bubbled, and began sending out appetizing odors that even Steve sniffed with less resentment than he had anticipated. "What d'ye think of it now, Steve?" asked Uncle Jim. "Huh, if you mean the smell, why, it ain't so very bad," replied the boy. "Fact is, makes me think of rabbit stew, some." "Beats any rabbit you ever ate; just wait," prophesied the trapper, who knew that once Steve overcame his prejudice he would admit as much himself. Bandy-legs had finished dressing, and as he lacked certain garments to complete his attire, the other boys temporarily helped him out. When his own were dry he would return the borrowed articles. As though desirous of doing penance because of his wretched failure as a prank player, Bandy-legs did work, bringing wood to the outside of the cabin with unwonted zeal. Indeed, the trapper finally had to stop him. "Looks like you meant to swamp us with firewood, son," he remarked, surveying the pile that was heaped up against the side of the cabin. "Huh, thought I'd get enough while I was about it," Bandy-legs replied. "Well, you've done yourself proud, my boy, and I reckon I'd stop now. We've got all we can use till to-morrow night. And I don't like too big a stack against the cabin wall. A spark from the chimney might set her going, and I'd hate to be burned out." The supper was a success. Of course they had plenty of other things to eat besides Steve's pet dish. The boys made sure of this, not fancying the idea of having to depend upon the musquash alone. All of them but Steve tasted it and declared it fine. He could not be coaxed to even sample it at the time; but Old Jim believed Steve would come around in time. "It's just because these plump little critters are so common," he remarked, with a smile of satisfaction, as he emptied the balance of the stew into his own pannikin. "If they cost four dollars each, now, and only the millionaires could buy 'em, you'd think they beat anything going." "Yes," said bookworm Owen, "that's the way it was with diamond-back terrapin. Time was in Virginia and North Carolina, yes, in Maryland, too, when a man hired out to a planter along the coast, he had it entered in the contract that he was not to be fed on terrapin. They were looked on at that time as common stuff. To-day the rich pay five dollars apiece for decent-sized little fellows. You're right, Uncle Jim, it makes a lot of difference." Talking in this strain, and picking up useful as well as interesting information from time to time, as Trapper Jim explained things to the boys who were his guests, the evening passed pleasantly away. Even Bandy-legs seemed to forget his recent troubles part of the time. Max, seeing him rub various portions of his body tenderly, asked whether he had really been burned. And when the baffled joker was induced to show several red marks, Max insisted on applying a soothing lotion, which took out much of the pain. It was an evening long to be remembered by the boys. Steve's turn to occupy the extra bunk had come around, and he felt in high feather in consequence, while the other boys had to select their places on the floor. But everyone seemed in the best of humor, and the soft furs promised to make just as good beds as they could wish. When Max stepped out just before retiring to see how the weather promised for the morrow, he found a clear sky, the moon just peeping into view, and a wholesome tang in the air. And as Max stood listening to the far-away mournful call of an owl to its mate, and noted the flood of soft moonlight, it was no wonder he said to himself: "I tell you it's good to be here!" CHAPTER VI STEVE STARTS GAME. "Wish you fellows luck!" said Owen. It was the next morning. Breakfast had been dispatched, and there was still a distinct odor of bacon and coffee in the air. All of them were getting ready for the duties laid out for the day; and this remark of Owen's had been intended for Max and Steve. Eager to indulge in a hunt, with the dim prospect of bringing home a fine deer, Steve had begged Trapper Jim to let him go. This was on the evening before, while they sat by the blazing fire in the cabin. Now Old Jim had, of course, sized up impulsive Steve pretty well before now. He liked the boy very much, for he knew Steve was warm-hearted and a true comrade. But he hardly fancied having so impatient a lad go off by himself. Accordingly, he had told Steve that if he could get Max to keep him company on a little hunt, he would post them with regard to where they were most likely to run across game. And Max had only too gladly agreed. He had a new magazine 30-30 repeating rifle. It was a small bore, but by using the soft-nosed bullets that mushroom out upon striking even the flesh of an animal, it would prove just as powerful as a heavier gun. And Max was secretly just wild to try it on a deer, though he did not show his feelings the same way Steve would have done. Both boys were ready to start out when the others left to make a round of the traps. They had received final instructions from Trapper Jim. "Got your compass, Max?" asked his cousin. "It's O.K.," replied the other, touching his pocket, suggestively. "D-d-don't forget your g-g-grub," said Toby. "Both of us got the snack of lunch stowed away," Steve made answer, as he pointed to the bulging side of his khaki hunting coat that had a game pocket running all the way around inside, "big enough almost to stow a deer in," Steve had laughingly declared. "But I hardly think Max would ever need a compass," Bandy-legs observed. "You know he never yet was lost in the woods." "Glad to hear that, son," remarked Trapper Jim. "Sure thing," Bandy-legs went on to say, "Max, he can tell the points of the compass by the bark or the green moss on the trees, by the way the trees lean, and lots of other ways; can't you, Max!" But the other only smiled, as though he thought there was no need of his wasting breath when, as Steve declared, he could have a loyal chum "blow his horn" for him. "All ready here, Max," announced Steve, anxious to start. So, with a few parting words the two hunters left the vicinity of the cabin in the forest. The others were just about ready to start out to learn what the various traps contained. "Don't forget about that bear, Uncle Jim!" shouted Steve. "I sure won't," answered the old man, waving his hand. "If he's been back over that trail you'll lug out Old Tom and give him a chance to earn his keep, won't you!" pursued Steve. "That's right, I will." Satisfied with the answer, Steve followed after Max. Now, although Steve had shot quail and ducks, rabbits and squirrels, he was not a big-game hunter. As yet he had to secure his first deer. And as the sporting instinct was coming on very markedly in the boy, he was anxious to be able to say he had shot a "lordly" buck. It was always that, with Steve, whenever he boasted of the great things he intended doing on a projected hunt. No ordinary doe seemed ever to enter into his calculations at all. "And a five-pronged buck, too," he declared. "I wouldn't waste my precious time with anything less." Knowing that Max had had more or less experience in the line of hunting, Steve was secretly pleased to take lessons. There might be times when Steve was inclined to boast that he knew it all; but when out with Max he felt that this style of bluff would not go. They headed in the direction the trapper had laid out for them. Since the old man had spent many years around this region it stood to reason that he ought to know a good deal concerning the places where game was most likely to be found. "Think we'll get one, Max?" asked Steve, after they had been walking for nearly a full hour through the forest. "It's a toss-up," replied the other; "hunting always is, because you never know whether the game is there or not. And even if you are lucky enough to start something, perhaps you'll fail to bring it down." Steve laughed incredulously. "Trust me to do that same," he avowed, "if only I can get my peepers on a five-pronged buck. Think of what I've got in the barrels of my gun, Max, twelve separate bullets in each shell, and propelled by nearly four drams of powder. Wow! I'd sure hate to be the luckless deer that stood up before all that ammunition." "Especially when the keen eye and sure hand of Steve Dowdy is back of it all," chuckled Max. "Oh, well, I don't want to boast, you know, Max, 'cause I might happen to make a foozle out of it. I was only speaking of the hard-hitting qualities of this little double-barreled Marlin of mine, that's all." "Well, we must wait and see," said Max. "Perhaps you'll make good right in the start; and then, again, something might throw you down. The proof of the pudding's in the eating of it, they say." "Oh, I do hope we get a deer, even if it doesn't fall to my gun," Steve continued to say. "It'd be too bad now if we spent a whole two weeks up here with Trapper Jim and never tasted any game besides measly squirrel, rabbit, or maybe partridge, if they're still to be had." "You forget musquash," added Max. "Bah! I _wanted_ to forget it," declared the other. "Suppose we knock off talking for a while, Steve," suggested Max. "We're coming to one of the places he said we might find deer. And they've got pretty sharp ears, let me tell you right now." "But you said we were always hunting up against the wind, so our scent wouldn't be carried to the game," Steve observed. "That's true enough, Steve, but even then good deer hunters seldom talk above whispers when they expect to run across game. This is one of the times when we can apply that old maxim we used to write in our copy books at school." "Sure, I remember it well," chuckled Steve, "'speech may be silver, but silence is gold.' I'm dumb, Max." And for a wonder, not another word did Steve utter for over half an hour. As he was usually such a talkative fellow, this keeping still must have been in the line of great punishment to Steve. But, then, there are times when the sporting instinct sways all else. And Steve understood that still hunting deer meant a padlock on the lips. After all, disappointment awaited them. They put in a solid hour looking over all the territory first mentioned by Trapper Jim, but without starting a single deer. "They've been around," Max finally observed, "and not long ago either, because you can see the tracks as fresh as anything; but it must have been yesterday, because they're not here now." "Looky!" exclaimed Steve, "here's where a five-pronged buck must 'a' rubbed himself against this tree, because there's a big bunch of red hair sticking to the rough bark. Glory! Wouldn't I like to have been about over there by the log when he was doing it. Oh, such a shot!" "You could hardly have missed him from there," laughed Max. "What next?" asked the disappointed one. "The sun's getting up pretty near the top of its range. That means it's near noon time," remarked Max. "And time for grub, eh?" cried Steve. "Well, I won't be sorry, believe me, for several reasons. First place, I'm hungry as all get-out. Then, again, I'm tired of toting all this stuff around. Say when, Max." "Oh, we'll keep on for half an hour more till we come to a stream where we can get a drink. Then in the afternoon we'll circle around some, so as to reach the other promising section Jim told us about. Come on, Steve." Nothing rewarded their search; and chancing upon a gurgling creek about the end of the half hour, the two boys found a log to sit down upon. After eating they rested for quite a spell. Finally Steve could stand it no longer, but urged his companion to "get a move on him." So once again the two hunters walked on. Steve was beginning to complain of being nearly done up, when Max asked him not to talk again only in a whisper, as they were now close upon the other feeding ground of the coveted deer. And this caused Steve to brighten up immediately. In his eagerness to find game his pains were forgotten. Max arranged that they separate and advance along parallel lines, so as to cover more territory. He had been going on himself some little time when suddenly he heard Steve's gun roar. A second shot followed fast on the heels of the first, and Max, excited, ran in the direction of the sounds. A few minutes later he heard the lusty voice of Steve calling out: "Take care, Max, he knows you're coming! Run for it! He's starting for you! Get a tree, Max, get a tree! He's a holy terror!" CHAPTER VII. THE UNWELCOME GUEST. Max saw what had happened in that one glance he took. Steve had met his deer at last; and sure enough it was a sturdy buck that had five prongs to his antlers, showing his years. Whatever upset Steve could only be guessed; but although he had certainly sent in two shots he had failed to bag the game. Perhaps he wounded the deer with the first shot and the animal had fallen. Flushed with triumph, Steve had given a yell and started to hasten toward his quarry with the intention of bleeding it, as he understood should be done. Then, when the buck scrambled to his feet, and charged straight at the young hunter, Steve had been so rattled that he missed entirely with his second shot. After that it was run or take to a tree for Steve. And sheltered behind an oak, around which he had been chased again and again by the angry buck, Steve had seen his chum appear in sight. It was then he shouted his warning. Max had no intention of picking out a tree for himself, as Steve suggested; at least not so early in the game. Time enough for that when he found he had made as bad a bungle of the affair as his chum seemed to have done. Here was the fine chance to try his new rifle that he had been hoping would come along. "Look out!" Max hardly heard this last warning, cry from the boy who looked out behind the friendly oak. He had dropped on his right knee and raised his gun. The buck was coming on pretty fast, considering the fact that he seemed to limp and be losing blood from the wound Steve had given him. Max knew he had a difficult task to place his bullet where it was calculated to do the most good. There was little of the deer's breast exposed as with lowered head he charged toward this new enemy. But Max had all the necessary requisites that go to make up the good hunter--a quick eye, a sure hand, and excellent judgment in a pinch. He took a quick aim, and meant to fire while the buck was still a little way off. This was to give him a chance to pump a new cartridge into the firing chamber of his gun in case the first shot failed to do the work. After that--well, of course, there still remained the tree Steve recommended, and Steve ought to know a good thing when he saw it, since he had been saved from those really dangerous-looking antlers by a sheltering tree. But, then, Max did not mean to register a miss. He pressed the trigger at just the right time as the buck was rising in the air. And when he saw the deer crash to the ground, although he felt a thrill of satisfaction, cautious Max was not like Steve, rushing headlong forward to bleed his game. On the contrary, his first act was to go through the rapid action that placed his rifle in serviceable condition again. "Take care, Max," yelled Steve, seeing the buck struggling, "that's how he fooled me, the sharp dodger! He's the tricky one, all right, you bet! Watch him climb up again, now! Take that big tree right alongside you, Max!" But instead of doing this Max advanced toward the spot where the buck had fallen. He was ready to send in another shot should it be needed. But there was no necessity. The buck gave one last violent kick and then lay still. "All over, Steve; you can come along," said Max, beckoning toward the other. Steve stopped to pick up his gun, examined it with apparent solicitude, as if to make sure it had not been injured, and then carefully replaced the discharged shells with fresh ones. "You never can tell what them there old five-pronged bucks _will_ do," he said, as he came up to where Max stood, surveying their prize; "and it's best to be on the safe side; so that's why I waited to load my gun." "And I reckon, Steve," said Max, with a smile, "that if you'd waited before to see if your buck got up again, you'd have downed him for keeps with that second barrel, and then you wouldn't have had to hunt up the safe side of a tree." "Guess that's all to the good, Max," replied the other, humbly. "Pretty fine-looking buck, ain't he, Steve?" "Well, I should say yes," was the answer. "And just to think he's the very five-pronged old boy I've been talking about this long while." "My, but he acted as though he was mad at you!" Max went on, anxious to hear some of the particulars of what had happened. "That's straight goods, Max, and he had reason to be mad at me. I plunked him with that first shot and he went down. I thought I had him and started to run in, when, shucks, he got up again!" "Then you fired again, but so rapidly that you missed; was that it, Steve?" "Oh, I admit I was some rattled," replied the other. "And then after you missed him, Steve?" "Huh, after that things commenced to happen. They came so fast they kind of got me twisted," and Steve made a comical face with this statement that almost set the other off into a roar of laughter. But he knew that if he gave way it might offend Steve and cause him to bottle up his explanation; so Max held in. "And then?" he went on. "Oh," said Steve, "I saw a tree and headed for it kerslam. But the old buck he seemed to be on the high-speed gear himself. First thing I knew he bumped me for fair, and then came back to stick me with his horns. But I didn't just care for knowing him any closer, and I rolled out of the way." "You managed to get your tree after that, didn't you, Steve?" "Seems like I did, Max, though honest to goodness, now, if you asked me how I did it I couldn't tell you. Reckon I must have just _flown_." "Yes," laughed Max, "they always say fear has wings." "Oh, now, looky here, you're mistaken, Max, sure you are. I wasn't afraid right then, only somewhat rattled." "From the excitement of the thing," remarked Max. "Of course, and anybody would have been about the same. But lend a hand here and let's turn our deer over, Steve. I want to see where you hit him." This they speedily accomplished; and then Steve, who had been pondering over something, broke loose again. "Max," he said, with a little quiver to his voice, "I noticed just now that you said _our_ deer. Do you mean to let me claim a share in this thing, then?" "Why, of course," replied the other, as if in surprise; "we both shot him. See, here's where a buckshot from your gun struck him in the side. They must have scattered more than you thought they'd do at such a short distance." "Yes," said Steve; "looks like it. But, Max, it was you who killed him." "Oh, I ended him, that's right," said Max, who was nothing if not generous, "but only for you holding him here after wounding him, where would I have come in? Why, I'd never have had the first sight of the buck." "Yes, that's so," said Steve, smiling grimly, "I _held_ him all right, didn't I? But when he was chasing me around that old tree so lively, Max, somehow I didn't happen to look at it that way. Fact is, I thought the plagued buck was holding me." "All the same," declared Max in a tone that settled it, "we got him, and both of us gave him a chance to bleed. You weakened him at first, you know." "Oh, did I?" remarked Steve, feeling of his ribs, as if to make sure none of them were broken. "Well, you see, I can't help but wonder what would have happened to me if the old beast hadn't been weakened, just like you say." That was too much for Max. And, besides, having coaxed the whole story from his chum now, he thought it would not matter very much if he did indulge in a good laugh. To his surprise Steve joined in. Evidently the realization that he had actually helped kill a genuine five-pronged buck, fulfilling his wildest dream, caused Steve to be less "touchy" than usual. "But we must manage to get him home some way, Max," he remarked after a while, when they had grown weary of admiring their prize. "Think we could tote several hundred pounds four miles?" demanded Max. "If it was a little doe, now, I might be willing to tie the legs along a pole and try it; but I balk at this big chap." "Then what shall we do?" asked Steve. "I'm going to cut it up the best way I know how," his chum replied. "All we want to take along is one hind quarter. Plenty on that for two meals. And like as not we'll find the old chap pretty tough." Accordingly the boys set to work. Steve knew next to nothing about such things, but was willing to do whatever his comrade asked of him. And while Max professed to be a clumsy butcher, he certainly did his work in a way to draw out words of praise from the delighted chum. "There, that job is done," said Max, when the sun was nearly halfway down the western sky, "and I'm glad of it, too." "We can take turns carrying the hind quarter," remarked Steve, hefting it; "after all, it doesn't seem so very heavy." "I'm going to wrap it in the skin, which I removed the first thing," Max continued. "But it's too bad to leave all the rest of our fine buck," sighed Steve. "Oh, don't think I mean to let the foxes and other animals make way with the rest of the venison! I've got this rope here around my waist; you know it comes in handy sometimes." Steve laughed. "For pulling silly fellows out of quicksand and bog holes," he remarked. "Oh, yes, don't think I've forgotten what happened in that Great Dismal Swamp. But do you mean to yank the carcass up in a tree, Max? Is that the way you expect to use the rope?" Max nodded in reply. They soon accomplished this. Max seemed to know just how to go about it, and presently the balance of the deer swung there in space, six feet or more from the ground, and as many below the strong limb over which the rope had been thrown. "Think it'll be safe, do you?" asked Steve, puffing from the exertion of pulling such a weight upward. "From every kind of animal but a bobcat. If one of that tribe happens along and is hungry, of course he could drop down on the upper part and munch away," was the reply Max made. "Which happens to be the fore quarters of the buck, the part we don't care about so much," said Steve. "Oh, I had that in mind when I fixed the rope, Steve." "I might have guessed it, because you're always thinking ahead, Max. And shall we start for home now?" "Shortly. Let's get rested a bit more. And I want to fix directions straight in my mind so we'll hit the cabin first shot," Max answered. "Four miles, you said, didn't you?" Steve asked, with a big sigh; for now that the excitement was over he began to feel tired again. "That's what Uncle Jim said," remarked Max. After a while they started on their way and trudged along nearly two miles in silence, Steve insisting on sharing the load, which Max had made possible by fastening the venison to a pole, so that each could grasp it. "Max," said Steve about this time. "Yes, what is it?" replied the other, as they changed places. "Catamounts and lynx and bobcats like fresh meat, of course; but you don't think now, do you, Max, they'd hurt those beautiful five-pronged horns?" "Of course not," replied the other, walking on again. "Because we ought to get those to mount and keep in one of our rooms at home, Max." "Your room, Steve; you're a thousand times welcome to my share in them." "Oh, thank you, Max, that's awful kind." After a wearisome march they approached the cabin. It was late in the afternoon, but no friendly smoke arose from the chimney. The returned hunters saw this fact with astonishment. "What does it mean!" Steve remarked, as they came to a halt and set their burden down upon the ground. "Hi, fellows!" called a voice. Some one stepped out of the bushes across the little clearing and waved his hand. It was Owen, and he seemed to be beckoning in the most mysterious manner possible. Max and Steve exchanged puzzled looks. "What in the dickens is up now!" exclaimed the latter. "Owen wants us to cross over to where he is," Max went on to say; "and I reckon the quickest way to find out is to join him." "Ginger, I can see Toby there, too; yes, and now I get a glimpse of Trapper Jim and Bandy-legs! They're all sitting in a row on that log, Max, and lookin' solemn-like at the cabin. What in the wide world is up? She ain't a-fire that I can notice." "Come along; let's find out," said Max, stooping to his end of the pole upon which the hind quarter of venison was slung. "I'll just bust if I don't know soon, because I hate mysteries," muttered Steve, as he copied the example of his chum. When the two victorious hunters came upon the rest, Jim and Toby and Bandy-legs got up off the log. They even smiled a little, but Max thought there was something rather forced about this half grin. "What's happened?" he asked. "Yes," added Steve impetuously, "what are you all pulling such long faces for, just like it was a funeral or something; tell us that?" "It _is_ something nigh as bad as a funeral," said Trapper Jim, a twinkle appearing in his eye. "We're certainly bereft--of our home," added Owen, making a wry face. "What!" gasped Steve, looking from the speaker across to the cabin. "It's not exactly a funeral, but an eviction," remarked Owen again. "He means," said Bandy-legs, "we're kicked out of our cabin--that to-night we'll have to sleep on the cold, hard ground, with only the sky for a blanket. And what's worse, it was my turn to try that jolly old bunk. Hang the luck, why couldn't he stay where he belonged and leave us alone!" "Say, if it's an animal that's got in, and is holding the fort, why, let's go up and cross-fire him from the windows," suggested impetuous Steve. "Not on your life!" exclaimed Trapper Jim, catching hold of Steve before he could break away. "That's just what we _don't_ want to do--disturb him too violently or kill him while he chooses to hold the fort there." "But why are you so careful about his health, Uncle Jim?" asked the bewildered Steve. "Because our guest happens to be a striped skunk!" was the appalling answer he received. CHAPTER VIII. SMOKING THE INTRUDER OUT. "A polecat!" gasped Steve. "Thunder! What a nice mess we're in." "That's just what," echoed Bandy-legs. "It's half an hour now since Uncle Jim sighted the striped beast through the window. He was a-settin' on the table then, and having a spread all by himself. Then, of course, after that he gets sleepy, and I just bet you right now he's curled up as nice as you please in the very bunk I expected to occupy to-night. Just my luck!" "But we ought to get rid of him," said Max, hardly knowing whether to laugh or feel provoked, for he was very tired and hungry and did not enjoy the prospect of sleeping out-of-doors without even a solitary blanket, while that saucy little beast retained possession of the whole cabin. "We've been waiting and watching and hoping this half hour and more," said Owen, with a rather forlorn smile; "but still he doesn't come out of the window where he must have gone in." "H-h-he likes it in t-t-there. Most c-c-comfortable place he ever s-s-struck," Toby remarked. "Where were the dogs when he went in?" Max asked. "Off with us," replied Owen. "We got back an hour before noon," Trapper Jim remarked. "After lunch we hung around for a while and I fixed all the pelts we brought in." "Any mink?" asked Steve, eagerly. "Yes, one good pelt," answered Jim. "Then, about the middle of the afternoon I said we might take a little range around on our own hook and set the bear trap in the bargain, for the old chap had been along the trail to the marsh again." "Bully!" exclaimed Steve, who was hard to keep quiet. "We tied the dogs some little distance away from where we meant to set our bear trap, because they'd want to follow the trail and spoil everything," Uncle Jim went on. "And we helped him set her, too," remarked Bandy-legs, proudly. "Yes, if we get a bear, it'll be partly yours, boys," the trapper went on to say. "After that part of the business had been carried out we started on our hunt. But to tell you the truth, boys, we never saw a thing worth shooting." Max suspected that Toby and Bandy-legs made so much noise floundering through the dry leaves that they gave every squirrel and rabbit plenty of warning, so that they could make themselves scarce long before the expedition came along. But if this was the truth Trapper Jim would not say so. What were a few rabbits or squirrels in comparison with the company of these jolly, interesting boys? The game he had with him all the time, but not so Owen, Toby, and Bandy-legs. "Then we came home again," said Owen, taking up the story; "and it was by the greatest luck ever that Uncle Jim just happened to look in at the open window and discovered the skunk. Just think what might have happened if we'd burst in on the little beast and scared it!" "And me with only one suit, which is bad enough as it is, having holes burned in it, without having to bury the same," Bandy-legs remarked. "Oh," said Steve, "you wouldn't have felt it much, for p'r'aps we'd have buried you with your clothes. But, however, are we going to coax him out of there, boys?" "I move Steve be appointed a committee of one to go and ask our friend the skunk to vacate the ranch," said Owen. "A good idea," added Max. "Steve, he's got a most convincing way with animals. They take to him on sight." "Yes, that five-pronged buck did, you're right, Max," admitted the candidate for fresh honors. "But I draw the line on skunks." "They ain't got a line; Uncle Jim says it's a stripe," vociferated Bandy-legs. "But the day's nearly done and we've got to do something about it," remarked Trapper Jim. "Can't one of you think up a way? He acts like he meant to stay in there as long as the feed holds out." "Perhaps he's heard the dogs," suggested Owen. "We've got them tied up close by, and every little while one gives a yelp." "They seem to just know there's something up," declared Bandy-legs. "S-s-sure t-t-thing," added Toby, seriously. "Max, haven't you got a plan?" asked the owner of the cabin, turning toward the other eagerly, as though he guessed that if they found help at all it would be in this quarter. "I was just thinking of something," replied the boy, smiling. "Yes, go on," Trapper Jim continued. "We couldn't coax him out, and if we tried to frighten the little rascal it'd be all day with our staying in that cabin again while we boys are up here. But perhaps he might be made to feel so unpleasant in there that he'd be glad to move off." "Good for you, Max; I can see you've got an idea," cried out Jim, approvingly. "I don't think skunks like smoke any more than any other wild animals!" Max ventured. "Smoke!" ejaculated Steve. "Hallelujah! Max has caught on to a bully good idea. Let's smoke the little beggar out. Everyone get busy now." "Hold on," said Trapper Jim, catching Steve by the sleeve again; "go slow." "Yes, go mighty slow," complained Bandy-legs. "You know well enough, Steve Dowdy, that I can't smoke at all. There's no use of my trying, because it makes me awful sick every time." "Listen to that, would you!" laughed Steve. "The simple believes we're all going to get pipes and blow the smoke through some chinks in the cabin walls. Cheer up, old fellow, it ain't quite as bad as that." "When we've got some stuff that will burn," continued Max, "I'll climb up on the roof, set fire to it, and drop it down the chimney. Then after it gets a good start I'll follow it with some weeds Uncle Jim will gather, and which he knows must send out a dense smoke after I've clapped a board over the top of the chimney flue." "Bravo!" cried Owen, so loud that the chained dogs near by started barking. "A very original scheme," said Trapper Jim, patting Max on the back. "And the sooner we start in to try how it works, the better." "I've got only one objection," Steve spoke up. "Well, let's hear it," demanded Owen, frowning. "I think Max ought to let Bandy-legs run that part of the business," Steve went on to say, "he knows more about chimneys than all the rest of the push put together. He's examined 'em from top to bottom inside." "Oh, rats!" mocked the one upon whose unwilling head all these high honors were being heaped. "I object," spoke up Toby, bound to have his say. "B-b-bandy-legs never c-c-could resist the t-t-temp-tation to d-d-drop in himself. And think what'd h-h-happen if the s-s-skunk saw him comin' out of the f-f-fireplace a-whoopin'." "Let's get the stuff to burn, lads," said Trapper Jim, who certainly enjoyed hearing the boys chaff each other in this way. "And everybody keep away from that side of the house where the window stands open." They were not long in finding what they wanted. "Make this up in a little bundle, boys, so I can drop it down quick after I've set a match to it," and Max gathered the dry stuff together as he spoke, waiting for one of the rest to tie it with a cord. "And this other I'd drop down loose like," said Trapper Jim, as he held up the bunch of half-dead weeds he had collected. "These give out the blackest smoke you ever saw, and if you shut off the draft after they get going good and hard, nothing living could stay long in that cabin." "That's the ticket!" remarked Steve, enthusiastically. He certainly did enjoy action more than any one of the chums. Steve was happy only when there was "something doing," even though the source of excitement lay in a miserable little highly scented skunk that had taken a liking to Jim's cozy cabin and seemed ready to remain there indefinitely. So they adjourned to the rear of the little squatty structure. Everybody took great care to keep away from the one open window. Some of the boys had had little or no experience with the species of friendly animal now occupying their quarters. Still, it was strange how great a respect for his feelings they entertained. Why, no fellow seemed to want to even be _seen_ looking rudely in. Max readily climbed upon the roof. He purposely made considerable noise while so doing, and for good reasons. It was just as well that the inmate of Jim's cabin knew they were around and objected to his remaining there. And then, again, Max had a little fear lest the skunk make a sudden appearance, popping out of the chimney before he could really get busy. That event, should it take place, would likely enough upset all his well-planned calculations. Max under such conditions would wisely seek safety in flight. Indeed, he had already picked out the very place where he could jump from the roof of the cabin and make sure of landing in a soft spot. As soon as he reached the roof he hurried over to the chimney, intending to start operations by dropping something down. "I ought to notify the little rascal that the flue is marked dangerous," Max was saying to himself, "so that if he's started up he can just back down again." Fortunately nothing happened, and Max was not compelled to take that sudden flying leap. The chimney, as is the case with all log cabins, was built on the outside. It was composed of slabs of wood, secured with a mortar made principally of certain mud. In process of time this became thoroughly baked, and the heat assisted in this transformation. It was now as hard as flint rock. That the flue was a generous one we already know. Had that not been the case Bandy-legs could never have fallen down through it to land in the fireplace below. Max had counted on this fact. Having notified the intruder to keep away from the fireplace under penalty of getting hurt, and feeling that the way was now open to undertake the carrying out of his little scheme, Max returned to the point where he had reached the roof. The others had seen to it that the balance of his dry stuff was placed where he could lay hands on the same. So Max by degrees dumped all this down after the first lot. "Now to set it going," he remarked. "You seem to be having a bully old time up there all by your lonely," said Steve, half enviously. "Oh, I'm a cheerful worker," Max replied. He had arranged some of the best of the stuff so that after applying a match he could send it down upon the top of all that had gone before. "How is it?" asked Trapper Jim, who was standing on something or other, so that his head came above the low, almost flat roof. "It's burning all right; I can see it taking hold," came the reply from Max, who had been cautiously peering down the gaping chimney. "Then take this stuff and follow suit," remarked the other, handing up the armful of weeds he had himself gathered. "Hurry up about it, too, Max," sang out Steve. "We want the show to begin. It's cold down here, believe me." "Oh, it'll be warm enough," declared the owner of the cabin, "if that onary little beast turns this way after he crawls out of the window. And I'll advise you all to give him plenty of room." "We will, thank you," the others sang out in a chorus. "Oh, you skunk, we like you--at a distance! Go ahead, Max, fix him!" Having dropped the weeds Jim had selected down the flue, Max only waited until the black smoke began to pour out. Then he quickly clapped a board Jim happened to own over the top. "That ends my part of the work here," he called out, crawling over to the side of the cabin where he could have an unobstructed view. Heads appeared around the corners of the structure, but no soul was venturesome enough to dare show himself in plain view. And so they waited to see what the result of the bright plan would be. Already smoke was oozing out of the opening on the side, and it did not seem possible that anything but a salamander could stand the stifling fumes much longer. CHAPTER IX. BEFORE THE BLAZING LOGS. "He's coming!" called out Max from above. "Take care, everybody!" cried Trapper Jim. In one way it was laughable to see the tremendous excitement caused by the small striped animal with the bushy tail. The skunk emerged from the window in something of haste. Reaching the ground it seemed to cast one look backward, as though either feeling provoked at being forced to vacate such nice quarters, or else wondering what all that rank odor of smoldering weeds meant. Then the skunk sauntered jauntily off toward the woods, looking as saucy as you please. The dogs bayed from their place of confinement; the boys stepped out to wave their hands after their departing guest; but not one was bold enough to wish to lay a hand on him. "Good-by and good luck!" called Trapper Jim. "Next time don't stay so long," laughed Owen. "He's little, but oh, my, how mighty!" remarked Steve. "Look out, he's stopped!" shrieked Bandy-legs, and with that everybody made a headlong plunge back of the cabin again. Indeed, Bandy-legs himself hid in a thicket and looked rather white on reappearing again after Max sang out that the coast was clear. "They say one swallow don't make a spring," remarked Owen, when all danger was over, "but it strikes me one polecat does." Of course, since the object of his labor had now been successfully accomplished, Max took the board away from the top of the chimney. This allowed the smoke to escape in a normal way. But when they stepped inside the cabin the boys were loud in their expressions of disgust. "That weed was sure a corker for smell as well as smoke, Uncle Jim!" declared Owen. "Well, I guess you're right there," chuckled the trapper. "I admit it does run a pretty fair race with Mr. Skunk himself, and that's why they give it his name. But it did the business all right, eh, boys?" "That's what," assented Steve, who had been holding his breath until he could get used to the tainted atmosphere. "And we ought to be thankful it's no worse," declared Max, joining them. "Yes," Trapper Jim went on to say, "I remember a case where in a logging camp some greenhorn was foolish enough to kill one of the animals, and the result was they had to build new quarters. Nobody could stand it in the old place. There's nothing more lasting." "It ain't overly nice right now," asserted Steve. "I'm wondering which I like least, the perfume our visitor left or the one your old skunkweed made." "Oh, we'll soon change all that, boys," declared Trapper Jim. "Build up the fire and we'll get busy. Just wait and see how it's done." It was, after all, a very simple thing. Trapper Jim's idea seemed to be built on the principle that "like is cured by like." He believed in overpowering one odor with another. And when that cabin began to fill up with the appetizing scent of frying onions, flanked by that of some ground coffee, which Jim allowed to scorch close to the flames, even "hard-to-please Steve" admitted that everything seemed peaceful and lovely again. "But after this," he remarked, "I hope when we all go away from home we'll be careful to close the blinds as well as the door." "Yes," added Owen, "and hang out a sign 'This house is taken; no skunks need apply.' One dose was enough for me." "But, s-s-say, wasn't it a c-c-cunning little b-b-beast," observed Toby, "and d-d-didn't he look real sassy when he m-m-marched off with his t-t-tail up over his s-s-shoulder?" Steve looked at him severely. "You'd better be mighty careful how you admire one of them striped critters at close quarters, Toby, if ever you meet one in the woods," he remarked. "S-s-sure I will be careful," replied the other, with a wide grin. "Because," Steve went on to say, "if you ever do get in collision with one, we'll have to bury every stitch you've got on, crop your hair close, and make you sleep and live in some old hollow tree. Ain't that so, Uncle Jim!" "I guess that's about the size of it," came the reply. "Oh, you d-d-don't need to w-w-worry about me," Toby hastened to say. "I know enough to k-k-keep out of the r-r-rain. I d-d-don't like his l-l-loud ways any b-b-better'n the rest of you." "Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Steve continued, severely. "I'm a little suspicious about you, Toby, because you always did like cats. And I'm going to keep an eye out to-morrow for a handy hollow tree so's to be all ready." "Oh, s-s-shucks! I h-h-hope you'll n-n-need it your own self," was what Toby sent back at him. By the time supper was ready the boys were as hungry as a pack of wolves in January. And everything tasted so good, too. Trapper Jim showed them how to cook some of the venison in a most appetizing way. It was "some tough," as even the proud Steve admitted; but, then, what boy with a gnawing appetite ever bothered about such a small thing? The idea that they had actually shot the deer themselves would cover a multitude of sins in the eyes of the young Nimrods. And while they were satisfied that the disagreeable odor left behind by their unwelcome guest had been dissipated, Trapper Jim knew better. They would detect faint traces of it about the place for days to come, and find no difficulty about believing the trapper's story about the abandonment of a lumber camp. "Are all s-s-skunks s-s-striped like that one was?" asked Toby, during the progress of the meal. "There he goes again," burst out Steve; "I tell you, fellows, we're going to have a peck of trouble with this here inquirin' mind of Toby's." "G-g-go chase yourself!" blurted out the stuttering boy, indignantly. "I'm only tryin' to g-g-get information at c-c-close quarters." "And you'll get it, all right," chuckled Steve. "You'll be satisfied, I reckon; but think of us, what we'll have to stand. Just you let that close quarters racket die out, Toby Jucklin." "Some of the animals are jet black," remarked the trapper, "and they fetch a better price than the striped skins." "Glory be!" ejaculated Bandy-legs. "What's the matter with you?" demanded Steve. "You don't mean to tell me they use the skins for furs?" Bandy-legs continued. "Sure they do," replied Steve; "ain't that so, Uncle Jim?" "They make splendid furs," was what the trapper remarked. "The striped ones are dyed, of course. And they have a way of removing any faint odor that happens to remain." "Faint odor!" echoed Steve, sniffing the atmosphere. "I wonder if there ever is such a thing in connection with these awful beasts." "That shows you haven't read up about them, Steve," remarked Owen. "Why, there are a whole lot of skunk farms all over the Northern States." "You're fooling me, Owen," declared Steve, reproachfully. "How about it, Uncle Jim; am I kidding him?" demanded Owen, turning toward the old trapper, who was enjoying all this talk immensely. "Heaps of skunk farms, yes, siree," he replied, promptly. "They soon get to know the man who feeds them and give him no trouble. He's a peaceable little critter, and only when he gets excited does he go to extremes." "Well, I want to give 'em all a wide berth," Steve asserted. "And if I meet one in the woods I'm willing to let him have the whole path. I'd take off my hat and bow in the bargain, if I thought he wanted me to. Because I've got a whole lot of respect for the skunk family. They're just immense!" So they talked and jollied each other as they went on eating one of the "bulliest suppers" they had ever sat down to, as more than one of the boys loudly declared. The dogs had been brought in and were given their share from the remains of the venison that had been cooked, the balance of the hind quarter having been hung out in the frosty air. All of the boys had taken a decided fancy to the dogs, and in return the intelligent animals seemed to reciprocate this friendly feeling. Accustomed to sharing the cabin with the trapper at night as his only companions during the long winter months, they did not take kindly to the new rule that made them sleep out in a kennel while the boys were present. And when allowed inside they hugged the fire in a way that told how much they appreciated its cheery warmth. They were lying there later on in the night and Trapper Jim had just mentioned that it must be time for him to take the dogs out, when old Ajax lifted his head and growled. Immediately little yellow Don did the same. "What ails 'em?" asked Steve, as the dogs got up and stood there, the hair along their necks and backs rising up. "Oh, I reckon they scent some animal prowling around outside," remarked the trapper, making for the door. "Good gracious! I hope now it ain't that same old skunk come back because he's changed his mind!" exclaimed Bandy-legs, glancing hastily around, as if to see where he could hide. The trapper, however, seemed to know that there was no danger along those lines. He took down the bar, and, throwing open the door, stepped out. As he did so there was a sudden vicious snarl that thrilled the boys, and then the dogs bounded out with a chorus of wild barks. CHAPTER X. THE TRAIL OF THE CLOG. The excitement was tremendous for the time being, with the barking of the two dogs and the cries of the boys. All of them had heard that savage snarl as Trapper Jim stepped out. "Was it a bobcat?" demanded Steve, who had been wise enough to snatch up his gun before following the trapper out of the door. "Just what it was," replied the other. "Three to one he was at our meat!" exclaimed Max. "You can see it swinging yet," declared Owen. "That's right, son," the trapper admitted; he was hanging to it when I broke out so sudden-like. When he snarled like that I ducked some, because it ain't the nicest thing a-going to have a bobcat on your shoulders. But I saw him make a spring and land among the branches of the tree. Then he was gone, and the dogs they run out, givin' tongue." "The moon's just climbin' in sight," said Steve, eagerly; "d'ye think I'd stand a chance to get a crack at him if I hurried along to where the dogs are barking like mad?" He acted as though seriously contemplating such a bold move. The trapper laid a hand on his shoulder. "You'd best stay just where you be, son," he said, quietly, but in a way Steve understood. "Only a foolish or reckless hunter'd try to get at lose quarters with a bobcat of nights. They scratch like fun, and there's always danger of blood poisoning from such wounds." So Steve was forced to restrain his ardor. But he relinquished his plan with rather bad grace. "I'll get you yet, old feller," he was heard to mutter, as they heard the wildcat emit a mocking, tantalizing cry at some little distance away. "You see if I don't, now!" And when Steve once set his mind upon accomplishing anything, he generally got there, for he was very persistent. Trapper Jim, thinking that the dogs had had all the excitement necessary, and wishing to put a stop to their racket, blew a whistle he carried. So well trained were the dogs that upon hearing the signal to return to their master they immediately stopped barking and a few minutes later Ajax showed up, quickly followed by Don. "You chased him off, didn't you?" said the trapper, stooping down to pat his pets by turns. The dogs each gave a single bark, as though to say "yes," and their wagging tails told how much they appreciated these few words of praise from their master. "Will the cat come back again, do you think?" Owen asked. "I reckon not," laughed Trapper Jim; "since he's found out we keep dogs around the camp. A bobcat hates dogs about as much as human beings do skunks. If you ever run across him again, Steve, it'll be somewhere else; p'r'aps up where you left the rest of your fine buck." "Well, he didn't get our breakfast, anyway," remarked Bandy-legs, quite bold again, since all the danger seemed past. "Will you leave it out there after this, Uncle Jim?" asked Max. "On the whole," replied the other, "I guess not. It'll keep all right indoors. And if that hungry cat should come back, the dogs'll smell him and keep up a tarnal barkin' that'll knock our sleep galley-west." So he proceeded to lower what was left of the venison, which was thereupon carried inside the house and hung up from the rafters, along with numerous other things--packages of dried herbs, stalks of tobacco which Jim had had sent up from Kentucky, where a friend grew the weed, and some dried venison that he called "pemmican" or jerked meat. As they were all tired and in need of a good night's rest, the boys were just as well pleased with this assurance that their sleep should not be broken. "I guess that pesky skunk didn't have time to crawl in my bunk," announced Bandy-legs, in a satisfied tone, after sniffing the blankets carefully. "Oh, you're always seeing ghosts where there ain't none!" declared Steve. The night passed away without any serious disturbance. Once or twice there was an outbreak of barking on the part of the dogs, still haunted by memories of the bold bobcat that had dared come so close to the cabin. Trapper Jim had to go out once to quiet Ajax, whose deep-toned baying seemed to annoy him. Morning arrived, and the boys, as usual, were up at the first peep of day. There was so much to be done they could not waste time in trying to sleep after the darkness had gone. On this particular day quite a number of things awaited their attention. First of all they meant to seek the spot where the big bear trap had been set in the hopes that they would find Bruin caught. This was only a beginning. Next in order, Steve and Max had decided to start out, taking Toby along, and fetch in the balance of the venison, Toby had expressed a desire to see the arena where Steve and the five-pronged buck held their little circus. He also wished to try how fast he could hurry around that tree, so as to be prepared in case the time ever came when necessity would compel him to adopt the same tactics. Finally, Trapper Jim, and possibly the ether two boys, would have to make the rounds of the traps to take out any catch, and set them again. On the whole it promised to be a rather energetic day. Breakfast having been disposed of the boys all got ready to move on. This time the dogs were taken, because they might prove valuable in case a bear was caught. But Trapper Jim made sure to hold them in leash. He valued the dogs too much to think of taking any more chances of having them injured than he could help. There was no need of risking their lives with a trapped and furious bear when a single bullet would do the business. "Close that window, boys," said the trapper when they were ready to go. "You bet we will," declared Steve. "No more unwelcome guests--whew!" ventured Bandy-legs, as he started to accomplish the duty mentioned by the trapper. They made quite a large party as they sallied forth--five boys, the trapper, and the two dogs. Each of the boys had a gun of some sort, for they had provided themselves with weapons against this trip to the North Woods and two weeks or so with Trapper Jim. "I pity the poor bear," said Max, as he looked around at the assortment of weapons and the eager faces back of them. "He'll sure die of fright when he sees this bunch all in their war paint," Steve observed. "'Specially when he gets sight of Bandy-legs there with that silly old pump gun he bought and is afraid to use." "Who's afraid?" sang out the injured party. "I ain't used it just because there ain't been no chance yet, see? If I'd been along with Max when that buck showed up, guess I'd 'a' give him as good as you did." "Listen, would you, fellers!" exclaimed Steve, and then he laughed. "Say, wouldn't it have been a circus if that deer got to chasing Bandy-legs around a tree! Run? Well, he'd have to stir those stumps of his faster than he ever did before in all his life, or he'd be hangin' on the ends of them horns. I guess you're lucky not to have been there, my boy!" "We're getting near the place where we set that trap, I reckon," remarked Bandy-legs, partly to change the course of the conversation, for it sometimes made him feel uncomfortable when Steve got to joking upon the subject of his short lower limbs. "Correct, son," replied the trapper. "I'm glad to see you noticed the lay of things when we was here yesterday." "It's right over yonder," continued Bandy-legs, anxious now to let Steve see that he was not as stupid as the other made out. "What makes you so sure of that, Bandy-legs?" asked Max. "Why, you see, I remember that tree with the big bunch of scarlet leaves. I was lookin' at that while Uncle Jim set the trap. Ain't another clump like that anywhere around, I reckon," was the smart reply Bandy-legs made. The old trapper nodded his head. "He's right," he said. "I took them same five leaves for my mark, too. The trap was set just beyond. But, of course, that ain't sayin' we'll find it there now." "Not find the trap, do you say, Uncle Jim?" exclaimed Bandy-legs; "why, whatever could happen to it?" "If so be the bear came along and put his foot in, so them powerful jaws they closed like a vise, I reckon he'd walk off with it," the trapper replied. "That's so, you didn't fasten the chain to a stake or a tree," said Owen. "But I remember that you had a big clump of wood fixed to the end of the chain; what was that for?" Bandy-legs asked. "I k-k-know; that's the c-c-clog," Toby interrupted them to remark. "Just what it was," Trapper Jim admitted. "A clog, was it?" Bandy-legs continued; "but what's the use of it?" "I'll explain," the other remarked; "when we set a bear trap we generally fasten the chain to a heavy piece of wood. When Bruin shuffles off he drags this after him. And in the course of time it weakens the old chap, for he's losing blood all the time." "That's kind of cruel; but go on, Uncle Jim," Owen remarked. "I guess you're about right, son," said the other, "and there's lots that's cruel about this trappin' business. But the women must have their furs, and ever since Adam's time I reckon the animals has had to supply covering for human beings. Eve thought it all over many a time, and I try to be as humane in my work as anybody could." "But there's another use for the clog, isn't there?" asked Max. "To be sure there is," Trapper Jim replied. "You see, it drags on the ground and leaves such a plain trail that any tenderfoot could foller it." "Then you really have no use for the dogs," spoke up Owen. "I supposed they were going to lead us along the trail." "Oh, they'll do that, all right," laughed the trapper; "but to tell the truth I fetched 'em along for exercise and to keep them from getting uneasy more'n anything else." He stopped and appeared to be listening. "Can you tell if he's there?" asked the wondering Bandy-legs. "I can tell that he ain't there," replied the trapper. "It's all as still as anything. That means either our bear didn't come along his trail after we set the trap, or else he's come and carried it away with him." "She's gone!" ejaculated Bandy-legs, as he craned his neck the better to see the spot where, as he remembered, the big trap had been set, artfully concealed, squarely in the track Bruin used in going to and fro from the marsh to his chosen den, where he expected to hibernate during the coming winter. "You're correct, son," Trapper Jim declared. "The bear has been here and walked off with my prize trap. Here's where the clog tore up the ground, you see. I reckon now any one of you boys could follow them marks." "With my lamps blindfolded," Steve ventured. "Then come on with me. We ought to have bear steak for supper to-night," and holding on to the eager and straining Ajax, while Owen looked after Don, the trapper led the pursuit. Everywhere could be seen the plain marks where the weighty clog had plowed into the ground when the trapped bear pulled it along after him. As the trapper had said, the merest tyro could easily have followed such a broad, blood-marked trail. Sooner or later they must expect to come upon the bear unless he had been able, through good luck, to reach his den ere now. The excitement on the part of the two dogs grew more intense. "We must be crawling upon him, I should think," Max remarked. "Just what we're doing," the trapper replied, "and, unless I miss my guess, we'll find him caught fast in this thicket just ahead. Slow up, boys. There's no need of hurrying any more, for I think he's waiting up for us right here." With their hearts beating like trip hammers the boys now approached the thicket into which the plain trail of the heavy clog seemed to plunge. CHAPTER XI "STEADY, STEVE, STEADY!" "Listen!" said Trapper Jim. All of them became silent. Even the dogs, as if recognizing some vein of authority in that one word spoken by their master, ceased barking, though still straining hard in the leash, as though fairly wild to break away. There was a crackling of the bushes, and this grew louder. "Oh, I see him!" cried Bandy-legs. "Get ready to shoot, everybody, if I give this word; but don't pull trigger unless you hear me yell you to," called out the trapper. Then there was a savage roar that seemed to make the very air quiver. Out of the thicket scrambled a big black bear, looking furious indeed. Thinking they were about to be attacked, and in a panic at the very idea, some of the boys leveled their guns. They might have pulled trigger, too, in their excitement, only for the quick warning the old wood's ranger gave. "Hold your fire, everybody. It's all off. No danger as long as that clog remains fast!" was what he shouted. Max could readily grasp the situation. He saw that the angry beast could only come just so far, because something was holding one of his hind legs. "The clog's got fast among the rocks in there, and he's held as tight as can be; that's what's the matter," Steve sang out. Of course the only thing left to do now was for some one to put a bullet where it would be apt to do the most good. Who would be appointed to carry out this part of the programme? Steve hoped Trapper Jim would look favorably upon him when seeking a candidate. He had never shot a bear in all his life, and while there would be little glory attached to the passing of one that was held fast in a trap, still it would be something to think of later on. But Trapper Jim was a wise man. He supposed that every one of the boys was fairly quivering with eagerness to be the one selected. As he looked around at the five anxious faces the trapper scratched his head, as though unable to decide. "It can't be did that way," he muttered. "They must draw lots for it, and the shortest straw wins out. Hear that, boys?" "Yes, and it's all to the mustard," said Steve, keeping on the alert, and ready to pour in the contents of both barrels should the trapped bear give any evidence of freeing the clog. "Then here goes." With that the trapper fastened Ajax to a tree, and then, bending down, picked up a number of twigs. These he seemed to pinch off so that they were all of a size but one, which was shorter. "Remember, boys," he said, as he mixed these in his hand, so that one could not be told from the others, "it ain't the longest pole that knocks the persimmons this time. The feller who gets the short straw has the chance. Take a pick, Steve." Steve, of course, could not hold back. And while the dogs were jumping to the length of their leashes and barking madly, with the bear roaring an accompaniment as he tugged desperately at his chain, he drew a splinter of wood. "Missed! Gee, what tough luck!" Steve exclaimed, in a chagrined voice, as he stared at his prize. "Try your luck, next!" said Trapper Jim. Max made a choice. He met with the same result that had given Steve such an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Then Owen stepped up eagerly. "I've got it picked out," he remarked, "and it's all over but the shouting." Then he chose, and was jeered by Steve. "That leaves it a toss-up between Toby Jucklin and Bandy-legs!" he exclaimed, envy plainly marked in his voice. The two who had yet to draw looked a little frightened. Truth to tell, neither of them experienced anything in the shape of an overwhelming desire to "slay the jabberwock," as Owen put it. "Draw, Toby, and be quick about it," Steve flung out; "don't you see the old chap's getting all out of patience. Pull out a straw, now, and be done with it. Whatever you draw settles it." So Toby, with trembling fingers, did as he was told. And immediately he glanced down at the one he had taken, he grinned. For it was one of the longer straws, similar to those taken by the others. Bandy-legs grew pale. "Do I have to draw?" he asked, almost piteously. "Sure you do!" cried Steve. "There's only one left, and you draw that. It's the fatal short one, too. You ring up the prize, Bandy-legs!" "But--I didn't have any choice!" remonstrated the one selected by fate to be the executioner of the trapped bear. "Huh, I like that!" laughed Steve. "Why, you had a chance every time one of us stepped up and made a pick. Go on, now, and get ready to do for him, unless you've got cold feet and want to hand it over to somebody else." But somehow Steve's jeering remarks had stirred Bandy-legs' pride. He looked hard at the other. Then he shut his jaws tight together. "Thanks! I guess I'll do the job myself!" he remarked. "With that pop gun of yours?" asked the incredulous Steve. "No, I'm going to ask Max to lend me his rifle," replied Bandy-legs. "Much you know about a repeating rifle!" continued his tormentor. "Well, I did fire it a few times at a target, didn't I, Max?" protested the chosen one. "You sure did, and really hit the target once," Max hastened to answer, as he exchanged guns with Bandy-legs. "Huh, that ain't sayin' much, when like as not the target was a _barn_!" Ignoring this last thrust from Steve as something beneath his notice, Bandy-legs saw to it that the hammer of the repeating rifle was drawn back. "Where'll I stand, Uncle Jim?" he demanded, trying to appear quite cool; but the experienced old trapper knew very well how he was secretly quivering all over. "Here, drop down behind this rock and rest your rifle on it," he said. "Now, wait till I say the word, and then press the trigger. Aim just back of the foreleg, because you're more apt to reach his heart there." "What if I don't kill him?" asked Bandy-legs, with a big sigh. "Clap another shell in and give it to him. Reckon you know how to work the trombone action, don't you?" the trapper went on to say. "Sure I do," answered the Nimrod, lowering his cheek to the stock of the gun. "Remember, now, and don't shut your eyes, Bandy-legs!" advised Steve. "Let up on that, Steve," remarked Max, who was greatly interested in seeing the novice get a square deal. Half a minute of waiting followed. The dogs continued to jump and bark, and the bear, made savage by his pain, tugged at his chain and growled. "Shoot!" said Trapper Jim, suddenly. Almost with the word came the clear report of the rifle, showing that at least Steve's jibes had had the effect of putting Bandy-legs on his mettle. With a fearful roar the bear fell over and began struggling. The dogs seemed almost frantic now in their desire to break loose. "Quick, work the pump action and get ready!" called out Trapper Jim. Bandy-legs managed to do as he was told, though he was shaking so by this time that he almost let the gun drop. "Hold on, no use wasting another shot. I reckon he's done for," was what he heard Trapper Jim say. "And you've been and gone and killed a real live bear, Bandy-legs!" said Max. The boy heaved a sigh as he gave back the rifle. "But he was held fast in a trap, Max," he said, moodily; "guess that ain't so much to crow over." "But ain't he a whopper!" exclaimed Steve, who was at the bear's side almost as soon as the animal had ceased to struggle. "If we only had a c-c-camera here now we'd take him with his f-f-foot planted on the old b-b-bear and holdin' his g-g-gun!" exclaimed Toby. Here was plenty of work for all hands. The bear must first of all be skinned, because Jim said he had a splendid hide that would be worth a good deal to him when properly dried. Then they wanted some of the meat, in fact all that was worth while, for Jim would dry that which they did not consume. "Plenty of fat, too," he observed, as he worked. "I like that, because I'm short just now on bear's grease, and a supply would come in handy." "What do you use it for, Uncle Jim?" asked Owen. "Dozens of things. I rub it on boots, I keep my guns and ax from rustin' by smearin' it on. Why, long ago in the woods I've known where families made candles out of bear's fat by using a wick in the middle." By degrees he managed to cut the bear up. The meat was wrapped in packages, so that it might all be transported to the cabin. "What about the trap; will you set it again?" asked Steve. "Not here," was the reply. "No other bear is likely to come along the trail this fellow made. One of you boys had best tote it back home. I may need it again this winter if the season stays open and the bears come out to look around, like they do mild winters." It was well on toward noon when they arrived once more at the cabin, each one being pretty well loaded down. They concluded to have a bite to eat before attempting anything further. But the cooking of the bear meat would have to be deferred until later in the day, as it would take too much time. Feeling refreshed after their meal, the boys announced themselves ready to undertake any further business. Max, Steve, and Toby were to take that four-mile tramp after the venison that had been left behind on their former trip. "Seems like we're getting our share of happenings up here," remarked Steve, as he and his two chums tramped steadily on. "Well, yes, it does look that way, Steve." "Things come along right smart these days and nights," continued the other. "And already it's paid us for the long trip, 'cording to my calculations." "It certainly has," admitted Max. "With more'n a week more to come," added Steve. "And there's only one thing I feel bad about, too." "I think I could give a guess what that is," said Max; "the bobcat." "Hit it plumb center that time," laughed the other, as he shifted his gun to the other shoulder, for on the four-mile tramp it was beginning to feel rather heavy. "Well, I wouldn't bother my head any over that fellow getting away scot-free," Max continued. "He didn't do any damage, and, as Uncle Jim says, you might have been sorry if you went out in the dark woods looking for trouble. When anybody does that he generally finds it, all right." "But I hope I just happen on the old pirate again while we're up in this neck of the woods," observed the persistent Steve. "I'd just like to look along the barrels of my gun at the varmint, as Jim calls him." "Yes, Steve, and he said he had an idea this was the same old cat that gave him a peck of trouble last winter, stealing some of the animals that were in his traps, but always avoiding getting caught himself." "Why, Uncle Jim even tried to poison the thief, but nary a bite would the cat take of the doctored meat," Steve went on. "I hope this is the same tough old customer and that I sight him when I've got my gun along, that's all." "We've got there, Steve. I can see the very tree where we hung up the balance of the little buck we knocked over." Steve could not but note how Max persistently gave him an equal share in the credit of killing the deer. It warmed his heart toward such a generous chum. But, then, that was always the way with Max Hastings. "Let's go a little slow, Steve," he continued; "we can't see the deer, because of the leaves that still hang on to the oak." Silently then they advanced. And just as they arrived at a spot where they could see the hanging carcass, again did they hear that ferocious snarl as on the preceding night. Steve instantly threw his gun up to his shoulder, and at the same instant he heard Max at his elbow saying: "Steady, Steve, steady! Look out, he's going to jump." CHAPTER XII. THE END OF A THIEF. The wildcat had evidently found the hanging carcass not a great while before. At the time the three boys approached he had been regaling himself as he clung to the upper part of the dangling buck. Being only half satisfied he seemed angry at being disturbed in his meal. The boys happened to be "down the wind" from him, and this would explain how it was they came upon him apparently unawares. But when a wildcat is in a frightfully bad humor he does not run off very easily, and this one, according to what Uncle Jim had said, was unusually bold. He had proved this by approaching the cabin of the trapper on the preceding night. Crouching there on the swaying carcass of the deer, and with his chops all bloody from his recent meal which they had disturbed, the bobcat presented a truly terrifying appearance. His short ears were laid back close to his head, his yellow eyes glowed as though they were balls of phosphorescence, and the hair on his back seemed to stand up on end. Max had his gun in readiness, too. He was not going to take any more chances than were necessary. Steve seemed to be all ready to fire, and he knew the other to be a pretty good shot. But, then, who could wholly depend upon such an excitable fellow? Then the cat sprang! Max heard Toby utter a shout of warning that was swallowed up in a tremendous roar close to his ears. Max sprang aside, and he thought he saw Steve doing the same sort of stunt. Toby was already safe behind the friendly trunk of a tree. To the relief of Max the leaping cat seemed to crumple up in the air. It turned completely over, as though by the impact of something that had struck it. And when it reached the ground it lay even beyond the hanging venison. "Wow!" came from Steve. He was scrambling to his feet, having dropped his gun. There was a look of mingled satisfaction, surprise, and pain upon his face. "What's the matter?" asked Max, noticing how the other was rubbing his right shoulder where the butt of his shotgun had rested. "Hurts like fun!" replied Steve, making a wry face. "You mean it kicked, don't you, Steve?" "Kick? Well, I'll be sore for a month of Sundays," replied the other, grunting as he touched a tender part. "Did you see me go over?" "Sure I did, but I thought you were dodging the leap of the cat, the same as I did myself," returned Max. "Dodging nothing!" said Steve. "I tell you that pesky gun clean kicked me off my pins. Never had it play me such a trick before." Max stooped and picked up the shotgun. Then he laughed. "It's all as simple as pie," he said. "Do you mean I was that excited I pulled both triggers at once?" cried Steve. "Well, both hammers are down, and," breaking the gun as he spoke, "you can see for yourself the shells are empty." "Glory! No wonder I blew that old cat away, then!" cried Steve. "With all those two dozen buckshot chasing through him the poor critter must have been nearly torn to pieces. And there my fine door mat goes a-glimmering!" Investigation proved that Steve's fears were realized. The terrific discharge at such close quarters had so riddled the skin of the wildcat that it was not worth attempting to save. "What a shame!" said Steve, as he got up again after examining the dead beast. "He was a jim-dandy, too. If I'd only had a crack at him thirty yards away instead of ten feet, I'd have saved that lovely pelt." "But it was a corking good shot, I tell you, Steve," declared Max, warmly. "That's j-j-just what it was," added Toby, who had parted company with the friendly tree, now that the danger seemed a thing of the past. "To hit a tiger cat sitting on a limb is considered a good enough showing," continued Max; "but to knock holes through him while he is in the air jumping deserves high credit. Think of that every time your shoulder hurts." "Anyhow," remarked Steve, cheerfully, "I can bat right or left handed, and I can shoot a gun the same old way; so this little accident won't knock me out of the running. But I'd be happier if I hadn't just ruined that skin." "Well, better lug him home, anyway, if you feel able to," advised Max. "Uncle Jim will be glad if he recognizes the crafty old thief of last winter in this cat you knocked down." "Guess I will," Steve remarked, "though he'll be a load to tote. We'll wait and see how you come on with the venison." "Oh, don't bother about that," said Max. "Toby and myself will look out for all we want to take with us." "But those antlers--I promised to decorate my room with those, Max!" "That's all right," declared Max. "Come for them before we leave here. You know the place, and by that time the foxes will have cleaned them nicely for you." And so things were arranged. An hour later and the three lads headed for camp again. Each one toted his share of the burden. But long before the cabin was reached Steve began to feel sorry that he had determined to display the wildcat to the others in order to prove his story, and also let Trapper Jim see whether the victim of his double shot was the same despised and hated bobcat that had given him so very much trouble in the preceding year. Nevertheless Steve was a most determined boy. And having started in to accomplish anything he could hardly be influenced to give it up just because his back ached and his lame shoulder protested. Max insisted on changing loads with him when they were halfway home. "I can carry it better than you with your sore shoulder, Steve," he said, when the other started to protest; "besides, I've made this bundle of venison so it can be tied on your back. You'll find it a relief. Don't say another word, for you've just _got_ to do it. All very good to show how plucky and game you are, old fellow, but if you should get knocked out by too much exertion, why, don't you see, it'll break up the whole shooting match for the rest of us?" Max put it that way for a purpose. He knew Steve's generous nature, and that the other could be prevailed upon to do a thing for the sake of his chums, when he would not budge so far as any personal benefit was concerned. "Oh, well, if that's so, perhaps I'd better throw the old thing away," Steve declared. "No," said Max, "that would be foolish, after you've carried it two miles now. Besides, I feel sure Uncle Jim'd like to see the cat. If he knows his old tricky enemy has really and truly kicked the bucket, he'll rest easier this year. One thief like this can give a trapper heaps of trouble. He learns to look for his dinners in the traps." "All right, then, Max; but it's awful good of you to change over," declared Steve. "Why, this load ain't a circumstance beside mine. I'm sorry for you, though, and if--" "Let up on that sort of talk, please, Steve. If I find it too much I'll own up. Then Toby here can take his turn." "S-s-sure thing," assented the party mentioned, smiling good-naturedly. But, after all, Max carried the trophy of Steve's shots close to the camp. Then, thinking the other might like to be seen coming in with his own game, he made him change again, though Steve winced as he worked his lame shoulder. The others had returned, and were all busily engaged with the trophies of the traps. Trapper Jim, upon finding that Owen and Bandy-legs manifested a certain amount of interest in all he did, took great pleasure in showing them just how the skins must be removed from the animals and fastened securely to the stretching boards, so they would not shrivel up when drying. He managed to impart considerable interesting information while working, and Owen, determined not to get all these facts twisted, was seen to be scribbling something down every little while. When they saw what constituted Steve's load, and heard from Max and Toby the true story of how the savage animal was shot while making a leap toward the young Nimrod, admiring looks were cast on Steve. "Gewhittaker, but ain't he a savage-looking old monster, though!" declared Bandy-legs, examining the dead cat; "a whole lot bigger'n that one we got in the Great Dismal Swamp, fellows, let me tell you right now. Look at the teeth and the needle-pointed claws, would you! I'm glad I didn't have to face this critter." "And Bandy-legs," Steve could not help saying, "this sweet little cat didn't have its hind leg caught in a trap, either. It was free as air, and if my lucky shot hadn't gone just where it did, I guess I'd be in rags right now." "Well," said the other, in no wise hurt by what Steve said, I never claimed to be a hunter like you, Steve and you know it. I guess shooting a trapped bear is about my limit. But I know _you_ wouldn't run away from the biggest old pig-stealer that ever came down the pike." "Thank you, Bandy-legs," said Steve, "and really and truly I don't believe I would, not if I had my trusty gun along." The afternoon was wearing away, and all of them believed that they had been through quite enough excitement for one day. Besides, they had covered a good many miles since morning and felt rather like resting. Trapper Jim was getting some of the bear meat in readiness for cooking. He knew it would be anything but tender, but long experience had taught him how to pound it with a little contrivance he had, thus opening the tissues and allowing the juices to escape. In this way a tough beefsteak can be made more palatable if one cares to go to the trouble. Sometimes he parboiled meat and then fried it. As the sun went down Max stood outside the cabin, looking around at the picture. The air was fresh and invigorating and he drew in a big breath, as, turning to Owen who had just come out to join him, he remarked: "Talk to me about the good times we've had before; I tell you nothing ever happened to this lucky bunch that was halfway equal to this!" CHAPTER XIII. A GLIMPSE OF THE SILVER FOX. There was no audacious bobcat around to worry them that night. Steve had indeed, as Owen said, "laid the jabberwock low," when he discharged both barrels of his shotgun at once. They were all under obligations to Steve. Every time that lame shoulder of his gave him a more severe twinge than usual he could, figuratively speaking, of course, shake hands with himself. It is a great thing to be a public benefactor. There was Bandy-legs, for instance, who, much to his own inconvenience, had shown Trapper Jim and the rest just how easy it would be for some animal to drop down the wide-throated chimney during the absence of the cabin's owner and play havoc within. The panic excited by the squatter skunk had been another lesson. And in consequence Trapper Jim, aided and abetted by Bandy-legs, who was a pretty clever hand at making things, had arranged a contrivance that worked much after the manner of a grating over the top of the chimney. This, while allowing the smoke to escape freely, put up the bars against the admission of any would-be intruder, even a squirrel. It would do temporarily. Trapper Jim said that later on when he borrowed that big buckboard again and transported his lively guests to the town and the distant railroad, he had it in his mind to secure a sheet of that heavy close-woven wire netting, such as was used in stable windows and for many other purposes. It allowed a free circulation of air, and yet prevented the entrance of sneak thieves. So on this night Bandy-legs could go to sleep in peace on the floor, he having given up the bunk to the next one on the list. If he woke up in the night and raised his head to find the fire burning low, he need not imagine every grotesque shadow in the dimly lighted cabin to be a fierce animal that had crept in while they slept. When day came again they laid out their programme as usual. Of course, Uncle Jim, having started his season's work, could not neglect his traps. Every day when the weather allowed he must trudge the rounds and see what Fortune had sent him. Besides, a humane trapper wishes to end as quickly as possible the torture of any creature that has been caught by the leg in one of his steel contraptions. "It's a cruel enough business at the best," Jim Ruggles told the boys as he sat and spoke of his past experiences, "and often I've been sorry I ever took it up. But there must be trappers as long as women will demand rich furs in the winter season. My only satisfaction is that I've been kinder toward the little animals of the woods than most brutal trappers would be." "But, however did you come to take up such a queer profession in the beginning, Uncle Jim?" asked Owen that morning, as they got to talking about the many years the old man had spent in this way. Owen had discovered, before now that that Jim Ruggles was really a man of education, having been a college graduate. He smiled at the question, did the old trapper. "Oh, there were a lot of things combined to send me to the woods," he said, musingly. "First of all was my intense love for all the Big Outdoors. Seemed like I could never get enough of it. The more I saw of the forest, the more I felt drawn to it. I guess I had the woods hunger from boyhood. Max, here, knows what it is." "I think I do," remarked the one mentioned. "I feel the craving come over me at times and have hard work to resist." "Well, take my advice, son, and fight it off," remarked Trapper Jim. "Anyhow keep it in subjection. The world needs you. There's plenty of work for such as you in the busy marts of men. Don't allow yourself to ever dream of spending your whole life lost in the wilderness like I've done. What can I look back to but a life that's been wasted, so far as being useful to my fellowmen is concerned? A little run to the woods now and then to renew your vigor and draw in new strength--let that be all." "But you said there were other reasons why you came here, Uncle Jim," persisted Owen. At that the old man actually laughed. "I suppose while I am at it," he said, "I might as well make a clean sweep and confess all. Well, I was a foolish young man at the time, you see, and took it to heart because a certain young lady I thought heaps of wouldn't accept me. But, then, my health was nothing to boast of in those days, and doctors had said it would be a good thing if I could spend a year up here." "And you did?" continued Owen. "Been here ever since," replied the trapper. "And you don't look weakly now, Uncle Jim." "I should say not," laughed the other, as he stretched his muscular arms above his head. "The open air, free from all disease germs, such as abound in cities; the long tramps; the freedom from worries; and, above all, the plain food and regular hours built me up wonderfully. Perhaps, after all, I did the right thing, because I'd have been dead long ago if I remained among the city dwellers." "And, how about the heartless girl--did you ever see her again, Uncle Jim?" asked Owen, with a boy's freedom of speech. Again the trapper laughed and then sighed. "I never saw her again, son," he replied. "Years later I heard she married but I couldn't tell you whether his name was Smith or Brown. Then came the news that Susie had died, leaving one child. Sometimes I'm seized with a sort of yearning to look that boy up, and perhaps do something for him, just because I cared for his mother. But I never have, because before I get started it begins to look foolish to me." The old man had a tear in his eye. And both Owen and Max felt drawn to him more than ever. "Thank you ever so much, Uncle Jim, for telling us all this," Owen said, in a soft tone that caused the trapper to look fondly at him as he went on: "Well, I've spoken to you boys about things that Have been lying deep down in my old heart buried for many a year. But just forget it. And let's see what Luck has got in store for us to-day. I'm going to get out a couple of my special fox traps." Something about the way he said this as well as the eager flash that shot athwart his rugged face caused Max to cry out: "Fox traps! You've got some reason for saying that, Uncle Jim." "Maybe I have, son," remarked the trapper, smiling more broadly at this evidence of astuteness on the part of the boy. "Is it the silver fox?" demanded Max. "Well, I thought I had just a glimpse of the little darling yesterday when out with the boys," observed Trapper Jim. "But you didn't mention it before now--I didn't hear any of them say a word about it," Max went on. "That's right. I thought I'd keep it quiet. But what's the use when such sharp eyes keep tabs on every move I make. Besides, you two might like to watch how I set a trap to catch a fox. Because they're about as smart as any animal that walks on four legs." Soon afterward the boys started out with the trapper. Steve, feeling his lame shoulder, concluded to rest up for a day, while Bandy-legs confessed that he much preferred doing a number of things about the cabin, perhaps catching a few pickerel in the little pond not far away, as Trapper Jim kept a supply of live minnows on hand to be used as bait when fishing with "tip-ups" through the ice later on. So Max, Owen, and Toby saw how the two traps were set for the black fox, whose pelt is the one known as silver fox, and by long odds the most prized of all furs, sometimes one fine skin fetching thousands of dollars. They found another mink caught, besides a number of muskrats. And in the last trap was a beautiful silky otter. Trapper Jim seemed highly pleased when he looked at his various prizes for the day. "Seems like you boys must have brought me good luck," he declared. "I hope we have," laughed Owen. "I never hit such a nice mess before so early in the season," continued the trapper, "and it wouldn't surprise me a great deal now if I caught that splendid silver first shot out of the box." "S-s-say, wouldn't that j-j-just be g-g-great," said Toby. "Well, the traps are set and it's been pretty nigh a morning's work, because there's so much to do about trapping a smart fox. But, boys, let's hope that to-morrow or some other day it'll all be paid back, and I'll be able to show you what a beautiful skin the black fox sports." "But you've taken them before, you said, Uncle Jim," Owen observed. "Sure, two or three times, and pretty good ones at that," replied the trapper, with a chuckle. "But you know, it's always the same old story in this business." "What's that?" asked Max. "The skins you've captured in the past never compare with those you see on the backs of live animals. The best is always to come, eh, Max?" "J-j-just like it is in f-f-fishing," declared Toby. "The big one in the w-w-water b-b-beats the one you've l-l-landed. I used to think the w-w-water just m-m-magnified 'em." "No, it's the hope we have. Possession dulls the interest. You boys know that the apples next door always taste better than those you have in your own orchard." The three whom Trapper Jim addressed just looked at each other and laughed. Nobody answered him. There was really no need of words. Jim knew boys from the ground up, and loved them, too. He had once been a boy himself. On the way back home he told them many interesting things connected with the shrewdness of mink and otter, and how smart the trapper had to be to outwit them. "That's one of the pleasures of the business," he went on to say; "this continual matching of a man's wits against the instinct and cunning of these same clever little varmints. Why, a single old mink has kept me guessing pretty much all winter and changing my methods a dozen times." "But I reckon you got him in the end, Uncle Jim," said Max. "What makes you believe that, son?" "Oh, because you never give up once you've set your mind on a thing," replied the boy, admiringly. "Well, I don't knuckle down _very_ often, that's a fact," chuckled the trapper; "though there have been occasions. That girl episode was one, you remember, Max." "But you got the sly old mink, didn't you?" persisted Owen. "Yes, I got him when I had just about exhausted every scheme I could think up," answered the trapper; "and let me tell you, boys, that day when I carried him to the cabin I felt as big as the President of the United States." Another night of comfort followed. Trapper Jim said it began to feel real lonely, now that the bold bobcat no longer came prowling around trying to steal things. But the boys enjoyed having a good rest undisturbed by any sudden clamor. This time only Max and Steve accompanied the trapper. Owen found that he had wrenched his ankle, and had better take a day off, and Toby had arranged to try the pickerel with Bandy-legs, who had caught a few on the previous day. Steve had heard about the traps set for the "silver," and he wanted to be along if there was anything doing. When they arrived near the first trap it was untouched. But the second they found sprung and empty. "Oh, he was caught and broke away. It's too bad!" cried Steve, pointing to traces of blood and some shining black hairs on the jaws of the Victor trap. But Trapper Jim was saying angry words to himself. "Caught the finest silver I ever set eyes on only to have him snatched by a sneak of a pelt thief!" and he pointed as he spoke to the imprint of a shoe in the soil. CHAPTER XIV. THE PURSUIT. "Stolen!" burst out impulsive Steve, his face pale with rage. Both boys felt keenly for their friend, Trapper Jim. He had looked forward so long to capturing his rare prize; he had taken such great pains to set his traps with that object in view; and now, after success had come, and the black beauty was caught, it must be terribly aggravating to discover that some one had happened on the spot, robbed the trap, and was far away with the precious pelt. Trapper Jim did not often give way to his feelings. He quickly got a fresh grip on his emotions and could talk calmly again. But there was a gleam in those piercing eyes of his, undimmed by age, that made Owen glad he did not stand in the shoes of the pelt thief. "When do you think he was here, Uncle Jim?" Max asked, as he examined the plain track of the thief's shoe. "This morning, and not more than an hour ago," came the answer. "He was heading as straight as could be for our cabin, like he meant to drop in on me; but after this he turned back. The temptation was too much. Few men could let a chance pass by to pick up a silver fox when a common red wouldn't bother 'em the least bit." "But, say, I hope you don't mean to let him get away with the skin altogether, Uncle Jim," flashed Steve, with an angry look still on his face. "Well, that wouldn't be like me," returned the trapper, quietly; and Max realized that his was the determined, bulldog nature that never lets go, while with Steve it was a flash-in-the-pan, hasty action, without a careful laying out of plans. "Then we'll pick up the trail and follow it?" asked the eager boy. "As soon as we can have Ajax here, son." "But why wait for the dog?" complained Steve. "It'll take all of an hour to get back here again." "That and more," replied Trapper Jim. "And that time will be wasted," Steve went on. "Listen," remarked the trapper. "Long ago I learned that things like this are done best when you go about them soberly. Once I start on this trail of the pelt thief, and I mean to keep on it if it takes me a hundred miles! What does an hour count for in that case, Steve?" "Mighty little, I guess," admitted the boy. "There are other reasons for getting the dog," continued the trapper. "This rascal will expect pursuit. And so every little while he'll do things to cover up his trail. P'r'aps he'll wade along a stream, and come out by way of rocks that would leave no mark. Then, again, he'd run along a log and jump from stone to stone. All these things would delay me. What took ten minutes of _his_ time would consume an hour of mine. It's much easier to set a problem than to solve one." "Sure thing. I understand now why you want the dog," Steve confessed. "Ajax has a good scent. His nose is very keen. Here's a rag the thief must have dropped. Once I let the dog smell of this, and he'll follow that trail hour after hour, so long as it don't get too cold." "Shall I go and get Ajax! I would run all the way," Steve suggested. "Well, with that lame shoulder of yours, son, you'd have a hard time of it holding a running dog in leash. So we'll have to get Max here to attend to that part of the business. Think you could return without any trouble, my boy?" "Well," replied the other, with a laugh, "all I'll have to do will be to let Ajax have his head. He'll keep to our trail, all right." "Just what I expected you to say," remarked the trapper. "And now be off with you. We'll be nosing around here. Leave your gun with me, as you'll need both hands to manage the dog." "And what message will I carry to the other boys?" asked Max. "Explain things in a few words, and tell Owen to take charge until we show up again. It may be to-night, and again it might not come about until to-morrow. But they've got a-plenty to eat, and that satisfies boys." And so Max hastened off. Although not as impetuous by nature as Steve, he knew that every minute gained now would shorten the lead which the audacious pelt thief had upon them. And so Max sprinted more or less whenever he had the chance. It was not over an hour when he once more made his appearance, with the excited Ajax towing him. And evidently Max had had no easy job of it, trying to hold the eager hound in, for he looked relieved and rubbed his muscles after Trapper Jim took the leash. The boys were deeply interested in all that followed. They saw the trapper hold the soiled rag upon which the thief had perhaps wiped his hands for the hound to sniff at for a minute or two. Then Trapper Jim led Ajax to the footprints and made him catch the same particular odor, When the intelligent hound gave a bay and led the way along the trail of the thief, his nose close to the ground and his tail in perpetual motion, Trapper Jim looked pleased. "He's got the scent, all right, lads," he observed, "and after this he'll never forget it. There are few hunting dogs that can be taught to follow a human being as well as they do animals; but Ajax is an exception." "Now we're off!" exclaimed the restless Steve, exultantly. "Yes, and the rascal will have to hump himself if he hopes to escape us. I haven't given up all hopes of reclaiming that silver fox pelt yet," and the trapper really seemed in a better humor than he had enjoyed since the first discovery of his great loss. For quite some time they hurried on. Ajax was straining at his leash most of the while, and seemed capable of picking up the scent even when there was not the faintest trace of marks that Max could discover. "It was a mighty good thing we thought of the dog," Steve admitted, and then, seeing the trapper looking humorously at him, he gave a short laugh, as lie hastily added: "I mean it was a wise head that concluded to send for Ajax, and not start off half-shot, like some foolish fellows would have done." "Yes," added Max, "in several places I've lost the trail. And three times now the fellow's run along a fallen tree, jumping off where he saw hard ground or stones. That would have given us trouble and delayed us, but Ajax followed the scent without looking for a trail. "Here's a creek," interrupted the trapper, "and chances are the thief will use it to try and hoodwink us." They waded through, regardless of the icy cold, for the water was not up to their knees. "Don't see any tracks on this side, Uncle Jim," sang out Steve. "No, and I guessed we wouldn't," replied the other. "But he crossed over, didn't he!" demanded the boy. "Chances are he did," answered Trapper Jim, "but before stepping out he went either up or down the creek a ways. First of all we'll try up. If that fails us after we've gone some distance, we'll come back here and try the other way." But it chanced that his first guess was the right one. They had gone along the bank of the creek less than eighty feet when Ajax uttered a sound and gave evidence of renewed excitement. "The rascal found the water too cold and came out at the first chance," remarked Trapper Jim. "You see, there's a shelf of rock here. No sign left for our eyes, because the warm sun has dried up any wet marks he made. But Ajax has caught the same scent as there was on that rag." "And we're off again. Hurrah!" cried Steve, delighted to know that the clever tactics of the pelt thief could not prevail against that keen sense of smell possessed by the hound. After that the fugitive did not seem to think it worth while to make any more efforts to conceal his trail. "That cold water was too much for him," suggested Steve. "Or else he expects he's done enough, and that no one, not even Trapper Jim, could follow him," Max had said; "but I rather think he knew a dog would be put on his track. That water business is always the trick used to throw a hound off the scent." "Quite right, son," remarked the trapper; "but I allow this fellow has got me guessing good and hard, and that's a fact." "You mean because he's quit trying to hide his trail?" asked Steve. "Well, partly that, but there's another thing," Trapper Jim went on to say. "I think I'm on to it," observed Max. "Well, I saw you look some surprised at the time, son," declared the trapper. "But Steve, here, saw nothing. Did you notice, Steve, which way we headed at the time we first picked up the trail at the sprung trap?" "Why, yes, it was almost due south, wasn't it?" asked Steve. "Right, son, and look at the sun now," the trapper remarked. "Gee, that's queer!" muttered the surprised Steve. "What is?" asked Max, smiling. "The sun--why, it's swung around on the right. Say, don't tell me time's passed like that, and it's afternoon now. Why, we haven't felt hungry enough to tackle that bully lunch Max fetched along when he came back with the dog." Both of the others laughed at this. "That's one on you, Steve," said Max. "See, my watch says just ten-thirty. The sun didn't swing around at all, but the trail did." "It's heading north now, is it?" demanded Steve. "Straight as can be," replied Trapper Jim. "But the cabin lies that way!" objected the puzzled boy. "Just what it does," admitted Jim. "When the thief sat down to rest back there he must have been thinking it over. And he made up his mind to do something on the spot, for when he started again he cut out a new course direct." "Whew, the nerve of him!" exclaimed Steve. "What makes you say that, Steve?" "Why, don't you see, he's got the fever bad. Thinks p'r'aps Uncle Jim here might have another silver fox pelt laid away, and while he's about it he reckons he'd better double up." But Trapper Jim shook his head. He knew no pelt thief would ever display such boldness as Steve suggested. There must be another reason for the sudden change of plans on the part of the fugitive. "Have we gained on him?" asked Max, presently. "Considerable," replied the trapper. "How d'ye know that?" demanded Steve, "There are plenty of signs to tell me," came the answer. "Anyone used to following a trail would have seen them. And I reckon, now, Max hasn't been blind all this while." "No," replied the one spoken of. "I saw water still oozing into a deep track when we passed that boggy ground, and right then and there I concluded we must be less than half an hour behind the thief." "Good!" ejaculated the trapper; "anything else. Max?" "Why, yes," returned the boy, calmly. "There was a little twig that righted itself even as I looked at it. His foot had bent it down. Now, I shouldn't think it could have stayed that way more'n half an hour at best." "I saw it, too," added the trapper; "and it pleases me more than I can say to find that you keep your eyes about you, son. It ought to be a lesson to Steve here. Queer, how one person can see so much and another nothing." "Well," ventured Steve, "I have noticed one thing, anyhow." "Glad to hear it, son. Tell us what it is, now." "The dog," remarked Steve. "Yes, what of Ajax?" questioned Jim. "He acts different now." "And from that you conclude what?" queried the trapper. "Why, we're closing in on our game," Steve went on. "I've hunted enough to know how dogs show that." "Fine! We'll give you credit for that point, Steve, because it's a fact," laughed the trapper, in a half-hushed way. "Aw! I ain't quite such a silly as I look," remarked Steve. "I should think not," said Max, and Steve hardly knew whether to take the observation as a compliment or the reverse. "And, now, lads, we'd better stop talking," said Trapper Jim. "I reckon we're close enough on our man for him to hear us if we're noisy. And, perhaps, if he learned we'd nigh overtaken him, he might start off on the run." So for some time they kept on in abject silence. Not a word was spoken, and save for the panting of the eager hound and the labored breathing of the trackers, all was still. The country had become quite rough, and Max knew they must be passing over the hills he had seen from the cabin, lying to the south. They had had to climb them when on the way from the distant town, and Max even hoped some day to circulate among them with his rifle. But he had hardly expected that when he did, it would be while on the track of a human being. "He slipped here--you can see the marks his shoes made in the shale," said Trapper Jim, pointing to the ground in front, which sloped downward rapidly. "Oh, my land!" ejaculated Steve, "look where the marks lead, right to the brink of that precipice or the bank of a deep ravine. Honest, now, I believe the feller must 'a' gone over there." "Just what he did," added Trapper Jim, solemnly; "and it'd make an ugly fall for a body, too." They crept to the edge and looked down. The bottom of the ravine was many yards below, and there were cruel rocks, partly hidden by dense vegetation, now brown from the touch of Jack Frost's fingers. "Listen, that sounded like a groan!" exclaimed the awe-struck Steve. "I think I can see something among the weeds," remarked Max; and hardly had he spoken than a hand was raised to wave toward them and a voice full of pain called out: "Help! Oh, help!" Led by Trapper Jim the boys made their way down the steep rocky bank of the ravine. The first object they saw was the pelt of the silver fox, for the thief had removed it during his various stops so as to lighten his load. Then they came upon the doubled-up figure of a comparatively young man, at sight of whom Trapper Jim frowned and seemed strangely moved. CHAPTER XV. GLORIOUS NEWS. "So you're the pelt thief, Ed Whitcomb, are you?" said Trapper Jim, gloomily, as he leaned on his rifle and looked down on the young fellow, at whom Ajax was sniffing as though he recognized an old friend. Max caught the name. He recognized it, too. Trapper Jim had told them how he had brought a young fellow up from the railroad town two seasons before for company. His name had been Ed Whitcomb, too. They had seemed to get on for a time splendidly, but finally split on the subject of drinking, for Trapper Jim was very set against using liquor in any shape, and would not allow a drop of it in his cabin. "Yes, I'm the thief, Uncle Jim," said the man, trying to suppress a groan. "The temptation when I happened on that silver was too much. I obeyed a sudden impulse and sole it. Reckon, just as you used to say, too much drink had warped my judgment, because there was a time when I'd sooner have cut my hand off than steal." "But you got sorry for it, I reckon," said the trapper, a little more softly. "Yes, something rose up in me and rebelled," replied Ed. "Perhaps it was the memory of the mother I had as a boy. Yes, it must have been only that. I reckoned she could see what I done and it'd make her feel bad." "You turned back?" Trapper Jim continued. "I turned back, sure I did," the wounded man went on, eagerly. "I was going to find you and tell you what a fool thing I'd done, tempted by the devil, and how sorry I was. Then I slipped and went over the rocks up there. But I deserve all I've got, Uncle Jim. I was a scoundrel; and after all your kindness two years back, too." "But what were you coming up here for?" asked the trapper. "Why, Mosher, the grocery man, said some letters had come in his care for you and these youngsters that were at your place. He told me you'd arranged to have a half-breed bring up any mail that arrived, but that the carrier was down on his back with malarial fever. So I said I didn't mind running up. Was so late starting I had to spend the night in the woods. And then this morning that temptation got me." "But you repented--you meant to do the right thing, Ed. Oh, I'm glad you turned around and faced the other way before this thing happened." "So am I," groaned Ed, "but I'm afraid my leg's broken, and I'm sore inside like I'd fractured some of my ribs. What's going to come of me I don't know. And perhaps I don't care much either, though you'll be glad to know, Uncle Jim, that me and strong drink have parted company forever. Ain't tasted a drop these three months; but it shows what it did for me when I could stoop low enough to _steal_, and from one of the best friends I ever had." "That'll do for you, Ed," said the trapper, dropping on his knees beside the wounded man; "we're all weak and liable to give in to temptation. The fact that you repented is enough for me! We're going to carry you home with us." "Home--to your cabin, after I was so mean as to steal--" "Don't ever mention that to me again," ordered the trapper, sternly; "forget it just as though it had never been. Yes, your leg is broken, Ed, the left one, and quite a bad fracture, too. But I know how to fix you up, and in three weeks you'll be hopping around on a crutch." Ed fairly devoured him with his eyes. "They broke the model after they made you, Jim Ruggles," he muttered, as he put his hand to his side, indicating great pain there. "Now let's see what's wrong about your ribs, lad," said the trapper, as he started to undo the other's coat, and then his heavy blue woolen shirt. "I reckon you have got a rib cracked," he said, after a careful examination; "but nothing serious. Hurt for a while when you take a long breath, but it'll knit together again. And now--" Trapper Jim stopped short in the middle of a sentence. He was staring hard at something he had seen all of a sudden. "Where'd you get this, Ed Whitcomb?" he demanded, in a thick voice. As he spoke he caught hold of a locket which hung about the neck of the other by a little gold chain. It had been burst open possibly by the fall, and as Trapper Jim started to draw the shirt of the wounded man together again he had disturbed this keepsake, which, turning about, disclosed the face of a pretty young woman. "Why, she gave it to me," replied the other, weakly; "I've worn it that way ever since she died; and you're the first, right now, that's ever looked on it, Jim." The trapper's eyes filled up. "What was she to you, Ed Whitcomb?" he asked, gulping hard. "My mother, of course," came the answer. Trapper Jim simply turned the face on the locket so that Max could see it, and then he said in almost a whisper: "Susie Benedict!" Max understood. This, then, was the girl for love of whom Jim Ruggles had partly given up his ambition of ever being anything worth while when he fled to the wilderness. How wonderful things do happen at times Max thought. Why, only a few hours before Jim had been confessing to Owen and himself how sometimes he felt as though he would like to hunt up Susie's boy and do something for him, as he was possessed of ample means. And here a strange freak of fate had brought them together in this remarkable way. Why, they had even spent a winter in company without Trapper Jim ever suspecting the truth. But it was all right now. And Max privately confided to Steve, who demanded to know who Susie Benedict was at the first opportunity, that Old Jim would spend no more winters up there alone with his two dogs. "They'll make a team of it, and be as happy as two clams," he declared; while Steve was very much tickled at the way things had turned out. So, under the directions of the trapper, who was setting the broken leg without delay, the two boys fashioned a rude but effective litter upon which the wounded young man could be comfortably carried. The boys took turns with Trapper Jim in carrying the litter. Nothing seemed to weary the old trapper. He trudged on over hill and through the woods, as though his frame might be made of steel. But every time a halt was made he would come around to see if his rough bandages still held, and the hand that touched Ed Whitcomb was as tender as that of a woman, while his voice was filled with solicitude when he asked how the other felt. And Ed Whitcomb understood it all now. He marveled to think that this man, whom he had known so long, and who had really been the means of causing him to reform before it was too late, had once loved his mother! Darkness came on. They were still some distance from the cabin, and both boys looked tired, though unwilling to confess to the fact. "We're going through with it, that's what!" said Steve, with a snap of his jaws, when the wounded man suggested that they ought to rest. And they did. Trapper Jim showed them how to make some torches that would give a pretty good light. And the one who did not assist with the stretcher went ahead to show the way. And along about nine o'clock the barking of the dogs brought the three boys in the cabin to the door. Great was their surprise when they learned what had happened. Ed Whitcomb was made comfortable in the lower bunk, and the boys at once agreed the trapper was to occupy the other. The floor and those soft furs would furnish them with good enough beds. Of course the three who had been at home were wild to hear all about it. And Max thought it best to get them outdoors where he could relate the whole story, even to the fact of Jim Ruggles having once been head over ears in love with pretty Susie before she turned him down. They thought it was the greatest thing that had ever come under their observation. And all agreed that since Ed Whitcomb had repented after taking the precious pelt, and was on the way back with it, he must be all right. They meant to treat him as a man and a brother because it was evident that Uncle Jim was bound sooner or later to adopt the other as his son and heir. And that pelt _was_ a beauty, too; though none of the boys could realize that, according to what Trapper Jim said, it might be worth all of fifteen hundred dollars. Another day came around. Of course the trapper, having neglected his catch on account of the theft of the silver fox pelt, had to start off unusually early. This time Owen accompanied him, his ankle having improved. Toby, encouraged by the catch of fish which he and Bandy-legs had made on the preceding day, started out again, determined to make a record. The other three remained in and around the cabin, bringing up firewood, looking after the skins that had been placed in the air, where the sun could not get at them, and doing such chores as would fall to the lot of Trapper Jim were he alone. The letter which reached them had been from Mr. Hastings, telling them he had seen Steve's folks, as well as Mr. Griffin and Toby's guardian; and that since they had gone so far, and the school would not be ready until late in November, they might stay another week longer than they had contemplated, if they cared to do so. And by a unanimous vote the five boys had immediately decided that they _did_ care, so they enjoyed the prospect of more happy days ahead. It was almost noon when Toby was seen running frantically toward the cabin and minus his cap. Every few steps he would cast a look of fear over his shoulder. "What ails you?" shouted Steve, and Toby, though he could hardly speak, managed to blurt out: "B-b-bear--eatin' up all m-m-my f-f-fish. M-m-meant to t-t-tackle me n-n-next!" CHAPTER XVI. SURPRISING BRUIN--_Conclusion_. "WHOOP!" shouted Steve, as he made a headlong plunge in the direction of the cabin door, closely followed by the other two. Of course all of them were after their guns, and it hardly seemed five seconds to Toby, panting without, ere his companions were tumbling pellmell through the cabin door again, each clutching his favorite weapon. "Lead us to him, Toby!" commanded Steve, arrogantly. "Yes, show us the big hulking beast that devoured your fish, Toby," said Bandy-legs, "we'll fix it up with him. I'm no slouch of a bear killer myself." "Aw, rats!" scoffed Steve. "This ain't one of your docile trapped bear kind, Bandy-legs. This one can run like all get-out. If he ever starts after you, it's dollars to doughnuts you'd never get away on them short pins of yours." "Can bears climb trees?" asked Bandy-legs, nervously. "Well, I should say yes, black bears especially. They live half the time up in trees," replied Steve, who was pushing on just behind Toby himself. Whereupon Bandy-legs discreetly allowed Max to pass him also. Since Nature had placed a serious handicap on him when dealing out those short legs, it seemed only right that he should be allowed a little extra distance. Then, in case the hungry fish-eating bear did see fit to charge them, all of the boys would be placed upon something like an equal footing. Toby was furious by now. He might have been simply frightened at the time he made his appearance before the cabin, but that feeling was rapidly giving way to anger. And bursting almost with indignation, he had to try and express himself to his comrades, despite the impediment in his speech, which was always worse when Toby grew excited. "B-b-been all the b-b-blessed m-m-mornin' a-c-c-coaxin' them p-p-pickerel to t-t-take hold, and h-h-here that b-b-bloomin' old c-c-crocodile of a b-b-bear had to s-s-swallow h-h-half of 'em in one b-b-big b-b-bite!" Max chuckled as he listened. He even found time to wonder whether Toby, if pressed, knew what sort of animal he meant by a "crocodile of a bear." But then a good deal of allowance must be made for a stuttering boy, and especially when he has a grievance as big as the one Toby shouldered. "There's the pond ahead," cried Steve; "now show us your old bear." "Come this way," said Toby. "I g-g-guess he's eat up all my s-s-string; and now he's hunting f-f-f or the can of b-b-bait." He led them into a thick part of the wood. "L-l-look!" whispered Toby, pointing. "It is a bear, as sure as you live!" exclaimed Max. "C-c-course it is," Toby went on; "w-w-what'd you think m-m-made me run? G-g-guess I know a s-s-stump when I see one." Max held the impetuous Steve back. "Wait," he said, "and let's all fire together. This bear isn't held by a trap, and if you only wound him there'd be a pretty kettle of fish." "Ain't no f-f-fish left; he's d-d-devoured even my b-b-bait, the old glutton!" bellowed Toby, shaking his fist toward the bear. Bruin evidently had enjoyed his unexpected meal immensely. Likely enough he had never before in all his life been offered a fish dinner gratis. Perhaps some of these other two-legged creatures that drew near, holding the funny sticks in their hands, might offer him another nice mess of pickerel fresh caught. So the bear stood there on the edge of the pond watching them approach, as though not a particle afraid, only curious--and still fish hungry. "See him licking his lips, would you!" cried Bandy-legs, still in the rear. "L-l-liked 'em so m-m-much, he w-w-wants m-m-more, hang him!" "We'll give him some cold lead instead," declared Steve, holding his double-barrel ready so he could shoot from the left shoulder; "see if he'll be able to digest it." "He'll die just now, anyhow, if all of us nail him," remarked Max, laughing at the way the bear stood there watching them spread out like a fan. "Aren't we close enough. Max?" asked Bandy-legs, who was nearly twice as far away as the two bolder spirits, "Yes," piped up Steve, "let's get to work. You count three, Max; and remember, Bandy-legs, don't you dare shoot till you hear him say 'three' plain as dirt." "But, Steve," said Max. "What d'ye want?" grumbled the other, trembling with eagerness to begin operations. "I hope you've only got one hammer raised," continued Max. "It'd be pretty tough if you fired both barrels again, and lamed your left shoulder, too." "Cracky! I guess you're right, Max. Wait a few seconds till I set one hammer down. I ain't going to take the chances. Shooting left-handed's bad enough, but what'd I do if I lamed that arm, too!" "Try it w-w-with your l-l-legs!" observed Toby. "All ready!" called out Max. "Q-q-quick! He's m-m-moving off!" shouted Toby. "All the better," said Max, coolly. "We can get a good aim at his side now; just back of the shoulder, remember, Bandy-legs!" "C-c-count!" begged Toby, who hated to think of the bold fish robber getting off scot-free after his recent raid. The bear was ambling off. Perhaps he had come to the wise conclusion that too much fish at one time was bad for a bear's digestion. And then, again, he did not altogether like the looks of all these queer two-legged creatures with those crooked black sticks which they kept poking out at him. He would not run away, because, of course, he was not really afraid; but even a bear might be allowed to conduct a masterly retreat. "One!" called out Max. The three guns were leveled. "Two!" Then cheeks pressed the stocks and eyes glanced along the tubes, while itching fingers began to play with waiting triggers. "Three!" It was almost the roar of a cannon that followed. Three guns had spoken almost in the same breath. "H-h-he's g-g-gone!" yelped Toby, who could see better than any of the others, because no little puff of white powder smoke obscured his vision. A tremendous thrashing in the water told them that the wounded bear must have toppled over into the partly frozen pond. "Look out for him!" cried Max. He had ejected the used cartridge from his magazine rifle with one quick motion. Another sent a fresh one into the firing chamber. Steve had drawn back the second hammer of his gun, and in this fashion then the two chums advanced straight toward the spot where they had last seen the bear. Bandy-legs, more cautious, kept farther off, though he, too, aimed to reach the border of the little lake, in order to see what was going on. "Got him!" whooped Steve, when he discovered that the bear was evidently fatally wounded, and fell back into the water every time he tried to climb the bank. It was Max who thought to mercifully put an end to the stricken beast's sufferings by another well-directed shot from his rifle. The bear was now dead. Even Toby put in his claim to a partnership in bringing about its demise. The right of first discovery rested with him, and he was ready to take up a defense of his claim at any time. So, in order to avoid all bad feelings, and insure peace in the family hereafter, Max declared that the honor should be jointly shared by tie whole four of them. "Whenever we speak of 'our' bear, you'll know which one we mean," he remarked; "and, now, the next thing is to get the old chap up on dry land." Securing some rope and a couple of blocks he had seen at the cabin, doubtless used when Trapper Jim wanted to haul logs, or with one man's power do a three-man job, Max fashioned a block and tackle. With this they easily got the bear up the bank. Then Max tried his hand at removing the skin, after which he cut up the bear, with Steve's assistance. And before Trapper Jim and Owen got back from setting a dozen more muskrat traps, as well as attending to those that had been neglected on the preceding day, everything needful had been done. Great indeed was the surprise of Trapper Jim when he finally arrived, tired and likewise hungry, to smell cooking bear steaks, and discover not one bear skin stretched out properly to cure, but two. The last one had been somewhat torn where the various leaden missiles had passed through. But the trapper assured the boys that if placed in the hands of a good fur dealer it could be easily sewed up, and would make them an elegant rug for their club room, "Every time you walk on it you'll remember this delightful little vacation spent with Trapper Jim in the North Woods," he declared. "And it will always have just a faint fishy smell to me, because the rascal ate up all Toby's morning catch before we got him," remarked Max. "S-s-say, we had f-f-fish for s-s-supper last night, didn't we?" demanded Toby. "That's right, we did," spoke up Steve, "and right sweet pickerel, too, thanks to the one who stuck it out all afternoon watching his poles and keeping one eye on the woods for the mate of our bear to appear. Oh, they were nice, all right! And I just dote on pickerel, all but the boot-jack bones." It can be safely assumed that they were a merry crowd that night. The boys, realizing that their period for fun up in those glorious North Woods had been extended another week, were bubbling over with joy. Trapper Jim had everything to make him contented, and even happy. Every time he touched that elegant fox skin he felt like shaking hands with himself because of the satisfaction it gave him--not so much the value of the pelt as the proud consciousness that he had finally been enabled to capture another of those rare and almost priceless prizes which every fur taker dreams about. And then, again, doubtless Uncle Jim found great reason for thankfulness every time he glanced toward Ed Whitcomb. What had been a vague, half-formed dream in his mind bade fair to become a reality. He was Susie's boy, and circumstances had thrown them together in a way so strange that it was surely intended that they should part no more. As for the wounded man, although he might often deep down in his heart deplore the weakness that had taken possession of him at sight of the captured silver fox, still, since it had brought Jim and him together, and revealed a new and entirely unsuspected bond between them, why should he regret it. Besides, Trapper Jim declared he owed the fox skin to Ed, anyhow. He had discovered that the animal had gnawed its foot almost off, and long before Jim and the boys came along would have gone limping off on three legs only that Ed appeared just in time to knock it on the head. With nearly two weeks ahead of them, it was only natural that Max and his four chums should anticipate other glorious times. And that they met with no disappointment in this respect the reader who has followed them thus far with interest will discover when he reads the next volume of the series: "CAUGHT IN A FOREST FIRE." THE END. 
38279	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: John Norton] HOW JOHN NORTON THE TRAPPER KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS BY W. H. H. MURRAY BOSTON: DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO. 364 AND 365 WASHINGTON STREET. COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO. HOW JOHN NORTON THE TRAPPER KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS. I. A cabin. A cabin in the woods. In the cabin a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. On either side of the broad hearth-stone a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely, as only a hound in a meditative mood can, into the glowing fire. In the centre of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table, strongly built and solid. At the table sat John Norton, poring over a book,--a book large of size, with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age, and smooth as with the handling of many generations. The whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. A cabin in the woods filled with firelight, a table, a book, an old man studying the book. This was the scene on Christmas Eve. Outside, the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon. "It says here," said the Trapper, speaking to himself, "it says here, 'Give to him that lacketh, and from him that hath not, withhold not thine hand.' It be a good sayin' fur sartin; and the world would be a good deal better off, as I conceit, ef the folks follered the sayin' a leetle more closely." And here the old man paused a moment, and, with his hand still resting on the page, and his forefinger still pointing at the sentence, seemed pondering what he had been reading. At last he broke the silence again, saying,-- "Yis, the world would be a good deal better off, ef the folks in it follered the sayin';" and then he added, "There's another spot in the book I'd orter look at to-night; it's a good ways furder on, but I guess I can find it. Henry says that the furder on you git in the book, the better it grows, and I conceit the boy may be right; for there be a good deal of murderin' and fightin' in the fore part of the book, that don't make pleasant readin', and what the Lord wanted to put it in fur is a good deal more than a man without book-larnin' can understand. Murderin' be murderin', whether it be in the Bible or out of the Bible; and puttin' it in the Bible, and sayin' it was done by the Lord's commandment, don't make it any better. And a good deal of the fightin' they did in the old time was sartinly without reason and ag'in jedgment, specially where they killed the women-folks and the leetle uns." And while the old man had thus been communicating with himself, touching the character of much of the Old Testament, he had been turning the leaves until he had reached the opening chapters of the New, and had come to the description of the Saviour's birth, and the angelic announcement of it on the earth. Here he paused, and began to read. He read as an old man unaccustomed to letters must read,--slowly and with a show of labor, but with perfect contentment as to his progress, and a brightening face. "This isn't a trail a man can hurry on onless he spends a good deal of his time on it, or is careless about notin' the signs, fur the words be weighty, and a man must stop at each word, and look around awhile, in order to git all the meanin' out of 'em--yis, a man orter travel this trail a leetle slow, ef he wants to see all there is to see on it." Then the old man began to read:-- "'Then there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host,'--the exact number isn't sot down here," he muttered; "but I conceit there may have been three or four hunderd,--'praisin' God and singin', Glory to God in the highest, and on 'arth, peace to men of good will.' That's right," said the Trapper. "Yis, peace to men of good will. That be the sort that desarve peace; the other kind orter stand their chances." And here the old man closed the book,--closed it slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing; closed it, fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had taken it, putting it away in its place. Having done this, he returned to his seat, and, moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked first at one hound, and then at the other, and said, "Pups, this be Christmas Eve, and I sartinly trust ye be grateful fur the comforts ye have." He said this deliberately, as if addressing human companions. The two hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into his face, and wagged their tails. [Illustration: The two hounds turned their heads toward their master.] "Yis, yis, I understand ye," said the Trapper, "Ye both be comfortable, and, I dare say, that arter yer way ye both be grateful, fur, next to eatin', a dog loves the heat, and ye be nigh enough to the logs to be toastin'. Yis, this be Christmas Eve," continued the old man, "and in the settlements the folks be gittin' ready their gifts. The young people be tyin' up the evergreens, and the leetle uns be onable to sleep because of their dreamin'. It's a pleasant pictur', and I sartinly wish I could see the merrymakin's, as Henry has told me of them, some time, but I trust it may be in his own house, and with his own children." With this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he loved so well, the old man lapsed into silence. But the peaceful contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned, and whom he so fondly loved. At last a more sober look came to his countenance,--a look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers something he should not have forgotten,--and he said,-- "I ax the Lord to pardin me, that in the midst of my plenty I have forgot them that may be in want. The shanty sartinly looked open enough the last time I fetched the trail past the clearin', and though with the help of the moss and the clay in the bank she might make it comfortable, yit, ef the vagabond that be her husband has forgot his own, and desarted them, as Wild Bill said he had, I doubt ef there be victuals enough in the shanty to keep them from starvin'. Yis, pups," said the old man, rising, "it'll be a good tramp through the snow, but we'll go in the mornin', and see ef the woman be in want. The boy himself said, when he stopped at the shanty last summer, afore he went out, that he didn't see how they was to git through the winter, and I reckon he left the woman some money, by the way she follered him toward the boat; and he told me to bear them in mind when the snow came, and see to it they didn't suffer. I might as well git the pack-basket out, and begin to put the things in't, fur it be a goodly distance, and an early start will make the day pleasant to the woman and the leetle uns, ef vict'als be scant in the cupboard. Yis, I'll git the pack-basket out, and look round a leetle, and see what I can find to take 'em. I don't conceit it'll make much of a show, fur what might be good fur a man, won't be of sarvice to a woman; and as fur the leetle uns, I don't know ef I've got a single thing but vict'als that'll fit 'em. Lord! ef I was near the settlements, I might swap a dozen skins fur jest what I wanted to give 'em; but I'll git the basket out, and look round and see what I've got." In a moment the great pack-basket had been placed in the middle of the floor, and the Trapper was busy overhauling his stores to see what he could find that would make a fitting Christmas gift for those he was to visit on the morrow. A canister of tea was first deposited on the table, and, after he had smelled of it, and placed a few grains of it on his tongue, like a connoisseur, he proceeded to pour more than half of its contents into a little bark box, and, having carefully tied the cover, he placed it in the basket. "The yarb be of the best," said the old man, putting his nose to the mouth of the canister, and taking a long sniff before he inserted the stopple--"the yarb be of the best, fur the smell of it goes into the nose strong as mustard. That be good fur the woman fur sartin, and will cheer her sperits when she be downhearted; fur a woman takes as naterally to tea as an otter to his slide, and I warrant it'll be an amazin' comfort to her, arter the day's work be over, more specially ef the work had been heavy, and gone sorter crosswise. Yis, the yarb be good fur a woman when things go crosswise, and the box'll be a great help to her many and many a night beyend doubt. The Lord sartinly had women in mind when he made the yarb, and a kindly feelin' fur their infarmities, and, I dare say, they be grateful accordin' to their knowledge." A large cake of maple-sugar followed the tea into the basket, and a small chest of honey accompanied it. "That's honest sweetenin'," remarked the Trapper with decided emphasis; "and that is more'n ye can say of the sugar of the settlements, leastwise ef a man can jedge by the stuff they peddle at the clearin'. The bees be no cheats; and a man who taps his own trees, and biles the runnin' into sugar under his own eye, knows what kind of sweetenin' he's gittin'. The woman won't find any sand in her teeth when she takes a bite from that loaf, or stirs a leetle of the honey in the cup she's steepin'." Some salt and pepper were next added to the packages already in the basket. A sack of flour and another of Indian-meal followed. A generous round of pork, and a bag of jerked venison, that would balance a twenty-pound weight, at least, went into the pack. On these, several large-sized salmon-trout, that had been smoked by the Trapper's best skill, were laid. These offerings evidently exhausted the old man's resources, for, after looking round a while, and searching the cupboard from bottom to top, he returned to the basket, and contemplated it with satisfaction, indeed, yet with a face slightly shaded with disappointment. "The vict'als be all right," he said, "fur there be enough to last 'em a month, and they needn't scrimp themselves either. But eatin' isn't all, and the leetle uns was nigh on to naked the last time I seed 'em; and the woman's dress, in spite of the patchin', looked as ef it would desart her, ef she didn't keep a close eye on't. Lord! Lord! what shall I do? fur there's room enough in the basket, and the woman and the leetle uns need garments; that is, it's more'n likely they do, and I haven't a garment in the cabin to take 'em." "Hillo! Hillo! John Norton! John Norton! Hillo!" The voice came sharp and clear, cutting keenly through the frosty air and the cabin walls. "John Norton!" "Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper. "I sartinly hope the vagabond hasn't been a-drinkin'. His voice sounds as ef he was sober; but the chances be ag'in the signs, fur, ef he isn't drunk, the marcy of the Lord or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. I'll go to the door, and see what he wants. It's sartinly too cold to let a man stand in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark the Trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open. "What is it, Wild Bill? what is it?" he called. "Be ye drunk, or be ye sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin within a dozen rods of ye?" "Sober, John Norton, sober. Sober as a Moravian preacher at a funeral." "Yer trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, Wild Bill, for the last month, or the Dutchman at the clearin' has watered his liquor by a wrong measure for once. But ef ye be sober, why do ye stand there whoopin' like an Indian, when the ambushment is onkivered and the bushes be alive with the knaves? Why don't ye come into the cabin, like a sensible man, ef ye be sober? The signs be ag'in ye, Wild Bill; yis, the signs be ag'in ye." "Come into the cabin!" retorted Bill. "An' so I would mighty lively, ef I could; but the load is heavy, and your path is as slippery as the plank over the creek at the Dutchman's, when I've two horns aboard." "Load! What load have ye been draggin' through the woods?" exclaimed the Trapper. "Ye talk as ef my cabin was the Dutchman's, and ye was balancin' on the plank at this minit." "Come and see for yourself," answered Wild Bill, "and give me a lift. Once in your cabin, and in front of your fire, I'll answer all the questions you may ask. But I'll answer no more until I'm inside the door." "Ye be sartinly sober to-night," answered the Trapper, laughing, as he started down the hill, "fur ye talk sense, and that's more'n a man can do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle. "Lord-a-massy!" exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled, and saw the huge box that was on it. "Lord-a-massy, Bill! what a tug ye must have had! and how ye come to be sober with sech a load behind ye is beyend the reckinin' of a man who has knowed ye nigh on to twenty year. I never knowed ye disappoint one arter this fashion afore." "It is strange, I confess," answered Wild Bill, appreciating the humor that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. "It is strange, that's a fact, for it's Christmas Eve, and I ought to be roaring drunk at the Dutchman's this very minit, according to custom; but I pledged him to get the box through jest as he wanted it done, and that I wouldn't touch a drop of liquor until I had done it. And here it is according to promise, for here I am sober, and here is his box." "H'ist along, Bill, h'ist along!" exclaimed the Trapper, who suddenly became alive with interest, for he surmised whence the box had come. "H'ist along, Bill, I say, and have done with yer talkin', and let's see what ye have got on yer sled. It's strange that a man of your sense will stand jibberin' here in the snow with a roarin' fire within a dozen rods of ye." Whatever retort Wild Bill may have contemplated, it was effectually prevented by the energy with which the Trapper pushed the sled after him. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep it off his heels, so earnestly did the old man propel it from behind; and so, with many a slip and scramble on the part of Wild Bill, and a continued muttering on the part of the Trapper about the "nonsense of a man's jibberin' in the snow arter a twenty-mile drag, with a good fire within a dozen rods of him," the sled was shot through the doorway into the cabin, and stood fully revealed in the bright blaze of the firelight. "Take off yer coat and yer moccasins, Wild Bill," exclaimed the Trapper, as he closed the door, "and git in front of the fire; pull out the coals, and set the tea-pot a-steepin'. The yarb will take the chill out of ye better than the pizen of the Dutchman. Ye'll find a haunch of venison in the cupboard that I roasted to-day, and some johnny-cake; I doubt ef either be cold. Help yerself, help yerself, Bill, while I take a peep at the box." No one can appreciate the intensity of the old man's feelings in reference to the mysterious box, unless he calls to mind the strictness with which he was wont to interpret and fulfil the duties of hospitality. To him the coming of a guest was a welcome event, and the service which the latter might require of the host both a sacred and pleasant obligation. To serve a guest with his own hand, which he did with a natural courtesy peculiar to himself, was his delight. Nor did it matter with him what the quality of the guest might be. The wandering trapper or the vagabond Indian was served with as sincere attention as the richest visitor from the city. But now his feelings were so stirred by the sight of the box thus strangely brought to him, and by his surmise touching who the sender might be, that Wild Bill was left to help himself without the old man's attendance. It was evident that Bill was equal to the occasion, and was not aware of the slightest neglect. At least, his actions were not, by the neglect of the Trapper, rendered less decided, or the quality of his appetite affected, for the examination he made of the old man's cupboard, and the familiarity with which he handled the contents, made it evident that he was not in the least abashed, or uncertain how to proceed; for he attacked the provisions with the energy of a man who had fasted long, and who has at last not only come suddenly to an ample supply of food, but also feels that for a few moments, at least, he will be unobserved. The Trapper turned toward the box, and approached it for a deliberate examination. "The boards be sawed," he said, "and they come from the mills of the settlement, for the smoothin'-plane has been over 'em." Then he inspected the jointing, and noted how truly the edges were drawn. "The box has come a goodly distance," he said to himself, "fur there isn't a workman this side of the Horicon that could j'int it in that fashion. There sartinly orter be some letterin', or a leetle bit of writin', somewhere about the chest, tellin' who the box belonged to, and to whom it was sent." Saying this, the old man unlashed the box from the sled, and rolled it over, so that the side might come uppermost. As no direction appeared on the smoothly planed surface, he rolled it half over again. A little white card neatly tacked to the board was now revealed. The Trapper stooped, and on the card read,-- JOHN NORTON, TO THE CARE OF WILD BILL. "Yis, the 'J' be his'n," muttered the old man, as he spelled out the word J-o-h-n, "and the big 'N' be as plain as an otter-trail in the snow. The boy don't make his letters over-plain, as I conceit, but the 'J' and the 'N' be his'n." And then he paused for a full minute, his head bowed over the box. "The boy don't forgit," he murmured, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The boy don't forgit." And then he added, "No, he isn't one of the forgittin' kind. Wild Bill," said the Trapper, as he turned toward that personage, whose attack on the venison haunch was as determined as ever, "Wild Bill, this box be from Henry!" "I shouldn't wonder," answered that individual, speaking from a mass of edibles that filled his mouth. "And it be a Christmas gift!" continued the old man. "It looks so," returned Bill, as laconically as before. "And it be a mighty heavy box!" said the Trapper. "You'd 'a' thought so, if you had dragged it over the mile-and-a-half carry. It was good sleddin' on the river, but the carry took the stuff out of me." "Very like, very like," responded the Trapper; "fur the gullies be deep on the carry, and it must have been slippery haulin'. Didn't ye git a leetle 'arnest in yer feelin's, Bill, afore ye got to the top of the last ridge?" "Old man," answered Bill as he wheeled his chair toward the Trapper, with a pint cup of tea in the one hand, and wiping his mustache with the coat-sleeve of the other, "I got it to the top three times, or within a dozen feet from the top, and each time it got away from me and went to the bottom agin; for the roots was slippery, and I couldn't git a grip on the toe of my moccasins; but I held on the rope, and I got to the bottom neck and neck with the sled every time." "Ye did well, ye did well," responded the Trapper, laughing; "fur a loaded sled goes down-hill mighty fast when the slide is a steep un, and a man who gits to the bottom as quick as the sled must have a good grip, and be considerably in 'arnest. But ye got her up finally by the same path, didn't ye?" "Yes, I got her up," returned Bill. "The fourth time I went for that ridge, I fetched her to the top, for I was madder than a hornet." "And what did ye do, Bill?" continued the Trapper. "What did ye do when ye got to the top?" "I jest tied that sled to a sapling so it wouldn't git away agin, and I got on to the top of that box, and I talked to that gulch a minit or two in a way that satisfied my feelings." "I shouldn't wonder," answered the Trapper, laughing, "fur ye must have been a good deal riled. But ye did well to git the box through, and ye got here in time, and ye've 'arnt yer wages; and now, ef ye'll tell me how much I am to pay ye, ye shall have yer money, and ye needn't scrimp yourself on the price, Wild Bill, for the drag has been a hard un; so tell me yer price, and I'll count ye out the money." "Old man," answered Bill, "I didn't bring that box through for money, and I won't take a"-- Perhaps Wild Bill was about to emphasize his refusal by some verbal addition to the simple statement, but, if it was his intention, he checked himself, and said, "a cent." "It's well said," answered the Trapper; "yis, it's well said, and does jestice to yer feelin's, I don't doubt; but an extra pair of breeches one of these days wouldn't hurt ye, and the money won't come amiss." "I tell ye, old man," returned Wild Bill earnestly, "I won't take a cent. I'll allow there's several colors in my trousers, for I've patched in a dozen different pieces off and on, and I doubt, as ye hint, if the patching holds together much longer; but I've eaten at your table and slept in your cabin more than once, John Norton, and whether I've come to it sober or drunk, your door was never shut in my face, and I don't forget either that the man who sent you that box fished me from the creek one day, when I had walked into it with two bottles of the Dutchman's whiskey in my pocket, and not one cent of your money or his will I take for bringing the box in to you." "Have it yer own way, ef ye will," said the Trapper; "but I won't forgit the deed ye have did, and the boy won't forgit it neither. Come, let's clear away the vict'als, and we'll open the box. It's sartinly a big un, and I would like to see what he has put inside of it." The opening of the box was a spectacle such as gladdens the heart to see. At such moments the countenance of the Trapper was as facile in the changefulness of its expression as that of a child. The passing feelings of his soul found an adequate mirror in his face, as the white clouds of a summer day find full reflection in the depth of a tranquil lake. He was not too old or too learned to be wise, for the wisdom of hearty happiness was his,--the wisdom of being glad, and gladly showing it. As for Wild Bill, the best of his nature was in the ascendant, and with the curiosity and pleasure of a child, and a happiness as sincere as if the box was his own, he assisted at the opening. "The man who made this box did the work in a workmanlike fashion," said the Trapper, as he strove to insert the edge of his hatchet into the jointing of the cover, "fur he shet these boards together like the teeth of a bear-trap when the bars be well 'iled. It's a pity the boy didn't send him along with the box, Wild Bill, fur it sartinly looks as ef we should have to kindle a fire on it, and burn a hole in through the cover." At last, by dint of great exertion, and with the assistance of Wild Bill and the poker, the cover of the box was wrenched off, and the contents were partially revealed. "Glory to God, Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper. "Here be yer breeches!" and he held up a pair of pantaloons made of the stoutest Scotch stuff. "Yis, here be yer breeches, fur here on the waistband be pinned a bit of paper, and on it be written, 'Fur Wild Bill.' And here be a vest to match; and here be a jacket; and here be two pairs of socks in the pockets of the jacket; and here be two woollen shirts, one packed away in each sleeve. And here!" shouted the old man, as he turned up the lapel of the coat, "Wild Bill, look here! Here be a five-dollar note!" and the old man swung one of the socks over his head, and shouted, "Hurrah for Wild Bill!" And the two hounds, catching the enthusiasm of their master, lifted their muzzles into the air, and bayed deep and long, till the cabin fairly shook with the joyful uproar of man and dogs. It is doubtful if any gift ever took the recipient more by surprise than this bestowed upon Wild Bill. It is true that, judged by the law of strict deserts, the poor fellow had not deserved much of the world, and certainly the world had not forgotten to be strictly just in his case, for it had not given him much. It is a question if he had ever received a gift before in all his life, certainly not one of any considerable value. His reception of this generous and thoughtful provision for his wants was characteristic both of his training and his nature. The old Trapper, as he had ended his cheering, flung the pantaloons, the vest, the jacket, the socks, the shirts, and the money into his lap. For a moment the poor fellow sat looking at the warm and costly garments that he held in his hands, silent in an astonishment too profound for speech, and then, recovering the use of his organs, he gasped forth,-- "I swear!" and then broke down, and sobbed like a child. The Trapper, kneeling beside the box, looked at the poor fellow with a face radiant with happiness, while his mouth was stretched with laughter, utterly unconscious that tears were brimming his own eyes. "Old Trapper," said Wild Bill, rising to his feet, and holding the garments forth in his hands, "this is the first present I ever received in my life. I have been kicked and cussed, sneered at and taunted, and I deserved it all. But no man ever gave me a lift, or showed he cared a cent whether I starved or froze, lived or died. You know, John Norton, what a fool I've been, and what has ruined me, and that when sober I'm more of a man than many who hoot me. And here I swear, old man, that while a button is on this jacket, or two threads of these breeches hold together, I'll never touch a drop of liquor, sick or well, living or dying, so help me God! and there's my hand on it." "Amen!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he sprang to his feet, and clasped in his own strong palm the hand that the other had stretched out to him. "The Lord in his marcy be nigh ye when tempted, Bill, and keep ye true to yer pledge!" [Illustration: Clasped in his own strong palm] Of all the pleasant sights that the angels of God, looking from their high homes, saw on earth that Christmas Eve, perhaps not one was dearer in their eyes than the spectacle here described,--the two sturdy men standing with their hands clasped in solemn pledge of the reformation of the one, and the helping sympathy of the other, above that Christmas-box in the cabin in the woods. It is not necessary to follow in detail the Trapper's further examination of the box. The reader's imagination, assisted by many a happy reminiscence, will enable him to realize the scene. There was a small keg of powder, a large plug of lead, a little chest of tea, a bag of sugar, and also one of coffee. There were nails, matches, thread, buttons, a woollen under-jacket, a pair of mittens, and a cap of choicest fur, made of an otter's skin that Henry himself had trapped a year before. All these and other packages were taken out one by one, carefully examined, and characteristically commented on by the Trapper, and passed to Wild Bill, who in turn inspected and commented on them, and then laid them carefully on the table. Beneath these packages was a thin board, constituting a sort of division between its upper and lower half. "There seems to be a sort of cellar to this box," said the Trapper, as he sat looking at the division. "I shouldn't be surprised ef the boy himself was in here somewhere, so be ready, Bill, fur anything, fur the Lord only knows what's underneath this board." Saying which, the old man thrust his hand under one end of the division, and pulled out a bundle loosely tied with a string, which became unfastened as the Trapper lifted the roll from its place in the box, and, as he shook it open, and held its contents at arm's length up to the light, the startled eyes of Wild Bill, and the earnest gaze of the Trapper, beheld a woman's dress! "Heavens and 'arth, Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, "what's this?" And then a flash of light crossed his face, in the illumination of which the look of wonder vanished, and, dropping upon his knees, he flung the dividing board out of the box, and his companion and himself saw at a glance what was underneath. Children's shoes, and dresses of warmest stuffs; tippets and mittens; a full suit for a little boy, boots and all; a jack-knife and whistle; two dolls dressed in brave finery, with flaxen hair and blue eyes; a little hatchet; a huge ball of yarn, and a hundred and one things needed in the household; and underneath all a Bible; and under that a silver star on a blue field, and pinned to the silk a scrap of paper, on which was written,-- "Hang this over the picture of the lad." "Ay, ay," said the Trapper in a tremulous voice, as he looked at the silver star, "it shall be done as ye say, boy; but the lad has got beyend the clouds, and is walkin' a trail that is lighted from eend to eend by a light clearer and brighter than ever come from the shinin' of any star. I hope we may be found worthy to walk it with him, boy, when we, too, have come to the edge of the Great Clearin'." To the Trapper it was perfectly evident for whom the contents of the box were intended; but the sender had left nothing in doubt, for, when the old man had lifted from the floor the board that he had flung out, he discovered some writing traced with heavy pencilling on the wood, and which without much effort he spelled out to Wild Bill,-- "Give these on Christmas Day to the woman at the dismal hut, and a merry Christmas to you all." "Ay, ay," said the Trapper, "it shall be did, barrin' accident, as ye say; and a merry Christmas it'll make fur us all. Lord-a-massy! what will the poor woman say when she and her leetle uns git these warm garments on? There be no trouble about fillin' the basket now; no, I sartinly can't git half of the stuff in. Wild Bill, I guess ye'll have to do some more sleddin' to-morrow, fur these presents must go over the mountain in the mornin', ef we have to harness up the pups." And then he told his companion of the poor woman and the children, and his intended visit to them on the morrow. "I fear," he said, "that they be havin' a hard time of it, 'specially ef her husband has desarted her." "Little good would he do her, if he was with her," answered Wild Bill, "for he's a lazy knave when he's sober, and a thief as well, as you and I know, John Norton; for he's fingered our traps more than once, and swapped the skins for liquor at the Dutchman's; but he's thieved once too many times, for the folks in the settlement has ketched him in the act, and they put him in the jail for six months, as I heard day before yesterday." "I'm glad on't; yis, I'm glad on't," answered the Trapper; "and I hope they'll keep him there till they've larnt him how to work. I've had my eye on the knave fur a good while, and the last time I seed him I told him ef he fingered any more of my traps, I'd larn him the commandments in a way he wouldn't forgit; and, as I had him in hand, and felt a leetle like talkin' that mornin', I gin him a piece of my mind, techin' his treatment of his wife and leetle uns, that he didn't relish, I fancy, fur he winced and squirmed like a fox in a trap. Yis, I'm glad they've got the knave, and I hope they'll keep him till he's answered fur his misdoin'; but I'm sartinly afeered the poor woman be havin' a hard time of it." "I fear so, too," answered Wild Bill; "and if I can do anything to help you in your plans, jest say the word, and I'm your man to back or haul, jest as you want me." And so it was arranged that they should go over the mountain together on the morrow, and take the provisions and the gifts that were in the box to the poor woman; and, after talking awhile of the happiness their visit would give, the two men, happy in their thoughts, and with their hearts full of that peace which passeth the understanding of the selfish, laid themselves down to sleep; and over the two,--the one drawing to the close of an honorable and well-spent life, the other standing at the middle of a hitherto useless existence, but facing the future with a noble resolution,--over the two, as they slept, the angels of Christmas kept their watch. II. On the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut; and the stars of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which it stood, and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered lake which lay in front of it, as brightly as they had shone on the cabin of the Trapper; but no friendly step had made its trail in the surrounding snow, and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary door. As the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. Once, indeed, a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and, running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of a yelp, and scuttled back under the shadows of the forest, as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. An owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. And once a raven, roosting on the dry bough of a lightning-blasted pine, dreamed that the white moonlight was the light of dawn, and began to stir his sable wings, and croak a harsh welcome; but awakened by his blunder, and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off in the very midst of his discordant call, and again settled gloomily down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before. It seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods, and had left it to the cold hospitality of unsympathetic nature. [Illustration: Running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks] Within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of Heaven itself, sat a woman huddling her young--two girls and a boy. The fireplace was of monstrous proportions, and the chimney yawned upward so widely that one looking up the sooty passage might see the stars shining overhead. A little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess: scant warmth might such a fire yield, kindled in such a fireplace, to those around it. Indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability, and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker, as if it was discouraged in view of the task set before it, and had more than half concluded to go out altogether. The cabin was of large size, and undivided into apartments. The little fire was only able to illuminate the central section, and more than half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. The woman's face, which the faint flame over which she was crouched revealed with painful clearness, showed pale and haggard. The induration of exposure and the tightening lines of hunger sharpened and marred a countenance which, a happier fortune would have kept even comely. It had that old look about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age, and the weariness of its expression was pitiful to see. Was it work or vain waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? Alas! the weariness of waiting for what we long for, and long for purely, but which never comes! Is it the work or the longing--the long longing--that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines? "Mother, I'm hungry," said the little boy, looking up into the woman's face. "Can't I have just a little more to eat?" "Be still," answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed inability. "I've given you almost the last morsel in the house." The boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's knee, and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes were half hidden in the ashes. O warmth! blessed warmth! how pleasant art thou to old and young alike! Thou art the emblem of life, as thy absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. Would that all the cold toes in the world could get to my grate to-night, and all the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside! Ay, and that the children of poverty, that lack for bread, might get their hungry hands into that well-filled cupboard there, too! In a moment the woman said, "You children had better go to bed. You'll be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace." The words were harshly spoken, as if the very presence of the children, cold and hungry as they were, was a vexation to her; and they moved off in obedience to her command. O cursed poverty! I know thee to be of Satan, for I myself have eaten at thy scant table, and slept in thy cold bed. And never yet have I seen thee bring one smile to human lips, or dry one tear as it fell from a human eye. But I have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting speech, and harden the tender heart. Ay, I've seen thee make even the presence of love a burden, and cause the mother to wish that the puny babe nursing her scant breast had never been born. And so the children went to their unsightly bed, and silence reigned in the hut. "Mother," said one of the girls, speaking out of the darkness,--"mother, isn't this Christmas Eve?" "Yes," answered the woman sharply. "Go to sleep." And again there was silence. Happy is childhood, that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants! Thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings, including the keen pangs of hunger, for a time, and under the tattered blankets that covered them saw, perhaps, visions of enchanting lands, and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry children see only in sleep, to the poor woman sitting at the failing fire there came no surcease of sorrow, and no vision threw even an evanescent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings. And the reality of her condition was dire enough, God knows. Alone in the wilderness, miles from any human habitation, the trails covered deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already upon them, and starvation staring them squarely in the face. No wonder that her soul sank within her; no wonder that her thoughts turned toward bitterness. "Yes, it's Christmas Eve," she muttered, "and the rich will keep it gayly. God sends them presents enough; but you see if he remembers me! Oh, they may talk about the angels of Christmas Eve flying abroad to-night, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this shanty, I reckon; no, they won't even drop a piece of meat as they soar past," And so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and they were heavy enough,--too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted, to lift,--while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner, until it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. At last she said, in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of the Christmas legend had softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood,-- "Perhaps I'm wrong to take on so. Perhaps it isn't God's fault that I and my children are deserted and starving. But why should the innocent be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and to spare, while those who do no evil go half naked and starved?" Alas, poor woman! that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many lips besides thine have asked that question, querulously or entreatingly, many a time; but whether they asked it in vexation and rebellion of spirit, or humbly besought Heaven to answer, to neither murmur nor prayer did Heaven vouchsafe a response. Is it because we are so small, or, being small, are so inquisitive, that the Great Oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry? At this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold much longer, flared fitfully, and uneasily shifted itself from brand to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out; but the woman, with her elbows on her knees, and her face settled firmly between her hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they so steadily gazed. "I will do it, _I will do it!_" she suddenly exclaimed. "I will make one more effort. They shall not starve while I have strength to try. Perhaps God will aid me. They say he always does at the last pinch, and he certainly sees that I am there now. I wonder if he's been waiting for me to get just where I am before he helped me? There is one more chance left, and I'll make the trial. I'll go down to the shore where I saw the big tracks in the snow. It's a long way, but I shall get there somehow. If God is going to be good to me, he won't let me freeze or faint on the way. Yes, I'll creep into bed now, and try and get a little sleep, for I must be strong in the morning." And with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed, and burrowed down, more like an animal than a human being, beside her little ones, as they lay huddled close together and asleep, down in the rags. What angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch, and stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? Some sweet one, surely; for she shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture, and, gently drawing down the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little faces lying side by side, and, bending tenderly over them, she placed a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each; then she nestled down again in her own place, and said, "Perhaps God will help me." And with this sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from that sweet faith which never quite deserts a woman's bosom, and on the other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own eyes deserted of God, she fell asleep. She, too, dreamed; but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her waking thoughts; for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on her hard couch, and muttered, "Perhaps God will. Perhaps"-- Sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips, and have borne the burden of its toil and fretting, that our vexations and disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs us of our otherwise peaceful repose. Perhaps somewhere in the years to come, after much wandering and weariness, guided of God, we may come to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed, and for which the noblest among them sought so long, and died seeking; plunging into which, we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths, and, rising refreshed and strengthened, shall go on our eternal journey re-clothed with the beauty, the innocence, and the happiness of our youth. The poor woman slept uneasily, and with much muttering to herself; but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night, and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen windows of the east, and peered shiveringly forth. Who says the earth cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? The sky hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel, whose invisibly matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white, gleaming stars. The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. The lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores. A bitter morn, a bitter morn,--ah me! a bitter morn for the poor! The woman, wakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain, that she might not wake the children, who, coiled together, slumbered on, still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness. "They had better sleep," she said to herself. "If I fail to bring them meat, I hope they will never wake!" Ah! if the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter disappointment, or that other something which the future was to bring her, would she have made that prayer? Is it best for us, as some say, that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked until the happy tones are mingled with, and smothered by, the rising moan? Is it best, I wonder? She noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened the door, and stepped forth into the outer cold. There was a look of brave determination in her eyes as she faced the chilly greeting the world gave her, and with more of hopefulness than had before appeared upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore, which at this point receded toward the mountain. For an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. Suddenly she stopped, and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead. Well might she seek concealment, for there, standing on a point of land that jutted sharply out into the lake, not forty rods away, unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions as one even in years of hunting might not see. The woman's eyes fairly gleamed as she saw the noble animal standing thus in full sight; but who may tell the agony of fear and hope that filled her bosom! The buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. The thought of her mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. The buck would soon move; when he moved, which way would he move? Would he go from or come toward her? Would she get him, or would she lose him? Oh, the agony of that thought! "God of the starving," burst from her quivering lips, "let not my children die!" Many prayers more ornate rose that day to Him whose ears are open to all cries. But of all that prayed on that Christmas morn, whether with few words or many, surely, no heart rose with the seeking words more earnestly than the poor woman kneeling as she prayed, rifle in hand, amid the snow. "God of the starving, let not my children die!" That was her prayer; and, as if in answer to her agonizing petition, the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as he came. Once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air suspiciously. Had he scented her presence, and would he bound away? Should she fire now? No; her judgment told her she could not trust the gun or her aim at such a range. He must come nigher,--come even to the big maple, and stand there, not ten rods away; then she felt sure she should get him. So she waited. Oh, how the cold ate into her! How her teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her thin, shivering frame! But still she clutched the cold barrel, and still she watched and waited, and still she prayed,-- "God of the starving, let not my children die!" Alas, poor woman! My own body shivers as I think of thine, and my pen falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn. Did the buck turn? Did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace his steps? No. He continued to advance. Had Heaven heard her prayer? Her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward Him to whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she steadied herself for the shot. For even as she prayed, the deer came on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the smooth bark. There he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her, unconscious of her presence. Noiselessly she cocked the piece. Noiselessly she raised it to her face, and with every nerve drawn to its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_. [Illustration: The deer came to the big maple] Had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its explosion? We know not. We only know that in spite of prayer, in spite of noblest effort, she missed the game. For, as the rifle cracked, the buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain; while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on the snow. III. At the same moment the rifle sounded, two men, the Trapper with his pack, and Wild Bill with his sled heavily loaded, were descending the western slope of the mountain, not a mile from the clearing in which stood the lonely cabin. The sound of the piece brought them to a halt as quickly as if the bullet had cut through the air in front of their faces. For several minutes both stood in the attitude of listening. "Down into the snow with ye, pups!" exclaimed the Trapper, in a hoarse whisper. "Down into the snow with ye, I say! Rover, ef ye lift yer muzzle agin, I'll warm yer back with the ramrod. By the Lord, Bill, the buck is comin' this way; ye can see his horns lift above the leetle balsams as he breaks through the thicket yender. Ef he strikes the runway, he'll sartinly come within range;" and the old Trapper slipped his arms from the pack, and, lowering it to the earth, sank on his knees beside it, where he waited as motionless as if the breath had departed his body. Onward came the game. As the Trapper had suggested, the buck, with mighty and far-reaching bounds, cleared the shrubby obstructions, and, entering the runway, tore up the familiar path with the violence of a tornado. Onward he came, his head flung upward, his antlers laid well back, tongue lolling from his mouth, and his nostrils smoking with the hot breaths that burst in streaming columns from them. Not until his swift career had brought him exactly in front of his position did the old man stir a muscle. But then, quick as the motion of the leaping game, his rifle jumped to his cheek, and even as the buck was at the central point of his leap, and suspended in the air, the piece cracked sharp and clear, and the deer, stricken to his death, fell with a crash to the ground. The quivering hounds rose to their feet, and bayed long and deep; Wild Bill swung his hat and yelled; and for a moment the woods rang with the wild cries of dogs and man. [Illustration: The piece cracked sharp and clear] "Lord-a-massy, Bill, what a mouth ye have when ye open it!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he leisurely poured the powder into the still smoking barrel. "Atween ye and the pups, it's enough to drive a man crazy. I should sartinly think ye had never seed a deer shot afore, by the way ye be actin'." "I've seen a good many, as you know, John Norton; but I never saw one tumbled over by a single bullet when at the very top of his jump, as that one was. I surely thought you had waited too long, and I wouldn't have given a cent for your chances when you pulled. It was a wonderful shot, John Norton, and I would take just such another tramp as I have had, to see you do it again, old man." "It wasn't bad," returned the Trapper; "no, it sartinly wasn't bad, fur he was goin' as ef the Old Harry was arter him. I shouldn't wonder ef he had felt the tech of lead down there in the holler, and the smart of his hurt kept him flyin'. Let's go and look him over, and see ef we can't find the markin's of the bullit on him." In a moment the two stood above the dead deer. "It is as I thought," said the Trapper, as he pointed with his ramrod to a stain of blood on one of the hams of the buck. "The bullit drove through his thigh here, but it didn't tech the bone, and was a sheer waste of lead, fur it only sot him goin' like an arrer. Bill, I sartinly doubt," continued the old man, as he measured the noble animal with his eye, "I sartinly doubt ef I ever seed a bigger deer. There's seven prongs on his horns, and I'd bet a horn of powder agin a chargerful that he'd weigh three hundred pounds as he lies. Lord, what a Christmas gift he'll be fur the woman! The skin will make a blanket fit fur a queen to sleep under, and the meat, jediciously cared for, will last her all winter. We must manage to git it to the edge of the clearin', anyhow, or the wolves might make free with our venison, Bill. Yer sled is a strong un, and it'll bear the loadin', ef ye go keerful." The Trapper and his companion set themselves to their task with the energy of men accustomed to surmount every obstacle, and in a short half-hour the sled, with its double loading, stopped at the door of the lonely cabin. "I don't understand this, Wild Bill," said the Trapper. "Here be a woman's tracks in the snow, and the door be left a leetle ajar, but there be no smoke in the chimney, and they sartinly ain't very noisy inside. I'll jest give a knock or two, and see ef they be stirrin';" and, suiting the action to the word, he knocked long and loud on the large door. But to his noisy summons there came no response, and without a moment of farther hesitation he shoved open the door, and entered. "God of marcy! Wild Bill," exclaimed the Trapper, "look in here!" A huge room dimly lighted, holes in the roof, here and there a heap of snow on the floor, an immense fireplace with no fire in it, and a group of scared, wild-looking children huddled together in the farther corner, like young and timid animals that had fled in affright from the nest where they had slept, at some fearful intrusion. That is what the Trapper saw. "I"--Whatever Wild Bill was about to say, his astonishment, and we may add his pity, were too profound for him to complete his ejaculation. "Don't ye be afeerd, leetle uns," said the Trapper, as he advanced into the centre of the room to more fully survey the wretched place. "This be Christmas morn, and me and Wild Bill and the pups have come over the mountain to wish ye all a merry Christmas. But where be yer mother?" queried the old man, as he looked kindly at the startled group. "We don't know where she is," answered the older of the two girls; "we thought she was in bed with us, till you woke us. We don't know where she has gone." "I have it, I have it, Wild Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, whose eyes had been busy scanning the place while talking with the children. "The rifle be gone from the hangings, and the tracks in the snow be hern. Yis, yis, I see it all. She went out in hope of gittin' the leetle uns here somethin' to eat, and that was her rifle we heerd, and her bullet made that hole in the ham of the buck. What a disappointment to the poor creetur when she seed she hadn't hit him! Her heart eena'most broke, I dare say. But the Lord was in it--leastwise, he didn't go ag'in the proper shapin' of things arterwards. Come, Bill, let's stir round lively, and get the shanty in shape a leetle, and some vict'als on the table afore she comes. Yis, git out yer axe, and slash into that dead beech at the corner of the cabin, while I sorter clean up inside. A fire is the fust thing on sech a mornin' as this; so scurry round, Bill, and bring in the wood as ef ye was a good deal in 'arnest, and do ye cut to the measure of the fireplace, and don't waste yer time in shortenin' it, fur the longer the fireplace, the longer the wood; that is, ef ye want to make it a heater." His companion obeyed with alacrity; and by the time the Trapper had cleaned out the snow, and swept down the soot from the sides of the fireplace, and put things partially to rights, Bill had stacked the dry logs into the huge opening, nearly to the upper jamb, and, with the help of some large sheets of birch-bark, kindled them to a flame. "Come here, leetle uns," said the Trapper, as he turned his good-natured face toward the children,--"come here, and put yer leetle feet on the h'arthstun, fur it's warmin', and I conceit yer toes be about freezin'." It was not in the power of children to withstand the attraction of such an invitation, extended with such a hearty voice and such benevolence of feature. The children came promptly forward, and stood in a row on the great stone, and warmed their little shivering bodies by the abundant flames. "Now, leetle folks," said the Trapper, "jest git yerselves well warmed, then git on what clothes ye've got, and we'll have some breakfast,--yis, we'll have breakfast ready by the time yer mother gits back, fur I know where she be gone, and she'll be hungry and cold when she gits in. I don't conceit that this little chap here can help much, but ye girls be big enough to help a good deal. So, when ye be warm, do ye put away the bed to the furderest corner, and shove out the table in front of the fire, and put on the dishes, sech as ye have, and be smart about it, too, fur yer mother will sartinly be comin' soon, and we must be ahead of her with the cookin'." What a change the next half-hour made in the appearance of the cabin! The huge fire sent its heat to the farthest corner of the great room. The miserable bed had been removed out of sight, and the table, drawn up in front of the fire, was set with the needed dishes. On the hearthstone a large platter of venison steak, broiled by the Trapper's skill, simmered in the heat. A mighty pile of cakes, brown to a turn, flanked one side, while a stack of potatoes baked in the ashes supported the other. The teapot sent forth its refreshing odor through the room. The children, with their faces washed and hair partially, at least, combed, ran about with bare feet on the warm floor, comfortable and happy. To them it was as a beautiful dream. The breakfast was ready, and the visitors sat waiting for the coming of her to whose assistance the angel of Christmas Eve had sent them. "Sh!" whispered the Trapper, whose quick ear had caught the sound of a dragging step in the snow. "She's comin'!" Too weary and faint, too sick at heart and exhausted in body to observe the unaccustomed signs of human presence around her dwelling, the poor woman dragged herself to the door, and opened it. The gun she still held in her hand fell rattling to the floor, and, with eyes wildly opened, she gazed bewildered at the spectacle. The blazing fire, the set table, the food on the hearthstone, the smiling children, the two men! She passed her hands across her eyes as one waking from sleep. Was she dreaming? Was this cabin the miserable hut she had left at daybreak? Was that the same fireplace in front of whose cold and cheerless recess she had crouched the night before? And were those two strangers there men, or were they angels? Was what she saw real, or was it only a fevered vision born of her weakness? Her senses actually reeled to and fro, and she trembled for a moment on the verge of unconsciousness. Indeed, the shock was so overwhelming that in another instant she would have swooned and fallen to the floor had not the growing faintness been checked by the sound of a human voice. "A merry Christmas to ye, my good woman," said the Trapper. "A merry Christmas to ye and yourn!" The woman started as the hearty tones fell on her ear, and, steadying herself by the door, she said, speaking as one partially dazed,-- "Are you John Norton the Trapper, or are you an ang--" "Ye needn't sight agin," interrupted the old man. "Yis, I'm old John Norton himself, nothin' better and nothin' wuss; and the man in the chair here by my side is Wild Bill, and ye couldn't make an angel out of him, ef ye tried from now till next Christmas. Yis, my good woman, I'm John Norton, and this is Wild Bill, and we've come over the mountain to wish ye a merry Christmas, ye and yer leetle uns, and help ye keep the day; and, ye see, we've been stirrin' a leetle in yer absence, and breakfast be waitin'. Wild Bill and me will jest go out and cut a leetle more wood, while ye warm and wash yerself; and when ye be ready to eat, ye may call us, and we'll see which can git into the house fust." So saying, the Trapper, followed by his companion, passed out of the door, while the poor woman, without a word, moved toward the fire, and, casting one look at her children, at the table, at the food on the hearthstone, dropped on her knees by a chair, and buried her face in her hands. "I say," said Wild Bill to the Trapper, as he crept softly away from the door, to which he had returned to shut it more closely, "I say, John Norton, the woman is on her knees by a chair." "Very likely, very likely," returned the old man reverently; and then he began to chop vigorously at a huge log, with his back toward his comrade. Perhaps some of you who read this tale will come some time, when weary and heart-sick, to something drearier than an empty house, some bleak, cold day, some lonely morn, and with a starving heart and benumbed soul,--ay, and empty-handed, too,--enter in only to find it swept and garnished, and what you most needed and longed for waiting for you. Then will you, too, drop upon your knees, and cover your face with your hands, ashamed that you had murmured against the hardness of your lot, or forgotten the goodness of Him who suffered you to be tried only that you might more fully appreciate the triumph. "My good woman," said the Trapper, when the breakfast was eaten, "we've come, as we said, to spend the day with you; and accordin' to custom--and a pleasant un it be fur sartin--we've brought ye some presents. A good many of them come from him who called on ye as he and me passed through the lake last fall. I dare say ye remember him, and he sartinly has remembered ye. Fur last evening when I was makin' up a leetle pack to bring ye myself,--fur I conceited I had better come over and spend the day with ye,--Wild Bill came to my door with a box on his sled that the boy had sent in from his home in the city; and in the box he had put a great many presents fur him and me; and in the lower half of the box he had put a good many presents fur ye and yer leetle uns, and we've brought them all over with us. Some of the things be fur eatin' and some of them be fur wearin'; and that there may be no misunderstanding I would say that all the things that be in the pack-basket there, and all the things that be on the sled, too, belong to ye. And as I see the woodpile isn't a very big un fur this time of the year, Bill and me be goin' out to settle our breakfast a leetle with the axes. And while we be gone, I conceit ye had better rummage the things over, and them that be good fur eatin' ye had better put in the cupboard, and them that be good fur wearin' ye had better put on yerself and yer leetle uns; and then we'll all be ready to make a fair start. Fur this be Christmas Day, and we be goin' to keep it as it orter be kept. Ef we've had sorrers, we'll forgit 'em; and we'll laugh, and eat, and be merry. Fur this be Christmas, my good woman! children, this be Christmas! Wild Bill, my boy, this be Christmas; and pups, this be Christmas! And we'll all laugh, and eat, and be merry." The joyfulness of the old man was contagious. His happiness flowed over as waters flow over the rim of a fountain. Wild Bill laughed as he seized his axe, the woman rose from the table smiling, the girls giggled, the little boy stamped, and the hounds, catching the spirit of their merry master, swung their tails round, and bayed in canine gladness; and amid the joyful uproar the old Trapper spun himself out of the door, and chased Wild Bill through the snow like a boy. The dinner was to be served at two o'clock; and what a dinner it was, and what preparations preceded! The snow had been shovelled from around the cabin, the holes in the roof roughly but effectually thatched. A good pile of wood was stacked in front of the doorway. The spring that bubbled from the bank had been cleared of ice, and a protection constructed over it. The huge buck had been dressed, and hung high above the reach of wolves. Cedar and balsam branches had been placed in the corners and along the sides of the room. Great sprays of the tasselled pine and the feathery tamarack were suspended from the ceiling. The table had been enlarged, and extra seats extemporized. The long-unused oven had been cleaned out, and under its vast dome the red flames flashed and rolled upward. What a change a few hours had brought to that lonely cabin and its wretched inmates! The woman, dressed in her new garments, her hair smoothly combed, her face lighted with smiles, looked positively comely. The girls, happy in their fine clothes and marvellous toys, danced round the room, wild with delight; while the little boy strutted about the floor in his new boots, proudly showing them to each person for the hundredth time. The hostess's attention was equally divided between the temperature of the oven and the adornment of the table. A snow-white sheet, one of a dozen she had found in the box, was drafted peremptorily into service, and did duty as a tablecloth. Oh, the innocent and funny make-shifts of poverty, and the goodly distance it can make a little go! Perhaps some of us, as we stand in our rich dining-rooms, and gaze with pride at the silver, the gold, the cut-glass, and the transparent china, can recall a little kitchen in a homely house far away, where our good mothers once set their tables for their guests, and what a brave show the few extra dishes made when they brought them out on the rare festive days! However it might strike you, fair reader, to the poor woman and her guests there was nothing incongruous in a sheet serving as a tablecloth. Was it not white and clean and properly shaped, and would it not have been a tablecloth if it hadn't been a sheet? How very nice and particular some people can be over the trifling matter of a name! And this sheet had no right to be a sheet; for any one with half an eye could see at a glance that it was predestined from the first to be a tablecloth, for it sat as smoothly on the wooden surface as pious looks on a deacon's face, while the easy and nonchalant way it draped itself at the corners was perfectly jaunty. The edges of this square of white sheeting that had thus providentially found its true and predestined use were ornamented with the leaves of the wild myrtle, stitched on in the form of scallops. In the centre, with a brave show of artistic skill, were the words, "Merry Christmas," prettily worked with the small brown cones of the pines. This, the joint product of Wild Bill's industry and the woman's taste, commanded the enthusiastic admiration of all; and even the little boy, from the height of a chair into which he had climbed, was profoundly affected by the show it made. The Trapper had charge of the meat department, and it is safe to say that no Delmonico could undertake to serve venison in greater variety than did he. To him it was a grand occasion, and--in a culinary sense--he rose grandly to meet it. What bosom is without its little vanities? and shall we laugh at the dear old man because he looked upon the opportunity before him with feeling other than pure benevolence,--even of complacency that what he was doing was being done as no one else could do it? There was venison roasted, and venison broiled, and venison fried; there was hashed venison, and venison spitted; there was a side-dish of venison sausage, strong with the odor of sage, and slightly dashed with wild thyme; and a huge kettle of soup, on whose rich creamy surface pieces of bread and here and there a slice of potato floated. "I tell ye, Bill," said the Trapper to his companion, as he stirred the soup with a long ladle, "this pot isn't actilly runnin' over with taters, but ye can see a bit occasionally ef ye look sharp and keep the ladle goin' round pretty lively. No, the taters ain't over-plenty," continued the old man, peering into the pot, and sinking his voice to a whisper, "but there wasn't but fifteen in the bag, and the woman took twelve of 'em fur her kittle, and ye can't make three taters look actilly crowded in two gallons of soup, can ye, Bill?" And the old man punched that personage in the ribs with the thumb of the hand that was free from service, while he kept the ladle going with the other. "Lord!" exclaimed the Trapper, speaking to Bill, who, having taken a look into the old man's kettle, was digging his knuckles into his eyes to free them from the spray that was jetted into them from the fountains of mirth within that were now in full play,--"Lord! ef there isn't another piece of tater gone all to pieces! Bill, ef I make another circle with this ladle, there won't be a whole slice left, and ye'll swear there wasn't a tater in the soup." And the two men, with their faces within twenty inches, laughed and laughed like boys. How sweet it is to think that when the Maker set up this strange instrument we call ourselves, and strung it for service, he selected of the heavy chords so few, and of the lighter ones so many! Some muffled ones there are; some slow and solemn sounds swell sadly forth at intervals, but blessed be God that we are so easily tickled, and the world is so funny that within it, even when exiled from home and friends, we find, as the days come and go, the causes and occasions of hilarity! Wild Bill had been placed in charge of the liquids. What a satire there is in circumstances, and how those of to-day laugh at those of yesterday! Yes, Wild Bill had charge of the liquids,--no mean charge, when the occasion is considered. Nor was the position without its embarrassments, as few honorable positions are, for it brought him face to face with the problem of the day--dishes; for, between the two cooks of the occasion, every dish in the cabin had been brought into requisition, and poor Bill was left in the predicament of having to make tea and coffee with no pots to make them in. But Bill was not lacking in wit, if he was in pots, and he solved the conundrum how to make tea without a teapot in a manner that extorted the woman's laughter, and commanded the old Trapper's admiration. In ransacking the lofts above the apartment, he had lighted on several large, stone jugs, which, with the courage--shall we call it the audacity?--of genius, he had seized upon; and, having thoroughly rinsed them, and freed them from certain odors,--which we are free to say Bill was more or less familiar with,--he brought them forward as substitutes for kettle and pot. Indeed, they worked admirably, for in them the berry and the leaves might not only be properly steeped, but the flavor could be retained beyond what it might in many of our famous and high-sounding patented articles. But Bill, while ingenious and courageous to the last degree, was lacking in education, especially in scientific directions. He had never been made acquainted with that great promoter of modern civilization--the expansive properties of steam. The corks he had whittled out for his bravely extemporized tea and coffee pots were of the closest fit; and, as they had been inserted with the energy of a man who, having conquered a serious difficulty, is determined to reap the full benefit of his triumph, there was at least no danger that the flavor of the concoctions would escape through any leakage at the muzzle. Having thus prepared them for steeping, he placed the jugs in his corner of the fireplace, and pushed them well up through the ashes to the live coals. "Wild Bill," said the Trapper, who wished to give his companion the needed warning in as delicate and easy a manner as possible, "Wild Bill, ye have sartinly got the right idee techin' the makin' of tea and coffee, fur the yarb should be steeped, and the berry too,--leastwise, arter it's biled up once or twice,--and therefore it be only reasonable that the nozzles should be closed moderately tight; but a man wants considerable experience in the business, or he's likely to overdo it jest a leetle, and ef ye don't cut some slots in them wooden corks ye've driven into them nozzles, Bill, there'll be a good deal of tea and coffee floatin' round in your corner of the fireplace afore many minutes, and I conceit there'll be a man about your size lookin' for a couple of corks and pieces of jugs out there in the clearin', too." "Do you think so?" answered Bill incredulously. "Don't you be scared, old man, but keep on stirring your soup and turning the meat, and I'll keep my eye on the bottles." "That's right, Bill," returned the Trapper; "ye keep yer eye right on 'em, specially on that un that's furderest in toward the butt of the beech log there; fur ef there's any vartue in signs, that jug be gittin' oneasy. Yis," continued the old man, after a minute's pause, during which his eye hadn't left the jug, "yis, that jug will want more room afore many minutes, ef I'm any jedge, and I conceit I had better give it the biggest part of the fireplace;" and the Trapper hastily moved the soap and his half-dozen plates of cooked meats to the other end of the hearthstone, whither he retired himself, like one who, feeling that he is called upon to contend with unknown forces, wisely beats a retreat. He even put himself behind a stack of wood that lay piled up in his corner, like one who does not despise, in a sudden emergency, an artificial protection. "Bill," called the Trapper, "edge round a leetle,--edge round, and git in closer to the jamb. It's sheer foolishness standin' where ye be, fur the water will be wallopin' in a minit, and ef the corks be swelled in the nozzle, there'll be an explosion. Git in toward the jamb, and watch the ambushment under kiver." "Old man," answered Bill, as he turned his back carelessly toward the fireplace, "I've got the bearin's of this trail, and know what I'm about. The jugs are as strong as iron kittles, and I ain't afraid of their bust"-- Bill never finished the sentence, for the explosion predicted by the Trapper occurred. It was a tremendous one, and the huge fireplace was filled with flying brands, ashes, and clouds of steam. The Trapper ducked his head, the woman screamed, and the hounds rushed howling to the farthest end of the room; while Bill, with half a somersault, disappeared under the table. "Hurrah!" shouted the Trapper, lifting his head from behind the wood, and critically surveying the scene. "Hurrah, Bill!" he shouted, as he swung the ladle over his head. "Come out from under the table, and man yer battery agin. Yer old mortars was loaded to the muzzle, and ef ye had depressed the pieces a leetle, ye'd 'a' blowed the cabin to splinters; as it was, the chimney got the biggest part of the chargin', and ye'll find yer rammers on the other side of the mountain." It was, in truth, a scene of uproarious hilarity; for once the explosion was over, and the woman and children saw there was no danger, and apprehended the character of the performance, they joined unrestrainedly in the Trapper's laughter, in which they were assisted by Wild Bill, as if he were not the victim of his own over-confidence. "I say, old Trapper," he called from under the table, "did both guns go off? I was gitting under cover when the battery opened, and didn't notice whether the firing was in sections or along the whole line. If there's a piece left, I think I will stay where I am; for I am in a good position to observe the range, and watch the effect of the shot. I say, hadn't you better get behind the wood-pile again?" "No, no," interrupted the Trapper; "the whole battery went at the word, Bill, and there isn't a gun or a gun-carriage left in the casement. Ye've wasted a gill of the yarb, and a quarter of a pound of the berry; and ye must hurry up with another outfit of bottles, or we'll have nothin' but water to drink at the dinner." The dinner! That great event of the day, the crown and diadem to its royalty, and which became it so well, was ready promptly to the hour. The table, enlarged as it was to nearly double its original dimensions, could scarcely accommodate the abundance of the feast. Ah, if some sweet power would only enlarge our hearts when, on festive days, we enlarge our tables, how many of the world's poor, that now go hungry while we feast, would then be fed! At one end of the table sat the Trapper, Wild Bill at the other. The woman's chair was at the centre of one of the sides, so that she sat facing the fire, whose generous flames might well symbolize the abundance which amid cold and hunger had so suddenly come to her. On her right hand the two girls sat; on her left, the boy. A goodly table, a goodly fire, and a goodly company,--what more could the Angel of Christmas ask to see? Thus were they seated, ready to begin the repast; but the plates remained untouched, and the happy noises which had to that moment filled the cabin ceased; for the Angel of Silence, with noiseless step, had suddenly entered the room. There's a silence of grief, there's a silence of hatred, there's a silence of dread; of these, men may speak, and these they can describe. But the silence of our happiness, who can describe that? When the heart is full, when the long longing is suddenly met, when love gives to love abundantly, when the soul lacketh nothing and is content,--then language is useless, and the Angel of Silence becomes our only adequate interpreter. A humble table, surely, and humble folk around it; but not in the houses of the rich or the palaces of kings does gratitude find her only home, but in more lowly abodes and with lowly folk--ay, and often at the scant table, too--she sitteth a perpetual guest. Was it memory? Did the Trapper at that brief moment visit his absent friend? Did Wild Bill recall his wayward past? Were the thoughts of the woman busy with sweet scenes of earlier days? And did memory, by thus reminding them of the absent and the past, of the sweet things that had been and were, stir within their hearts thoughts of Him from whom all gifts descend, and of His blessed Son, in whose honor the day was named? O memory! thou tuneful bell that ringeth on forever, friend at our feasts, and friend, too, let us call thee, at our burial, what music can equal thine? For in thy mystic globe all tunes abide,--the birthday note for kings, the marriage peal, the funeral knell, the gleeful jingle of merry mirth, and those sweet chimes that float our thoughts, like fragrant ships upon a fragrant sea, toward heaven,--all are thine! Ring on, thou tuneful bell; ring on, while these glad ears may drink thy melody; and when thy chimes are heard by me no more, ring loud and clear above my grave that peal which echoes to the heavens, and tells the world of immortality, that they who come to mourn may check their tears, and say, "_Why do we weep? He liveth still!_" "The Lord be praised fur his goodness!" said the Trapper, whose thoughts unconsciously broke into speech. "The Lord be praised fur his goodness, and make us grateful fur his past marcies, and the plenty that be here!" And looking down upon the viands spread before him, he added, "The Lord be good to the boy, and make him as happy in his city home as be they who be wearin' and eatin' his gifts in the woods!" "Amen!" said the woman softly, and a grateful tear fell on her plate. "A--hem!" said Wild Bill; and then looking down upon his warm suit, he lifted his voice, and bringing it out in a clear, strong tone, said, "_Amen! hit or miss!_" At many a table that day more formal grace was said, by priest and layman alike, and at many a table, by lips of old and young, response was given to the benediction; but we doubt if over all the earth a more honest grace was said or assented to than the Lord heard from the cabin in the woods. The feast and the merry-making now began. The old Trapper was in his best mood, and fairly bubbled over with humor. The wit of Wild Bill was naturally keen, and it flashed at its best as he ate. The children stuffed and laughed as only children on such an elastic occasion can. And as for the poor woman, it was impossible for her, in the midst of such a scene, to be otherwise than happy, and she joined modestly in the conversation, and laughed heartily at the witty sallies. But why should we strive to put on paper the wise, the funny, and the pleasant things that were said, the exclamations, the laughter, the story, the joke, the verbal thrust and parry of such an occasion? These, springing from the centre of the circumstance, and flashed into being at the instant, cannot be preserved for after-rehearsal. Like the effervescence of champagne, they jet and are gone; their force passes away with the noise that accompanied its out-coming. Is it not enough to record that the dinner was a success, that the Trapper's meats were put upon the table in a manner worthy of his reputation, that the woman's efforts at pastry-making were generously applauded, and that Wild Bill's tea and coffee were pronounced by the hostess the best she had ever tasted? Perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed, as certainly none was ever more heartily eaten. [Illustration: Perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed] The wonder and pride of the table was the pudding,--a creation of Indian-meal, flour, suet, and raisins, re-enforced and assisted by innumerable spicy elements supposed to be too mysterious to be grasped by the masculine mind. In the production of this wonderful centre-piece,--for it had been unanimously voted the place of honor,--the poor woman had summoned all the latent resources of her skill, and in reference to it her pride and fear contended, while the anxiety with which she rose to serve it was only too plainly depicted on her countenance. What if it should prove a failure? What if she had made a miscalculation as to the amount of suet required,--a point upon which she had been somewhat confused? What if the raisins were not sufficiently distributed? What if it wasn't done through, and should turn out pasty? Great heavens! The last thought was of so overwhelming a character that no feminine courage could encounter it. Who may describe the look with which she watched the Trapper as he tasted it, or the expression of relief which brightened her anxious face when he pronounced warmly in its favor? "It's a wonderful bit of cookin'," he said, addressing himself to Wild Bill, "and I sartinly doubt ef there be anything in the settlements to-day that can equal it. There be jest enough of the suet, and there be a plum fur every mouthful; and it be solid enough to stay in the mouth ontil ye've had time to chew it, and git a taste of the corn,--and I wouldn't give a cent for a puddin' ef it gits away from yer teeth fast. Yis, it be a wonderful bit of cookin'," and, turning to the woman, he added, "ye may well be proud of it." What higher praise could be bestowed? And as it was re-echoed by all present, and plate after plate was passed for a second filling, the dinner came to an end with the greatest good feeling and hilarity. IV. "Now fur the sled!" exclaimed the Trapper, as he rose from the table. "It be a good many years since I've straddled one, but nothin' settles a dinner quicker, or suits the leetle folks better. I conceit the crust be thick enough to bear us up, and, ef it is, we can fetch a course from the upper edge of the clearin' fifty rods into the lake. Come, childun, git on yer mittens and yer tippets, and h'ist along to the big pine, and ye shall have some fun ye won't forgit ontil yer heads be whiter than mine." It is needless to record that the children hailed with delight the proposition of the Trapper, or that they were at the appointed spot long before the speaker and his companion reached it with the sled. "Wild Bill," said the Trapper, as they stood on the crest of the slope down which they were to glide, "the crust be smooth as glass, and the hill be a steep un. I sartinly doubt ef mortal man ever rode faster than this sled'll be goin' by the time it gits to where the bank pitches into the lake; and ef ye should git a leetle careless in yer steering Bill, and hit a stump, I conceit that nothin' but the help of the Lord or the rottenness of the stump would save ye from etarnity." Now, Wild Bill was blessed with a sanguine temperament. To him no obstacle seemed serious if bravely faced. Indeed, his natural confidence in himself bordered on recklessness, to which the drinking habits of his life had, perhaps, contributed. When the Trapper had finished speaking, Bill ran his eye carelessly down the steep hillside, smooth and shiny as polished steel, and said, "Oh, this isn't anything extry for a hill. I've steered a good many steeper ones, and in nights when the moon was at the half, and the sled overloaded at that. It don't make any difference how fast you go," he added, "if you only keep in the path, and don't hit anything." "That's it, that's it," replied the Trapper. "But the trouble here be to keep in the path, fur, in the fust place, there isn't any path, and the stumps be pretty thick, and I doubt ef ye can line a trail from here to the bank by the lake without one or more sudden twists in it, and a twist in the trail, goin' as fast as we'll be goin', has got to be taken jediciously, or somethin' will happen. I say, Bill, what p'int will ye steer fur?" Wild Bill, thus addressed, proceeded to give his opinion touching the proper direction of the flight they were to make. Indeed, he had been closely examining the ground while the Trapper was speaking, and therefore gave his opinion promptly and with confidence. "Ye have chosen the course with jedgment," said the old man approvingly, after he had studied the line his companion pointed out critically for a moment. "Yis, Bill, ye have a nateral eye for the business, and I sartinly have more confidence in ye than I had a minit ago, when ye was talkin' about a steeper hill than this; fur this hill drops mighty sudden in the pitches, and the crust be smooth as ice, and the sled'll go like a streak when it gits started. But the course ye've p'inted out be a good un, fur there be only one bad turn in it, and good steerin' orter put a sled round that. I say," continued the old man, turning toward his companion, and pointing out the crook in the course at the bottom of the second dip, "can ye swing around that big stump there without upsettin' when ye come to it?" "Swing around? Of course I can," retorted Wild Bill positively. "There's plenty room to the left, and"-- "Ay, ay; there be plenty of room, as ye say, ef ye don't take too much of it," interrupted the Trapper. "But"-- "I tell you," broke in the other, "I'll turn my back to no man in steering a sled; and I can put this sled, and you on it, around that stump a hundred times, and never lift a runner." "Well, well," responded the Trapper, "have it your own way. I dare say ye be good at steerin', and I sartinly know I'm good at ridin'; and I can ride as fast as ye can steer, ef ye hit every stump in the clearin'. Now, childun," continued the old man, turning to the little group, "we be goin' to try the course; and ef the crust holds up, and Wild Bill keeps clear of the stumps, and nothin' onusual happens, ye shall have all the slidin' ye want afore ye go in. Come, Bill, git yer sled p'inted right, and I'll be gittin' on, and we'll see ef ye can steer an old man round a stump as handily as ye say ye can." The directions of the Trapper were promptly obeyed, and in an instant the sled was in a right position, and the Trapper proceeded to seat himself with the carefulness of one who feels he is embarking on a somewhat uncertain venture, and has grave misgivings as to what will be the upshot of the undertaking. The sled was large and strongly built; and it added not a little to his comfort to feel that he could put entire confidence in the structure beneath them. "The sled'll hold," he said to himself, "ef the loadin' goes to the jedgment." The Trapper was no sooner seated than Wild Bill threw himself upon the sled, with one leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind. This was a method of steering that had come into vogue since the Trapper's boyhood, for in his day the steersman sat astride the sled, with his feet thrust forward, and steered by the pressure of either heel upon the snow. [Illustration: One leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind] "Hold on, Bill!" exclaimed the Trapper, whose eye this novel method of steering had not escaped. "Hold on, and hold up a minit. Heavens and 'arth! ye don't mean to steer this sled with one toe, do ye, and that, too, the length of a rifle-barrel astarn? Wheel round, and spread yer legs out as ye orter, and steer this sled in an honest fashion, or there'll be trouble aboard afore ye git to the bottom." "Sit round!" retorted Bill. "How could I see to steer if I was sitting right back of you? For you're nigh a foot taller than I be, and your shoulders are as broad as the sled." "Yer p'ints be well taken, fur sartin," replied the Trapper; "fur it be no more than reasonable that the man that steers should see where he be goin', and I am anxious as ye be that ye should. Yis, I sartinly want ye to see where ye be goin' on this trip, anyhow, fur the crew be a fresh un, and the channel be a leetle crooked. But be ye sartin, Bill, that ye can fetch round that stump there as it orter be did, with nothin' but yer toe out behind? It may be the best way, as ye say, but it don't look like honest steerin' to a man of my years." "I have used both ways," answered Bill, "and I give you my word, old man, that this is the best one. You can git a big swing with your foot stretched out in this fashion, and the sled feels the least pressure of the toe. Yes, it's all right. John Norton, are you ready?" "Yis, yis, as ready as I ever shall be," answered the Trapper, in a voice in which doubt and resignation were equally mingled. "It may be as ye say," he continued; "but the rudder be too fur behind to suit me, and ef anything happens on this cruise, jest remember, Wild Bill, that my jedgment"-- The sentence the Trapper was uttering was abruptly cut short at this point; for Bill had started the sled with a sudden push, and leaped to his seat behind the Trapper as it glided downward and away. In an instant the sled was under full headway, for the dip was a sharp one, and the crust smooth as ice. Scarce had it gone ten rods from the point where it started before it was in full flight, and was gliding downward with what would have been, to any but a man of the steadiest nerve, a frightful velocity. But the Trapper was of too cool and courageous temperament to be disturbed even by actual danger. Indeed, the swiftness of their downward career, as the sled with a buzz and a roar swept along over the resounding crust, stirred the old man's blood with a tingle of excitement; while the splendid manner with which Wild Bill was keeping it to the course settled upon filled him with admiration, and was fast making him a convert to the new method of steering. Downward they flashed. The Trapper's cap had been blown from his head; and as the old man sat bolt-upright on his sled, his feet bravely planted on the round, his face flushed, and his white hair streaming, he looked the very picture of hearty enjoyment. Above his head the face of Wild Bill looked actually sharpened by the pressure of the air on either cheek as it clove through it; but his lips were bravely set, and his eyes were fastened without winking on the big stump ahead, toward which they were rushing. It was at this point that Wild Bill vindicated his ability as a steersman, and at the same time barely escaped shipwreck. At the proper moment he swept his foot to the left, and the sled, in obedience to the pressure, swooped in that direction. But in his anxiety to give the stump a wide berth, Bill overdid the pressure that was needed a trifle; for in calculating the curve required he had failed to allow for the sidewise motion of the sled, and, instead of hitting one stump, it looked for an instant as if he would be precipitated among a dozen. "Heave her starn up, Wild Bill! up with her starn, I say," yelled the Trapper, "or there won't be a stump left in the clearin'." With a quickness and courage that would have done credit to any steersman,--for the speed at which they were going was terrific,--Bill swept his foot to the right, leaning his body well over at the same instant. The Trapper instinctively seconded his endeavors, and with hands that gripped either side of the sled he hung over that side which was upon the point of going into the air. For several rods the sled glided along on a single runner, and then, righting itself with a lurch, jumped the summit of the last dip, and raced away, like a swallow in full flight, toward the lake. Now, at the edge of the clearing that bounded the shore was a bank of considerable size. Shrubs and stunted bushes fringed the crest of it. These had been buried beneath the snow, and the crust had formed smoothly over them; and as it was upheld by no stronger support than such as the hidden shrubbery furnished, it was incapable of sustaining any considerable pressure. Certainly no sled was ever moving faster than was Wild Bill's, when it came to this point; and certainly no sled ever stopped quicker, for the treacherous crust dropped suddenly under it, and the sled was left with nothing but the hind part of one of the runners sticking up in sight. But though the sled was suddenly checked in its career, the Trapper and Wild Bill continued their flight. The former slid from the sled without meeting any obstruction, and with the same velocity with which he had been moving. Indeed, so little was his position changed, that one almost might fancy that no accident had happened, and that the old man was gliding forward to the end of the course with an adequate structure under him. But with the latter it "was far different; for, as the sled stopped, he was projected sharply upward into the air, and, after turning several somersaults, he actually landed in front of the Trapper, and glided along on the slippery surface ahead of him. And so the two men shot onward, one after the other, while the children cackled from the hill-top, and the woman swung her bonnet over her head, and laughed from her position in the doorway. "Bill," called the Trapper, when by dint of much effort they had managed to check their motion somewhat, "Bill, ef the cruise be about over, I conceit we'd better anchor hereabouts. But I shipped fur the voyage, and ye be capt'in, and as ye've finally got the right way to steer, I feel pretty safe techin' the futur." It was not until they had come to a full stop, and looked around them, that they realized the distance they had come; for they had in truth slid nearly across the bay. "I've boated a good many times on these waters, and under sarcumstances that called fur 'arnest motion, but I sartinly never went across this bay as fast as I've did it to-day. How do ye feel, Bill, how do ye feel?" "A good deal shaken up," was the answer, "a good deal shaken up." "I conceit as much," answered the Trapper, "I conceit as much, fur ye left the sled with mighty leetle deliberation; and when I saw yer legs comin' through the air, I sartinly doubted ef the ice would hold ye. But ye steered with jedgment; yis, ye steered with jedgment, Bill; and I'd said it ef we'd gone to the bottom." The sun was already set when they returned to the cabin; for, selecting a safer course, they had given the children an hour's happy sliding. The woman had prepared some fresh tea and a lunch, which they ate with lessened appetites, but with humor that never flagged. When it was ended, the old Trapper rose to depart, and with a dignity and tenderness peculiarly his own, thus spoke:-- "My good woman," he said, "the moon will soon be up, and the time has come fur me to be goin'. I've had a happy day with ye and the leetle uns; and the trail over the mountain will seem shorter, as the pups and me go home, thinkin' on't. Wild Bill will stay a few days, and put things a leetle more to rights, and git up a wood-pile that will keep ye from choppin' fur a good while. It's his own thought, and ye can thank him accordin'ly." Then, having kissed each of the children, and spoken a few words to Wild Bill, he took the woman's hand, and said,-- "The sorrers of life be many, but the Lord never forgits. I've lived ontil my head be whitenin', and I've noted that though he moves slowly, he fetches most things round about the time we need 'em; and the things that be late in comin', I conceit we shall git somewhere furder on. Ye didn't kill the big buck this mornin', but the meat ye needed hangs at yer door, nevertheless." And, shaking the woman heartily by the hand, he whistled to the hounds, and passed out of the door. The inmates of the cabin stood and watched him, until, having climbed the slope of the clearing, he disappeared in the shadows of the forest; and then they closed the door. But more than once Wild Bill noted that as the woman stood wiping her dishes, she wiped her eyes as well; and more than once he heard her say softly to herself. "God bless the dear old man!" Ay, ay, poor woman, we join thee in thy prayer. God bless the dear old man! and not only him, but all who do the deeds he did. God bless them one and all! Over the crusted snow the Trapper held his course, until he came, with a happy heart, to his cabin. Soon a fire was burning on his own hearthstone, and the hounds were in their accustomed place. He drew the table in front, where the fire's fine light fell on his work, and, taking some green vines and branches from the basket, began to twine a wreath. One he twined, and then he began another; and often, as he twined the fadeless branches in, he paused, and long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall; and when the wreaths were twined, he hung them on the frames, and, standing in front of the dumb reminders of his absent ones, he said, "I miss them so!" [Illustration: Long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall] Ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is passed, when the sweet Christmas chimes are rung for other ears than ours, when other hands set the green branches up, and other feet glide down the polished floor, may there be those still left behind to twine us wreaths, and say, "_We miss them so!_" And this is the way John Norton the Trapper kept his Christmas. 
43473	----	http://www.freeliterature.org (Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive - Oxford Bodleian Library) THE TRAPPERS OF ARKANSAS OR THE LOYAL HEART BY GUSTAVE AIMARD AUTHOR OF "SMUGGLER CHIEF," "STRONG HAND," "PRAIRIE FLOWER," ETC. LONDON WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET LONDON MDCCCLXIV PREFACE. The publication of the present volume of Gustave Aimard's works renders the series complete. It takes its place as the first of all: and it is succeeded by the "Border Rifles," "Freebooters," and "White Scalper." In exciting scenes and perilous adventures, this work, if possible, surpasses all those which have as yet been offered to the English reader. Moreover it enables the development of Aimard's literary talent to be distinctly traced. The critic will discover, that, at first, Gustave Aimard's brain so teemed with incidents, that he paid slight attention to plot, and hence this volume--as is indeed generally the case with works relative to Indian life and character--consists rather of a succession of exciting adventures than of a regularly developed drama. This fault our Author has corrected in his later works: his hand, at first better suited to wield the bowie knife than the pen, has regained its pliancy; and the ever increasing encouragement bestowed on his stories in England, is a gratifying proof that his efforts after artistic improvement have been fully appreciated. L.W. CONTENTS. PROLOGUE. I. HERMOSILLO II. THE HACIENDA DEL MILAGRO III. THE SENTENCE IV. THE MOTHER PART I. I. THE PRAIRIE II. THE HUNTERS III. THE TRAIL IV. THE TRAVELLERS V. THE COMANCHES VI. THE PRESERVER VII. THE SURPRISE VIII. INDIAN VENGEANCE IX. THE PHANTOM X. THE ENTRENCHED CAMP XI. THE BARGAIN XII. PSYCHOLOGICAL XIII. THE BEE-HUNT XIV. BLACK ELK XV. THE BEAVERS XVI. TREACHERY XVII. EAGLE HEAD XVIII. NÔ EUSEBIO XIX. THE COUNCIL OF THE GREAT CHIEFS XX. THE TORTURE PART II. I. LOYAL HEART II. THE PIRATES III. DEVOTEDNESS IV. THE DOCTOR V. THE ALLIANCE VI. THE LAST ASSAULT VII. THE BATTLE VIII. THE CAVERN OF VERDIGRIS IX. DIPLOMACY X. LOVE XI. THE PRISONERS XII. A RUSE DE GUERRE XIII. THE LAW OF THE PRAIRIES XIV. THE CHASTISEMENT XV. THE PARDON EPILOGUE CHAPTER I. HERMOSILLO. The traveller who for the first time lands in the southern provinces of America involuntarily feels an undefinable sadness. In fact, the history of the New World is nothing but a lamentable martyrology, in which fanaticism and cupidity continually go hand in hand. The search for gold was the origin of the discovery of the New World; that gold once found, America became for its conquerors merely a storehouse, whither greedy adventurers came, a poniard in one hand and a crucifix in the other, to gather an ample harvest of the so ardently coveted metal, after which they returned to their own countries to make a display of their riches, and provoke fresh emigrations, by the boundless luxury they indulged in. It is to this continual displacement that must be attributed, in America, the absence of those grand monuments, the foundation stones as it were of every colony which plants itself in a new country with a view of becoming perpetuated. If you traverse at the present day this vast continent, which, during three centuries, has been in the peaceable possession of the Spaniards,--you only meet here and there, and at long distances apart, with a few nameless ruins to attest their passage; whilst the monuments erected many ages before the discovery, by the Aztecs and the Incas, are still standing in their majestic simplicity, as an imperishable evidence of their presence in the country and of their efforts to attain civilization. Alas! what has resulted from those glorious conquests, so envied by the whole of Europe, in which the blood of the executioner was mingled with that of the victims, to the profit of that other nation, at that time so proud of its valiant captains, of its fertile territories, and of its commerce which embraced the entire world? Time has held on his march, and Southern America is at this hour expiating the crimes of which she was the instigation. Torn by factions which contend for an ephemeral power; oppressed by ruinous oligarchies; deserted by the strangers who have fattened upon her substance, she is sinking slowly beneath the weight of her own inertia, without having the strength to lift the leaden winding sheet which stifles her, and is destined never to awaken again till the day when a new race, unstained by homicide, and governed by laws framed after those of God, shall bring to her the labour and liberty which are the life of nations. In a word, the Hispano-American race has perpetuated itself in the domains bequeathed to it, by its ancestors, without extending their boundaries; its heroism was extinguished in the tomb of Charles V, and it has preserved nothing of the mother country but its hospitable customs, its religious intolerance, its monks, its guitarreros, and its mendicants armed with muskets. Of all the states that form the vast Mexican confederation, that of Sonora is the only one which, by its conflicts with the Indian tribes that surround it, and a continual intercourse with these races, has preserved a distinctive physiognomy. The manners of its inhabitants have a certain wild character, which distinguishes them, at the first glance, from those of the interior provinces. The Rio Gila may be considered the northern limit of this state: on the east and west it is bounded by the Sierra Madre and the Gulf of California. The Sierra Madre beyond Durango divides into two chains; the principal continues the grand direction from north to south; the other tends towards the west, running along, in the rear of the states of Durango and Guadalajara, all the regions which terminate at the Pacific. This branch of the Cordilleras forms the southern limits of Sonora. Nature seems to have taken a delight in lavishing her benefits upon this country. The climate is clear, temperate, salubrious; gold, silver, the most fertile soil, the most delicious fruits, and medicinal herbs abound; there are to be found the most efficacious balms, insects the most useful for dyeing, the rarest marbles, the most precious stones, as well as game and fish of all sorts. But in the vast solitudes of the Rio Gila and the Sierra Madre, the independent Indians, the Comanches, Pawnees, Pimas, Opatas, and Apaches, have declared a rude war against the white race, and in their implacable and incessant incursions, make them pay dearly for the possession of all those riches of which their ancestors despoiled the natives, and which they incessantly endeavour to recover again without ceasing. The three principal cities of the Sonora are Guaymas, Hermosillo, and Arispe. Hermosillo, anciently Pitic, and which the expedition of the Count de Raouset Boulbon has rendered famous, is the _entrepôt_ of the Mexican commerce of the Pacific, and numbers more than nine thousand inhabitants. This city, built upon a plateau which sinks towards the north, in a gentle declivity to the sea, leans and shelters itself against a hill named El Cerro de la Campana (Mountain of the Bell), whose summit is crowned with enormous blocks of stone, which, when struck, render a clear metallic sound. In other respects, like its other American sisters, this ciudad is dirty, built of pisé bricks, and presents to the astonished eyes of the traveller a mixture of ruins, negligence, and desolation which saddens the soul. On the day in which this story commences, that is to say, the 17th January, 1817, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, a time when the ordinary population are taking the _siesta_ in the most retired apartments of their dwellings, the city of Hermosillo, generally so calm and quiet, presented an unusual aspect. A vast number of leperos, gambusinos, contrabandists, and, above all, of rateros, were crowded together, with cries, menaces, and wild howlings, in the Calle del Rosario (Street of the Rosary). A few Spanish soldiers,--at that period Mexico had not shaken off the yoke of the mother country,--were endeavouring in vain to re-establish order and disperse the crowd, by striking heavily, right and left, with the shafts of their lances, all the individuals who came in their way. But the tumult, far from diminishing, on the contrary rapidly increased; the Hiaquis Indians, in particular, mingled with the crowd, yelled and gesticulated in a truly frightful manner. The windows of the houses were filled with the heads of men and women, who, with looks directed towards the Cerro de la Campana, from the foot of which arose thick clouds of smoke in large volumes towards the heavens, seemed to be in expectation of some extraordinary event. All at once loud cries were heard; the crowd divided in two, like an overripe pomegranate, everyone throwing himself on one side or the other, with marks of the greatest terror; and a young man, or a boy rather, for he was scarcely sixteen, appeared, borne along like a whirlwind by the furious gallop of a half wild horse. "Stop him!" cried some. "Lasso him!" cried others. "_Válgame Dios!_" the women murmured, crossing themselves. "It is the demon himself." But everyone, instead of stopping him, got out of his way as quickly as he could; the bold boy continued his rapid course, with a jeering smile upon his lips, his face inflamed, his eye sparkling, and distributing, right and left, smart blows with his _chicote_ on all who ventured too near him, or whose unfortunate destiny prevented them from getting out of his way as fast as they would have wished. "Eh! eh! _Caspita!_" (said, as the boy jostled him in passing, a _vaquero_ with a stupid countenance and athletic limbs,) "Devil take the madman, he nearly knocked me down! Eh! but," he added, after having cast a glance at the young man, "if I mistake not, that is Rafaël, my neighbour's son! Wait a moment, _picaro!_" While speaking this aside between his teeth, the vaquero unrolled the lasso which he wore fastened to his belt, and set off running in the direction of the horseman. The crowd, who understood his intention, applauded with enthusiasm. "Bravo, bravo!" they cried. "Don't miss him, Cornejo!" some vaqueros encouragingly shouted, clapping their hands. Cornejo, since we know the name of this interesting personage, gained insensibly upon the boy, before whom obstacles multiplied more and more. Warned of the perils which threatened him, by the cries of the spectators, the horseman turned his head. Then he saw the vaquero. A livid paleness covered his countenance; he felt that he was lost. "Let me escape, Cornejo," he cried, choking with tears. "No, no!" the crowd howled; "lasso him! lasso him!" The populace took great interest in this manhunt; they feared to find themselves cheated of a spectacle which gave them much satisfaction. "Surrender," the giant replied; "or else, I warn you, I will lasso you like a ciboto." "I will not surrender," the boy said resolutely. The two speakers still held on their way, the one on foot, the other on horseback. The crowd followed, howling with pleasure. The masses are thus everywhere--barbarous and without pity. "Leave me, I say," the boy resumed, "or I swear by the blessed souls of purgatory, that evil will befall you!" The vaquero sneered, and whirled his lasso round his head. "Be warned, Rafaël," he said; "for the last time, will you surrender?" "No! a thousand times no!" the boy cried, passionately. "By the grace of God, then!" said the vaquero. The lasso whizzed and flew through the air. But a strange thing happened at the same moment. Rafaël stopped his horse short, as if it had been changed into a block of granite; and, springing from the saddle, he bounded like a tiger upon the giant, whom the shock bore down upon the sand; and before anybody could oppose him, he plunged into his throat the knife which all Mexicans wear in their belts. A long stream of blood spouted into the face of the boy, the vaquero writhed about for a few seconds, and then remained motionless. He was dead! The crowd uttered a cry of horror and fear. Quick as lightning, the boy had regained his saddle, and recommenced his desperate course, brandishing his knife, and laughing with the grin of a demon. When, after the first moment of stupor had passed, the people turned to pursue the murderer, he had disappeared. No one could tell which way he had gone. As is generally the case under such circumstances, the juez de letras (criminal judge), accompanied by a crowd of ragged alguaciles, arrived on the spot where the murder had been committed when it was too late. The juez de letras, Don Inigo Tormentes Albaceyte, was a man of some fifty years of age, short and stout, with an apoplectic face, who took snuff out of a gold box enriched with diamonds, and concealed under an apparent _bonhomie_ a profound avarice backed by excessive cunning and a coolness which nothing could move. Contrary to what might have been expected, the worthy magistrate did not appear the least in the world disconcerted by the flight of the assassin; he shook his head two or three times, cast a glance round the crowd, and winked his little grey eye,-- "Poor Cornejo!" he said, stuffing his nose philosophically with snuff: "this was sure to happen to him some day or other." "Yes," said a lepero, "he was neatly killed!" "That is what I was thinking," the judge replied; "he who gave this blow knew what he was about; the fellow is a practised hand." "Humph!" the lepero replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, "he is a boy." "Bah!" the judge said, with feigned astonishment, and casting an under-glance at the speaker; "a boy!" "Little more," the lepero added, proud of being thus listened to; "it was Rafaël, Don Ramón's eldest son." "Ah! ah! ah!" the judge said, with a secret satisfaction. "But no," he went on, "that is not possible; Rafaël is but sixteen at most; he would never have been so foolish as to quarrel with Cornejo, who, by only grasping his arm, could have disabled him." "Nevertheless, it was as I tell your excellency,--we all saw it. Rafaël had been playing at _monte_, at Don Aguillar's, and it appears that luck was not favourable to him; he lost all the money he had; he then flew into a rage, and to avenge himself, set fire to the house." "Caspita!" said the judge. "It was just as I have the honour to tell your excellency; look, the smoke may yet be seen, though the house is in ashes." "Well, it seems so," the judge said, turning his eyes to the point indicated by the lepero. "And, then----" "Then," the other continued, "he naturally wished to escape. Cornejo endeavoured to stop him." "He was right!" "Well, he was wrong, I think; for Rafaël killed him!" "That's true! that's true!" said the judge; "but be satisfied, my good people, justice will avenge him." This promise was received by all present with a smile of doubt. The magistrate, without concerning himself about the impression produced by his words, ordered his acolytes, who had already examined and plundered the defunct, to take the body away, and transport it to the porch of the nearest church, and then returned to his residence, rubbing his hands with a satisfied air. The judge put on a travelling dress, placed a brace of pistols in his belt, fastened a long sword to his side, and, after taking a light dinner, went out. Ten alguaciles, armed to the teeth, and mounted on strong horses, waited for him at the door; a domestic held the bridle of a magnificent black horse, which pawed the ground and champed the bit impatiently. Don Inigo placed himself in the saddle, headed his men, and the troop went off at a gentle trot. "Eh! eh!" said the curious, who were stationed around upon the doorsteps. "The Juez Albaceyte is going to Don Ramón Garillas's; we shall hear some news tomorrow." "Caspita!" others replied; "his picaro of a son has fairly earned the cord that is to hang him!" "Humph!" said a lepero, with a smile of regret; "that would be unfortunate! the lad promises so well! By my word, the _cuchillada_ he gave Cornejo was magnificent. The poor devil was neatly killed." In the meantime, the judge continued his journey, returning with punctuality all the salutations with which he was overwhelmed on his way. He was soon in the country. Then pulling his cloak tighter round him, he asked,-- "Are the arms all loaded?" "Yes, excellency," the chief of the alguaciles replied. "That's well. To the hacienda of Don Ramón Garillas, then; and at a smart pace; we must endeavour to get there before nightfall." The party set off at a gallop. CHAPTER II. THE HACIENDA DEL MILAGRO. The environs of Hermosillo are a thorough desert. The road which leads from that city to the Hacienda del Milagro (Farm of the Miracle) is one of the dullest and most arid possible. Nothing is to be seen but, at rare intervals, ironwood, gum, and Peru trees, with red and spicy clusters, nopales, and cactuses, the only trees that can possibly grow in a soil calcined by the incandescent rays of a perpendicular sun. At distances are visible, as if in bitter derision, the long poles of cisterns, with a leathern bucket, twisted and shrivelled, at one extremity, and at the other stones fastened by straps; but the cisterns are dry, and the bottom of them is merely a black slimy crust, in which myriads of unclean animals disport; whirlwinds of a fine and impalpable dust, raised by the least breath of wind, choke the panting traveller, and under every blade of dried grass the grasshoppers call with fury for the beneficent night dews. When, however, with great labour, the traveller has covered six leagues of this burning solitude, the eye reposes with delight upon a splendid oasis, which appears all at once to rise from the bosom of the sands. This Eden is the Hacienda del Milagro. At the time our history took place, this hacienda, one of the richest and largest in the province, was composed of a two storied house, built of _tapia_ and _adobes_, with a terrace roof of reeds, covered with beaten earth. Access to the hacienda was gained by passing through an immense court, the entrance of which shaped like an arched portico, was furnished with strong folding gates, and a postern on one side. Pour chambers completed the front; the windows had gratings of gilded iron, and shutters inside; they were glazed, an almost unheard-of luxury in that country at that time; on the four sides of the court, or patio, were the apartments for the peons and children, &c. The ground floor of the principal house was composed of three apartments; a kind of grand vestibule furnished with antique fauteuils and canopies covered with stamped Cordovan leather, with a large nopal table and some stools; upon the walls hung, in gilded frames, several old full-length portraits, representing the members of the family; while the beams of the ceiling, left in relief, were decorated with a profusion of carvings. Two folding doors opened into the saloon; the side in front of the patio was raised about a foot above the rest of the floor; it was covered by a carpet, and contained a row of curiously carved low stools ornamented with, crimson velvet, and cushions for the feet; there was also a little square table, eighteen inches high, serving as a work table. This portion of the saloon is reserved for the ladies, who there sit cross-legged, in the Moorish fashion; on the other side of the saloon were chairs covered with the same stuff as the stools and the cushions. Facing the entrance of the saloon was the principal bedchamber, with an alcove at the back of a daïs, upon which stood a bed of ceremony, ornamented with an infinity of gildings and brocade curtains, with tassels and fringes of gold and silver; the sheets and pillowcases were of the most beautiful linen, bordered with wide lace. Behind the principal house was a second patio, in which were the kitchens and the corral; beyond this court was an immense garden, surrounded by walls, and more than a hundred perches in length, laid out in the English fashion, and containing the most remarkable exotic plants and trees. It was holiday time at the hacienda. It was the period of the matanza del ganado (slaughtering of cattle). The peons had formed, at a few paces from the hacienda, an enclosure, in which, after driving the beasts, they separated the lean from the fat, which they drove out, one by one, from the enclosure. A vaquero, armed with a sharp instrument in the form of a crescent, furnished with points placed at the distance of a foot apart, and who was concealed behind the door of the enclosure, cut, with great address, the hamstrings of the poor beasts, as they passed before him. If by chance he missed a stroke, which he rarely did, a second vaquero, mounted on horseback, galloped after the animal, threw the lasso round its horns, and held it till the first had succeeded in cutting its hamstrings. Carelessly leaning against the portico of the hacienda, a man of about forty years of age, clothed in the rich costume of a gentleman farmer, his shoulders covered by a zarapé of brilliant colours, and his head protected from the rays of the setting sun by a fine hat of Panama straw, worth at least five hundred piastres, seemed to be presiding over this scene while enjoying a husk cigarette. He was a gentleman of lofty bearing, slightly built, but perfectly well-proportioned, and his features well defined with firm and marked lines, denoted loyalty, courage, and, above all, an inflexible will. His large black eyes, shaded by thick eyebrows, displayed indescribable mildness; but when any contradictory chance spread a red glow over his embrowned complexion, his glance assumed a fixity and a force which few could support, and which made even the bravest hesitate and tremble. His small hands and feet, and more than all, the aristocratic stamp impressed upon his person, denoted, at the first glance, that this man was of pure and noble Castilian race. In fact, this personage was Don Ramón Garillas de Saavedra, the proprietor of the Hacienda del Milagro, which we have just described. Don Ramón Garillas was descended from a Spanish family, the head of which had been one of the principal lieutenants of Cortez, and had settled in Mexico after the miraculous conquest of that clever adventurer. Enjoying a princely fortune, but unnoticed by the Spanish authorities, on account of his marriage with a woman of mixed Aztec blood, he had given himself up entirely to the cultivation of his land, and the amelioration of his vast domains. After seventeen years of marriage, he found himself the head of a large family, composed of six boys and three girls, in all nine children, of whom Rafaël--he whom we have seen so deftly kill the vaquero--was the eldest. The marriage of Don Ramón and Doña Jesuita had been merely a marriage of convenience, contracted solely with a view to fortune, but which, notwithstanding, had rendered them comparatively happy; we say comparatively, because, as the girl only left her convent to be married, no love had ever existed between them, but its place had been almost as well occupied by a tender and sincere affection. Doña Jesuita passed her time in the cares necessitated by her children, surrounded by her Indian women. On his side, her husband, completely absorbed by the duties of his life as a gentleman farmer, was almost always with his vaqueros, his peons, and his huntsmen, only seeing his wife for a few minutes at the hours of meals, and sometimes remaining months together absent in hunting excursions on the banks of the Rio Gila. Nevertheless, we are bound to add that, whether absent or present, Don Ramón took the greatest care that nothing should be wanting for his wife's comfort; and in order that her least caprices might be satisfied, he spared neither money nor trouble to procure her all she appeared to desire. Doña Jesuita was endowed with extraordinary beauty and angelic mildness; she appeared to have accepted, if not with joy, at least without any great pain, the kind of life to which her husband bad obliged her to submit; but in the depth of her large black languishing eye, in the paleness of her countenance, and, above all, in the shade of sadness which continually obscured her beautiful white brow, it was easy to divine that an ardent soul abode within that seducing statue, and that the heart, which was ignorant of itself, had turned all its feelings upon her children, whom she adored with all the virginal strength of maternal love, the most beautiful and the most holy of all loves. As for Don Ramón, always good and anxious for his wife, whom he had never taken the pains to study, he had a right to believe her the happiest creature in the world, which, in fact, she became as soon as God made her a mother. It was some minutes after sunset; the sky, by degrees, lost its purple tint, and grew rapidly darker; a few stars began to sparkle in the celestial vault, and the evening wind arose with a force that presaged for the night, one of those terrible storms which so often burst over these regions of the sun. The mayoral, after having caused the rest of the ganado to be carefully shut up in the enclosure, assembled the vaqueros and the peons, and all directed their steps towards the hacienda, where the supper bell announced to them that the hour of rest was at length arrived. As the major-domo passed the last, with a bow, before his master, the latter asked him: "Well, Nô Eusebio, how many heads do we count this year?" "Four hundred and fifty _mi amo_--my master," replied the mayoral, a tall, thin, wizened man, with a grayish head, and a countenance tanned like a piece of leather, stopping his horse and taking off his hat; "that is to say, seventy-five head more than last year. Our neighbours the jaguars and the Apaches have not done us any great damage this season." "Thanks to you, Nô Eusebio," Don Ramón replied; "your vigilance has been great; I must find means to recompense you for it." "My best recompense is the kind remark your lordship has just addressed to me," the mayoral, whose rough visage was lit up by a smile of satisfaction, replied. "Ought I not to watch over everything that belongs to you with the same zeal as if it were my own?" "Thanks," the gentleman remarked with emotion, and shook his servant's hand. "I know how truly you are devoted to me. "For life and to death, my master! My mother nourished you with her milk; I belong to you and your family." "Come, come, Nô Eusebio," the hacendero said, gaily; "supper is ready; the señora is by this time at table; we must not keep her waiting." Upon this, both entered the patio, and Nô Eusebio, as Don Ramón had named him, prepared, as was his custom every evening, to close the gates. In the meantime, Don Ramón entered the dining hall of the hacienda, where all the vaqueros and peons were assembled. This hall was furnished with an immense table, which occupied the entire centre; around this table there were wooden forms covered with leather, and two carved armchairs, intended for Don Ramón and the señora. Behind these chairs, an ivory crucifix, four feet high, hung against the wall, between two pictures, representing, the one, "Jesus in the Garden of Olives," the other the "Sermon on the Mount." Here and there, on the whitewashed walls, grinned the heads of jaguars, buffaloes, and elks, killed in the chase by the hacendero. The table was abundantly supplied with lahua, or thick soup made of the flour of maize boiled with meat, with puchero, or olla podrida, and with pepian; at regular distances there were bottles of mezcal, and decanters of water. At a sign from the hacendero the repast commenced. The storm, which had threatened for some time past, now broke forth with fury. The rain fell in torrents; at every second vivid flashes of lightning dimmed the lights of the hall, preceding awful claps of thunder. Towards the end of the repast, the hurricane acquired such violence, that the tumult of the conspiring elements drowned the hum of conversation. The thunder peals clashed with frightful force, a whirlwind filled the hall, after dashing in a window, and extinguished all the lights; the assembly crossed themselves with terror. At that moment, the bell placed at the gate of the hacienda resounded with a convulsive noise, and a voice, which had nothing human in it, cried twice distinctly,-- "Help! help!" "Sangre de Cristo!" Don Ramón cried, as he rushed out of the hall, "somebody is being murdered on the plain." Two pistol shots resounded at almost the same moment, a cry of agony rung through the air, and all relapsed into sinister darkness. All at once, a pale flash of lightning furrowed the obscurity, the thunder burst with a horrible crash, and Don Ramón reappeared in the hall, bearing a fainting man in his arms. The stranger was placed in a seat, and all crowded round him. There was nothing extraordinary in either the countenance or the appearance of this man, and yet, on perceiving him, Rafaël, the eldest son of Don Ramón, could not repress a gesture of terror, and his face became lividly pale. "O!" he murmured, in a low voice, "it is the juez de letras!" It was, indeed, the worthy judge, whom we saw leave Hermosillo with such a brilliant equipage. His long hair, soaked with rain, fell upon his breast, his clothes were in disorder, spotted with blood, and torn in many places. His right hand convulsively clasped the stock of a discharged pistol. Don Ramón had likewise recognized the juez de letras, and had unconsciously darted a glance at his son, which the latter could not support. Thanks to the intelligent care that was bestowed upon him by Doña Jesuita and her women, he breathed a deep sigh, opened his haggard eyes, which he rolled round upon the assembly, without at first seeing anything, and by degrees recovered his senses. All at once a deep flush covered his brow, which had been so pale a minute before, and his eye sparkled. Directing a look towards Don Rafaël which nailed him to the floor, a prey to invincible terror, he rose painfully, and advancing towards the young man, who saw his approach without daring to seek to avoid him, he placed his hand roughly on his shoulder, and turning towards the peons, who were terrified at this strange scene, of which they comprehended nothing, he said solemnly,-- "I, Don Inigo Tormentes Albaceyte, juez de letras of the city of Hermosillo, arrest this man, accused of assassination, in the king's name!" "Mercy!" cried Rafaël, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands with despair. "Woe! woe!" the poor mother exclaimed, as she sank back fainting in her chair. CHAPTER III. THE SENTENCE. On the morrow the sun rose splendidly on the horizon. The storm of the night had completely cleared the sky, which was one of deep blue; the birds warbled gaily, concealed beneath the leaves, and all nature seemed to have resumed its accustomed festive air. The bell sounded joyously at the Hacienda del Milagro; the peons began to disperse in all directions, some leading horses to the pasturage, others driving cattle to the artificial prairies, others again wending their way to the fields, whilst the rest were employed in the patio in milking the cows and repairing the damages done by the hurricane. The only traces left of the tempest of the preceding night were two magnificent jaguars stretched dead before the gate of the hacienda, not far from the carcass of a half-devoured horse. Nô Eusebio, who was walking about in the patio, carefully overlooking the occupations of all, ordered the rich trappings of the horse to be taken off and cleaned, and the jaguars to be skinned; all of which was done in the shortest time possible. Nô Eusebio was, however, very uneasy; Don Ramón, generally the first person stirring in the hacienda, had not yet appeared. On the preceding evening, after the terrible accusation brought by the juez de letras against the eldest son of the hacendero, the latter had ordered his servants to retire, and after having himself, in spite of the tears and prayers of his wife, firmly bound his son, he led Don Inigo Albaceyte into a retired apartment of the farm, where they both remained in private till a far advanced hour of the night. What had passed in that conversation, in which the fate of Don Rafaël was decided, nobody knew--Nô Eusebio no more than the others. Then, after having conducted Don Inigo to a chamber he had had prepared for him, and having wished him good night, Don Ramón proceeded to rejoin his son, with whom the poor mother was still weeping: without pronouncing a word, he took the boy in his arms, and carried him into his bedroom, where he laid him on the ground near his bed; then the hacendero shut and locked the door, went to bed, with two pistols under his pillow. The night passed away thus, the father and son darting at each other through the darkness the looks of wild beasts, and the poor mother on her knees on the sill of that chamber, which she was forbidden to enter, weeping silently for her first-born, who, as she had a terrible presentiment, was about to be ravished from her for ever. "Hum!" the mayoral murmured to himself, biting, without thinking of doing so, the end of his extinguished cigarette, "what will be the end of all this? Don Ramón is not a man to pardon, he will not compromise his honour. Will he abandon his son to the hands of justice! Oh no! but, in that case what will he do?" The worthy mayoral had arrived at this point in his reflections, when Don Inigo Albaceyte and Don Ramón appeared in the patio. The countenances of the two men were stern; that of the hacendero, in particular, was dark as night. "Nô Eusebio," Don Ramón said in a sharp tone, "have a horse saddled, and prepare an escort of four men to conduct this cavalier to Hermosillo." The mayoral bowed respectfully, and immediately gave the necessary orders. "I thank you a thousand times," continued Don Ramón, addressing the judge; "you have saved the honour of my house." "Do not be so grateful, señor," Don Inigo replied; "I swear to you that when I left the city yesterday, I had no intention of making myself agreeable to you." The hacendero only replied by a gesture. "Put yourself in my place; I am criminal judge above everything; a man is murdered--a worthless fellow, I admit--but a man, although of the worst kind; the assassin is known, he traverses the city at full gallop, in open daylight, in the sight of everybody, with incredible effrontery. What could I do?--set off in pursuit of him. I did not hesitate." "That is true," Don Ramón murmured, holding down his head. "And evil have been the consequences to me. The scoundrels who accompanied me abandoned me, like cowards, in the height of the storm, and took shelter I know not where; and then, to crown my troubles, two jaguars, magnificent animals, by the bye, rushed in pursuit of me; they pressed me so hard that I came and fell at your door like a mass. It is true I killed one of them, but the other was very nearly snapping me up, when you came to my assistance. Could I, after that, arrest the son of the man who had saved my life at the peril of his own? That would have been acting with the blackest ingratitude." "Thanks, once more." "No thanks; we are quits, that is all. I say nothing of some thousands of piastres you have given me; they will serve to stop the mouths of my lynxes. Only, let me beg of you, Don Ramón, keep a sharp eye upon your son; if he should fall a second time into my hands, I don't know how I could save him." "Be at ease, in that respect, Don Inigo; my son will never fall into your hands again." "The hacendero pronounced these words in so solemn and melancholy a tone, that the judge started at hearing them, and turned round saying,-- "Take care what you are about to do!" "Oh, fear nothing," replied Don Ramón; "only, as I am not willing that my son should mount a scaffold, and drag my name in the mud, I must endeavour to prevent him." At that moment the horse was led out, and the juez de letras mounted. "Well, adieu, Don Ramón," he said in an indulgent voice; "be prudent, this young man may still reform; he is hot blooded, that is all." "Adieu, Don Inigo Albaceyte," the hacendero replied, in so dry a tone that it admitted of no reply. The judge shook his head, and clapping spurs to his horse, he set off at full trot, followed by his escort, after having made the farmer a farewell gesture. The latter looked after him, as long as he could see him, and then re-entered the house with long and hasty strides. "Nô Eusebio," he said to the mayoral, "ring the bell to call together all the peons, as well as the other servants of the hacienda." The mayoral, after having looked at his master with astonishment, hastened to execute the order he had received. "What does all this mean?" he said to himself. At the sound of the bell, the men employed on the farm ran to answer it in haste, not knowing to what cause they should attribute this extraordinary summons. They were soon all collected together in the great hall, which served as a refectory. The completest silence reigned among them. A secret pang pressed on their hearts,--they had the presentiment of a terrible event. After a few minutes of expectation, Doña Jesuita entered, surrounded by her children, with the exception of Rafaël, and proceeded to take her place upon a platform, prepared at one end of the hall. Her countenance was pale, and her eyes proclaimed that she had been weeping. Don Ramón appeared. He was clothed in a complete suit of black velvet without lace; a heavy gold chain hung round his neck, a broad leafed hat of black felt, ornamented with an eagle's feather, covered his head, a long sword, with a hilt of polished steel, hung by his side. His brow was marked with wrinkles, his eyebrows were closely knitted above his black eyes, which appeared to dart lightning. A shudder of terror pervaded the ranks of the assembly--Don Ramón Garillas had put on the robe of justice. Justice was then about to be done? But upon whom? When Don Ramón had taken his place on the right hand of his wife, he made a sign. The mayoral went out, and returned a minute after, followed by Rafaël. The young man was bareheaded, and had his hands tied behind his back. With his eyes cast down, and a pale face, he placed himself before his father, whom he saluted respectfully. At the period at which our history passes, in those countries remote from towns and exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians, the heads of families preserved, in all its purity, that patriarchal authority which the efforts of our depraved civilization have a tendency to lessen, and, at length, to destroy. A father was sovereign in his own house, his judgments were without appeal, and executed without murmurs or resistance. The people of the farm were acquainted with the firm character and implacable will of their master; they knew that he never pardoned, that his honour was dearer to him than life; it was then with a sense of undefinable fear that they prepared to witness the terrible drama which was about to be performed before them between the father and the son. Don Ramón arose, cast a dark glance round upon the assembly, and threw his hat at his feet: "Listen all to me," he said in a sharp but most distinct voice; "I am of an old Christian race, whose ancestors have never done wrong; honour has always in my house been considered as the first of earthly goods; that honour which my ancestors transmitted to me intact, and which I have endeavoured to preserve pure, my first-born son, the inheritor of my name, has sullied by an indelible stain. Yesterday, at Hermosillo, in consequence of a tavern quarrel, he set fire to a house, at the risk of burning down the whole city, and when a man endeavoured to prevent his escape, he killed him with a poniard stroke. What can be thought of a boy who, at so tender an age, is endowed with the instincts of a wild beast? Justice must be done, and, by God's help, I will do it severely." After these words, Don Ramón crossed his arms upon his breast, and appeared to reflect. No one durst hazard a word in favour of the accused; all heads were bent down, all hearts were palpitating. Rafaël was beloved by his father's servants on account of his intrepidity, which yielded to no obstacles, for his skill in managing a horse, and in the use of all arms, and more than all, for the frankness and kindness which formed the most striking features of his character. In this country particularly, where the life of a man is reckoned of so little value, everyone was inwardly disposed to excuse the youth, and to see nothing in the action he had committed but the result of warmth of blood and hasty passion. Doña Jesuita arose; without a murmur she had always bent to the will of her husband, whom for many years she had been accustomed to respect; the mere idea of resisting him terrified her, and sent a cold shudder through her veins; but all the loving powers of her soul were concentrated in her heart. She adored her children, Rafaël in particular, whose indomitable character stood more in need than the others, of the watchful cares of a mother. "Sir," she said to her husband, in a voice choked with tears, "remember that Rafaël is your first-born; that his fault, however serious it might be, ought not to be inexcusable in your eyes, as you are his father; and that I--I--" she continued, falling on her knees, clasping her hands and sobbing, "I implore your pity! pardon, sir! pardon for your son!" "Don Ramón coldly raised his wife, whose face was inundated with tears, and after obliging her to resume her place in her chair, he said,-- "It is particularly as a father, that my heart ought to be without pity! Rafaël is an assassin and an incendiary; he is no longer my son!" "What do you mean to do?" Doña Jesuita cried, in accents of terror. "What does that concern you, madam?" Don Ramón replied harshly; "the care of my honour concerns me alone. Sufficient for you to know that this fault is the last your son will commit." "Oh!" she said with terror, "will you then become his executioner?" "I am his judge," the implacable gentleman replied in a terrible voice. "Nô Eusebio, get two horses ready." "My God! my God!" the poor mother cried, rushing towards her son, whom she folded closely in her arms, "will no one come to my succour?" All present were moved; Don Ramón himself could not restrain a tear. "Oh!" she cried with a wild joy, "he is saved! God has softened the heart of this inflexible man!" "You are mistaken, madam," Don Ramón interrupted, pushing her roughly back, "your son is no longer mine, he belongs to my justice!" Then fixing on his son a look cold as a steel blade, he said in a voice so stern that in spite of himself it made the young man start. "Don Rafaël, from this instant you no longer form a part of this society, which your crimes have horrified; it is with wild beasts that I condemn you to live and die." At this terrible sentence, Doña Jesuita took a few steps towards her son, but, tottering, she fell prostrate--she had fainted. Up to this moment Rafaël had, with a great effort, suppressed in his heart the emotions which agitated him, but at this last accident he could no longer restrain himself; he sprang towards his mother, burst into tears, and uttered a piercing cry: "My mother! my mother!" "Come this way," said Don Ramón, laying his hand upon his shoulder. The boy stopped, staggering like a drunken man. "Look, sir! pray look!" he cried, with a heartbroken sob; "my mother is dying!" "It is you who have killed her!" the hacendero replied coldly. Rafaël turned round as if a serpent had stung him; he darted at his father a look of strange expression, and, with clenched teeth and a livid brow said to him, "Kill me, sir; for I swear to you that in the same manner as you have been pitiless to my mother and me, if I live I will be hereafter pitiless to you!" Don Ramón cast upon him a look of contempt. "Come on!" he said. "Come on, then!" the boy repeated in a firm tone. Doña Jesuita, who was beginning to recover her senses, perceived the departure of her son, as if in a dream. "Rafaël! Rafaël!" she shrieked. The young man hesitated for a second; then, with a bound, he sprang towards her, kissed her with wild tenderness, and rejoining his father, said-- "Now I can die! I have bidden adieu to my mother!" And they went out. The household, deeply moved by this scene, separated without communicating their impressions to each other, but all penetrated with sincere grief. Under the caresses of her son, the poor mother had again lost all consciousness. CHAPTER IV. THE MOTHER. Two horses, held by the bridle by Nô Eusebio, were waiting at the door of the hacienda. "Shall I accompany you, señor?" asked the major-domo. "No!" the hacendero replied drily. He mounted and placed his son across the saddle before him. "Take back the second horse," he said; "I do not want it." And plunging his spurs into the sides of his horse, which snorted with pain, he set off at full speed. The major-domo returned to the house, shaking his head sadly. As soon as the hacienda had disappeared behind a swell in the ground, Don Ramón stopped, drew a silk handkerchief from his breast, bandaged the eyes of his son without saying a word to him, and then again resumed his course. This ride in the desert lasted a long time; it had something dismal about it that chilled the soul. This horseman, clothed in black, gliding silently along through the sands, bearing before him on his saddle a securely-bound boy, whose nervous starts and writhings alone proclaimed his existence, had a fatal and strange aspect, which would have impressed the bravest man with terror. Many hours had passed without a word being exchanged between the son and the father; the sun began to sink in the horizon, a few stars already appeared in the dark blue of the sky--but the horse still went on. The desert, every instant, assumed a more dismal and wild appearance; every tree of vegetation had disappeared; only here and there heaps of bones, whitened by time, marbled the sand with livid spots; birds of prey hovered slowly over the horsemen, uttering hoarse cries; and in the mysterious depths of the chaparrals, wild beasts, at the approach of night, preluded their rude concerts with dull roarings. In these regions twilight does not exist; as soon as the sun has disappeared, the darkness is complete. Don Ramón continued to gallop on. His son had not addressed a single prayer to him, or uttered a single complaint. At length, towards eight o'clock, the horsemen stopped. This feverish ride had lasted ten hours. The horse panted and throbbed, and staggered at every step. Don Ramón cast an anxious glance around him; a smile of satisfaction curled his lip. On all sides the desert displayed its immense plains of sand; on one alone the skirt of a virgin forest cut the horizon with its strange profile, breaking in a sinister manner the monotony of the prospect. Don Ramón dismounted, placed his son upon the sand, took the bridle from his horse, that it might eat the provender he gave it; then, after having acquitted himself of all these duties, with the greatest coolness he approached his son, and removed the bandage from his eyes. The boy remained silent, fixing upon his father a dull, cold look. "Sir!" Don Ramón said, in a sharp, dry tone, "you are here more than twenty leagues from my hacienda, in which you will never set your foot again under pain of death; from this moment you are alone, you have no longer either father, mother, or family; as you have proved yourself almost a wild beast, I condemn you to live with wild beasts; my resolution is irrevocable, your prayers could not change it. Spare them then!" "I shall not pray to you," the boy replied, "people do not intreat an executioner!" Don Ramón started; he walked about in feverish agitation; but soon recovering himself, he continued, "In this pouch are provisions for two days. I leave you this rifle, which in my hands never missed its mark; I give you also these pistols, this machete, and this knife, this hatchet, and powder and balls in these buffalo horns. You will find with the provisions a steel and everything necessary for kindling a fire. I add to these things a Bible, belonging to your mother. You are dead to society, into which you can never return; the desert is before you; it belongs to you; for me, I have no longer a son, adieu! The Lord be merciful to you, all is ended between us on earth; you are left alone, and without a family; it depends upon yourself, then, to commence a second existence, and to provide for your own wants. Providence never abandons those who place their confidence in it; henceforward, it alone will watch over you." After having pronounced these words, Don Ramón, his countenance still impassible, replaced the bridle on his horse, restored his son to liberty by cutting the cords which bound him, and then getting into his saddle, he set off at his horse best speed. Rafaël rose upon his knees, bent his head forward, listened with anxiety to the retreating gallop of the horse on the sand, followed with his eyes, as long as he was able, the fatal profile which was thrown in black relief by the moonbeams; and when the horseman was at length confounded with the darkness, the boy placed his hand upon his breast, and an expression of despair impossible to be described convulsed his features. "My mother! my mother!" he cried. He fell lifeless upon the sand. He had fainted. After a long gallop, Don Ramón, insensibly and as if in spite of himself, slackened the speed of his horse, lending a keen ear to the vague noises of the desert, listening with anxiety, without rendering an account to himself why he did so, but expecting, perhaps, an appeal from his unfortunate son to return to him. Twice even his hand mechanically pulled the bridle as if he obeyed a secret voice which commanded him to retrace his steps; but the fierce pride of his race was still the stronger, and he continued his course homewards. The sun was rising at the moment Don Ramón arrived at the hacienda. Two persons were standing side by side at the gate, waiting his return. The one was Doña Jesuita, the other the major-domo. At sight of his wife, pale, mute, and motionless before him, like the statue of desolation, the hacendero felt an unutterable sadness weigh upon his heart; he wished to pass, but Doña Jesuita, making two steps towards him and seizing the bridle of his horse, said with agonized emotion,-- "Don Ramón, what have you done with my son?" The hacendero made no reply; on beholding the grief of his wife, remorse shot a pang into his heart, and he asked himself mentally if he had really the right to act as he had done. Doña Jesuita waited in vain for an answer. Don Ramón looked earnestly at his wife; he was terrified at perceiving the indelible furrows which grief had imprinted upon that countenance, so calm, so placid, but a few hours before. The noble woman was livid; her contracted features had an inexpressible rigidity; her eyes, burnt with fever, were red and dry, two black and deep lines rendered them hollow and haggard; a large stain marbled each of her cheeks, the trace of tears the source of which was dried up; she could weep no more, her voice was hoarse and broken, and her oppressed breast heaved painfully to allow the escape of a panting respiration. After having waited some minutes for a reply to her question, "Don Ramón," she repeated, "what have you done with my son?" The hacendero turned away his head with something like confusion. "Oh! you have killed him!" she said, with a piercing shriek. "No;" Don Ramón replied, terrified at her grief, and for the first time in his life forced to acknowledge the power of the mother who demands an account of her child. "What have you done with him?" she screamed persistently. "Presently, when you are more calm, you shall know all." "I am calm," she replied, "why should you feign a pity you do not feel? My son is dead, and it is you who have killed him!" Don Ramón alighted from his horse. "Jesuita," he said to his wife, taking her hands and looking at her with tenderness, "I swear to you by all that is most sacred in the world, that your son exists; I have not touched a hair of his head." The poor mother remained pensive for a few seconds. "I believe you," she said; then after a pause she added, "What is become of him?" "Well!" he replied, with some hesitation, "since you insist upon knowing all, learn that I have abandoned your son in the desert, but have left him the means to provide for his safety and his wants." Doña Jesuita started, a nervous shudder crept through the whole of her frame. "You have been very clement," she said in a cutting tone, and with bitter irony; "you have been very clement towards a boy of sixteen, Don Ramón; you felt a repugnance to bathe your hands in his blood, and you have preferred leaving that task to the wild beasts and ferocious Indians who alone people those solitudes." "He was guilty!" the hacendero replied, in a low but firm voice. "A child is never guilty in the eyes of her who has borne him in her bosom, and nourished him with her milk," she said with energy. "It is well, Don Ramón, you have condemned your son, I--I will save him!" "What would you do?" the hacendero said, terrified at the resolution he saw kindled in the eyes of his wife. "What matters it to you? Don Ramón, I will accomplish my duty as you believe you have accomplished yours! God will judge between us! Tremble, lest He should one day demand of you an account of the blood of your son!" Don Ramón bent his head beneath this anathema; with a pale brow, and a mind oppressed by heavy remorse, he went slowly into the hacienda. Doña Jesuita looked after him for an instant. "Oh!" she cried, "may God grant that I may arrive in time!" She then went out from the portico, followed by Nô Eusebio. Two horses awaited them, concealed behind a clump of trees. They mounted immediately. "Where are we going, señora?" the major-domo asked. "In search of my son!" she replied in a shrill voice. She seemed transfigured by hope; a bright colour flushed her cheeks; her black eyes darted lightning. Nô Eusebio untied four magnificent bloodhounds, called rastreros in the country, and which were kept to follow trails; he made them smell a shirt belonging to Rafaël; the hounds rushed forward on the scent, baying loudly. Nô Eusebio and Doña Jesuita galloped after them, exchanging a look of sanguine hope. The dogs had no trouble in following the scent, it was straight and without obstruction, therefore they did not stop an instant. When Doña Jesuita arrived at the spot where Rafaël had been abandoned by his father, the place was void!--the boy had disappeared! The traces of his having sojourned there were visible; a fire was not yet burnt out; everything indicated that Rafaël could not have quitted that place more than an hour. "What is to be done?" Nô Eusebio asked anxiously. "Push forward!" Doña Jesuita replied resolutely, urging her horse again into action, and the generous steed responding with unflagging spirit. Nô Eusebio followed her. On the evening of that day the greatest consternation prevailed at the Hacienda del Milagro, Doña Jesuita and Nô Eusebio had not returned. Don Ramón ordered all the household to mount on horseback. Provided with torches, the peons and vaqueros commenced a battue of an immense extent in search of their mistress and the major-domo. The whole night passed away without bringing the least satisfactory result. At daybreak, the horse of Doña Jesuita was found half devoured in the desert. Its trappings were wanting. The ground round the carcass of the horse appeared to have been the scene of a desperate conflict of some kind. Don Ramón, in despair, gave orders for return. "Great Heaven!" he cried, as he re-entered the hacienda, "is it possible that my chastisement has already commenced?" Weeks, months, years passed away, without any circumstance, lifting the corner of the mysterious veil which enveloped these sinister events, and, notwithstanding the most active and persevering researches, nothing could be learnt of the fate of Rafaël, his mother, and Nô Eusebio. THE END OF THE PROLOGUE. PART I. THE LOYAL HEART. CHAPTER I. THE PRAIRIE. To the westward of the United States extends, many hundred miles beyond the Mississippi, an immense territory, unknown up to this day, composed of uncultivated lands, on which stands neither the log house of the white man nor the hatto of the Indian. This vast desert, intersected by dark forests, with mysterious paths traced by the steps of wild beasts, and by verdant prairies with high and tufted herbage that undulates with the slightest breeze, is watered by powerful streams, of which the principal are the great Canadian river, the Arkansas, and the Red River. Over these plains, endowed with so rich a vegetation, wander innumerable troops of wild horses, buffaloes, elks, bighorns, and those thousands of animals which the civilization of the other parts of America is every day driving back, and which regain their primitive liberty in these regions. On this account, the most powerful Indian tribes have established their hunting grounds in this country. The Delawares, the Creeks, and the Osages, prowl along the frontiers of the desert up to the environs of the establishments of the Americans, with whom some few bonds of civilization are beginning to unite them, engaged in constant conflict with the hordes of Pawnees, Blackfeet, Assiniboins, and Comanches, indomitable races, nomads of the prairies, or inhabitants of the mountains, who permeate in all directions this desert, the proprietorship of which none of them venture to assert, but which they appear to agree to devastate, uniting in vast numbers for hunting parties, as if for the purpose of making war. In fact, the enemies travellers are exposed to encounter in these deserts are of all kinds; without mentioning in this place wild beasts, there are hunters, trappers, and partisans, who are not less formidable to the Indians than to their fellow countrymen. The prairie, therefore, the sinister theatre of incessant and terrible contests, is nothing in reality but a vast charnel house, in which perish obscurely, every year, in a merciless war of ambuscades, tens of thousands of intrepid men. Nothing can be more grand or more majestic than the aspect of these prairies, into which Providence has bounteously bestowed such innumerable riches,--nothing, more seductive than these green fields, these thick forests, these large rivers; the melancholy murmur of the waters rippling over the stones of the shallow stream, the songs of thousands of birds concealed under the foliage, the bounding of animals sporting amidst the high grass: everything enchants, everything attracts, and draws aside the fascinated traveller, who soon, the victim of his enthusiasm, will fall into one of those numberless snares laid under his feet among the flowers, and will pay with his life for his imprudent credulity. Towards the end of the year 1837, in the latter days of the month of September, by the Indians called the moon of the falling leaves--a man, still young, and who, from his complexion, notwithstanding his costume was entirely like that of the Indians, it was easy to perceive was a white man, was seated, about an hour before sunset, near a fire, the want of which began to be felt at this period of the year, at one of the most unfrequented spots of the prairie we have just described. This man was at most thirty-five to thirty-six years old, though a few deeply marked wrinkles on his broad white forehead seemed to indicate a more advanced age. His features were handsome and noble, and impressed with that pride and energy which a savage life imparts. His black eyes, starting from his head, and crowned with thick eye-brows, had a mild and melancholy expression, that tempered their brilliancy and vivacity; the lower part of his face disappeared beneath a long, thick beard, the bluish tint of which contrasted with the peculiar paleness spread over his countenance. He was tall, slender, and perfectly well proportioned; his nervous limbs, upon which rose muscles of extreme rigidity, proved that he was endowed with more than common strength. In short, the whole of his person inspired that respectful sympathy which superior natures attract more easily in these countries than in ours, where physical strength is nearly always the attribute of the brute. His remarkably simple attire was composed of a mitasse, or a kind of close drawers falling down to his ankles, and fastened to his hips by a leather belt, and of a cotton hunting shirt, embroidered with ornaments in wool of different colours, which descended to his midleg. This blouse, open in front, left exposed his embrowned chest, upon which hung a scapulary of velvet, from a slight steel chain. Short boots of untanned deerskin protected him from the bites of reptiles, and rose to his knees. A cap made of the skin of a beaver, whose tail hung down behind, covered his head, while long and luxuriant curls of black hair, which were beginning to be threaded with white, fell beneath it over his broad shoulder. This man was a hunter. A magnificent rifle laid within reach of his hand, the game bag which was hung to his shoulder belt and the two buffalo horns, suspended at his girdle, and filled with powder and balls, left no doubt in this respect. Two long double pistols were carelessly thrown near his rifle. The hunter, armed with that long knife called a machete, or a short-bladed straight sabre, which the inhabitants of the prairies never lay aside, was occupied in conscientiously skinning a beaver, whilst carefully watching the haunch of a deer which was roasting at the fire, suspended by a string, and listening to the slightest noises that arose in the prairies. The spot where this man was seated was admirably chosen for a halt of a few hours. It was a clearing at the summit of a moderately elevated hill, which, from its position, commanded the prairie for a great distance, and prevented a surprise. A spring bubbled up at a few paces from the place where the hunter had established his bivouac, and descended, forming a capricious cascade; to the plain. The high and abundant grass afforded an excellent pasto for two superb horses, with wild and sparkling eyes, which, safely tethered, were enjoying their food at a short distance from him. The fire, lighted with dry wood, and sheltered on three sides by the rock, only allowed a thin column of smoke to escape, scarcely perceptible at ten paces' distance, and a screen of all trees concealed the encampment from the indiscreet looks of those persons who were probably in ambuscade in the neighbourhood. In short, all precautions necessary for the safety of the hunter had been taken with that prudence which announces a profound knowledge of the life of a wood ranger. The red fires of the setting sun tinged with beautiful reflections the tops of the great trees, and the sun itself was on the point of disappearing behind the mountains which bounded the horizon, when the horses, suddenly ceasing their repast, raised their heads and prickled their ears--signs of restlessness which did not escape the hunter. Although he heard no suspicious sound, and all appeared calm around him, he hastened to place the skin of the beaver before the fire, stretched upon two crossed sticks, and, without rising, he put out his hand towards his rifle. The cry of the jay was heard, and repeated thrice at regular intervals. The hunter laid his rifle by his side again with a smile, and resumed his watchful attention to the supper. Almost immediately the grass was violently opened, and two magnificent bloodhounds bounded up and lay down by the hunter, who patted them for an instant, and not without difficulty quieted their caresses. The horses had carelessly resumed their interrupted repast. The dogs only preceded by a few minutes a second hunter, who made his appearance almost immediately in the clearing. This new personage, much younger than the first,--for he did not appear to be more than twenty-two years old,--was a tall, thin, agile and powerfully-built man, with a slightly-rounded head, lighted by two grey eyes, sparkling with intelligence, and endowed with a physiognomy open and loyal, to which long light hair gave a somewhat childish appearance. He was clothed in the same costume as his companion, and on arriving, threw down by the fire a string of birds which he was carrying at his shoulder. The two hunters then, without exchanging a word, set about preparing one of those suppers which long exercise has always the privilege of causing to be considered excellent. The night had completely set in; the desert awoke by degrees; the howlings of wild beasts already resounded in the prairie. The hunters, after supping with a good appetite, lit their pipes, and placing their backs to the fire, in order that the flame should not prevent them from perceiving the approach of any suspicious visitor whom darkness might bring them, smoked with the enjoyment of people who, after a long and painful journey, taste an instant of repose which they may not meet with again for some time. "Well!" the first hunter said laconically between two puffs of tobacco. "You were right," the other replied. "Ah!" "Yes, we have kept too much to the right, it was that which made us lose the scent." "I was sure of it," the first speaker replied; "you see, Belhumeur, you trust too much to your Canadian habits: the Indians with whom we have to do here in no way resemble the Iroquois, who visit the hunting grounds of your country." Belhumeur nodded his head in sign of acquiescence. "After all," the other continued, "this is of very little importance at this moment; what is urgent is to know who are our thieves." "I know." "Good!" the other said, withdrawing his pipe quickly from his mouth; "and who are the Indians who have dared to steal the traps marked with my cipher?" "The Comanches." "I suspected as much. By heavens, ten of our best traps stolen during the night! I swear, Belhumeur, that they shall pay for them dearly! And where are the Comanches at this moment?" "Within three leagues of us at most. It is a party of plunderers composed of a dozen men; according to the direction they are following, they are turning to their mountains." "They shall not all arrive there," said the hunter, casting a glance at his rifle. "Parbleu!" said Belhumeur with a loud laugh, "they will only get what they deserve. I leave it to you, Loyal Heart, to punish them for their insult; but you will be still more determined to avenge yourself upon them when you know by whom they are commanded." "Ah! ah! I know their chief then?" Belhumeur said, slightly smiling, "it is _Nehu Nutah_." "Eagle Head!" cried Loyal, almost bounding from his seat. "Oh, oh! yes, I know him, and God grant that this time. I may settle the old account there is between us. His moccasins have long enough trodden the same path with me and barred my passage." After pronouncing these word with an accent of hatred that made Belhumeur shudder, the hunter, sorry at having allowed the anger which mastered him to appear, resumed his pipe and continued to smoke with a feigned carelessness that did not at all impose upon his companion. The conversation was interrupted. The two hunters appeared to be absorbed in profound reflections, and smoked silently by the side of each other. At length Belhumeur turned towards his companion. "Shall I watch?" he asked. "No," Loyal Heart replied, in a low voice; "sleep, I will be sentinel for you and myself too." Belhumeur, without making the least observation, laid himself down by the fire, and in a few minutes slept profoundly. When the owl hooted its matin song, which seemed to salute the speedy appearance of the sun, Loyal Heart, who during the night had remained motionless as a marble statue, awakened his companion. "It is time," said he. "Very good!" Belhumeur replied, rising immediately. The hunters saddled their horses, descended the hill with precaution, and galloped off upon the track of the Comanches. At this moment the sun appeared radiant in the heavens, dissipating the darkness and illuminating the prairie with its magnificent and reviving radiance. CHAPTER II. THE HUNTERS. A few words now about the personages we have just brought upon the scene, and who are destined to play an important part in this history. Loyal Heart--this name was the only one by which the hunter was known throughout the prairies of the West--enjoyed an immense reputation for skill, loyalty, and courage among the Indian tribes, with whom the chances of his adventurous existence had brought him in relation. All respected him. The white hunters and trappers, whether Spaniards, North Americans, or half-breeds, had a high opinion of his experience of the woods, and often had recourse to his counsels. The pirates of the prairies themselves, thorough food for the gallows, the refuse of civilization, who only lived by rapine and exactions, did not dare to attack him, and avoided as much as possible throwing themselves in his way. Thus this man had succeeded by the sheer force of his intelligence and his will, in creating for himself, and almost unknown to himself, a power accepted and recognized by the ferocious inhabitants of these vast deserts,--a power which he only employed in the common interest, and to facilitate for all the means of following in safety the occupations they had adopted. No one knew who Loyal Heart was, or whence he came; the greatest mystery covered his early years. One day, about twenty years before, when he was very young, some hunters had fallen in with him on the banks of the Arkansas in the act of setting traps for beavers. The few questions put to him concerning his preceding life remained unanswered; and the hunters, people not very talkative by nature, fancying they perceived, from the embarrassment and reticence of the young man, that he had a secret which he desired to keep, made a scruple about pressing him further--and nothing more was said on the subject. At the same time, contrary to other hunters, or trappers of the prairies, who have all one or two companions with whom they associate, and whom they never leave, Loyal Heart lived alone, having no fixed habitation; he traversed the desert in all directions without pitching his tent anywhere. Always reserved and melancholy, he avoided the society of his equals, although always ready, when occasion offered, to render them services, or even to expose his life for them. Then, when they attempted to express their gratitude, he would clap spurs to his horse, and go and set his traps at a distance, to give time to those he had obliged to forget the service he had rendered. Every year, at the same period, that is to say, about the month of October, Loyal Heart disappeared for several entire weeks, without anyone being able to suspect whither he was gone; and when he returned it was observed that for several days his countenance was more dark and sad than ever. One day he came back from one of these mysterious expeditions, accompanied by two magnificent young bloodhounds, which had from that time remained with him, and of which he seemed very fond. Five years before the period at which we resume our narrative, when returning one evening from laying his traps for the night, he suddenly perceived the fire of an Indian camp through the trees. A white youth, scarcely seventeen years of age, was fastened to a stake, and served as mark for the knives of the redskins, who amused themselves with torturing him before they sacrificed him to their sanguinary rage. Loyal Heart, listening to nothing but the pity which the victim inspired, and without reflecting on the terrible danger to which he exposed himself, rushed in among the Indians, and placed himself in front of the prisoner, for whom he made a rampart of his body. These Indians were Comanches. Astonished by this sudden irruption, which they were far from expecting, they remained a few instants motionless, confounded by so much audacity. Without losing a moment, Loyal Heart cut the bonds of the prisoner, and giving him a knife, which the other received with joy, they both prepared to sell their lives dearly. White men inspire Indians with an instinctive, an invincible terror; the Comanches, however, on recovering from their surprise, showed signs of rushing forward to attack the two men who seemed to defy them. But the light of the fire, which fell full upon the face of the hunter, had permitted some of them to recognize him. The redskins drew back with respect, murmuring among themselves,-- "Loyal Heart! the great paleface hunter!" Eagle Head, for so was the chief of these Indians named, did not know the hunter; it was the first time he had descended into the plains of the Arkansas, and he could not comprehend the exclamation of his warriors; besides, he cordially detested the palefaces, against whom he had sworn to carry on a war of extermination. Enraged at what he considered cowardice on the part of those he commanded, he advanced alone against Loyal Heart, but then an extraordinary occurrence took place. The Comanches threw themselves upon their chief, and notwithstanding the respect in which they held him, they disarmed him to prevent his making any attack upon the hunter. Loyal Heart, after thanking them, himself restored his arms to the chief; who received them coldly, casting a sinister glance at his generous adversary. The hunter, perceiving this feeling, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and departed with the prisoner. Loyal Heart had, in less than ten minutes, made for himself an implacable enemy and a devoted friend. The history of the prisoner was simple. Having left Canada with his father, for the purpose of hunting in the prairies, they had fallen into the hands of the Comanches; after a desperate resistance, his father had fallen covered with wounds. The Indians, irritated at this death, which robbed them of a victim, had bestowed the greatest care upon the young man, in order that he might honourably figure at the stake of punishment, and this would inevitably have happened had it not been for the providential intervention of Loyal Heart. After having obtained these particulars, the hunter asked the young man what his intentions were, and whether the rough apprenticeship he had gone through as a wood ranger had not disgusted him with a life of adventures. "By my faith, no!" the other replied; "on the contrary, I feel more determined than ever to follow this career; and, besides," he added, "I wish to avenge my father." "That is just," the hunter observed. The conversation broke off at this point. Loyal Heart, having conducted the young man to one of his _cachés_ (a sort of magazines dug in the earth in which trappers collect their wealth), produced the complete equipment of a trapper,--gun, knife, pistols, game bags, and traps,--and then, after placing these things before his _protégé_, he said simply,-- "Go! and God speed you!" The other looked at him without replying; he evidently did not understand him. Loyal Heart smiled. "You are free," he resumed; "here are all the objects necessary for your new trade,--I give them to you, the desert is before you; I wish you good luck!" The young man shook his head. "No," he said, "I will not leave you unless you drive me from you; I am alone, without family or friends; you have saved my life, and I belong to you." "It is not my custom to receive payment for the services I render," said the hunter. "You require to be paid for them too dearly," the other answered warmly, "since you refuse to accept gratitude. Take back your gifts, they are of no use to me; I am not a mendicant to whom alms can be thrown; I prefer going back and delivering myself up again to the Comanches--adieu!" And the Canadian resolutely walked away in the direction of the Indian camp. Loyal Heart was affected. This young man had so frank, so honest and spirited an air, that he felt something in his breast speak strongly in his favour. "Stop!" he said. And the other stopped. "I live alone," the hunter continued; "the existence which you will pass with me will be a sad one: a great grief consumes me; why should you attach yourself to me, who are unhappy?" "To share your grief, if you think me worthy, and to console you, if that be possible; when man is left alone, he runs the risk of falling into despair; God has ordained that he should seek companions." "That is true," the still undecided hunter murmured. "Why do you pause?" the young man asked anxiously. Loyal Heart gazed at him for a moment attentively; his eagle eye seemed to seek to penetrate his most secret thoughts; then, doubtless, satisfied with his examination, he asked, "What is your name?" "Belhumeur," the other replied; "or, if you prefer it, George Talbot; but I am generally known by the first name." The hunter smiled. "That is a promising name," he said, holding out his hand. "Belhumeur," he added, "from this time you are my brother; henceforth there is a friendship for life and death between us." He kissed him above the eyes, as is the custom in the prairies in similar circumstances. "For life and death," the Canadian replied, with a burst of enthusiasm, warmly pressing the hand which was held out to him, and kissing, in his turn, his new brother under the eyes. And this was the way in which Loyal Heart and Belhumeur had become known to each other. During five years, not the least cloud, not the shadow of a cloud, had darkened the friendship which these two superior natures had sworn to each other in the desert, in the face of God. On the contrary, every day seemed to increase it; they had but one heart between them. Completely relying on each other, divining each other's most secret thoughts, these two men had seen their strength augment tenfold, and such was their reciprocal confidence, that they doubted nothing, and undertook and carried out the most daring expeditions, in face of which ten resolute men would have paused. But everything succeeded with them, nothing appeared to be impossible to them; it might be said that a charm protected them, and rendered them invulnerable and invincible. Their reputation was thus spread far and near, and those whom their name did not strike with admiration repeated it with terror. After a few months passed by Loyal Heart in studying his companion, drawn away by that natural want which man feels of confiding his troubles to a faithful friend, the hunter no longer had any secrets from Belhumeur. This confidence, which the young man expected impatiently, but which he had done nothing to bring about, had bound still closer, if possible, the ties which united the two men, by furnishing the Canadian with the means of giving his friend the consolations which his bruised spirit required, and of avoiding irritating wounds that were ever bleeding. On the day we met them in the prairie, they had just been the victims of an audacious robbery, committed by their ancient enemy, Eagle Head, the Comanche chief, whose hatred and rancour, instead of being weakened by time, had, on the contrary, only increased. The Indian, with the characteristic deceit of his race, had dissembled, and devoured in silence the affront he had undergone from his people, and of which the two palefaced hunters were the direct cause, and awaited patiently the hour of vengeance. He had quietly dug a pit under the feet of his enemies, by prejudicing the redskins by degrees against them, and adroitly spreading calumnies about them. Thanks to this system, he had at length succeeded, or, at least, he thought he had, in making all the individuals dispersed over the prairies, even the white and half-breed hunters, consider these two men as their enemies. As soon as this result had been obtained, Eagle Head placed himself at the head of thirty devoted warriors; and, anxious to bring about a quarrel that might ruin the men whose death he had sworn to accomplish, he had in one single night stolen all their traps, certain that they would not leave such an insult unpunished, but would try to avenge it. The chief was not deceived in his calculations; all had fallen out just as he had foreseen it would. In this position he awaited his enemies. Thinking that they would find no assistance among the Indians or hunters, he flattered himself that with the thirty men he commanded he could easily seize the two hunters, whom he proposed to put to death with atrocious tortures. But he had committed the fault of concealing the number of his warriors, in order to inspire more confidence in the hunters. The latter had only partially been the dupes of this stratagem. Considering themselves sufficiently strong to contend even with twenty Indians, they had claimed the assistance of no one to avenge themselves upon enemies they despised, and had, as we have seen, set out resolutely in pursuit of the Comanches. Closing here this parenthesis, a rather long one, it is true, but indispensable to understand of what is to follow, we will take up our narrative at the point we broke off at, on terminating the preceding chapter. CHAPTER III. THE TRAIL. Eagle Head, who wished to be discovered by his enemies, had not taken any pains to conceal his trail. It was perfectly visible in the high grass, and if now and then it appeared to be effaced, the hunters had but slightly to turn to one side or the other to regain the prints of it. Never before had a foe been pursued on the prairies in such a fashion. It must have appeared the more singular to Loyal Heart, who, for a long time, had been acquainted with the cunning of the Indians, and knew with what skill, when they judged it necessary, they caused every indication of their passage to disappear. This facility gave him reason to reflect. As the Comanches had taken no more pains to conceal their track, they must either believe themselves very strong, or else they had prepared an ambush into which they hoped to make their too confident enemies fall. The two hunters rode on, casting, from time to time, a look right and left, in order to be sure they were not deceived; but the track still continued in a straight line, without turnings or circuits. It was impossible to meet with greater facilities in a pursuit. Belhumeur himself began to think this very extraordinary, and to be made seriously uneasy by it. But if the Comanches had been unwilling to take the pains of concealing their trail, the hunters did not follow their example; they did not advance a step without effacing the trace of their passage. They arrived thus on the banks of a tolerably broad rivulet, named the Verdigris, which is a tributary of the great Canadian river. Before crossing this little stream, on the other side of which the hunters would no longer be very far from the Indians, Loyal Heart stopped, making a sign to his companion to do so likewise. Both dismounted, and leading their horses by the bridle, they sought the shelter of a clump of trees, in order not to be perceived, if, by chance, some Indian sentinel should be set to watch their approach. When they were concealed in the thickness of the wood, Loyal Heart placed a finger on his lip to recommend prudence to his companion, and, approaching his lips to his ear, he said, in a voice low as a breath,-- "Before we go any farther, let us consult, in order to ascertain what we had better do." Belhumeur bent his head in sign of acquiescence. "I suspect some treachery," the hunter resumed; "Indians are too experienced warriors, and too much accustomed to the life of the prairies, to act in this way without an imperative reason." "That is true," the Canadian replied, with a tone of conviction; "this trail is too good and too plainly indicated not to conceal a snare." "Yes, but they have wished to be too cunning; their craft has overshot the mark; old hunters, like us, are not to be deceived thus. We must redouble our prudence, and examine every leaf and blade of grass with care, before we venture nearer the encampment of the redskins." "Let us do better," said Belhumeur, casting a glance around him; "let us conceal our horses in a safe place, where we can find them again at need, and then go and reconnoitre on foot the position and the number of those whom we wish to surprise." "You are right, Belhumeur," said Loyal Heart; "your counsel is excellent, we will put it in practice." "I think we had better make haste in that case." "Why so? On the contrary, do not let us hurry; the Indians, not seeing us appear, will relax in their watchfulness, and we will profit by their negligence to attack them, if we should be forced to have recourse to such extreme measures; besides, it would be better to wait for the night before we commence our expedition." "In the first place, let us put our horses in safety. Afterwards, we shall see what is best to be done." The hunters left their concealment with the greatest precaution. Instead of crossing the river, they retraced their road, and for some time followed the route they had already traversed, then they bent a little to the left, and entered a ravine, in which they quickly disappeared among the high grass. "I leave you to be guide, Belhumeur," said Loyal Heart, "I really do not know whither you are leading me!" "Leave it to me, I have by chance discovered, within two gunshots of the place where we now are, a sort of citadel, where our horses will be as safe as possible, and in which, if so it should fall out, we should be able to sustain a regular siege." "_Caramba!_" the hunter exclaimed, who, by this oath, which was habitual with him, betrayed his Spanish origin, "how did you make this precious discovery?" "Faith!" said Belhumeur, "in the simplest manner possible. I had just laid my traps, when, in climbing up the mountain before us in order to shorten my road and rejoin you more quickly, at nearly two-thirds of the ascent, I saw, protruding from the bushes the velvety muzzle of a superb bear." "Ah! ah! I am pretty well acquainted with that adventure. You brought me that day, if I am not mistaken, not one, but two black bearskins." "That is the same, my fine fellows were two, one male and the other female. You may easily suppose that at the sight of them my hunter's instincts were immediately roused; forgetful of my fatigue, I cocked my rifle, and set out in pursuit of them. You will see for yourself what sort of a fortress they had chosen," he added, as he alighted from his horse, and Loyal Heart followed his example. Before them rose, in the shape of an amphitheatre, a mass of rocks, which assumed the most curious and fantastic shapes; thin bushes sprang here and there from the interstices of the stones, climbing plants crowned the summits of the rocks, and gave to this mass, which rose more than six hundred feet above the prairie, the appearance of one of those ancient feudal ruins which are to be met with occasionally on the banks of the great rivers of Europe. This place was named by the hunters of these plains, the White Castle, from the colour of the blocks of granite which formed it. "We shall never be able to get up there with our horses," said Loyal Heart, after carefully surveying for an instant the space they had to clear. "Let us try, at all events!" said Belhumeur, pulling his horse by the bridle. The ascent was rough, and any other horses than those of hunters, accustomed to the most difficult roads, would have been unable to accomplish it, but would have rolled from the top to the bottom. It was necessary to choose with care the spot on which the foot must be placed, and then to spring forward at a bound, and all this with turnings and twisting enough to produce a dizziness. After half an hour of extraordinary difficulties they arrived at a sort of platform, ten yards broad at most. "This is it!" said Belhumeur, stopping. "How this?" Loyal Heart replied, looking around on all sides without perceiving an opening. "Come this way!" said Belhumeur, smiling. And still dragging his horse after him, he passed behind a block of the rock, the hunter following him with awakened curiosity. After walking for five minutes in a sort of trench, at most three feet wide, which seemed to wind round upon itself, the adventurers found themselves suddenly before the yawning mouth of a deep cavern. This road, formed by one of those terrible convulsions of nature so frequent in these regions, was so well concealed behind the rocks and stones which masked it, that it was impossible to discover it except by a providential chance. The hunters entered. Before ascending the mountain, Belhumeur had collected a large provision of candlewood; he lit two torches, keeping one for himself, and giving the other to his companion. Then the grotto appeared to them in all its wild majesty. Its walls were high and covered with brilliant stalactites, which reflected back the light, multiplying it, and forming a fairy-like illumination. "This cavern," said Belhumeur, after he had given his friend time to examine it in all its details, "is, I have no doubt, one of the wonders of the prairies; this gallery, which descends in a gentle declivity before us, passes under the Verdigris, and debouches on the other side of the river, at a distance of more than a mile, into the plain. In addition to the gallery by which we entered, and that which is before us, there exist four others, all of which have issues at different places. You see that here we are in no risk of being surrounded, and that these spacious chambers offer us a suite of apartments splendid enough to make the president of the United States himself jealous." Loyal Heart, enchanted with the discovery of this refuge, wished to examine it perfectly, and although he was naturally very silent, the hunter could not always withhold his admiration. "Why have you never told me of this place before?" he said to Belhumeur. "I waited for the opportunity," the latter replied. The hunters secured their horses, with abundance of provender, in one of the compartments of the grotto, into which the light penetrated by imperceptible fissures; and then, when they were satisfied that the noble animals; could want for nothing during their absence, and could not escape, they threw their rifles over their shoulders, whistled to their dogs, and, descended with hasty steps the gallery which passed under the river. Soon the air became moist around them, a dull, continuous noise was heard above their heads,--they were passing under the Verdigris. Thanks to a species of lantern, formed by a hollow rock rising in the middle of the river's course, there was light sufficient to guide them. After half an hour's walk they debouched in the prairie by an entrance masked by bushes and creeping plants. They had remained a long time in the grotto. In the first place, they had examined it minutely, like men who foresaw that some day or other they should stand in need of seeking a shelter there; next they had made a kind of stable for their horses; and lastly, they had snatched a hasty morsel of food, so that the sun was on the point of setting at the moment when they set off again upon the track of the Comanches. Then commenced the true Indian pursuit. The two hunters, after having laid on their bloodhounds, glided silently in their traces, creeping on their hands and knees through the high grass, the eye on the watch, the ear on the listen, holding their breath, and stopping at intervals to inhale the air, and interrogate those thousand sounds of the prairies which hunters notice with incredible facility, and which they explain without hesitation. The desert was plunged in a death-like silence. At the approach of night in these immense solitudes, nature seems to collect herself, and prepare, by a religious devotion, for the mysteries of darkness. The hunters continued advancing, redoubling their precautions, and creeping along in parallel lines. All at once the dogs came silently to a stop. The brave animals seemed to comprehend the value of silence in these parts, and that a single cry would cost their masters their lives. Belhumeur cast a piercing glance around him. His eye flashed, he gathered himself up, and bounding like a panther, he sprang upon an Indian warrior, who, with his body bent forward, and his head down, seemed to be sensible of the approach of an enemy. The Indian was roughly thrown upon his back, and before he could utter a cry of distress or for help, Belhumeur had his throat in his grasp and his knee on his breast. Then, with the greatest coolness, the hunter unsheathed his knife, and plunged it up to the hilt in the heart of his enemy. When the savage saw that he was lost, he disdained to attempt any useless resistance, but fixing upon the Canadian a look of hatred and contempt, an ironical smile curled his lips, and he awaited death with a calm face. Belhumeur replaced his knife in his belt, and pushing the body on one side, said imperturbably,-- "One!" And he crept on again. Loyal Heart had watched the movements of his friend with the greatest attention, ready to succour him if it were necessary; when the Indian was dead, he calmly took up the trail again. Ere long the light of a fire gleamed between the trees and an odour of roasted flesh struck the keen smell of the hunters. They drew themselves up like two phantoms along an enormous cork tree, which was within a few paces of them, and embracing the gnarled trunk, concealed themselves among the tufted branches. Then they looked out, and found that they were, it might be said, soaring over the camp of the Comanches, situated within ten yards of them, at most. CHAPTER IV. THE TRAVELLERS. About the same hour that the trappers issued from the grotto, and took up the trail of the Comanches again, at twenty miles' distance from them, a rather large party of white travellers halted upon the banks of the great Canadian river and prepared to encamp for the night in a magnificent position, where there were still some remains of an ancient camp of an Indian hunting party. The hunters and the half-breed Gambusinos who served as guides to the travellers hastened to unload a dozen mules, which were escorted by Mexican lanceros. With the bales they made an enclosure of an oval form, in the interior of which they lit a fire; then, without troubling themselves any further about their companions, the guides united together in a little group and prepared their evening repast. A young officer, of about twenty-five years of age, of martial bearing, with delicately marked features, went up respectfully to a palanquin drawn by two mules and escorted by two horsemen. "In what place would you wish, señor, the señorita's tent to be pitched?" the young officer asked, as he raised his hat. "Where you please, Captain Aguilar, provided it be quickly done; my niece is sinking with fatigue," the cavalier, who rode on the right of the palanquin, replied. He was a man of lofty stature, with hard marked features, and an eagle eye, whose hair was as white as the snows of Chimborazo, and who, under the large military cloak which he wore, allowed glimpses to appear of the splendid uniform, glittering with embroidery, of a Mexican general. The captain retired, with another bow, and returning to the lanceros, he gave them orders to set up in the middle of the camp enclosure, a pretty tent, striped rose colour and blue, which was carried across the back of a mule. Five minutes later, the general, dismounting, offered his hand gallantly to a young female, who sprang lightly from the palanquin, and conducted her to the tent, where, thanks to the attentions of Captain Aguilar, everything was so prepared that she found herself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Behind the general and his niece, two other persons entered the tent. One was short and stout, with a full, rosy face, green spectacles, and a light-coloured wig, who appeared to be choking in the uniform of an army surgeon. This personage, whose age was a problem, but who appeared to be about fifty, was named Jérome Boniface Duveux; he was a Frenchman, and a surgeon-major in the Mexican service. On alighting from his horse, he had seized and placed under his arm, with a species of respect, a large valise fastened to the hinder part of his saddle, and from which he seemed unwilling to part. The second person was a girl of about fifteen years of age, of a forward and lively mien, with a turn-up nose and a bold look, belonging to the half-breed race, who served as lady's maid to the general's niece. A superb Negro, decorated with the majestic name of Jupiter, hastened, aided by two or three Gambusinos, to prepare the supper. "Well! doctor," said the general, smiling, to the fat man, who came in puffing like a bullock, and sat down upon his valise, "how do you find my niece this evening?" "The señorita is always charming!" the doctor replied gallantly, as he wiped his brow, "Do you not find the heat very oppressive?" "Faith! no," replied the general, "not more so than usual." "Well, it appears so to me!" said the doctor with a sigh. "What are you laughing at, you little witch?" added he, turning towards the waiting maid, who, in fact, was laughing with all her might. "Pay no attention to that wild girl, doctor; you know she is but a child," the young lady said, with a pleasing smile. "I have always told you, Doña Luz," persisted the doctor, knitting his large eyebrows, and puffing out his cheeks, "that that little girl is a demon, to whom you are much too kind, and who will end by playing you an evil turn some of these days." "Ooouch! the wicked picker up of pebbles!" the quadroon said with a grin, in allusion to the doctor's mania for collecting stones. "Come, come, peace!" said the general, "has today's journey fatigued you much, my dear niece?" "Not exceedingly," the young lady replied, with a suppressed yawn; "during nearly a month that we have been travelling I have become accustomed to this sort of life, which, I confess, at the commencement, I found painful enough." The general sighed, but made no reply. The doctor was absorbed by the care with which he was classifying the plants and stones which he had collected during the day. The half-breed girl flew about the tent like a bird, occupied in putting everything in order that her mistress might want. We will take advantage of this moment of respite to sketch the portrait of the young lady. Doña Luz de Bermudez was the daughter of a younger sister of the general. She was a charming girl of sixteen at most. Her large black eyes, surmounted by eyebrows whose deep colour contrasted finely with the whiteness of her fair, pure forehead, were veiled by long velvety lashes, which modestly concealed their splendour; her little mouth was set off by teeth of pearl, edged by lips of coral; her delicate skin wore the down of the ripe peach, and her blue-black hair, when liberated from its bands, formed a veil for her whole person. Her form was slender and supple, with all the curves of the true line of beauty. She possessed, in an eminent degree, that undulating, gracefully serpentine movement which distinguishes American women; her hands and feet were extremely small, and her step had the careless voluptuousness of the Creole, so full of ever varying attractions. In short, in the person of this young lady, might be said to be combined all the graces and perfections. Ignorant as most of her compatriots, she was gay and cheerful; amused with the smallest trifle, and knowing nothing of life but the agreeable side of it. But this beautiful statue was not animated; it was Pandora before Prometheus had stolen for her fire from heaven, and, to continue our mythological comparison, Love had not yet brushed her with his wing, her brow had not yet been contracted by the pressure of thought, her heart had not yet beaten under the influence of passion. Brought up under the care of the general in almost cloistral seclusion, she had only quitted it to accompany him in a journey he had undertaken through the prairies. What was the object of this journey, and why had her uncle so positively insisted upon her making it with him? That was of little consequence to the young girl. Happy to live in the open air, to be constantly seeing new countries and new objects, to be free in comparison with the life she had hitherto led, she had asked nothing better, and took care never to trouble her uncle with indiscreet questions. At the period when we met her, then, Doña Luz was a happy girl, living from day to day, satisfied with the present, and thinking nothing of the future. Captain Aguilar entered, preceding Jupiter, who brought in the dinner. The table was decked by Phoebe, the waiting maid. The repast consisted of preserved meats and a joint of roast venison. Four persons took their places round the table; the general, his niece, the captain, and the doctor. Jupiter and Phoebe waited. Conversation languished during the first course; but when the appetite of the party was a little abated, the young girl, who delighted in teasing the doctor, turned to him, and said,-- "Have you made a rich harvest today, doctor?" "Not too rich, señorita," he replied. "Well! but," she said, laughing, "there appears to me to be such an abundance of stones on our route, that it only rested with yourself to gather together enough to load a mule." "You ought to be pleased with your journey," said the general, "for it offers you such an opportunity for indulging in your passion for plants of all sorts." "Not too great, general, I must confess; the prairie is not so rich as I thought it was; and if it were not for the hope I entertain of discovering one plant, whose qualities may advance science, I should almost regret my little house at Guadeloupe, where my life glided away in such uniform tranquillity." "Bah!" the captain interrupted, "we are as yet only on the frontiers of the prairies. You will find, when we have penetrated further into the interior, that you will not be able to gather the riches which will spring from under your feet." "God grant it may be so, captain;" said the doctor, with a sigh; "provided I find the plant I seek I shall be satisfied." "Is it then such a very valuable plant?" asked Doña Luz. "What, señorita!" cried the doctor, warming with the question. "A plant which Linnaeus has described and classified, and which no one has since found! a plant that would make my reputation! And you ask me if it is valuable?" "Of what use is it, then?" the young lady asked, in a tone of curiosity. "Of what use is it?" "Yes." "None at all, that I am aware of," the doctor replied, ingeniously. Doña Luz broke into a silvery laugh, whose pearly notes might have made a nightingale jealous. "And you call it a valuable plant?" "Yes--if only for its rarity." "Ah! that's all." "Let us hope you will find it, doctor," said the general in a conciliatory tone. "Jupiter, call the chief of the guides hither." The Negro left the tent, and almost immediately returned, followed by a Gambusino. The latter was a man of about forty, tall in stature, square-built, and muscular. His countenance, though not exactly ugly, had something repulsive in it for which the spectator was at a loss to account; his wild, sinister-looking eyes, buried under their orbits, cast a savage light, which with his low brow, his curly hair, and his coppery complexion, made altogether a not very agreeable whole. He wore the costume of a wood ranger; he was cold, impassible, of a nature essentially taciturn, and answered to the name of _the Babbler_, which, no doubt, the Indians or his companions had given him by antiphrasis. "Here, my good fellow," said the general, holding out to him a glass filled to the brim with a sort of brandy, called mescal, from the name of the place where it is distilled, "drink this." The hunter bowed, emptied the glass, which contained about a pint, at a draught; then, passing his cuff across his moustache, waited. "I wish," said the general, "to halt for a few days in some safe position, in order to make, without fear of being disturbed, certain researches; shall we be secure here?" The eye of the guide sparkled: he fixed a burning glance upon the general. "No," he replied, laconically. "Why not?" "Too many Indians and wild beasts." "Do you know one more suitable?" "Yes." "Is it far?" "No." "At what distance?" "Forty miles." "How long will it take us to arrive there?" "Three days." "That will do. Conduct us thither. Tomorrow, at sunrise, we will set forward in our march." "Is that all?" "That is all." "Good night." And the hunter withdrew. "What I admire in the Babbler," said the Captain, with a smile, "is that his conversation never tires you." "I should like it much better if he spoke more," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I always suspect people who are so afraid of saying too much; they generally have something to conceal." The guide, after leaving the tent, joined his companions, with whom he began to talk in a low voice, but in a very animated manner. The night was magnificent; the travellers, assembled in front of the tent, were chatting together, and smoking their cigars. Doña Luz was singing one of those charming Creole songs, which are so full of sweet melody and expression. All at once a red-tinted light appeared in the horizon, increasing every instant, and a dull continuous noise, like the growling of distant thunder, was heard. "What is that?" the general cried, rising hastily. "The prairie is on fire," the Babbler replied, quietly. At this terrible announcement, made so quietly, the camp was all in confusion. It was necessary to fly instantly, if they did not choose to run the risk of being burnt alive. One of the Gambusinos, taking advantage of the disorder, glided away among the baggage, and disappeared in the plain, after exchanging a mysterious signal with the Babbler. CHAPTER V. THE COMANCHES. Loyal Heart and Belhumeur, concealed among the tufted branches of the cork tree, were observing the Comanches. The Indians depended upon the vigilance of their sentinels. Far from suspecting that their enemies were so near them and were watching their motions, they crouched or lay around the fires, eating or smoking carelessly. These savages, to the number of twenty-five, were dressed in their buffalo robes, and painted in the most varied and fantastic manner. Most of them had their faces covered with vermillion, others were entirely black, with a long white stripe upon each cheek; they wore their bucklers on their backs, with their bows and arrows, and near them lay their guns. By the number of wolves' tails fastened to their moccasins, and which dragged on the ground behind them, it was easy to perceive that they were all picked warriors, renowned in their tribe. At some paces from the group, Eagle Head leant motionless against a tree. With his arms crossed on his breast, and leaning gently forward, he seemed to be listening to vague sounds, perceptible to himself alone. Eagle Head was an Osage Indian; the Comanches had adopted him when quite young, but he had always preserved the costume and manners of his nation. He was, at most, twenty-eight years of age, nearly six feet high, and his large limbs, upon which enormous muscles developed themselves, denoted extraordinary strength. Differing in this respect from his companions, he only wore a blanket fastened round his loins, so as to leave his bust and his arms bare. The expression of his countenance was handsome and noble; his black, animated eyes, close to his aquiline nose, and his somewhat large mouth, gave him a faint resemblance to a bird of prey. His hair was shaved off, with the exception of a ridge upon the middle of his head, which produced the effect of the crest of a helmet, and a long scalp lock, in which was fixed a bunch of eagle's feathers, hung down behind him. His face was painted of four different colours--blue, white, black, and red; the wounds inflicted by him upon his enemies were marked in blue upon his naked breast. Moccasins of untanned deerskin came up above his knees, and numerous wolves' tails were fastened to his heels. Fortunately for the hunters, the Indians were on the warpath, and had no dogs with them; but for this, they would have been discovered long before, and could not possibly have approached so near the camp. In spite of his statue-like immobility, the eye of the chief sparkled, his nostrils expanded, and he lifted his right arm mechanically, as if to impose silence upon his warriors. "We are scented," Loyal Heart murmured, in a voice so low that his companion could hardly hear it. "What is to be done?" Belhumeur replied. "Act," said the trapper, laconically. Both then glided silently from branch to branch, from tree to tree, without touching the ground, till they reached the opposite side of the camp, just above the place where the horses of the Comanches were hobbled to graze. Belhumeur descended softly, and cut the thongs that held them; and the horses, excited by the whips of the hunters, rushed out, neighing and kicking in all directions. The Indians rose in disorder, and hastened, with loud cries, in pursuit of their horses. Eagle Head alone, as if he had guessed the spot where his enemies were in ambush, directed his steps straight towards them, screening himself as much as possible behind the trees which he passed. The hunters drew back, step by step, looking carefully round them, so as not to allow themselves to be encompassed. The cries of the Indians grew fainter in the distance; they were all in eager pursuit of their horses. The chief found himself alone in presence of his two enemies. On arriving at a tree whose enormous trunk appeared to guarantee the desired safety, disdaining to use his gun, and the opportunity seeming favourable, he adjusted an arrow on his bowstring. But whatever might be his prudence and address, he could not make this movement without discovering himself a little. Loyal Heart raised his gun, the trigger was pressed, the ball whizzed, and the chief bounded into the air uttering a howl of rage, and fell upon the ground. His arm was broken. The two hunters were already by his side. "Not a movement, redskin," Loyal Heart said to him; "not a movement, or you are a dead man!" The Indian remained motionless, apparently stoical, but devouring his rage. "I could kill you," the hunter continued; "but I am not willing to do so. This is the second time I have given you your life, chief, but it will be the last. Cross my path no more, and, remember, do not steal my traps again; if you do, I swear I will grant you no mercy." "Eagle Head is a chief renowned among the men of his tribe," the Indian replied, haughtily; "he does not fear death; the white hunter may kill him, he will not hear him complain." "No, I will not kill you, chief; my God forbids the shedding of human blood unnecessarily." "Wah!" said the Indian, with an ironical smile, "my brother is a missionary." "No, I am an honest trapper, and do not wish to be an assassin." "My brother speaks the words of old women," the Indian continued; "Nehu mutah never pardons, he takes vengeance." "You will do as you please, chief," the hunter replied, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, "I have no intention of trying to change your nature; only remember you are warned--farewell!" "And the devil admire you!" Belhumeur added, giving him a contemptuous shove with his foot. The chief appeared insensible even to this fresh insult, save that his brows contracted slightly. He did not stir, but followed his enemies with an implacable look, while they, without troubling themselves further about him, plunged into the forest. "You may say what you like, Loyal Heart," said Belhumeur, "but you are wrong, you ought to have killed him." "Bah! what for?" the hunter asked, carelessly. "_Cascaras!_ what for? Why, there would have been one head of vermin the less in the prairie." "Where there are so many," said the other, "one more or less cannot signify much." "Humph! that's true!" Belhumeur replied, apparently convinced; "but where are we going now?" "To look after our traps, _caramba!_ do you think I will lose them?" "Humph! that's a good thought." The hunters advanced in the direction of the camp, but in the Indian fashion--that is to say, by making numberless turnings and windings intended to throw out the Comanches. After progressing in this way for twenty minutes, they arrived at the camp. The Indians had not yet returned; but in all probability, it would not be long before they did so. All their baggage was scattered about. Two or three horses, which had not felt disposed to run away, were browsing quietly on the peavines. Without losing time, the hunters set about collecting their traps, which was soon done. Each loaded himself with five, and, without further delay, they resumed the way to the cavern where they had concealed their horses. Notwithstanding the tolerably heavy weight they carried on their shoulders, the two men marched lightly, much pleased at having so happily terminated their expedition, and laughing at the trick they had played the Indians. They had gone on thus for some time, and could already hear the murmur of the distant waters of the river, when, all at once, the neighing of a horse struck their ears. "We are pursued," said Loyal Heart, stopping. "Hum!" Belhumeur remarked, "it is, perhaps, a wild horse." "No; a wild horse does not neigh in that manner; it is the Comanches; but we can soon know," he added, as he threw himself down to listen, and placed his ear close to the ground. "I was sure of it," he said, rising almost immediately; "it is the Comanches; but they are not following a full track--they are hesitating." "Or perhaps their march is retarded by the wound of Eagle Head." "That's possible! Oh, oh! do they fancy themselves capable of catching us, if we wished to escape from them?" "Ah! if we were not loaded, that would soon be done." Loyal Heart reflected a minute. "Come," he said, "we have still half an hour, and that is more than we want." A rivulet flowed at a short distance from them; the hunter entered its bed with his companion, who followed all his movements. When he arrived in the middle of the stream, Loyal Heart carefully wrapped up the traps in a buffalo skin, that no moisture might come to them, and then he allowed them quietly to drop to the bottom of the stream. This precaution taken, the hunters crossed the rivulet, and made a false trail of about two hundred paces, and afterwards returned cautiously so as not to leave a print that might betray their return. They then re-entered the forest, after having, with a gesture, sent the dogs to the horses. The intelligent animals obeyed, and soon disappeared in the darkness. This resolution to send away the dogs was useful in assisting to throw the Indians off the track, for they could scarcely miss following the traces left by the bloodhounds in the high grass. Once in the forest, the hunters again climbed up a tree, and began to advance between heaven and earth--a mode of travelling much more frequently used than is believed in Europe, in this country where it is often impossible, on account of the underwood and the trees, to advance without employing an axe to clear a passage. It is possible, by thus passing from branch to branch, to travel leagues together without touching the ground. It was exactly thus, only for another cause, that our hunters acted at this moment. They advanced in this fashion before their enemies, who drew nearer and nearer, and they soon perceived them under them, marching in Indian file, that is to say, one behind another, and following their track attentively. Eagle Head came first, half lying upon his horse, on account of his wound, but more animated than ever in pursuit of his enemies. When the Comanches passed them, the two trappers gathered themselves up among the leaves, holding their breath. The most trifling circumstance would have sufficed to proclaim their presence. The Indians passed without seeing them. The hunters resumed their leafy march. "Ouf!" said Belhumeur, at the end of a minute. "I think we have got rid of them this time!" "Do not cry before you are out of the wood, but let us get on as fast as we can; these demons of redskins are cunning, they will not long be the dupes of our stratagem." "_Sacrebleu!_" the Canadian suddenly exclaimed, "I have let my knife fall, I don't know where; if these devils find it, we are lost." "Most likely," Loyal Heart murmured; "the greater reason then for not losing a single minute." In the meantime, the forest, which till then had been calm, began all at once to grow excited, the birds flew about uttering cries of terror, and in the thick underwood they could hear the dry branches crack under the hurried footfalls of the wild animals. "What's going on now?" said Loyal Heart, stopping, and looking round him with uneasiness; "the forest appears to be turned topsy-turvey!" The hunters sprang up to the top of the tree in which they were, and which happened to be one of the loftiest in the forest. An immense light tinged the horizon at about a league from the spot where they were; this light increased every minute, and advanced towards them with giant strides. "Curses on them!" cried Belhumeur, "the Comanches have fired the prairie!" "Yes, and I believe this time that, as you said just now, we are lost," Loyal Heart replied coolly. "What's to be done?" said the Canadian, "in an instant we shall be surrounded." Loyal Heart reflected seriously. At the end of a few seconds he raised his head, and a smile of triumph curled the corners of his mouth. "They have not got us yet," he replied; "follow me, my brother;" and he added in a low voice, "I must see my mother again!" CHAPTER VI. THE PRESERVER. In order to make the reader comprehend the position of the hunters, it is necessary to return to the Comanche chief. Scarce had his enemies disappeared among the trees, ere Eagle Head raised himself softly up, bent his body forward, and listened to ascertain if they were really departing. As soon as he had acquired that certainty, he tore off a morsel of his blanket with which he wrapped up his arm as well as he could, and, in spite of the weakness produced by loss of blood and the pain he suffered, he set off resolutely on the trail of the hunters. He accompanied them, thus himself unseen, to the limits of the camp. There, concealed behind an ebony tree, he witnessed, without being able to prevent it, though boiling with rage, the search made by the hunters for their traps, and, at length, their departure after recovering them. Although the bloodhounds which the hunters had with them were excellent dogs, trained to scent an Indian from a distance, by a providential chance, which probably saved the life of the Comanche chief, they had fallen upon the remains of the repast of the redskins, and their masters, not dreaming that they were watched, did not think of commanding their vigilance. The Comanches at length regained their camp, after having, with infinite difficulty, succeeded in catching their horses. The sight of their wounded chief caused them great surprise, and still greater anger, of which Eagle Head took advantage to send them all off again in pursuit of the hunters, who, retarded by the traps they carried, could not be far off, and must inevitably fall speedily into their hands. They had been but for an instant the dupes of the stratagem invented by Loyal Heart, and had not been long in recognising, on the first trees of the forest unequivocal traces of the passage of their enemies. At this moment, Eagle Head, ashamed of being thus held in check by two determined men, whose cunning, superior to his own, deceived all his calculations, resolved to put an end to them at once, by carrying into execution the diabolical project of setting fire to the forest; a means which, according to the manner in which he meant to employ it, must, he did not doubt, at length deliver his formidable adversaries up to him. In consequence, dispersing his warriors in various directions, so as to form a vast circle, he ordered the high grass to be set on fire in various places simultaneously. The idea, though barbarous and worthy of the savage warriors who employed it, was a good one. The hunters, after having vainly endeavoured to escape from the network of flame which encompassed them on all sides, would be obliged, in spite of themselves, if they did not prefer being burnt alive, to surrender quietly to their ferocious enemies. Eagle Head had calculated and foreseen everything, except the most easy and most simple thing, the only chance of safety that would be left to Loyal Heart and his companions. As we have said, at the command of their chief the warriors had dispersed, and had lighted the conflagration at several points simultaneously. At this advanced season of the year, the plants and grass, parched by the incandescent rays of the summer's sun, were immediately in a blaze, and the fire extended in all directions with frightful rapidity. Not, however, so quickly as not to allow a certain time to elapse before it united. Loyal Heart had not hesitated. Whilst the Indians were running like demons around the barrier of flame they had just opposed to their enemies, and were uttering yells of joy, the hunter, followed by his friend, had rushed at full speed between two walls of fire, which from right and left advanced upon him, hissing, and threatening to unite at once above his head and beneath his feet. Amidst calcined trees which fell with a crash, blinded by clouds of thick smoke which stopped their respiration, burnt by showers of sparks which poured upon them from all parts, following boldly their course beneath a vault of flame, the intrepid adventurers had cleared, at the cost of a few trifling burns, the accursed enclosure in which the Indians had thought to bury them for ever, and were already far from the enemies who were congratulating themselves upon the success of their artful and barbarous plan. The conflagration, in the meantime, assumed formidable proportions; the forest shrivelled up under the grasp of the fire; the prairie was but one sheet of flame, in the midst of which the wild animals, driven from their dens and lairs by this unexpected catastrophe, ran about, mad with terror. The sky gleamed with blood-red reflections, and an impetuous wind swept before it both flames and smoke. The Indians themselves were terrified at their own handiwork, on seeing around them entire mountains lighted up like baleful beacons; the earth became hot, and immense troops of buffalos made the ground tremble with their furious course, while they uttered those bellowings of despair which fill with terror the hearts of the bravest men. In the camp of the Mexicans everything was in the greatest disorder; it was all noise and frightful confusion. The horses had broken their shackles, and fled away in all directions; the men seized their arms and ammunition; others carried the saddles and packages. Everyone was crying, swearing, commanding--all were running about the camp as if they had been struck with madness. The fire continued to advance majestically, swallowing up everything in its passage, preceded by a countless number of animals of all kinds, who bounded along with howls of fear, pursued by the scourge which threatened to overtake them at every step. A thick smoke, laden with sparks, was already passing over the camp of the Mexicans; twenty minutes more and all would be over with them. The general, pressing his niece in his arms, in vain demanded of the guides the best means of avoiding the immense peril which threatened them. But these men, terrified by the imminence of the peril, had lost all self-possession. And then, what remedy could be employed? The flames formed an immense circle, of which the camp had become the centre. The strong breeze, however, which up to that moment had kept alive the conflagration, by lending it wings, sank all at once. There was not a breath of air. The progress of the fire slackened. Providence granted these unhappy creatures a few minutes more. At this moment the camp presented a strange aspect. All the men, struck with terror, had lost the sense even of self-preservation. The _lanceros_ confessed to each other. The guides were plunged in gloomy despair. The general accused Heaven of his misfortune. As for the doctor, he only regretted the plant he could not discover; with him every other consideration yielded to that. Doña Luz, with her hands clasped, and her knees on the ground, was praying fervently. The fire continued to approach, with its vanguard of wild beasts. "Oh!" cried the general, shaking the arm of the guide violently, "will you leave us to be burnt thus, without making an effort to save us?" "What can be done against the will of God?" the Babbler replied, stoically. "Are there no means, then, of preserving us from death?" "None!" "There is one!" a man cried, who, with a scorched face, and half-burnt hair, rushed into the camp, climbing over the baggage, and followed by another individual. "Who are you?" the general exclaimed. "That is of little consequence," the stranger replied, drily; "I come to save you! My companion and I were out of danger; to succour you we have braved unheard-of perils--that should satisfy you. Your safety is in your own hands; you have only to will it." "Command!" the general replied, "I will be the first to give you the example of obedience." "Have you no guides with you, then?" "Certainly we have," said the general. "Then they are traitors or cowards, for the means I am about to employ are known to everybody in the prairie." The general darted a glance of mistrust at the Babbler, who had not been able to suppress an appearance of disagreeable surprise at the sudden coming of the two strangers. "Well," said the hunter, "that is an account you can settle with them hereafter; we have something else to think of now." The Mexicans at the sight of this determined man, with his sharp impressive language, had instinctively beheld a preserver; they felt their courage revive with hope, and held themselves ready to execute his orders with promptness. "Be quick!" said the hunter, "and pull up all the grass that surrounds the camp." Everyone set to work at once. "For our part," the stranger continued, addressing the general, "we will take wetted blankets and spread them in front of the baggage." The general, the captain, and the doctor, under the directions of the hunter, did as he desired, whilst his companion lassoed the horses and the mules, and hobbled them in the centre of the camp. "Be quick! be quick!" the hunter cried incessantly, "the fire gains upon us!" Everyone redoubled his exertions, and, in a short time a large space was cleared. Doña Luz surveyed with admiration this strange man, who had suddenly appeared among them in such a providential manner, and who, amidst the horrible danger that enveloped them, was as calm and self-possessed as if he had had the power to command the awful scourge which continued to advance upon them with giant strides. The maiden could not take her eyes off him; in spite of herself, she felt attracted towards this unknown preserver, whose voice, gestures,--his whole person, in short, interested her. When the grass and herbs had been pulled up with that feverish rapidity which men in fear of death display in all they do, the hunter smiled calmly. "Now," he said, addressing the Mexicans, "the rest concerns me and my friend; leave us to act as we think proper; wrap yourselves carefully in damp blankets." Everyone followed his directions. The stranger cast a glance around him, and then after making a sign to his friend, walked straight towards the fire. "I shall not quit you," the general said, earnestly. "Come on, then," the stranger replied, laconically. When they reached the extremity of the space where the grass had been pulled up, the hunter made a heap of plants and dry wood with his feet, and scattering a little gunpowder over it, he set fire to the mass. "What are you doing?" the general exclaimed, in amazement. "As you see, I make fire fight against fire," the hunter replied, quietly. His companion had acted in the same manner in an opposite direction. A curtain of flames arose rapidly around them, and, for some minutes, the camp was almost concealed beneath a vault of fire. A quarter of an hour of terrible anxiety and intense expectation ensued. By degrees the flames became less fierce, the air more pure; the smoke dispersed, the roarings of the conflagration diminished. At length they were able to recognise each other in this horrible chaos. A sigh of relief burst from every breast. The camp was saved! The conflagration, whose roaring became gradually more dull, conquered by the hunter, went to convey destruction in other directions. Everyone rushed towards the stranger to thank him. "You have saved the life of my niece," said the general warmly; "how shall I discharge my debt to you?" "You owe me nothing, sir," the hunter replied, with noble simplicity; "in the prairie all men are brothers; I have only performed my duty by coming to your assistance." As soon as the first moments of joy were past, and the camp had been put in a little order, everyone felt the necessity for repose after the terrible anxieties of the night. The two strangers, who had constantly repulsed modestly, but firmly, the advances the general had made in the warmth of his gratitude, threw themselves carelessly on the baggage for a few hours' rest. A little before dawn they arose. "The earth must be cool by this time," said the hunter: "let us be gone before these people wake; perhaps they would not wish us to leave them so." "Let us be gone!" the other replied laconically. At the moment he was about to pass over the boundary of the camp, a hand was laid lightly upon the shoulder of the elder. He turned round, and Doña Luz was before him. The two men stopped and bowed respectfully to the young lady. "Are you going to leave us?" she asked in a soft and melodious voice. "We must, señorita," the hunter replied. "I understand," she said with a charming smile; "now that, thanks to you, we are saved, you have nothing more to do here,--is it not so?" The two men bowed without replying. "Grant me a favour," she said. "Name it, señorita." She took from her neck a little diamond cross she wore. "Keep this, in remembrance of me." The hunter hesitated. "I beg you to do so," she murmured in an agitated voice. "I accept it, señorita," the hunter said, as he placed the cross upon his breast close to his scapulary; "I shall have another talisman to add to that which my mother gave me." "Thank you," the girl replied joyfully; "one word more?" "Speak it, lady." "What are your names?" "My companion is called Belhumeur." "But yourself?" "Loyal Heart." After bowing a second time, in sign of farewell, the two hunters departed at a quick pace, and soon disappeared in the darkness. Doña Luz looked after them as long as she could perceive them, and then returned slowly and pensively towards her tent, repeating to herself in a low but earnest tone,-- "Loyal Heart! Oh! I shall remember that name." CHAPTER VII. THE SURPRISE. The United States have inherited from England that system of continual invasion and usurpation which is one of the most salient points in the British character. Scarcely was the independence of North America proclaimed, and peace concluded with the mother country, ere those very men who cried out so loudly against tyranny and oppression, who protested against the violation of the rights of nations, of which they said they were the victims, organized, with that implacable coolness which they owe to their origin, a hunt of the Red Indians. Not only did they do so over the whole extent of their territories, but dissatisfied with the possession of the vast regions which their restless population, spite of its activity, did not suffice to clear and render valuable, they wished to make themselves masters of the two oceans, by encircling on all sides the aboriginal tribes, whom they drove back incessantly, and whom, according to the prophetic words, filled with bitter displeasure, of an aged Indian chief, they will eventually drown in the Pacific, by means of treachery and perfidy. In the United States, about which people are beginning to be disabused, but which prejudiced or ill-informed persons still persist in representing as the classic land of liberty, is found that odious anomaly of two races degraded and despoiled for the advantage of a third race, which arrogates to itself a right of life and death over them, and considers them as nothing more than beasts of burden. These two races, so worthy of the interest of all enlightened minds, and of the true friends of the human species, are the black and red races. It is true, that on the other hand, to prove what thorough philanthropists they are, the United States did, in the year 1795, sign a treaty of peace and friendship with the Barbary States, which gave them advantages incomparably greater than those offered by the Order of Malta, which was likewise desirous of treating with them--a treaty guaranteed by the regencies of Algiers and Tripoli. In this treaty it is positively stated that the government of the United States is not founded, in any way, upon the Christian religion. To those to whom this may appear strong, we will reply that it is logical, and that the Americans in the article of God acknowledge but one alone--the God Dollar! who, in all times, has been the only one adored by the pirates of every country. Draw the conclusion from this who will. The squatters, a race without hearth or home, without right or law, the refuse of all nations, and who are the shame and scum of the North-American population, are advancing incessantly towards the West, and by clearings upon clearings endeavour to drive the Indian tribes from their last places of refuge. In rear of the squatters come five or six soldiers, a drummer, a trumpeter, and an officer of some kind bearing the banner of the Stars and Stripes. These soldiers build a fort with some trunks of trees, plant the flag on the top of it, and proclaim that the frontiers of the Confederation extend to that point. Then around the fort spring up a few cabins, and a bastard population is grouped--a heterogeneous compound of whites, blacks, reds, copper-coloured, &c., &c., and a city is founded, upon which is bestowed some sonorous name--Utica, Syracuse, Rome, or Carthage, for example, and a few years later, when this city possesses two or three stone houses, it becomes by right the capital of a new state which is not yet in existence. Thus are things going on in this country!--it is very simple, as is evident. A few days after the events we have related in our preceding chapter, a strange scene was passing in a possession built scarcely two years before, upon the banks of the great Canadian river, in a beautiful position at the foot of a verdant hill. This possession consisted of about twenty cabins, grouped capriciously near each other, and protected by a little fort, armed with four small cannon which commanded the course of the river. The village, though so young, had already, thanks to the prodigious American activity, acquired all the importance of a city. Two taverns overflowed with tipplers, and three temples of different sects served to gather together the faithful. The inhabitants moved about here and there with the preoccupation of people who work seriously and look sharply after their affairs. Numerous canoes ploughed the river, and carts loaded with merchandise passed about in all directions, grinding upon their creaking axles, and digging deep ruts. Nevertheless, in spite of all this movement, or, perhaps, on account of it, it was easy to observe that a certain uneasiness prevailed in the village. The inhabitants questioned each other, groups were formed upon the steps of doors, and several men, mounted upon powerful horses, rode rapidly away, as scouts, in all directions, after taking their orders from the captain commanding the fort, who, dressed in full uniform, with a telescope in his hand, and his arms behind his back, was walking backwards and forwards, with hasty steps, upon the glacis of the little fort. By degrees, the canoes regained the shore, the carts were unteamed, the beasts of burden were collected in the home pastures, and the entire population assembled upon the square of the village. The sun was sinking rapidly towards the horizon, night would soon be upon them, and the horsemen sent to the environs had all returned. "You see," said the captain to the assembled inhabitants, "that we had nothing to fear, it was only a false alarm; you may return peaceably to your dwellings, no trace of Indians can be found for twenty miles round." "Hum!" an old half-breed hunter, leaning on his gun, observed, "Indians are not long in travelling twenty miles!" "That is possible, White Eyes," the commandant replied, "but be convinced that if I have acted as I have done, it has been simply with the view of reassuring the people; the Indians will not dare to avenge themselves." "Indians always avenge themselves, captain," said the old hunter, sententiously. "You have drunk too much whiskey, White Eyes; it has got into your head; you are dreaming, with your eyes open." "God grant you may be right, captain! but I have passed all my life in the clearings, and know the manners of the redskins, while you have only been on the frontiers two years." "That is quite as long as is necessary," the captain interrupted, peremptorily. "Nevertheless, with your permission, Indians are men, and the Comanches, who were treacherously assassinated here, in contempt of the laws of nations, were warriors renowned in their tribe." "White Eyes, you are of mixed breed, you lean a little too much to the red race," said the captain ironically. "The red race," the hunter replied proudly, "are loyal; they do not assassinate for the pleasure of shedding blood, as you yourself did, four days ago, in killing those two warriors who were passing inoffensively in their canoe, under the pretence of trying a new gun which you had received from Acropolis." "Well, well! that's enough! Spare me your comments, White Eyes, I am not disposed to receive observations from you." The hunter bowed awkwardly, threw his gun upon his shoulder and retired grumbling. "That's all one!--Blood that is shed cries for vengeance; the redskins are men, and will not leave the crime unpunished." The captain retired into the fort, visibly annoyed by what the half-breed had said to him. Gradually the inhabitants dispersed, after wishing each other good night, and closed their dwellings with that carelessness peculiar to men accustomed to risk their lives every minute. An hour later night had completely set in, thick darkness enveloped the village, and the inhabitants, fatigued with the rude labours of the day, were reposing in profound security. The scouts sent out by the captain towards the decline of day had badly performed their duty, or else they were not accustomed to Indian cunning, otherwise they never could, by their reports, have placed the colonists in such deceitful confidence. Scarcely a mile from the village, concealed amongst and confounded with the thick bushes and intertwining trees of a virgin forest, of which the nearest part had already fallen under the indefatigable axe of the clearers, two hundred warriors of the tribe of the Serpent, guided by several renowned chiefs, among whom was Eagle Head, who, although wounded, insisted upon joining the expedition, were waiting, with that Indian patience which nothing can foil, the propitious moment for taking a severe vengeance for the insult they had received. Several hours passed thus, and the silence of night was not disturbed by any noise whatever. The Indians, motionless as bronze statues, waited without displaying the slightest impatience. Towards eleven o'clock the moon rose, lighting the landscape with its silvery beams. At the same instant the distant howling of a dog was repeated twice. Eagle Head then left the tree behind which he had been screened, and began to creep with extreme address and velocity, in the direction of the village. On reaching the skirts of the forest he stopped; then, after casting round an investigating glance, he imitated the neighing of a horse with such perfection that two horses of the village immediately replied to him. After waiting for a few seconds, the practised ear of the chief perceived an almost insensible noise among the leaves; the bellowing of an ox was heard a short distance away; then the chief arose and waited. Two seconds later a man joined him. This man was White Eyes, the old hunter. A sinister smile curled the corners of his thin lips. "What are the white men doing?" the chief asked. "They are asleep," the half-breed answered. "Will my brother give them up to me?" "For a fair exchange." "A chief has but one word. The pale woman and the grey head?" "Are here." "Shall they belong to me?" "All the inhabitants of the village shall be placed in the hands of my brethren." "Och! Has not the hunter come?" "Not yet." "He will come presently?" "Probably he will." "What does my brother say now?" "Where is that which I demanded of the chief?" the hunter said. "The skins, the guns, and the powder, are in the rear, guarded by my young men." "I trust to you, chief," the hunter replied, "but if you deceive me----" "An Indian has but one word." "That is good! Whenever you please, then." Ten minutes later the Indians were masters of the village, all the inhabitants of which, roused one after the other, were made prisoners without a struggle. The fort was surrounded by the Comanches, who, after heaping up at the foot of the walls trunks of trees, carts, furniture, and all the farming implements of the colonists, only waited for a signal from their chief to commence the attack. All at once a vague form stood out from the top of the fort, and the cry of the sparrowhawk echoed through the air. The Indians set fire to the kind of pyre they had raised and rushed towards the palisades, uttering altogether that horrible and piercing war cry which is peculiar to them, and which, on the frontiers, is always the signal for a massacre. CHAPTER VIII. INDIAN VENGEANCE. The position of the Americans, was most critical. The captain, surprised by the silent attack of the Comanches, had been suddenly awakened by the frightful war cry they uttered, as soon as they had set fire to the materials heaped up in front of the fort. Springing out of bed, the brave officer, for a moment dazzled by the ruddy gleam of the flames, half-dressed himself, and, sabre in hand, rushed towards the side where the garrison reposed; they had already taken the alarm, and were hastening to their posts with that careless bravery which distinguishes the Yankees. But what was to be done? The garrison amounted, captain included, to twelve men. How, with so numerically weak a force, could they resist the Indians, whose diabolical profiles they saw fantastically lit up in the sinister reflections of the conflagration? The officer sighed deeply. "We are lost!" he murmured. In the incessant combats fought on the Indian frontiers, the laws of civilized warfare are completely unknown. The _vae victis_ reigns in the full acceptation of the term. Inveterate enemies, who fight one against another with all the refinements of barbarity, never ask or give quarter. Every conflict, then, is a question of life and death. Such is the custom. The captain knew this well, therefore he did not indulge in the least allusion as to the fate that awaited him if he fell into the hands of the Comanches. He had committed the fault of allowing himself to be surprised by the redskins, and he must undergo the consequence of his imprudence. But the captain was a good and brave soldier; certain of not being able to retreat safe and sound from the wasp's nest into which he had fallen, he wished at least, to succumb with honour. The soldiers had no need to be excited to do their duty; they knew as well as their captain that they had no chance of safety left. The defenders of the fort, therefore, placed themselves resolutely behind the barricades, and began to fire upon the Indians with a precision that speedily caused them a heavy loss. The first person the captain saw, on mounting the platform of the little fort, was the old hunter, White Eyes. "Ah, ah!" murmured the officer to himself, "what is this fellow doing here?" Drawing a pistol from his belt, he walked straight up to the half-breed, and, seizing him by the throat, he clapped the barrel of his pistol to his breast, saying, to him with that coolness which the Americans inherit from the English, and upon which they have improved-- "In what fashion did you introduce yourself into the fort, you old screech owl?" "Why, by the gate, seemingly," the other replied, unmoved. "You must be a sorcerer, then!" "Perhaps I am." "A truce with your jokes, mixed-blood, you have sold us to your brothers the redskins." A sinister smile passed over the countenance of the half-breed; the captain perceived it. "But your treachery shall not profit you, you miserable scoundrel!" he said, in a voice of thunder; "you shall be the first victim of it." The hunter disengaged himself by a quick, unexpected movement; then, with a spring backwards, and clapping his gun to his shoulder, he said-- "We shall see," with a sneer. These two men, placed face to face upon that narrow platform, lighted by the sinister reflection of the fire, the intensity of which increased every minute, would have had a terrific expression for the spectator who was able to contemplate them coolly. Each of them personified in himself those two races confronted in the United States, whose struggle will only finish by the complete extinction of the one to the profit of the other. At their feet the combat was taking the gigantic proportions of an epic. The Indians rushed with rage, and uttering loud cries, against the intrenchments, where the Americans received them with musket shots or at the point of the bayonet. But the fire continued to increase, the soldiers fell one after another; all promised soon to be over. To the menace of White Eyes, the captain had replied by a smile of contempt. Quick as lightning he discharged his pistol at the hunter; the latter let his gun drop, his right arm was broken. The captain sprang upon him with a shout of joy. The half breed was knocked down by this unexpected shock. Then his enemy, placing his knee upon his breast, and looking at him for an instant, said, with a bitter laugh,-- "Well! was I mistaken?" "No," the half-breed replied in a firm tone; "I am a fool--my life belongs to you--kill me!" "Be satisfied I shall reserve you for an Indian death." "You must be quick, then, if you wish to avenge yourself," the half-breed said, ironically, "for it will soon be too late." "I have time enough. Why did you betray us, you miserable wretch?" "Of what consequence is that to you?" "I wish to know." "Well then, be satisfied," the hunter said, after an instant of silence; "the white men, your brothers, were the murderers of all my family, and I wished to avenge them." "But we had done nothing to you, had we?" "Are you not white men? Kill me and put an end to all this. I can die joyfully, for numbers of victims will follow me to the tomb." "Well, since it is so," said the captain, with a sinister smile, "I will send you to join your brothers; you see I am a loyal adversary." Then pressing his knees strongly on the chest of the hunter, to prevent his escape from the punishment he reserved for him, he cried-- "In the Indian fashion!" And taking his knife, he seized with his left hand the half-breed's thick and tangled head of hair, and with the greatest dexterity scalped him. The hunter could not restrain a cry of frightful agony at this unexpected mutilation. The blood flowed in torrents from his bare skull, and inundated his face. "Kill me! kill me!" he said, "this pain is horrible!" "Do you find it so?" said the captain. "Oh! kill me! kill me!" "What!" said the captain, shrugging his shoulders, "do you take me for a butcher? No, I will restore you to your worthy friends." He then took the hunter by the legs, and dragging him to the edge of the platform, pushed him with his foot. The miserable creature instinctively endeavoured to hold himself up by seizing, with his left hand, the extremity of a post which projected outward. For an instant he remained suspended in space. He was hideous to behold; his denuded skull, his face, over which streams of black blood continued flowing, contracted by pain and terror; his whole body agitated by convulsive movements, inspired horror and disgust. "Pity! pity!" he murmured. The captain surveyed him with a bitter smile on his lips, and with his arms crossed upon his chest. But the exhausted nerves of the hunter could sustain him no longer; his clenched fingers relaxed their hold of the post he had seized with the energy of despair. "Hangman! be for ever accursed!" he cried, with an accent of frantic rage. And he fell. "A good journey to you!" said the captain, sneeringly. An immense clamour arose from the gates of the fort. The captain rushed to the assistance of his people. The Comanches had gained possession of the barricades. They rushed in a crowd into the interior of the fort, massacring and scalping the enemies whom they encountered in their passage. Four American soldiers only were left standing; the others were dead. The captain entrenched himself in the middle of the staircase which led to the platform. "My friends," he said to his comrades, "die without regret, for I have killed the man who betrayed us." The soldiers replied by a shout of joy to this novel consolation, and prepared to sell their lives dearly. But at this moment an incomprehensible thing took place. The cries of the Indians ceased, as if by enchantment. The attack was suspended. "What are they about now?" the captain muttered; "What new devil's trick have these demons invented?" Once master of all the approaches to the fort, Eagle Head ordered the fight to cease. The colonists who were made prisoners in the village were brought, one after another, into his presence: there were twelve of them, and four were women. When these twelve unfortunates stood trembling before him, Eagle Head commanded the women to be set apart. Ordering the men to pass one by one before him, he looked at them attentively, and then made a sign to the warriors standing by his side. The latter instantly seized the Americans, chopped off their hands at the wrists with their knives, and, after having scalped them, pushed them into the fort. Seven colonists underwent this atrocious torture, and there remained but one. He was an old man of lofty stature, thin, but still active; his hair, white as snow, fell on his shoulders; his black eyes flashed, but his features remained unmoved; he waited, apparently impassible, till Eagle Head should decide his fate, and send him to join the unfortunates who had preceded him. But the chief continued to survey him attentively. At length the features of the savage expanded, a smile played upon his lips, and he held out his hand to the old man,-- "_Usted no conocer amigo?_" (No you know friend?) he said to him in bad Spanish, the guttural accent of his race. At these words the old man started, and looked earnestly at the Indian in his turn. "Oh!" said he, with astonishment, "El Gallo!" (the Cock.) "Wah!" replied the chief, with satisfaction, "I am a friend of the grey head; redskins have not two hearts: my father saved my life,--my father shall come to my hut." "Thanks, chief! I accept your offer," said the old man, warmly pressing the hand the Indian held out to him. And he hastily placed himself by a woman of middle age, with a noble countenance, whose features, though faded by grief, still preserved traces of great beauty. "God be praised!" she said, with great emotion, when the old man rejoined her. "God never abandons those who place their trust in Him," he replied. During this time the redskins were preparing the last scenes of the terrible drama which we have made the reader witness. When all the colonists were shut up in the fort, the fire was revived with all the materials the Indians could find; a barrier of flames for ever separated the unfortunate Americans from the world. The fort soon became one immense funeral pyre, from which escaped cries of pain, mingled at intervals with the report of firearms. The Comanches, motionless, watched at a distance the progress of the fire, and laughed like demons at the spectacle of their vengeance. The flames, which had seized upon the whole building, mounted with fearful rapidity, throwing their light over the desert, like a dismal beacon. On the top of the fort some individuals were seen rushing about in despair, while others, on their knees seemed to be imploring divine mercy. Suddenly a horrible crackling was heard, a cry of extreme agony rose towards heaven, and the fort crumbled down into the burning pile which consumed it, throwing up millions of sparks. All was over. The Americans had perished! The Comanches planted an enormous mast on the spot where the square had been. This mast, to which were nailed the hands of the colonists, was surmounted by a hatchet, the iron of which was stained with blood. Then, after setting fire to the few cabins that were left standing, Eagle Head gave orders for departure. The four women and the old man, the sole survivors of the population of this unfortunate settlement, followed the Comanches. And a melancholy silence hovered over these smoking ruins, which had just been the theatre of so many sorrowful scenes. CHAPTER IX. THE PHANTOM. It was about eight o'clock in the morning, a cheering autumn sun lit up the prairie splendidly. Birds flew hither and thither, uttering strange cries, whilst others, concealed under the thickest of the foliage, poured forth melodious concerts. Now and then a deer raised its timid head above the tall grass, and then disappeared with a bound. Two horsemen, clothed in the costume of wood rangers, mounted upon magnificent half wild horses, were following, at a brisk trot, the left bank of the great Canadian river, whilst several bloodhounds, with glossy black skins, and eyes and chests stained with red, ran and gambolled around them. These horsemen were Loyal Heart and his friend Belhumeur. Contrary to his usual deportment, Loyal Heart seemed affected by the most lively joy, his countenance beamed with cheerfulness, and he looked around him with complacency. Sometimes he would stop, and looked out ahead, appearing anxiously to seek in the horizon some object he could not yet discern. Then, with an expression of vexation, he resumed his journey, to repeat a hundred paces further on the same manoeuvre. "Ah, parbleu!" said Belhumeur, laughing, "we shall get there in good time. Be quiet, do!" "Eh, _caramba!_ I know that well enough; but I long to be there! For me, the only hours of happiness that God grants me, are passed with her whom we are going to see--my mother, my beloved mother! who gave up everything for me, abandoned all without regret, without hesitation. Oh, what happiness it is to have a mother! to possess one heart which understands yours, which makes a complete abnegation of self to absorb itself in you; which lives in your existence, rejoices in your joys, sorrows in your sorrows; which divides your life into two parts, reserving to itself the heaviest and leaving you the lightest and the most easy! Oh, Belhumeur, to comprehend what that divine being is, composed of devotedness and love, and called a mother, it is necessary to have been, as I was, deprived of her for long years, and then suddenly to have found her again, more loving, more adorable than ever! How slowly we get on! Every moment of delay is a kiss of my mother's which time steals from me! Shall we never get there?" "Well! here we are at the ford." "I don't know why, but a secret fear has suddenly fallen upon my spirits, an undefinable presentiment makes me tremble in spite of myself." "Oh, nonsense! Send such black thoughts to the winds; in a few minutes, we shall be with your mother!" "That is true! And yet I don't know whether I am mistaken, but it seems to me as if the country does not wear its usual aspect; this silence which reigns around us, and this solitude which environs us, do not appear to be natural. We are close to the village, we ought already to hear the barking of the dogs, the crowing of the cocks, and the thousand noises that proclaim inhabited places." "Well," said Belhumeur, with vague uneasiness, "I must confess that everything seems strangely silent around us." The travellers came to a spot where the river makes a sharp curve; being deeply embanked, and skirted by immense blocks of rock and thick copsewood, it did not allow any extensive view. The village towards which the travellers were directing their course, was scarcely a gunshot from the ford where they were preparing to cross the river, but it was completely invisible, owing to the peculiar nature of the country. At the moment the horses placed their feet in the water, they made a sudden movement backwards, and the bloodhounds uttered one of those plaintive howlings peculiar to their race, which freeze the bravest man with terror. "What does this mean?" Loyal Heart exclaimed, turning pale as death, and casting round a terrified glance. "Look here!" replied Belhumeur, pointing with his finger to several dead bodies which the river was carrying away, and which glided along near the surface. "Oh!" cried Loyal Heart, "something terrible has taken place here. My mother! my mother!" "Do not alarm yourself so," said Belhumeur; "no doubt she is in safety." Without listening to the consolations his friend poured out, though he did not believe in them himself Loyal Heart drove the spurs into his horse's flanks, and sprang into the water. They soon gained the opposite bank, and there all was explained. They had before them the most awful scene that can possibly be imagined. The village and the fort were a heap of ruins. A black, thick, sickening smoke ascended in long wreaths towards the heavens. In the centre of what had been the village, arose a mast against which were nailed human fragments, for which _urubus_ were contending with loud cries. Here and there lay bodies half devoured by wild beasts. No living being appeared. Nothing remained intact--everything was either broken, displaced, or overthrown. It was evident, at the first glance, that the Indians had passed there, with their sanguinary rage and their inveterate hatred of the whites. Their steps were deeply imprinted in letters of fire and blood. "Oh!" the hunter cried shuddering, "my presentiments were a warning from Heaven;--my mother! my mother!" Loyal Heart fell upon the ground in utter despair; he concealed his face in his hands and wept. The grief of this high-spirited man, endowed with a courage proof against all trials, and whom no danger could surprise, was like that of the lion, it had something terrific in it. His sobs were like roarings, they rent his breast. Belhumeur respected the grief of his friend--indeed what consolation could he offer him? It was better to allow his tears to flow, and give the first paroxysm of despair time to calm itself; certain that his unyielding nature could not long be cast down, and that a reaction would soon come, which would permit him to act. Still, with that instinct innate to hunters, he began to look about on all sides, in the hope of finding some indication which might afterwards serve to direct their researches. After wandering for a long time about the ruins, he was suddenly attracted towards a large bush at a little distance from him by barkings which he thought he recognised. He advanced towards it precipitately; a bloodhound like their own jumped up joyfully upon him, and covered him with wild caresses. "Oh, oh!" said the hunter, "what does this mean? Who has tied poor Trim up in this fashion?" He cut the rope which fastened the animal, and, in doing so, perceived that a piece of carefully folded paper was tied to its neck. He seized it, and running to Loyal Heart, exclaimed: "Brother! brother! Hope! Hope!" The hunter knew his brother was not a man to waste vulgar consolations upon him; he raised his tear-bathed face towards him. As soon as it was free, the dog fled away with incredible velocity, baying with the dull, short yelps of a bloodhound following the scent. Belhumeur, who had foreseen this flight, had hastened to tie his cravat round the animal's neck. "No one knows what it may lead to," murmured the hunter, on seeing the dog disappear. And after this philosophical reflection he went to join his friend. "What is the matter?" Loyal Heart asked. "Read!" Belhumeur quietly replied. The hunter seized the paper, which he read eagerly. It contained only these few words:-- "We are prisoners of the redskins. Courage! Nothing of any significance has happened to your mother." "God be praised!" said Loyal Heart with great emotion, kissing the paper, which he concealed in his breast. "My mother still lives! Oh, I shall find her again!" "Pardieu! that you will," said Belhumeur in a tone of conviction. A complete change, as if by enchantment, had taken place in the mind of the hunter; he drew himself up to his full height, his brow became expanded and clear. "Let us commence our researches," he said; "perhaps one of the unfortunate inhabitants has escaped death, and we may learn from him what has taken place." "That's well," said Belhumeur joyfully; "that's the way. Let us search." The dogs were scratching with fury among the ruins of the fort. "Let us commence there," said Loyal Heart. Both set to work to clear away the rubbish. They worked with an ardour incomprehensible to themselves. At the end of twenty minutes they discovered a sort of trapdoor, and heard weak and inarticulate cries arise from beneath it. "They are here," said Belhumeur. "God grant we may be in time to save them." It was not till after a length of time, and with infinite trouble, that they succeeded in raising the trap, and then a horrid spectacle presented itself. In a cellar exhaling a fetid odour, a score of individuals were literally piled up one upon another. The hunters could not repress a movement of terror, and drew back in spite of themselves; but they immediately--returned to the edge of the cellar, to endeavour, if there were yet time, to save some of those unhappy victims. Of all these men, one alone showed signs of life; all the rest were dead. They dragged him out, laid him gently on a heap of dry leaves, and gave him every assistance in their power. The dogs licked the hands and face of the wounded man. At the end of a few minutes the man made a slight movement, opened his eyes several times, and then breathed a profound sigh. Belhumeur introduced between his clenched teeth the mouth of a leathern bottle filled with rum, and obliged him to swallow a few drops of the liquor. "He is very bad," said the hunter. "He is past recovery," Loyal Heart replied, shaking his head. Nevertheless the wounded man revived a little. "My God," said he, in a weak and broken voice, "I am dying! I feel I am dying!" "Hope!" said Belhumeur, kindly. A fugitive tinge passed across the pale cheeks of the wounded man, and a sad smile curled the corners of his lips. "Why should I live?" he murmured. "The Indians have massacred all my companions, after having horribly mutilated them. Life would be too heavy a burden for me." "If, before you die, you wish anything to be done that is in our power to do, speak, and by the word of hunters, we will do it." The eyes of the dying man flashed faintly. "Your gourd," he said to Belhumeur. The latter gave it to him, and he drank greedily. His brow was covered with a moist perspiration, and a feverish redness inflamed his countenance, which assumed a frightful expression. "Listen," said he, in a hoarse and broken voice. "I was commander here; the Indians, aided by a wretched half-breed, who sold us to them, surprised the village." "The name of that man?" the hunter said, eagerly. "He is dead--I killed him!" the captain replied, with an inexpressible accent of hatred and joy. "The Indians endeavoured to gain possession of the fort; the contest was terrible. We were twelve men against four hundred savages; what could we do? Fight to the death--that was what we resolved on doing. The Indians, finding the impossibility of taking us alive, cast the colonists of the village in among us, after cutting off their hands and scalping them, and then set fire to the fort." The wounded man, whose voice grew weaker and weaker, and whose words were becoming unintelligible, swallowed a few more drops of the liquor, and then continued his recital, which was eagerly listened to by the hunters. "A cave, which served as a cellar, extended under the ditches of the fort. When I knew that all means of safety had escaped, and that flight was impossible, I led my unfortunate companions into this cave, hoping that God would permit us to be thus saved. A few minutes after, the fort fell down over us! No one can imagine the tortures we have suffered in this infected hole, without air or light. The cries of the wounded--and we were all so, more or less--screaming for water, and the rattle of the dying, formed a terrible concert that no pen can describe. Our sufferings, already intolerable, were further increased by the want of air; a sort of furious madness took possession of us; we fought one against another; and, in there under a mass of burnt ruins, commenced a hideous combat, which could only terminate by the death of all engaged in it. How long did it last? I cannot tell. I was already sensible that the death which had carried off all my companions was about to take possession of me, when you came to retard it for a few minutes. God be praised! I shall not die without vengeance." After these words, pronounced in a scarcely articulate voice, there was a funereal silence among these three men--a silence interrupted only by the dull rattle in the throat of the dying man, whose agony had begun. All at once the captain made a strong effort; he raised himself up, and fixing his bloodshot eyes upon the hunters, said,-- "The savages who attacked me belong to the nation of the Comanches; their chief is named Eagle Head; swear to avenge me like loyal hunters." "We swear to do so," the two men cried, in a firm tone. "Thanks," the captain murmured, and falling back he remained motionless. He was dead. His distorted features and his open eyes still preserved the expression of hatred and despair which had animated him to the last. The hunters surveyed him for an instant, and then, shaking off this painful impression, they set about the duty of paying the last honours to the remains of the unfortunate victims of Indian rage. By the last rays of the setting sun, they completed the melancholy task which they had imposed upon themselves. After a short rest, Loyal Heart arose, and saddling his horse, said,-- "Now, brother, let us place ourselves on the trail of Eagle Head." "Come on," the hunter replied. The two men cast around them a long and sad farewell glance, and whistling their dogs, they boldly entered the forest, in the depths of which the Comanches had disappeared. At this moment the moon arose amidst an ocean of vapour, and profusely scattered her melancholy beams upon the ruins of the American village, in which solitude and death were doomed to reign for ever. CHAPTER X. THE ENTRENCHED CAMP. We will leave the hunters following the track of the redskins, and return to the general. A few minutes after the two men had quitted the camp of the Mexicans, the general left his tent, and whilst casting an investigating look around him, and inhaling the fresh air of the morning, he began to walk about in a preoccupied manner. The events of the night had produced a lively impression upon the old soldier. For the first time, perhaps, since he had undertaken this expedition, he began to see it in its true light. He asked himself if he had really the right to associate with him in this life of continual perils and ambushes, a girl of the age of his niece, whose existence up to that time had been an uninterrupted series of mild and peaceful emotions; and who probably would not be able to accustom herself to the incessant dangers and agitations of a life in the prairies, which, in a short time, would break down the energies of the strongest minds. His perplexity was great. He adored his niece; she was his only object of love, his only consolation. For her he would, without regret or hesitation, a thousand times sacrifice all he possessed; but, on the other side, the reasons which had obliged him to undertake this perilous journey were of such importance that he trembled, and felt a cold perspiration bedew his forehead, at the thought of renouncing it. "What is to be done?" he said to himself. "What is to be done?" Doña Luz, who was in her turn leaving her tent, perceived her uncle, whose reflective walk still continued, and, running towards him, threw her arms affectionately round his neck. "Good day, uncle," she said, kissing him. "Good day, my daughter," the general replied. He was accustomed to call her so. "Eh! eh! my child, you are very gay this morning." And he returned with interest the caresses she had lavished upon him. "Why should I not be gay, uncle? Thanks to God? we have just escaped a great peril; everything in nature seems to smile, the birds are singing upon every branch, the sun inundates us with warm rays; we should be ungrateful towards the Creator if we remained insensible to these manifestations of His goodness." "Then the perils of last night have left no distressing impression upon your mind, my dear child?" "None at all, uncle, except a deep sense of gratitude for the benefits God has favoured us with." "That is well, my daughter," the general replied joyfully, "I am happy to hear you speak thus." "All the better, if it please you, uncle." "Then," the general continued, following up the idea of his preoccupation, "the life we are now leading is not fatiguing to you?" "Oh, not at all; on the contrary, I find it very agreeable, and, above all, full of incidents," she said with a smile. "Yes," the general continued, partaking her gaiety; "but," he added, becoming serious again, "I think we are too forgetful of our liberators." "They are gone," Doña Luz replied. "Gone?" the general said, with great surprise. "Full an hour ago." "How do you know that, my child?" "Very simply, uncle, they bade me adieu before they left us." "That is not right," the general murmured in a tone of vexation; "a service is as binding upon those who bestow it as upon those who receive it; they should not have left us thus without bidding me farewell, without telling us whether we should ever see them again, and leaving us even unacquainted with their names." "I know them." "You know them, my daughter?" the general said, with astonishment. "Yes, uncle; before they went, they told me." "And--what are they?" the general asked, eagerly. "The younger is named Belhumeur." "And the elder?" "Loyal Heart." "Oh! I must find these two men again," the general said, with an emotion he could not account for. "Who knows," the young girl replied, thoughtfully, "perhaps in the very first danger that threatens us they will make their appearance as our benevolent genii." "God grant we may not owe their return among us to a similar cause." The captain came up to pay the compliments of the morning. "Well, captain," said the general, with a smile, "have you recovered from the effects of their alarm?" "Perfectly, general," the young man replied, "and are quite ready to proceed, whenever you please to give the order." "After breakfast we will strike tents; have the goodness to give the necessary orders to the lancers, and send the Babbler to me." The captain bowed and retired. "On your part, niece," the general continued, addressing Doña Luz, "superintend the preparations for breakfast, if you please, whilst I talk to our guide." The young lady tripped away, and the Babbler almost immediately entered. His air was dull, and his manner more reserved than usual. The general took no notice of this. "You remember," he said, "that you yesterday manifested an intention of finding a spot where we might conveniently encamp for a few days?" "Yes, general." "You told me you were acquainted with a situation that would perfectly suit our purpose?" "Yes, general." "Are you prepared to conduct us thither?" "When you please." "What time will it require to gain this spot?" "Two days." "Very well. We will set out, then, immediately after breakfast." The Babbler bowed without reply. "By the way," the general said, with feigned indifference, "one of your men seems to be missing." "Yes." "What is become of him?" "I do not know." "How! you do not know?" said the general, with a scrutinizing glance. "No: as soon as he saw the fire, terror seized him, and he escaped." "Very well!" "He is most probably the victim of his cowardice." "What do you mean by that?" "The fire, most likely, has devoured him." "Poor devil!" A sardonic smile curled the lips of the guide. "Have you anything more to say to me, general?" "No;--but stop." "I attend your orders." "Do you know the two hunters who rendered us such timely service?" "We all know each other in the prairie." "What are those men?" "Hunters and trappers." "That is not what I ask you." "What then?" "I mean as to their character." "Oh!" said the guide, with an appearance of displeasure. "Yes, their moral character." "I don't know anything much about them." "What are their names?" "Belhumeur and Loyal Heart." "And you know nothing of their lives?" "Nothing." "That will do--you may retire." The guide bowed, and with tardy steps rejoined his companions, who were preparing for departure. "Hum!" the general murmured, as he looked after him, "I must keep a watch upon that fellow; there is something sinister in his manner." After this aside, the general entered his tent, where the doctor, the captain, and Doña Luz were waiting breakfast for him. Half an hour later, at most, the tent was folded up again, the packages were placed upon the mules, and the caravan was pursuing its journey under the direction of the Babbler, who rode about twenty paces in advance of the troop. The aspect of the prairie was much changed since the preceding evening. The black, burnt earth, was covered in places with heaps of smoking ashes; here and there charred trees, still standing, displayed their saddening skeletons; the fire still roared at a distance, and clouds of coppery smoke obscured the horizon. The horses advanced with precaution over this uneven ground, where they constantly stumbled over the bones of animals that had fallen victims to the terrible embraces of the flames. A melancholy sadness, much increased by the sight of the prospect unfolded before them, had taken possession of the travellers; they journeyed on, close to each other, without speaking, buried in their own reflections. The road the caravan was pursuing wound along a narrow ravine, the dried bed of some torrent, deeply enclosed between two hills. The ground trodden by the horses was composed of round pebbles, which slipped from under their hoofs, and augmented the difficulties of the march, which was rendered still more toilsome by the burning rays of the sun, that fell directly down upon the travellers, leaving no chance of escaping them, for the country over which they were travelling had completely assumed the appearance of one of those vast deserts which are met with in the interior of Africa. The day passed away thus, and excepting the fatigue which oppressed them, the monotony of the journey was not broken by any incident. In the evening they encamped in a plain absolutely bare, but in the horizon they could perceive an appearance of verdure, which afforded them great consolation;--they were about, at last, to enter a zone spared by the conflagration. The next morning, two hours before sunrise, the Babbler gave orders to prepare for departure. The day proved more fatiguing than the last; the travellers were literally worn out when they encamped. The Babbler had not deceived the general. The site was admirably chosen to repel an attack of the Indians. We need not describe it; the reader is already acquainted with it. It was the spot on which we met with the hunters, when they appeared on the scene for the first time. The general, after casting around him the infallible glance of the experienced soldier, could not help manifesting his satisfaction. "Bravo!" he said to the guide; "if we have had almost insurmountable difficulties to encounter in getting here, we could at least, if things should so fall out, sustain a siege on this spot." The guide made no reply; he bowed with an equivocal smile, and retired. "It is surprising," the general murmured to himself, "that although that man's conduct may be in appearance loyal, and however impossible it may be to approach him with the least thing,--in spite of all that, I cannot divest myself of the presentiment that he is deceiving us, and that he is contriving some diabolical project against us." The general was an old soldier of considerable experience, who would never leave anything to chance, that _deus ex machinâ_, which in a second destroys the best contrived plans. Notwithstanding the fatigue of his people, he would not lose a moment; aided by the captain, he had an enormous number of trees cut down, to form a solid intrenchment, protected by _chevaux de frise_. Behind this intrenchment the lancers dug a wide ditch, of which they threw out the earth on the side of the camp; and then, behind this second intrenchment, the baggage was piled up, to make a third and last enclosure. The tent was pitched in the centre of the camp, the sentinels were posted, and everyone else went to seek that repose of which they stood so much in need. The general, who intended sojourning on this spot for some time, wished, as far as it could be possible, to assure the safety of his companions, and, thanks to his minute precautions, he believed he had succeeded. For two days the travellers had been marching along execrable roads, almost without sleep, only stopping to snatch a morsel of food; as we have said, they were quite worn out with fatigue. Notwithstanding, then, their desire to keep awake, the sentinels could not resist the sleep which overpowered them and they were not long in sinking into as complete a forgetfulness as their companions. Towards midnight, at the moment when everyone in the camp was plunged in sleep, a man rose softly, and creeping along in the shade, with the quickness of a reptile, but with extreme precaution, he glided out of the barricades and intrenchments. He then went down upon the ground, and by degrees, in a manner almost insensibly, directed his course, upon his hands and knees, through the high grass towards a forest which covered the first ascent of the hill, and extended some way into the prairie. When he had gone a certain distance, and was safe from discovery, he rose up. A moonbeam, passing between two clouds, threw a light upon his countenance. That man was the Babbler. He looked round anxiously, listened attentively, and then with incredible perfection imitated the cry of the prairie dog. Almost instantly the same cry was repeated, and a man rose up, within at most ten paces of the Babbler. This man was the guide who, three days before, had escaped from the camp on the first appearance of the conflagration. CHAPTER XI. THE BARGAIN. Indians and wood rangers have two languages, of which they make use by turns, according to circumstances--spoken language, and the language of gestures. Like the spoken language, the language of signs has, in America, infinite fluctuations; everyone, so to say, invents his own. It is a compound of strange and mysterious gestures, a kind of masonic telegraph, the signs of which, varying at will, are only comprehensible to a small number of adepts. The Babbler and his companion were conversing in signs. This singular conversation lasted nearly an hour; it appeared to interest the speakers warmly; so warmly, indeed, that they did not remark, in spite of all the precautions they had taken not to be surprised, two fiery eyes that, from the middle of a tuft of underwood, were fixed upon them with strange intenseness. At length the Babbler, risking the utterance of a few words, said, "I await your good pleasure." "And you shall not wait it long," the other replied. "I depend upon you, Kennedy; for my part, I have fulfilled my promise." "That's well! that's well! We don't require many words to come to an understanding," said Kennedy, shrugging his shoulders; "only you need not have conducted them to so strong a position--it will not be very easy to surprise them." "That's your concern," said the Babbler, with an evil smile. His companion looked at him for a moment with great attention. "Hum," said he; "beware, _compadre_, it is almost always awkward to play a double game with men like us." "I am playing no double game; but I think you and I have known each other a pretty considerable time, Kennedy, have we not?" "What follows?" "What follows? Well! I am not disposed that a thing should happen to me again that has happened before, that's all." "Do you draw back, or are you thinking about betraying us?" "I do not draw back, and I have not the least intention of betraying you, only----" "Only?" the other repeated. "This time I will not give up to you what I have promised till my conditions have been agreed to pretty plainly; if not, no----" "Well, at least that's frank." "People should speak plainly in business affairs," the Babbler observed, shaking his head. "That's true! Well, come, repeat the conditions; I will see if we can accept them." "What's the good of that? You are not the principal chief, are you?" "No:--but--yet----" "You could pledge yourself to nothing--so it's of no use. If Waktehno--he who kills--were here now, it would be quite another thing. He and I should soon understand one another." "Speak then, he is listening to you," said a strong, sonorous voice. There was a movement in the bushes, and the personage who, up to that moment, had remained an invisible hearer of the conversation of the two men, judged, without doubt, that the time to take a part in it was arrived, for, with a bound, he sprang out of the bushes that had concealed him, and placed himself between the speakers. "Oh! oh! you were listening to us, Captain Waktehno, were you?" said the Babbler without being the least discomposed. "Is that unpleasant to you?" the newcomer asked, with an ironical smile. "Oh! not the least in the world." "Continue, then, my worthy friend--I am all ears." "Well," said the guide, "it will, perhaps, be better so." "Go on, then--speak; I attend to you." The personage to whom the Babbler gave the terrible Indian name of Waktehno was a man of pure white race, thirty years of age, of lofty stature, and well proportioned, handsome in appearance, and wearing with a certain dashing carelessness the picturesque costume of the wood rangers. His features were noble, strongly marked, and impressed with that loyal and haughty expression so often met with among men accustomed to the rude, free life of the prairies. He fixed his large, black, brilliant eyes upon the Babbler, a mysterious smile curled his lips, and he leant carelessly upon his rifle whilst listening to the guide. "If I cause the people I am paid to escort and conduct to fall into your hands, you may depend upon it I will not do so unless I am amply recompensed," said the bandit. "That is but fair," Kennedy remarked; "and the captain is ready to assure your being so recompensed." "Yes," said the other, nodding his head in sign of agreement. "Very well," the guide resumed. "But what will be my recompense?" "What do you ask?" the captain said. "We must know what your conditions are before we agree to satisfy them." "Oh! my terms are very moderate." "Well, but what are they?" The guide hesitated, or, rather, he calculated mentally the chances of gain and loss the affair offered; then in an instant, he replied: "These Mexicans are very rich." "Probably," said the captain. "Therefore it appears to me----" "Speak without tergiversation, Babbler; we have not time to listen to your circumlocutions. Like all half-bloods, the Indian nature always prevails in you, and you never come frankly to the purpose." "Well, then," the guide bluntly replied, "I will have five thousand duros, or nothing shall be done." "For once you speak out; now we know what we have to trust to; you demand five thousand dollars?" "I do." "And for that sum you agree to deliver up to us, the general, his niece, and all the individuals who accompany them." "At your first signal." "Very well! Now listen to what I am going to say to you." "I listen." "You know me, do you not?" "Perfectly." "You know dependence is to be placed upon my word?" "It is as good as gold." "That's well. If you loyally fulfil the engagements you freely make with me, that is to say, deliver up to me, not all the Mexicans who comprise your caravan, very respectable people no doubt, but for whom I care very little, but only the girl, called, I think, Doña Luz, I will not give you five thousand dollars as you ask, but eight thousand--you understand me, do you not?" The eyes of the guide sparkled with greediness and cupidity. "Yes!" he said emphatically. "That's well." "But it will be a difficult matter to draw her out of the camp alone." "That's your affair." "I should prefer giving them all up in a lump." "Go to the devil! What could I do with them?" "Hum! what will the general say?" "What he likes; that is nothing to me. Yes or no--do you accept the offer I make you?" "Oh! I accept it." "Do you swear to be faithful to your engagements?" "I swear." "Now then, how long does the general reckon upon remaining in this new encampment?" "Ten days." "Why, then, did you tell me that you did not know how to draw the young girl out, having so much time before you?" "Hum! I did not know when you would require her to be delivered up to you?" "That's true. Well, I give you nine days; that is to say, on the eve of their departure the young girl must be given up to me." "Oh! in that way----" "Then that arrangement suits you?" "It could not be better." "Is it agreed?" "Irrevocably." "Here, then, Babbler," said the captain, giving the guide a magnificent diamond pin which he wore in his hunting shirt, "here is my earnest." "Oh!" the bandit exclaimed, seizing the jewel joyfully. "That pin," said the captain, "is a present I make you in addition to the eight thousand dollars I will hand over to you on receiving Doña Luz." "You are noble and generous, captain," said the guide; "it is a pleasure to serve you." "Still," the captain rejoined, in a rough voice, and with a look cold as a steel blade, "I would have you remember I am called he who kills; and that if you deceive me, there does not exist in the prairie a place sufficiently strong or sufficiently unknown to protect you from the terrible effects of my vengeance. "I know that, captain," said the half-breed, shuddering in spite of himself; "but you may be quite satisfied I will not deceive you." "I hope you will not! Now let us separate; your absence may be observed. In nine days I shall be here." "In nine days I will place the girl in your hands." After these words the guide returned to the camp, which he entered without being seen. As soon as they were alone, the two men with whom the Babbler had just made this hideous and strange bargain, retreated silently among the underwood, through which they crawled like serpents. They soon reached the banks of a little rivulet which ran, unperceived and unknown, through the forest. Kennedy whistled in a certain fashion twice. A slight noise was heard, and a horseman, holding two horses in hand, appeared at a few paces from the spot where they had stopped. "Come on, Frank," said Kennedy, "you may approach without fear." The horsemen immediately advanced. "What is there new?" Kennedy asked. "Nothing very important," the horseman replied. "I have discovered an Indian trail." "Ah! ah!" said the captain, "numerous?" "Rather so." "In what direction?" "It cuts the prairie from east to west." "Well done, Frank, and who are these Indians?" "As well as I can make out, they are Comanches." The captain reflected a moment. "Oh! it is some detachment of hunters," he said. "Very likely," Frank replied. The two men mounted. "Frank and you, Kennedy," said the captain, at the expiration of a minute, "will go to the passage of the Buffalo, and encamp in the grotto which is there; carefully watching the movements of the Mexicans, but in such a manner as not to be discovered." "Be satisfied of that, captain." "Oh; I know you are very adroit and devoted comrades, therefore I perfectly rely upon you. Watch the Babbler, likewise; that half-breed only inspires me with moderate confidence." "That shall be done!" "Farewell, then, till we meet again. You shall soon hear of me." Notwithstanding the darkness, the three men set off at a gallop, and were soon far in the desert, in two different directions. CHAPTER XII. PSYCHOLOGICAL. The general had kept the causes which made him undertake a journey into the prairies from the west of the United States so profound a secret, that the persons who accompanied him had not even a suspicion of them. Several times already, at his command, and without any apparent reason, the caravan had encamped in regions completely desert, where he had passed a week, and sometimes a fortnight, without any apparent motive for such a halt. In these various encampments the general would set out every morning, attended by one of the guides, and not return till evening. What was he doing during the long hours of his absence? For what object were these explorations made, at the end of which a greater degree of sadness darkened his countenance? No one knew. During these excursions, Doña Luz led a sufficiently monotonous life, isolated among the rude people who surrounded her. She passed whole days seated sadly in front of her tent, or, mounted on horseback and escorted by Captain Aguilar or the fat doctor, she took rides near the camp, without object and without interest. It happened this time again, exactly as it had happened at the preceding stations of the caravan. The young girl, abandoned by her uncle, and even by the doctor, who was pursuing, with increasing ardour, the great research for his imaginary plant, and set out resolutely every morning herbalizing, was reduced to the company of Captain Aguilar. But Captain Aguilar was, we are forced to admit, although young, elegant and endowed with a certain relative intelligence, not a very amusing companion for Doña Luz. A brave soldier, with the courage of a lion, entirely devoted to the general, to whom he owed everything, the captain entertained for the niece of his chief great attachment and respect; he watched with the utmost care over her safety, but he was completely unacquainted with the means of rendering the time shorter by those attentions and that pleasant chat which are so agreeable to girls. This time Doña Luz did not become so _ennuyée_ as usual. Since that terrible night--from the time that one of those fabulous heroes whose history and incredible feats she had so often read, Loyal Heart, had appeared to her to save her and those who accompanied her--a new sentiment, which she had not even thought of analyzing, had germinated in her maiden heart, had grown by degrees, and in a very few days had taken possession of her whole being. The image of the hunter was incessantly present to her thoughts, encircled with that ennobling glory which is won by the invincible energy of the man who struggles, body to body, with some immense danger, and forces it to acknowledge his superiority. She took delight in recalling to her partial mind the different scenes of that tragedy of a few hours, in which the hunter had played the principal character. Her implacable memory, like that of all pure young girls, retraced with incredible fidelity the smallest details of those sublime phases. In a word, she reconstructed in her thoughts the series of events in which the hunter had mingled, and in which he had, thanks to his indomitable courage and his presence of mind, extricated in so happy a fashion those he had suddenly come to succour, at the instant when they were without hope. The hurried manner in which the hunter had left them, disdaining the most simple thanks, and appearing even unconcerned for those he had saved, had chilled the girl; she was piqued more than can be imagined by this real or affected indifference. And, consequently, she continually revolved means to make her preserver repent that indifference, if chance should a second time bring them together. It is well known, although it may at the first glance appear a paradox, that from hatred, or, at least, from curiosity to love, there is but one step. Doña Luz passed it at full speed, without perceiving it. As we have said, Doña Luz had been educated in a convent, at the gates of which the sounds of the world died away without an echo. Her youth had passed calm and colourless, in the religious, or, rather, superstitious practices, upon which in Mexico religion is built. When her uncle took her from the convent to lead her with him through the journey he meditated into the prairies, the girl was ignorant of the most simple exigences of life, and had no more idea of the outward world, in which she was so suddenly cast, than a blind man has of the effulgent splendour of the sun's beams. This ignorance, which seconded admirably the projects of the uncle, was for the niece a stumbling block against which she twenty times a day came into collision in spite of herself. But, thanks to the care with which the general surrounded her, the few weeks which passed away before their departure from Mexico had been spent without too much pain by the young girl. We feel called upon, however, to notice here an incident, trifling in appearance, but which left too deep a trace in the mind of Doña Luz not to be related. The general was actively employed in getting together the people he wanted for his expedition, and was therefore obliged to neglect his niece more than he would have wished. As he, however, feared that the young girl would be unhappy at being left so much alone with an old duenna in the palace he occupied, in the Calle de los Plateros, he sent her frequently to spend her evenings at the house of a female relation who received a select society, and with whom his niece passed her time in a comparatively agreeable manner. Now one evening when the assembly had been more numerous than usual, the party did not break up till late. At the first stroke of eleven, sounded by the ancient clock of the convent of the Merced Doña Luz and her duenna, preceded by a peon carrying a torch to light them, set off on their return home, casting anxious looks, right and left, on account of the character of the streets at that time of night. They had but a short distance to go, when all at once, on turning the corner of the Calle San Agustin to enter that of Plateros, four or five men of bad appearance seemed to rise from the earth, and surrounded the two women, after having previously, by a vigorous blow, extinguished the torch carried by the peon. To express the terror of the young lady at this unexpected apparition, is impossible. She was so frightened that, without having the strength to utter a cry, she fell on her knees, with her hands clasped, before the bandits. The duenna, on the contrary, sent forth deafening screams. The Mexican bandits, all very expeditious men, had, in the shortest time possible, reduced the duenna to silence, by gagging her with her own rebozo; then, with all the calmness which these worthies bring to the exercise of their functions, assured as they are of the impunity granted to them by that justice with which they generally go halves, proceeded to plunder their victims. The operation was shortened by the latter, for, so far from offering any resistance, they tore off their jewels in the greatest haste, and the bandits pocketed them with grins of satisfaction. But, at the very height of this enjoyment, a sword gleamed suddenly over their heads, and two of the bandits fell to the ground, swearing and howling with fury. Those who were left standing, enraged at this unaccustomed attack, turned to avenge their companions, and rushed all together upon the aggressor. The latter, heedless of their numbers, made a step backwards, placed himself on guard, and prepared to give them a welcome. But, by chance, with the change in his position, the moonlight fell upon his face. The bandits instantly drew back in terror, and promptly sheathed their machetes. "Ah, ah!" said the stranger, with a smile of contempt, as he advanced towards them, "you recognise me, my masters, do you? By the Virgin! I am sorry for it--I was preparing to give you a rather sharp lesson. Is this the manner in which you execute my orders?" The bandits remained silent, contrite and repentant, in appearance at least. "Come, empty your pockets, you paltry thieves, and restore to these ladies what you have taken from them!" Without a moment's hesitation, the thieves unbandaged the duenna, and restored the rich booty which, an instant before, they had so joyfully appropriated to themselves. Doña Luz could not overcome her astonishment, she looked with the greatest surprise at this strange man, who possessed such authority over bandits acknowledging neither faith nor law. "Is this really all?" he said, addressing the young lady, "are you sure you miss nothing, señora?" "Nothing--nothing, sir!" she replied, more dead than alive, and not knowing at all what she said. "Now, then, begone, you scoundrels," the stranger continued; "I will take upon myself to be the escort of these ladies." The bandits did not require to be twice told; they disappeared like a flight of crows, carrying off the wounded. As soon as he was left alone with the two women, the stranger turned towards Doña Luz-- "Permit me, señorita," he said, with refined courtesy of manner, "to offer you my arm as far as your palace; the fright you have just experienced must render your steps uncertain." Mechanically, and without reply, the young girl placed her hand within the arm so courteously offered to her, and they moved forward. "When they arrived at the palace, the stranger knocked at the door, and then taking off his hat, said,-- "Señorita, I am happy that chance has enabled me to render you a slight service. I shall have the honour of seeing you again. I have already, for a long time, followed your steps like your shadow. God, who has granted me the favour of an opportunity of speaking with you once, will, I feel assured, grant me a second, although, in a few days, you are to set out on a long journey. Permit me then to say not _adieu_, but _au revoir_." After bowing humbly and gracefully to the young lady, he departed at a rapid pace. A fortnight after this strange adventure, of which she did not think fit to speak to her uncle, Doña Luz quitted Mexico, without having again seen the unknown. Only, on the eve of her departure, when retiring to her bedchamber, she found a folded note upon her _prie-dieu_. In this note were the following words, written in an elegant hand:-- "You are going, Doña Luz! Remember that I told you I should see you again. "Your preserver of the Calle de los Plateros." For a long time this strange meeting strongly occupied the mind of the young girl; for an instant, she had even believed that Loyal Heart and her unknown preserver were the same man; but this supposition had soon faded away. What probability was there in it? With that object could Loyal Heart, after having saved her, so quickly have departed? That would have been absurd. But, by one of those consequences (or those inconsequences, whichever the reader pleases) of the human mind, in proportion as the affair of Mexico was effaced from her thoughts, that of Loyal Heart, became more prominent. She longed to see the hunter and talk with him. Why? She did not herself know. To see him,---to hear his voice,--to meet his look, at once so soft and so proud,--nothing else; all maidens would have done the same. But how was she to see him again? In reply to that question arose an impossibility, before which the poor girl dropped her head with discouragement. And yet something at the bottom of her heart, perhaps that voice divine which in the reflections of love whispers to young girls, told her that her wish would soon be accomplished. She hoped, then? What for? For some unforeseen incident,--a terrible danger, perhaps,--which might again bring them together. True love may doubt sometimes, but it never despairs. Four days after the establishment of the camp upon the hill, in the evening, when retiring to her tent, Doña Luz smiled inwardly as she looked at her uncle, who was pensively preparing to go to rest. She had at length thought of a means of going in search of Loyal Heart. CHAPTER XIII. THE BEE-HUNT. The sun was scarcely above the horizon, when the general, whose horse was already saddled, left the reed cabin which served him as a sleeping apartment, and prepared to set out on his usual daily ride. At the moment when he was putting his foot in the stirrup, a little hand lifted the curtain of the tent, and Doña Luz appeared. "Oh! oh! what, up already!" said the general, smiling. "So much the better, dear child. I shall be able to have a kiss before I set out; and that perhaps may bring me good luck," he added, stifling a sigh. "You will not go thus, uncle," she replied, presenting her cheek, upon which he placed a kiss. "Why not, fair lady?" he asked gaily. "Because I wish you to partake of something I have prepared for you before you mount on horseback; you cannot refuse me, can you, dear uncle?" she said, with that coaxing smile of spoilt children which delights the hearts of old men. "No, certainly not, dear child, upon condition that the breakfast you offer me so gracefully be not delayed. I am rather in a hurry." "I only ask for a few minutes," she replied, returning to the tent. "For a few minutes be it then," said he, following her. The young girl clapped her hands with joy. In the twinkling of an eye, the breakfast was ready, and the general at table with his niece. Whilst assisting her uncle, and taking great care that he wanted for nothing, the young girl looked at him from time to time in an embarrassed manner, and did it so evidently, that the old soldier ended by observing it. "It is my opinion," he said, laying down his knife and fork, and looking at her earnestly, "that you have something to ask me, Lucita; you know very well that I am not accustomed to refuse you anything." "That is true, dear uncle; but this time, I am afraid, you will be more difficult to be prevailed upon." "Ah! ah!" the general said, gaily; "it must be something serious, then!" "Quite the contrary, uncle; and yet, I confess, I am afraid you will refuse me." "Speak, notwithstanding, my child," said the old soldier; "speak without fear; when you have told me what this mighty affair is, I will soon answer you." "Well, uncle," the girl said, blushing, but determined on her purpose, "I am compelled to say that the residence in the camp has nothing agreeable about it." "I can conceive that, my child; but what do you wish me to do to make it otherwise?" "Everything." "How so, dear?" "Nay, dear, uncle, if you were always here, it would not be dull; I should have your company." "What you say is very amiable; but, as you know I am absent every morning, I cannot be here, and----- "That is exactly where the difficulty lies." "That is true." "But, if you were willing, it could be easily removed." "Do you think so?" "I am sure of it." "Well, I don't see too clearly how, unless I remained always with you, and that is impossible." "Oh; there are other means that would arrange the whole affair." "Nonsense!" "Yes, uncle, and very simple means too." "Well, then, darling, what are these means?" "You will not scold me, uncle?" "Silly child! do I ever scold you?" "That is true! You are so kind." "Come, then; speak out, little pet?" "Well, uncle, these means----" "These means are?" "That you should take me with you every morning." "Oh! oh!" said the general, whose brows became contracted; "do you know what you ask me, my dear child?" "Why, a very natural thing, uncle, as I think." The general made no reply; he reflected. The girl watched anxiously the fugitive traces of his thoughts upon his countenance. At the end of a few instants, he raised his head. "Well, perhaps," he murmured, "it would be better so;" and fixing a piercing look upon his niece, he said, "it would give you pleasure, then, to accompany me?" "Yes, uncle, yes!" she replied. "Well, then, get ready, my dear child; henceforth you shall accompany me in my excursions." She arose from her seat with a bound, kissed her uncle warmly, and gave orders for her horse to be saddled. A quarter of an hour later, Doña Luz and her uncle, preceded by the Babbler, and followed by two lanceros, quitted the camp, and plunged into the forest. "Which way would you wish to direct your course, today, general?" the guide asked. "Conduct me to the huts of those trappers you spoke of yesterday." The guide bowed in sign of obedience. The little party advanced slowly and with some difficulty along a scarcely traced path, where, at every step, the horses became entangled in the creeping plants, or stumbled over the roots of trees above the level of the ground. Doña Luz was gay and happy. Perhaps in these excursions she might meet with Loyal Heart. The Babbler, who was a few paces in advance, suddenly uttered a cry. "Eh!" said the general, "what extraordinary thing has happened, Master Babbler, to induce you to speak?" "The bees, señor." "What! bees! are there bees here?" "Yes; but lately only." "How only lately?" "Why, you know, of course, that bees were brought into America by the whites." "That, I know. How is it, then, they are met with here?" "Nothing more simple; the bees are the advanced sentinels of the whites. In proportion as the whites penetrate into the interior of America, the bees go forward to trace the route for them, and point out the clearings. Their appearance in an uninhabited country always presages the arrival of a colony of pioneers or squatters." "That is something strange," the general murmured; "are you sure of what you are telling me?" "Oh! quite sure, señor; the fact is well known to all Indians, they are not mistaken in it, be assured; for as soon as they see the bees arrive, they retreat." "That is truly singular." "The honey must be very good," said Doña Luz. "Excellent, señorita, and if you wish for it, nothing is more easy than to get it." "Get some, then," said the general. The guide, who some moments before had placed a bait for the bees upon the bushes, to which, with his piercing sight, he had already seen several bees attracted, made a sign to those behind him to stop. The bees had, in fact, lighted upon the bait, and were examining it all over; when they had made their provision, they rose very high into the air, and then took flight in a direct line with the velocity of a cannon ball. The guide carefully watched the direction they took, and making a sign to the general, he sprang after them, followed by the whole party, clearing themselves a way through interlaced roots, fallen trees, bushes and briars, their eyes directed all the while towards the sky. In this fashion they never lost sight of the laden bees, and after a difficult pursuit of an hour, they saw them arrive at their nest, constructed in the hollow of a dead ebony tree; after buzzing for a moment, they entered a hole situated at more than eighty feet from the ground. Then the guide, after having warned his companions to keep at a respectful distance, in order to be out of the way of the falling tree and the vengeance of its inhabitants, seized his axe and attacked the ebony vigorously near the base. The bees did not seem at all alarmed by the strokes of the axe; they continued going in and out, carrying on their industrial labours in full security. A violent cracking even, which announced the splitting of the trunk, did not divert them from their occupations. At length the tree fell, with a horrible crash, opening the whole of its length, and leaving the accumulated treasures of the community exposed to view. The guide immediately seized a bundle of hay which he had prepared, and to which he set fire to defend himself from the bees. But they attacked nobody; they did not seek to avenge themselves. The poor creatures were stupefied; they ran and flew about in all directions round their destroyed empire, without thinking of anything but how to account for this unlooked-for catastrophe. Then the guide and the lanceros set to work with spoons and knives to get out the comb and put it into the wineskins. Some of the comb was of a deep brown, and of ancient date, other parts were of a beautiful white; the honey in the cells was almost limpid. Whilst they were hastening to get possession of the best combs, they saw arrive on the wing from all points of the horizon numberless swarms of honey bees, who, plunging into the broken cells, loaded themselves, whilst the ex-proprietors of the hive, dull and stupefied, looked on, without seeking to save the least morsel, at the robbery of their honey. It is impossible to describe the astonishment of the bees that were absent at the moment of the catastrophe, as they arrived at their late home with their cargoes; they described circles in the air round the place the tree had occupied, astonished to find it empty; at length, however they seemed to comprehend their disaster, and collected in groups upon the dried branch of a neighbouring tree, appearing to contemplate thence the fallen ruin, and to lament the destruction of their empire. Doña Luz felt affected in spite of herself, at the trouble of these poor creatures. "Let us go," she said, "I repent of having wished for honey; my greediness has made too many unhappy." "Let us be gone," said the general, smiling; "leave them these few combs." "Oh!" said the guide, shrugging his shoulders, "they will soon be carried away by the vermin." "The vermin! What vermin do you mean?" the general asked. "Oh! the raccoons, the opossums, but particularly the bears." "The bears?" said Doña Luz. "Oh, señorita!" the guide replied, "they are the cleverest vermin in the world in discovering a tree of bees, and getting their share of the honey." "Do they like honey, then?" said the lady, with excited curiosity. "Why, they are mad after it, señorita," the guide, who really seemed to relax of his cynical humour, rejoined. "Imagine how greedy they are after it, when they will gnaw a tree for weeks, until they succeed in making a hole large enough to put their paws in, and then they carry off honey and bees, without taking the trouble to choose." "Now," said the general, "let us resume our route, and seek the residence of the trappers." "Oh! we shall soon be there, señor," replied the guide; "the great Canadian river is within a few paces of us, and trappers are established all along the streams which flow into it." The little party proceeded on their way again. The bee hunt had left an impression of sadness on the mind of the young lady, which, although unconscious of it, she could not overcome. Those poor little creatures, so gentle and so industrious, attacked and ruined for a caprice, grieved her, and, in spite, of herself, made her thoughtful. Her uncle perceived this disposition of her mind. "Dear child!" he said, "what is passing in your little head? You are no longer so gay as when we set out; whence comes this sudden change?" "Good heavens! uncle, do not let that disturb you; I am, like other young girls, rather wild and whimsical; this bee hunt, from which I promised myself so much pleasure, has left a degree of sadness behind it that I cannot get rid of." "Happy child!" the general murmured, "whom so futile a cause has still the power to trouble. God grant, darling, that you may continue long in that disposition, and that greater and more real troubles may never reach you!" "My kind uncle, shall I not always be happy while near you?" "Alas! my child, who knows whether God may permit me to watch over you long!" "Do not say so, uncle; I hope we have many years to pass together." The general only responded to this hope by a sigh. "Uncle," the girl resumed, after a few moments, "do you not find that the aspect of the grand and sublime nature which surrounds us has something striking in it that ennobles our ideas, elevates the soul, and renders man better? How happy must they be who live in these boundless deserts!" The general looked at her with astonishment. "Whence come these thoughts to your mind, dear child?" he said. "I do not know, uncle," she replied, timidly; "I am but an ignorant girl, whose life, still so short, has flowed on to this moment calm and peaceful, under your protection. And yet there are moments when it seems to me that I should be happy to live in these vast deserts." The general, surprised, and inwardly charmed at the ingenuous frankness of his niece, was preparing to answer her, when the guide, suddenly coming up to them, made a sign to command silence, by saying, in a voice as low as a breath,-- "A man!" CHAPTER XIV. BLACK ELK. Everyone stopped. In the desert, this word man almost always means an enemy. Man in the prairies is more dreaded by his fellow than the most ferocious wild beast. A man is a rival, a forced associate, who, by the right of being the stronger, comes to share with the first occupant, and often, if we may not say always, strives to deprive him of the fruits of his thankless labour. Thus, whites, Indians, or half-breeds, when they meet in the prairies, salute each other with eye on the watch, ears open, and the finger on the trigger of the rifle. At this cry of a man, the general and the lanceros, at all hazards, prepared against a sudden attack by cocking their guns, and concealing themselves as much as possible behind the bushes. At fifty paces before them stood an individual, who, the butt on the ground, and his two hands leaning on the barrel of a long rifle, was observing them attentively. He was a man of lofty stature, with energetic features and a frank, determined look. His long hair, arranged with care, was plaited, mingled with otter skins and ribbons of various colours. A hunting blouse of ornamented leather fell to his knees; gaiters of a singular cut, ornamented with strings, fringes, and a profusion of little bells covered his legs; his shoes consisted of a pair of superb moccasins, embroidered with false pearls. A scarlet blanket hung from his shoulders, and was fastened round his middle by a red belt, through which were passed two pistols, a knife, and an Indian pipe. His rifle was profusely decorated with vermilion and little copper nails. At a few paces from him his horse was browsing on the mast of the trees. Like its master, it was equipped in the most fantastic manner, spotted and striped with vermilion, the reins and crupper ornamented with beads and bunches of ribbon, while its head, mane, and tail, were abundantly decorated with eagle's feathers floating in the wind. At sight of this personage the general could not restrain a cry of surprise. "To what Indian tribe does this man belong?" he asked the guide. "To none," the latter replied. "How, to none?" "No; he is a white trapper." "And so dressed?" The guide shrugged his shoulders. "We are in the prairies;" he said. "That is true," the general murmured. In the meantime, the individual we have described, tired, no doubt, of the hesitation of the little party before him, and wishing to know what their disposition was, resolutely accosted them. "Eh! eh!" he said in English, "Who the devil are you--and what are you seeking here?" "_Caramba!_" the general replied, throwing his gun behind him, and ordering his people to do the same; "we are travellers, fatigued with a long journey; the sun is hot, and we ask permission to rest a short time in your rancho." These words being spoken in Spanish, the trapper replied in the same language,-- "Approach without fear; Black Elk is a good sort of fellow when people do not seek to thwart him; you shall share the little he possesses, and much good may it do you." At the name of Black Elk the guide could not repress a movement of terror; he wished even to say a few words, but he had not time, for the hunter, throwing his gun upon his shoulder, and leaping into his saddle with a bound, advanced towards the Mexicans. "My rancho is a few paces from this spot," said he to the general; "if the señorita is inclined to taste the well-seasoned hump of a buffalo, I am in a position to offer her that piece of politeness." "I thank you, caballero," the young lady replied, with a smile; "but I confess that at this moment I stand in more need of repose than anything else." "Everything will come in its time," the trapper said sententiously. "Permit me, for a few moments, to take the place of your guide." "We are at your orders," said the general; "go on, we will follow you." "Forward! then," said the trapper, placing himself at the head of the little troop. At this moment his eyes fell by chance upon the guide--his thick eyebrows contracted. "Hum!" he muttered to himself, "what does this mean? We shall see," he added. And without taking further notice of the man, without appearing to recognise him, he gave the signal for departure. After riding for some time silently along the banks of a moderately wide rivulet, the trapper made a sharp turn, and departing from the stream suddenly, plunged again into the forest. "I crave your pardon," he said, "for making you turn out of your way; but this is a beaver pond, and I do not wish to frighten them." "Oh!" the young lady cried, "how delighted I should be to see those industrious animals at work!" The trapper stopped. "Nothing more easy, señorita," he said, "if you will follow me, while your companions remain here, and wait for us." "Yes, yes!" Doña Luz replied eagerly; but checking herself all at once, added, "Oh, pardon me, dear uncle." The general cast a look at the trapper. "Go, my child," he said, "we will wait for you here." "Thank you, uncle," the young girl remarked joyfully, as she leaped from her horse. "I will be answerable for her," the trapper said frankly; "fear nothing." "I fear nothing when trusting her to your care, my friend," the general replied. "Thanks!" And making a sign to Doña Luz, Black Elk disappeared with her among the bushes and trees. When they had gone some distance, the trapper stopped. After listening and looking around him on all sides, he stooped towards the young girl, and laying his hand lightly on her right arm, said,-- "Listen!" Doña Luz stood still, uneasy and trembling. The trapper perceived her agitation. "Be not afraid," he rejoined; "I am an honest man; you are in as much safety here alone with me in this desert as if you were in the Cathedral of Mexico, at the foot of the high altar." The young girl cast a furtive glance at the trapper. In spite of his singular costume, his face wore such an expression of frankness, his eye was so soft and limpid, when fixed upon her, that she felt completely reassured. "Speak," she said. "You belong," the trapper resumed, "I perceive now, to that party of strangers who, for some days past, have been exploring the prairies in every direction. Do you not?" "Yes." "Among you is a sort of madman, who wears blue spectacles and a white wig, and who amuses himself--for what purpose I cannot tell--with making a provision of herbs and stones, instead of trying, like a brave hunter, to trap a beaver, or knock over a deer." "I know the man you speak of; he, as you suppose, forms part of our troop; he is a very learned physician." "I know he is; he told me so himself. He often comes this way. We are very good friends. By means of a powder, which he persuaded me to take, he completely checked a fever which had tormented me two months, and of which I could not get rid." "Indeed! I am happy to hear of such a result." "I should like to do something for you, to show my gratitude for that service." "I thank you, my friend, but I cannot see anything in which you can be useful to me, unless it be in showing me the beavers." The trapper shook his head. "Perhaps in something else," he said, "and that much sooner than you may fancy. Listen to me attentively, señorita. I am but a poor man; but here in the prairie, we know many things that God reveals to us, because we live face to face with Him. I will give you a piece of good advice. That man who serves you as a guide is an arrant scoundrel, and is known as such throughout all the prairies of the West. I am very much deceived if he will not lead you into some ambush. There is no lack here of plenty of rogues with whom he may lay plans to destroy you, or least, rob you." "Are you sure of what you say?" the girl exclaimed, terrified at words which coincided so strangely with what Loyal Heart had said to her. "I am as sure as a man can be who affirms a thing of which he has no proof; that is to say, after the antecedents of the Babbler everything of the sort must be expected from him. Believe me, if he has not already betrayed you, it will not be long before he will." "Good God! I will go and warn my uncle." "Beware of doing that! that would ruin all! The people with whom your guide will soon be in collusion, if he be not so already, are numerous, determined, and thoroughly acquainted with the prairie." "What is to be done, then?" the young lady asked in great alarm. "Nothing. Wait; and, without appearing to do so, carefully watch all your guide's proceedings." "But----" "You must be sure," the trapper interrupted, "that if I lead you to mistrust him, it is not with a view of deserting you when the moment comes for requiring my help." "Oh! I believe that." "Well, then, this is what you must do: as soon as you are certain that your guide has betrayed you, send your old mad doctor to me,--you can trust him, can you not?" "Entirely!" "Very well. Then, as I have said, you must send him to me, charging him only to say this to me. 'Black Elk'--I am Black Elk." "I know you are; you told us so." "That is right. He will say to me, 'Black Elk, the hour is come,' and nothing else. Shall you remember these words?" "Perfectly. Only, I do not clearly understand how that can serve us." The trapper smiled in a mysterious manner. "Hum!" he said, after a short pause, "these few words will bring to you, in two hours, fifty men, the bravest in the prairies,--men who, at a signal from their leader, would allow themselves to be killed rather than leave you in the hands of those who will have possession of you, if what I expect should happen." There was a moment of silence,--Doña Luz appeared very thoughtful. The trapper smiled. "Do not be surprised at the warm interest I take in you," he said, "a man who has entire power over me, has made me swear to watch over you, during an absence he has been compelled to make." "What do you mean by that?" she said with awakened curiosity. "And who is this man?" "He is a hunter who commands all the white trappers of the prairies. Knowing that you had the Babbler for a guide, he suspects that the half-breed intends to draw you into some snare? "But the name of the man?" she cried, in an anxious, excited tone. "Loyal Heart. Will you have confidence in me now?" "Thanks, my friend, thanks!" the young lady replied, with great emotion. "I will not forget your instructions; and when the moment comes--if unfortunately it should come--I will not hesitate to remind you of your promise." "And you will do well, señorita, because it will then be the only means of safety left you. You understand me perfectly, and all is well. Be sure to keep our conversation to yourself. Above all, do not appear to have any secret understanding with me; that devil of a half-breed is as cunning as a beaver; if he suspect anything, he will slip through your fingers, like the viper he is." "Be satisfied; I will be mute." "Now let us pursue our way to the Beaver Pond. Loyal Heart watches over you." "He has already saved our lives on the occasion of the conflagration of the prairies," she said with emotion. "Ah! ah!" the trapper murmured, fixing his eyes upon her with a singular expression, "everything is for the best, then." And he added in a loud voice: "Be without fear, señorita, if you follow strictly the advice I have given you, no evil will happen to you in the prairies, whatever be the treachery to which you may be exposed." "Oh!" the girl cried, with great warmth, "in the hour of danger I will not hesitate to have recourse to you--I swear I will not!" "That is settled," said the Black Elk, smiling; "now let us go and see the beavers." They resumed their walk, and at the end of a few minutes arrived on the verge of the forest. The trapper then stopped, and making a sign to the young girl to be motionless, turned towards her, and whispered-- "Look!" CHAPTER XV. THE BEAVERS. Doña Luz gently pushed aside the branches of the willows and bending her head forward, she surveyed the scene. The beavers had not only intercepted the course of the river by means of their industrious community, but, still further, all the rivulets that ran into it had their courses stopped, so as to transform the surrounding ground into one vast marsh. One beaver alone was at work, at the moment, on the principal dam; but very shortly five others appeared, carrying pieces of wood, mud, and bushes. They then all together directed their course towards a part of the barrier which, as the lady could perceive, needed repair. They deposited their load on the broken part, and plunged into the water, but only to reappear almost instantly on the surface. Everyone brought up a certain quantity of slimy mud, which they employed as mortar to join and render firm the pieces of wood and the bushes; they went away and returned again with more wood and mud; in short, this work of masonry was carried on till the breach had entirely disappeared. As soon as all was in order, the industrious animals enjoyed a moment's recreation; they pursued each other in the pond, plunged to the bottom of the water, or sported on the surface, striking the water noisily with their tails. Doña Luz beheld this singular spectacle with increasing interest. She could have remained the whole day watching these strange animals. Whilst the first were amusing themselves thus, two other members of the community appeared. For some time they looked gravely on at the sports of their companions, without showing any inclination to join them; then climbing up the steep bank not far from the spot where the trapper and the young girl were watching, they seated themselves upon their hind paws, leaning the fore ones upon a young pine, and beginning to gnaw the bark of it. Sometimes they detached a small piece, and held it between their paws, still remaining seated; they nibbled it with contortions and grimaces pretty much resembling those of a monkey shelling a walnut. The evident object of these beavers was to cut down the tree, and they laboured at it earnestly. It was a young pine of about eighteen inches in diameter at the part where they attacked it, as straight as an arrow, and of considerable height. No doubt they would soon have succeeded in cutting it through; but the general, uneasy at the prolonged absence of his niece, made up his mind to go in search of her, and the beavers, terrified at the noise of the horses, dived into the water and disappeared. The general reproached his niece gently for her long absence; but she, delighted with what she had seen, did not heed him, and promised herself to be frequently an invisible spectator of the proceedings of the beavers. The little party, under the direction of the trapper, directed their course towards the rancho, in which he had offered them shelter from the burning rays of the sun, which was now at its zenith. Doña Luz, whose curiosity was excited to the highest pitch by the attractive spectacle at which she had been present, determined to make up for her uncle's unwelcome interruption by asking Black Elk all the particulars of the habits of the beavers, and the manner in which they were caught. The trapper, like all men who live much alone, had no objection, when opportunity offered, to relax from the silence he was generally obliged to preserve, and therefore did not require much pressing. "Oh, oh, señorita," he said, "the redskins say that the beaver is a man who does not speak; and they are right--he is brave, wise, prudent, industrious, and economical. Thus, when winter arrives, the whole family go to work to prepare provisions; young as well as old, all work. They are often obliged to make long journeys to find the bark they prefer. They sometimes bring down moderately large trees, cutting off the branches, whose bark is most to their taste; they cut it into pieces about three feet long, and transport them to the water, where they set them floating towards their huts, in which they store them. Their habitations are clean and convenient. They take great care, after their repasts, to throw into the current of the river, below the dam, the piece of wood off which they have gnawed the bark. They never permit a strange beaver to come and establish himself near them, and often fight with the greatest fury to secure the freedom of their territories." "Oh! nothing can be more curious than all this!" Doña Luz exclaimed. "Ah, but," the trapper rejoined, "that is not all. In the spring, which is the generating season, the male leaves the female in the house, and goes, like a great lord, on a tour of pleasure; sometimes to a great distance, sporting in the limpid waters he falls in with, And climbing their banks to gnaw the tender branches of the young poplars and willows. But when summer comes, he abandons his bachelor life and returns to his mate and her new progeny, which he leads to forage in search of provisions for winter." "It must be confessed," said the general, "that this animal is one of the most interesting in creation." "Yes," Doña Luz added, "and I cannot understand how people can make up their minds to hunt them as if they were mischievous beasts." "What is to be said for it, señorita?" the trapper replied, philosophically; "all animals were created for man--this one above others, its fur is so valuable." "That is true," said the general; "but," he added, "how do you set about this chase? All beavers are not so confiding as these; there are some that conceal their huts with extreme care." "Yes," Black Elk replied; "but habit has given the experienced trapper so certain a glance, that he discovers, by the slightest sign, the track of a beaver; and although the hut be concealed by thick underwood and the willows which shade it, it is very seldom that he cannot guess the exact number of its inhabitants. He then places his trap, fastens it to the bank, two or three inches under water, and secures it by a chain to a pole strongly fixed in the mud or sand. A little twig is then deprived of its bark, and soaked in the medicine, for so we call the bait we employ; this twig is so placed as to rise three or four inches above the water, whilst its extremity is fixed in the opening of the trap. The beaver, which is endowed with a very subtle smell, is quickly attracted by the odour of the bait. As soon as it advances its snout to seize it, its foot is caught in the trap. In great terror, it tries to dive into the water, but the chained trap resists all its efforts; it struggles for some time, but at last, its strength being exhausted, it sinks to the bottom of the water, and is drowned. This, señorita, is the way in which beavers are generally taken. But in rocky beds, where it is not possible to fix the poles to retain the trap, we are often obliged to search for a length of time for the captured beavers, and even to swim to great distances. It also happens that when several members of the same family have been taken, the others become mistrustful. Then, whatever stratagems we have recourse to, it is impossible to get them to bite the bait. They approach the traps with precaution, let off the spring with a stick, and often even turn the traps upside down, dragging them under their dam, and burying them in the mud. "What do you do then?" Doña Luz asked. "Why, then," Black Elk replied, "we have but one thing left to do, and that is, throw our traps upon our backs, own ourselves beaten by the beavers, and go further afield to seek others less Cunning. But here is my rancho." At this moment the travellers arrived at a miserable hut, made of interlaced branches of trees, scarcely capable of sheltering them from the rays of the sun, and in every respect resembling, as regarded convenience, those of other trappers of the prairies, who are men that trouble themselves the least about the comforts of life. Nevertheless, such as it was, Black Elk did the honours of it very warmly to the strangers. A second trapper was squatting before the hut, occupied in watching the roasting of the buffalo's hump which Black Elk had promised his guests. This man, whose costume was in all respects like that of Black Elk, was scarcely forty years old; but the fatigue and numberless miseries of his hard profession had dug upon his face such a network of inextricable wrinkles as made him look older than he was in reality. In fact, there does not exist in the world a more dangerous, more painful, or less profitable trade than that of a trapper. These poor people are often, whether by Indians or hunters, robbed of their hard-earned gains, scalped, and massacred, and no one troubles himself to learn what has become of them. "Take your place, señorita; and you also, gentlemen," said Black Elk, politely. "However poor my hut may be, it is large enough to contain you all." The travellers cheerfully accepted his invitation; they alighted from their horses, and were soon stretched comfortably upon beds of dry leaves, covered with the skins of bears, elks, and buffaloes. The repast--truly a hunter's repast--was washed down with some cups of excellent mezcal which the general always carried with him in his expeditions, and which the trappers appreciated as it deserved. Whilst Doña Luz, the guide, and the lanceros, took a siesta of a few minutes, till the heat of the sun's rays should be a little abated, the general, begging Black Elk to follow him, went out of the hut. As soon as they were at a sufficient distance, the general seated himself at the foot of an ebony tree, motioning for his companion to follow his example which he immediately did. After a moment's silence, the general said,-- "Allow me, my friend, in the first place, to thank you for your frank hospitality. That duty performed, I wish to put a few questions to you." "Caballero!" the trapper replied, evasively, "you know what the redskins say: between every word smoke your calumet, in order to weigh your words well." "You speak like a sensible man; but be satisfied that I have no intention of putting questions to you that concern your profession, or any object that can affect you personally." "If I am able to answer you, caballero, be assured I will not hesitate to satisfy you." "Thank you, friend, I expected no less from you. How long have you been an inhabitant of the prairies?" "Ten years, already, sir; and God grant I may remain here as many more." "This sort of life pleases you then?" "More than I can tell you. A man must, as I have done, begin it almost as a boy, undergo all the trials, endure all the sufferings, partake all its hazards, in order to understand all the intoxicating charms it procures, the celestial joys it gives, and the unknown pleasures into which it plunges us! Oh! caballero, the most beautiful and largest city of old Europe is very little, very dirty, very mean compared with the desert. Your cramped, regulated, compassed life is miserable compared to ours! It is here only that man feels the air penetrate easily into his lungs, that he lives, that he thinks. Civilization brings him down almost to the level of the brute, leaving him no instinct but that which enables him to pursue sordid interests. Whereas, in the desert, in the prairie, face to face with God, his ideas enlarge, his spirit grows, and he becomes really what the Supreme Being meant to make him; that is to say, the king of the creation." Whilst pronouncing these words the trapper was, in a manner, transfigured; his countenance assumed an inspired expression, his eyes flashed fire, and his gestures were impressed with that nobleness which passion alone gives. The general sighed deeply, a furtive tear trickled over his grey moustache. "That's true," he said, sadly; "this life has strange charms for the man who has tasted it, and they attach him by bonds nothing can break. When you arrived in the prairies, whence did you come?" "I came from Quebec, sir; I am a Canadian." "Ah!" A silence of a few minutes ensued, but it was, at length, broken by the general. "Have you many Mexicans among your companions?" "Many." "I should like to obtain some information respecting them." "There is only one man who could give you any, sir; and, unfortunately, that man is not at this moment here." "And he is called?" "Loyal Heart." "Loyal Heart!" the general replied, warmly; "surely I know that man." "Yes, you do." "Good heavens! what a fatality!" "Perhaps it will be more easy than you suppose to meet with him again, if you really wish to see him." "I have an immense interest in wishing it." "Then make your mind easy; you will soon see him." "How so?" "Oh! very simply. Loyal Heart lays his traps near me; at the present time I am watching them; but it cannot be long before he returns." "God grant it may be so!" said the general, with great agitation. "As soon as he comes I will send you word, if between this and then you have not quitted your camp." "Do you know where my troop is encamped?" "We know everything in the desert," the trapper said, with a smile. "I accept your promise." "You have my word, sir." "Thank you." At that moment Doña Luz came out of the hut; after having made Black Elk a sign to recommend silence, the general hastened to join her. The travellers remounted their horses, and after thanking the trappers for their cordial hospitality, they again took the road to the camp. CHAPTER XVI. TREACHERY. The return was dull, the general was plunged in profound reflections, caused by his conversation with the trapper. Doña Luz was thinking of the warning that had been given her; the guide embarrassed by the two conversations of Black Elk with the general, had a secret presentiment, which told him to keep on his guard. The two lanceros alone rode on carelessly, ignorant of the drama that was being played around them, and thinking but of one thing--the repose which awaited them on regaining the camp. The Babbler incessantly cast anxious looks around him, appearing to seek for auxiliaries amidst the thickets which the little party passed silently through. Day was drawing to a close; it would not be long before the sun disappeared, and already the mysterious denizens of the forest at intervals sent forth dull roarings. "Are we still far from the camp?" the general said, all at once. "No," the guide replied; "scarcely an hour's ride." "Let us mend our speed, then; I should not like to be surprised by the night in this woody country." The troop fell into a quick trot, which, in less than half an hour, brought them to the first barricades of the camp. Captain Aguilar and the doctor came to receive the travellers on their arrival. The evening repast was prepared, and had been waiting some time. They seated themselves at table. But the sadness which for some time past seemed to have taken possession of the general and his niece increased instead of diminishing. It had its effect upon the repast; all swallowed their food hastily, without exchanging a word. As soon as they had finished, under pretext of the fatigues of the journey, they separated, ostensibly to seek repose, but, in reality, for the sake of being alone, and reflecting upon the events of the day. On his part, the guide was not more at his ease; a bad conscience, a sage has said, is the most annoying night companion a man can have; the Babbler possessed the worst of all bad consciences, therefore he had no inclination to sleep. He walked about the camp, seeking in vain in his mind, harassed by anxiety and perhaps remorse, for some means of getting out of the scrape in which he found himself. But it was in vain for him to put his imagination to the rack, nothing suggested itself to calm his apprehensions. In the meantime, night was advancing, the moon had disappeared, and a thick darkness hovered over the silent camp. Everyone was asleep, or appearing to sleep; the guide alone, who had taken upon himself the first watch, was seated on a bale; with his arms crossed upon his breast, and his eyes fixed upon vacancy, he became more and more absorbed in gloomy reveries. All at once a hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a voice murmured in his ear the single word, "Kennedy!" The guide, with that presence of mind, and that imperturbable phlegm which never abandons the Indian or the half-breed, cast a suspicious glance around him, to assure himself that he was really alone; then he seized the hand which had remained resting upon his shoulder, and dragged the individual who had spoken to him, and who followed him without resistance, to a retired spot, where he thought he was certain of being overheard by nobody. At the moment when the two men passed by the tent, the curtains opened softly, and a shadow glided silently after them. When they were concealed amidst the packages, and standing near enough to each other to speak in a voice as low as a breath, the guide muttered: "God be praised! I have been expecting your visit with impatience, Kennedy." "Did you know that I was about to come?" the latter remarked suspiciously. "No, but I hoped you would!" "Is there anything fresh?" "Yes, and much!" "Speak, and make haste!" "That is what I am going to do. All is lost!" "Hem! what do you mean by that?" "What do I mean is, that today the general, guided by me, went----" "Ah! yes, I know all that. I saw you." "Maldición! why did you not attack us, then?" "There were but two of us." "I should have made the third, the party would then have been equal; the general had but two lanceros." "That's true; but I did not think of it." "You were wrong. All would now be ended, instead of which all is now probably lost." "How so?" "Eh! _caray!_ It is clear enough. The general and his niece held long conversations with that sneaking hound, Black Elk, and you know he has been acquainted with me a long while. There is no doubt he has made them suspicious of me." "Why did you lead them to the beaver pond, then?" "How could I tell I should meet that cursed trapper there?" "In our trade we must be awake to everything." "You are right. I have committed an error. At present I believe the evil to be without remedy, for I have a presentiment that Black Elk has completely edified the general with respect to me." "Hum! that is more than probable. What is to be done, then?" "Act as soon as possible, without giving them time to put themselves on their guard." "For my part, I ask no better than that, you know." "Yes, but where is the captain? Has he returned?" "He arrived this evening. All our men are concealed in the grotto; there are forty of us. "Bravo! Why did you not come all together, instead of you by yourself? Only see, what a fine opportunity you have lost? They are all sleeping like dormice. We could have seized them all in less than ten minutes." "You are right; but one cannot foresee everything; besides, the affair was not so agreed upon with the captain." "That is true. Why did you come then?" "To warn you that we are ready, and only await your signal to act." "Let us consider, then, what is best to be done? Advise me." "How the devil can you expect me to advise you? Can I tell what is going on here so as to tell you what you must do?" The guide reflected for a minute, then he raised his head, and surveyed the heavens attentively. "Listen," he replied, "it is but two o'clock in the morning." "About that." "You are going back to the grotto?" "Immediately!" "Yes." "Very well. What next?" "You will tell the captain that, if he wishes it, I will deliver the girl up to him this night." "Hum! that appears to me rather difficult." "You are stupid." "Very possibly, but I don't see how." "Attend then. The guarding of the camp is thus distributed:--In the daytime the soldiers guard the intrenchments; but as they are not accustomed to the life of the prairies, and as in the night their assistance would do more harm than good, the other guides and I are charged with the guard whilst the soldiers repose." "That's cleverly managed," Kennedy said, laughing. "Is it not?" the Babbler said. "You get on horseback then? when you arrive at the bottom of the hill, six of the bravest of you must come and join me with their aid I undertake to bind, while they sleep, all the soldiers and the general himself." "There is something in that; that's a good idea." "Don't you think so?" "By my faith do I." "Very well. When once our folks are safely bound, I will whistle, and the captain will come up with the rest of the troop. Then he may arrange his matters with the girl as well as he is able; that is his concern; my task will be accomplished. Now, what do you think of all that?" "Capital!" "In this fashion we shall avoid bloodshed and blows, for which I have no great fancy, when I can do without them." "We know your prudence in that respect." "Zounds! my dear fellow, when we have affairs like this on hand, which, when they succeed, present great advantages, we should always endeavour so to arrange matters as to have all the chances in our favour. "Perfectly well reasoned; besides which, your idea pleases me much, and, without delay, I will put it into execution; but, in the first place, let us make things clear, to avoid misunderstandings, which are always disagreeable." "Very well." "If, as I believe he will, the captain finds your plan good, and very likely to succeed, as soon as we are at the foot of the hill, I will come up with six resolute fellows, whom I will pick out myself. On which side must we introduce ourselves into the camp?" "The devil! why on the side you have already entered: you ought to know it." "And you, where will you be?" "At the spot where you enter, ready to assist you." "That's well. Now all is agreed and understood. You have nothing more to say to me?" "Nothing." "I am off, then." "The sooner the better." "You are always right. Guide me to the place I am to go out at; it is so cursedly dark, that I may lose my way, and tumble over some sleeping soldier, and that would not help our business at all." "Give me your hand." "Here it is." The two men rose, and prepared to proceed to the place where the captain's emissary was to leave the camp; but, at the same moment, a shadow interposed itself between them, and a firm voice said;-- "You are traitors, and shall die!" In spite of their self-possession, the two men remained for an instant stupefied. Without giving them time to recover their presence of mind, the person who had spoken discharged two pistols, point blank at them. The miserable wretches uttered a loud cry. One fell, but the other, bounding like a tiger-cat, scrambled over the intrenchments and disappeared before a second shot could be fired at him. At the double report and the cry uttered by the bandits, the whole camp was roused, and all rushed to the barricades. The general and Captain Aguilar were the first to arrive at the spot where the scene we have described had taken place. They found Doña Luz, with two smoking pistols in her hands, whilst, at her feet, a man was writhing in the agonies of death. "What does all this mean, niece? What has happened, in the name of Heaven! Are you wounded?" the terrified general asked. "Be at ease, dear uncle, on my account, I am not wounded," the young lady replied. "I have only punished a traitor. Two wretches were plotting in the dark against our common safety; one of them has escaped, but I believe the other is at least seriously wounded." The general eagerly examined the dying man. By the light of the torch he held in his hand he at once recognized Kennedy, the guide whom the Babbler pretended had been burnt alive in the conflagration of the prairie. "Oh, oh!" he said, "what does all this mean?" "It means, uncle," the girl replied, "that if God had not come to my aid, we should have been, this very night, surprised by a troop of bandits, lying in ambush close to us." "Let us lose no time, then!" And the general, assisted by Captain Aguilar, hastened to prepare everything for a vigorous resistance, in case an attack should be attempted. The Babbler had fled, but a large track of blood proved that he was seriously wounded. If it had been light enough, they would have attempted to pursue him, and, perhaps, might have taken him; but, in the midst of darkness, and suspecting that their enemies were in ambush in the neighbourhood, the general was not willing to risk his soldiers out of the camp. He preferred leaving the villain that chance of saving himself. As to Kennedy, he was dead. The first moment of excitement past, Doña Luz, no longer sustained by the danger of her situation, began to be sensible she was a woman. Her energy disappeared, her eyes closed, a convulsive trembling shook her whole frame; she fainted, and would have fallen, if the doctor, who was watching her, had not caught her in his arms. He carried her in that state into the tent, and lavished upon her all the remedies usual in such cases. The young lady gradually recovered: her spirits were calmed, and order was re-established in her ideas. The advice given her that very day by Black Elk then naturally recurred to her mind; she deemed the moment was coming for claiming the execution of his promise, and she made a sign to the doctor to approach her. "My dear doctor," she said, in a sweet but weak voice, "are you willing to render me a great service?" "Dispose of me as you please, señorita." "Do you know a trapper named Black Elk?" "Yes; he has a hut not a great way from us, near a beaver pond." "That is the person, my good doctor. Well, as soon as it is light, you must go to him from me." "For what purpose, señorita?" "Because I ask you," she said, in a calm tone. "Oh! then you may be at ease; I will go," he replied. "Thank you, doctor." "What shall I say to him?" "You will give him an account of what has taken place here tonight." "The deuce!" "And then you will add--retain my exact words, you must repeat them to him to the very letter." "I listen with all my ears, and will engrave them on my memory." "Black Elk, the hour is come! You understand that, do you not?" "Perfectly, señorita." "You swear to do what I ask of you?" "I swear it," he said, in a solemn voice. "At sunrise, I will go to the trapper; I will give him an account of the events of the night, and will add--Black Elk, the hour is come. Is that all you desire of me?" "Yes, all, my kind doctor." "Well, then, now endeavour to get a little sleep, señorita; I swear to you by my honour, that what you wish shall be done." "Again, thank you!" the young girl murmured, with a sweet smile, and pressing his hand. Then, quite broken down by the terrible emotions of the night, she sank back upon her bed, where she soon fell into a calm, refreshing sleep. At daybreak, in spite of the observations of the general, who in vain endeavoured to prevent his leaving the camp, by presenting to him all the dangers he was needlessly going to expose himself to, the worthy doctor who had shaken his head at all that his friend said to him, persisted, without giving any reason, in his project of going out, and set off down the hill at a sharp trot. When once in the forest, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped at best speed towards the hut of Black Elk. CHAPTER XVII. EAGLE HEAD. Eagle Head was a chief as prudent as he was determined; he knew he had everything to fear from the Americans, if he did not succeed in completely concealing his trail. Hence, after the surprise he had effected against the new establishment of the whites, upon the banks of the great Canadian river, he neglected nothing to secure his troop from the terrible reprisals which threatened them. It is scarcely possible to form an idea of the talent displayed by the Indians when the object is to conceal their trail. Twenty times do they repass the same place, entangling, as it were, the traces of their passage in each other, in such a manner that they end by becoming inextricable; neglecting no accident of the ground, marching in each other's footsteps to conceal their number, following for whole days the course of rivulets, frequently with the water up to their waist, carrying their precautions and patience so far as ever to efface with their hands, and, so to speak, step by step the vestiges which might denounce them to the keen, interested eyes of their enemies. The tribe of the Serpent, to which the warriors commanded by Eagle Head belonged, had entered the prairies nearly five hundred warriors strong, in order to hunt the buffalo, and give battle to the Pawnees and Sioux, with whom they were continually at war. It was Eagle Head's object, as soon as his campaign should be over, to join his brothers immediately, in order to place in safety the booty gained by the capture of the village, and to take part in a grand expedition which his tribe was preparing against the white trappers and half-breeds spread over the prairies, whom the Indians, with reason, considered as implacable enemies. Notwithstanding the extreme precaution displayed by the chief, the detachment had marched rapidly. On the evening of the sixth day that had passed away since the destruction of the fort, the Comanches halted on the banks of a little river without a name, as is the case sometimes in these wilds, and prepared to encamp for the night. Nothing is more simple than the encamping of Indians upon the warpath. The horses are hobbled, that they may not stray away; if the savages do not fear a surprise, they kindle a fire; if the contrary, everyone manages to get a little food and rest as well as he can. Since their departure from the fort, no indication had given the Comanches reason to think they were pursued or watched, and their scouts had discovered no suspicious track. They were at but a short distance from the camp of their tribe,--their security was complete. Eagle Head ordered a fire to be lit, and himself posted sentinels to watch over the safety of all. When he had taken these prudent measures, the chief placed his back against an ebony tree, took his calumet, and ordered the old man and the Spanish woman to be brought before him. When they appeared, Eagle Head saluted the old man cordially, and offered him his calumet, a mark of kindness which the old man accepted, carefully preparing himself for the questions which the Indian was, doubtless, about to put to him. As he expected, after a silence of a few moments, the latter spoke. "Does my brother find himself comfortable with the redskins?" asked he. "I should be wrong to complain, chief," the Spaniard replied; "since I have been with you I have been treated very kindly." "My brother is a friend," the Comanche said, emphatically. The old man bowed. "We are at length in our own hunting grounds," the chief continued; "my brother, the White Head, is fatigued with a long life; he is better at the counsel fire than on horseback, hunting the elk or the buffalo--what does my brother wish?" "Chief," the Spaniard replied, "your words are true; there was a time when, like every other child of the prairies, I passed whole days in hunting upon a fiery unbroken mustang; my strength has disappeared, my members have lost their elasticity, and my eye its infallibility; I am worth nothing now in an expedition, however short it may be." "Good!" the Indian replied, imperturbably, blowing clouds of smoke from his mouth and nostrils; "let my brother tell his friend what he wishes, and it shall be done." "I thank you, chief, and I will profit by your kindness; I should be happy if you would consent to furnish me with means of gaining, without being disturbed, some establishment of men of my own colour, where I might pass in peace the few days I have yet to live." "Eh! why should I not do it? Nothing is more easy; as soon as we have rejoined the tribe, since my brother is not willing to dwell with us, his desires shall be satisfied." There was a moment of silence. The old man, believing the conversation terminated, prepared to retire; with a gesture, the chief ordered him to remain. After a few instants, the Indian shook the ashes out of his pipe, passed the shank of it through his belt, and fixing upon the Spaniard a glance marked by a strange expression, he said, in a sad voice,-- "My brother is happy, although he has seen many winters, he does not walk alone in the path of life." "What does the chief mean?" the old man asked; "I do not understand." "My brother has a family," the Comanche replied. "Alas! my brother is deceived; I am alone in this world." "What does my brother say? Has he not his mate?" A sad smile passed over the pale lips of the old man. "No," he said, after a moment's pause; "I have no mate." "What is that woman to him, then?" said the chief, with feigned surprise, and pointing to the Spanish woman, who stood pensive and silent by the side of the old man. "That woman is my mistress." "Wah! Can it be that my brother is a slave?" said the Comanche, with an ill-omened smile. "No," the old man replied haughtily! "I am not the slave of that woman, I am her devoted servant." "Wah!" said the chief, shaking his head, and reflecting deeply upon this reply. But the words of the Spaniard were unintelligible to the Indian; the distinction was too subtle for him to seize it. At the end of two or three minutes he shook his head, and gave up the endeavour to solve the, to him, incomprehensible problem. "Good!" he said, darting an ironical glance through his half-closed eyelids; "the woman shall go with my brother." "That is what I always intended," the Spaniard replied. The aged woman, who to this moment had preserved a prudent silence, judged it was now time to take part in the conversation. "I am thankful to the chief," she said; "but since he is good enough to take interest in our welfare, will he permit me to ask him a favour?" "Let my mother speak; my ears are open." "I have a son who is a great white hunter; he must at this moment be in the prairie; perhaps, if my brother would consent to keep us a few days longer with him, it would be possible to meet with him; under his protection we should have nothing to fear." At these imprudent words the Spaniard made a gesture of terror. "Señorita!" he said sharply in his native language, "take care lest----" "Silence!" the Indian interrupted in an angry tone; "why does my white brother speak before me in an unknown tongue? Does he fear I should understand his words?" "Oh, chief!" said the Spaniard, in a tone of denial. "Let my brother, then, allow my palefaced mother to speak; she is speaking to a chief." The old man was silent, but a sad presentiment weighed upon his heart. The Comanche chief knew perfectly well to whom he was speaking; he was playing with the two Spaniards, as a cat does with a mouse; but, allowing none of his impressions to appear, he turned towards the woman, and bowing with that instinctive courtesy which distinguishes the Indians, said in a mild voice, and with a sympathetic smile,-- "Oh! oh! the son of my mother is a great hunter, is he? So much the better." The heart of the poor woman dilated with joy. "Yes," she said, with emotion, "he is one of the bravest trappers on the Western prairies." "_Wah!_" said the chief, in a still more amiable manner, "this renowned warrior must have a name respected through the prairies?" The Spaniard suffered a martyrdom; held in awe by the eye of the Comanche, he did not know how to warn his mistress not to pronounce the name of her son. "His name is well known," said the woman. "Oh!" the old man cried eagerly, "all women are thus; with them all their sons are heroes: this one, although an excellent young man, is no better than others; certes, his name has never reached my brother." "How does my brother know that?" said the Indian, with a sardonic smile. "I suppose so," the old man replied; "or, at least, if by chance my brother has heard it pronounced, it must long ago have escaped his memory, and does not merit being recalled to it. If my brother will permit us, we will retire; the day has been fatiguing; the hour of repose is come." "In an instant," said the Comanche quietly; and turning to the woman, "What is the name of the warrior of the palefaces?" he asked, in a peremptory tone. But the old lady, placed upon her guard by the intervention of her servant, with whose prudence and devotion she was well acquainted, made no answer, conscious that she had committed a fault, and not knowing how to remedy it. "Does not my mother hear me?" said the chief. "Of what use would it be to repeat to you a name which, according to all probability, is unknown to you, and which cannot interest you? If my brother will permit me, I will retire." "No; not before my mother has told me the name of her son, the great warrior," said the Comanche, knitting his brow and stamping his foot with ill-restrained anger. The old Spaniard saw an end must be put to this; his determination was formed in a second. "My brother is a great chief," he said, "although his hair is still brown, his wisdom is immense. I am his friend, and am sure he would not abuse the chance that has delivered into his hands the mother of his enemy: the name of that woman's son is Loyal Heart." "Wah!" said Eagle Head, with a sinister smile, "I knew that well enough: why have the palefaces two hearts and two tongues? and why do they always seek to deceive the redskins?" "We have not sought to deceive you, chief." "I say you have. Since you have been with us, you have been treated as children of the tribe. I have saved your life!" "That is true." "Very well," he resumed, with an ironical smile, "I will prove to you that Indians do not forget, and that they know how to render good for evil. These wounds that you see me bear, who inflicted them? Loyal Heart! We are enemies; his mother is in my power; I could at once tie her to the stake of torture; it is my right to do so." The two Spaniards hung their heads. "The law of the prairies is an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Listen to me well, Old Oak. In remembrance of our ancient friendship, I grant you a respite. Tomorrow at sunrise, you shall set out in search of Loyal Heart; if, within four days, he does not come to deliver himself up into my hands, his mother shall perish; my young men shall burn her alive at the stake of blood, and my brothers shall make war whistles of her bones. Begone! I have spoken!" The old man eagerly implored mercy. He threw himself on his knees before the chief; but the vindictive Indian spurned him with his foot, and turned away. "Oh! madam," the old man murmured, in despair, "you are lost!" "But be sure, Eusebio," the mother replied, choking with tears, "be sure not to bring back my son! Of what consequence is my death! Alas! has not my life already been long enough?" The old servant cast a glance of admiration at his mistress. "Ever the same!" he said affectionately. "Does not the life of a mother belong to her child?" she said, with a cry which seemed to come from her very heart. The old people sank, overwhelmed with grief, at the foot of a tree, and passed the night in praying to God. Eagle Head did not appear to have an idea of this despair. CHAPTER XVIII. NÔ EUSEBIO. The precautions taken by Eagle Head to conceal his march were good as regarded the whites, whose senses, less kept upon the watch than those of partisans and hunters, and little acquainted with Indian stratagems, are almost incapable of directing their course in these vast solitudes without a compass; but for men like Loyal Heart and Belhumeur they were, in every respect, insufficient. The two bold partisans did not lose the track for an instant. Accustomed to the zig-zags and devices of the Indian warriors, they did not allow themselves to be deceived by the sudden turns, the counter marches, the false halts, in a word, by any of the obstacles which the Comanches had planted so freely on their route. And then, there was one thing of which the Indians had not dreamed, and which revealed as clearly the direction of their march as if they had taken the pains to mark it with stakes. We have said that the hunters had, close to the ruins of a cabin, found a bloodhound fastened to a tree, and that this bloodhound, when set free, after bestowing a few caresses on Belhumeur, had set off; his nose to the wind, to rejoin his master, who was no other than the old Spaniard--in fact, he did rejoin him. The traces of the bloodhound, which the Indians never dreamed of effacing, for the very simple reason that they did not observe that he was with them, were to be seen all along, and for hunters so skilful as Loyal Heart and Belhumeur, this was an Ariadne's thread which nothing could break. The hunters therefore rode tranquilly on with their guns across the saddle and accompanied by their rastreros, in the track of the Comanches, who were far from suspecting that they had such a rearguard. Every evening Loyal Heart stopped at the precise place where Eagle Head had, on the previous day, established his camp, for such was the diligence of the two men that the Indians only preceded them by a few leagues; the trappers could easily have passed them, if it had been their wish to do so; but, for certain reasons, Loyal Heart confined himself to following them for some time longer. After having passed the night in a quiet glade, on the banks of a clear rivulet, whose soft murmur had lulled them to sleep, the hunters were preparing to resume their journey, their horses were saddled, they were eating a slice of elk, standing, like people in a hurry to depart, when Loyal Heart, who, during the whole morning had not spoken a word, turned towards his companion, and said: "Let us sit down a minute, there is no occasion to hurry, since Eagle Head has rejoined his tribe." "Be it so," replied Belhumeur, laying himself down upon the grass. "We can talk a bit." "I cannot think how it was I did not imagine these cursed Comanches had a war detachment in the neighbourhood! It is impossible for us two to think of taking a camp in which there are five hundred warriors." "That's true," said Belhumeur, philosophically; "they are a great many, and yet, you know, my dear friend, that if your heart bids you, we can but try; who knows what may happen?" "Thanks!" said Loyal Heart, smiling; "but I think it useless." "As you like." "Stratagem alone can assist us." "Let us try stratagem, then; I am at your orders." "We have some traps near here, I believe?" "Pardieu!" said the Canadian, "within half a mile, at most, there is a large pond of beavers." "That's true; for the last few days, Belhumeur, I scarcely know what I am thinking about; this captivity of my mother makes me mad; I must deliver her, cost what it may." "That is my opinion, Loyal Heart, and I will aid you in it with all my soul." "Tomorrow morning, at daybreak, you will repair to Black Elk, and beg him, in my name, to collect as many white hunters and trappers as he can." "Very well." "In the meantime I will go to the camp of the Comanches, to treat for the ransom of my mother; if they will not restore her to me, we will have recourse to arms, and we will see if a score of the best rifles of the frontiers will not give a good account of five hundred of these plunderers of the prairies." "And if they should make you prisoner?" "In that case I will send you my bloodhound, who will come to you in the river grotto; on seeing it come alone, you will know what that means, and will act accordingly." The Canadian shook his head. "No," said he, "I shall not do so." "What! you will not do so?" the hunter exclaimed, in great surprise. "Certainly no, I will not do so, Loyal Heart. Compared with you, who are so brave and so intelligent, I am but little worth, I know; but if I have only one good quality, nothing can deprive me of it, and that quality is my devotedness to you." "I know it, my friend; you love me like a brother." "And you would have me leave you, as they say in my country beyond the great lakes, to go cheerfully into the jaws of the wolf; and yet my comparison is humiliating for the wolf, for the Indians are a thousand times more ferocious! No, I repeat, I will not do that; it would be a wicked action, and if any harm happened to you, I should never forgive myself." "Explain yourself, Belhumeur," said Loyal Heart, with a little impatience; "upon my honour I cannot possibly understand you." "Oh! that will be easy enough," the Canadian answered; "if I am not very clever, and am not an able speaker, I have good common sense, and can see my way clearly when those I love are concerned; and I love nobody better than you, now my poor father is dead." "Speak then, my friend," said Loyal Heart, "and pardon the little ill-humour I could not repress." Belhumeur reflected for a few seconds, and then continued:-- "You know," he said, "that the greatest enemies we have in the prairies are the Comanches; by an inexplicable fatality, whenever we have had a struggle to maintain, it has been against them, and never have they been able to boast of the smallest advantage over us; hence has arisen between them and us an implacable hatred, a hatred which has latterly been increased by our quarrel with Eagle Head, whose arm you had the good chance, or rather the ill chance, of breaking, when it would have been so easy for you to have broken his head; a joke which I am convinced the chief has taken in very bad part, and will never forgive you. Besides, I must confess that in his place I should entertain exactly the same sentiments; I bear him no malice on that account." "To the purpose! to the purpose!" Loyal Heart interrupted. "The purpose! Well, this is it," Belhumeur replied, displaying no surprise at his friend's interruption: "Eagle Head is anxious, by any means, to obtain your scalp, and it is evident that if you commit the imprudence of placing yourself in his hands, he will not let the opportunity slip of finally settling his accounts with you." "But," Loyal Heart replied, "my mother is in his power." "Yes," said Belhumeur; "but he does not know who she is. You are aware, my friend, that the Indians only treat captured women ill in exceptional cases; generally they behave to them with the greatest respect." "That is true," said the hunter. "Therefore, as no one will go and tell Eagle Head that his prisoner is your mother, unless she does so herself, through the uneasiness she may feel on your account, she is as safe among the redskins as if she were on the great square of Quebec. It is useless, then, to commit an imprudence. Let us get together a score of good fellows; I don't ask for more; and let us watch the Indians. On the first opportunity that offers we will fall upon them vigorously, we will kill as many as we can, and deliver your mother. Now that, I think, is the wisest course we can take; what do you think of it?" "I think, my friend," Loyal Heart replied, pressing his hand, "that you are the best creature in existence; that your advice is good, and I will follow it." "Bravo!" Belhumeur exclaimed, joyfully; "that is speaking something like." "And now----" said Loyal Heart, rising. "Now?" Belhumeur asked. "We will get on horseback; we will carefully avoid the Indian camp, using all possible caution not to be tracked; and will then go to the hatto of our brave companion Black Elk, who is a man of good counsel, and who will certainly be useful to us in what we purpose doing." "Be it so, then," said Belhumeur cheerfully, leaping into his saddle. The hunters quitted the glade they had slept in, and making a _détour_ to avoid the Indian camp, the smoke of which they perceived within a league of them, they directed their course towards the spot where, in all probability, Black Elk was philosophically employed in laying snares for beavers, the interesting animals that Doña Luz had admired so much. They had been thus riding on for nearly an hour, chatting and laughing, for the reasonings of Belhumeur had succeeded in convincing Loyal Heart, who, thoroughly knowing the manners of the Indians, was persuaded that his mother was in no danger, when his hounds on a sudden showed signs of excitement, and rushed forward, yelping with symptoms of joy. "What's the matter with our rastreros?" said Loyal Heart; "one would think they smelt a friend." "Pardieu! they have scented Black Elk, and we shall probably see them come back together." "That is not unlikely," the hunter said pensively; and they continued their course. At the expiration of a few minutes they perceived a horseman riding towards them at full speed, surrounded by the dogs, who ran barking by his side. "It is not Black Elk," Belhumeur cried. "No," said Loyal Heart, "it is Nô Eusebio; what can this mean? He is alone; can anything have happened to my mother?" "Let us mend our pace," said Belhumeur, clapping spurs to his horse, which sprang forward with the greatest velocity. The hunter followed him, a prey to mortal alarm. The three horsemen were soon together. "Woe! woe!" the old man cried, in great agitation, as he approached. "What is the matter, Nô Eusebio? speak, in the name of Heaven." "Your mother, Don Rafaël! your mother!" "Well, speak!--oh, speak!" the young man cried frantically. "Oh, my God!" said the old man, wringing his hands, "it is too late!" "Speak, then, in the name of Heaven!--you are killing me." The old man cast on him a look of utter desolation. "Don Rafaël," he said, "have courage!--be a man!" "My God! my God! what fearful news are you going to communicate to me, my friend?" "Your mother is a prisoner to Eagle Head." "I know she is." "If this very day, this morning even, you do not deliver yourself up to the chief of the Comanches--" "Well, well!" "She will be burnt alive." "Ah!" the young man exclaimed, with a cry amounting to a shriek. His friend supported him, otherwise he would have fallen from his saddle. "But," Belhumeur asked, "is it today--do you say, old man, that she is to be burnt?" "Yes." "Is there still time, then?" "Alas! it was to be at sunrise; and see," he said, with an agonized gesture, pointing to the heavens. "Oh!" Loyal Heart cried, with a vehemence impossible to be described, "I will save my mother!" And, bending over the neck of his horse, he set off with frantic rapidity. The others followed. He turned round towards Belhumeur. "Where are you going?" he asked, in a short, sharp tone. "To help you save your mother, or to die with you." "Come on, then!" Loyal Heart replied, plunging his spurs into the bleeding sides of his horse. There was something fearful and terrible in the desperate course of these three men who, formed in line, with pale brows, compressed lips, and fiery looks, cleared torrents and ravines, surmounted all obstacles, incessantly urging their horses, which seemed to devour space, while panting painfully, bounding madly, and dripping with perspiration and blood. At intervals Loyal Heart shouted one of those cries peculiar to the Mexican jinetes, and the reanimated horses redoubled their exertions. "My God! my God! save--save my mother!" the hunter kept repeating in a hollow voice, as he rode furiously onward. CHAPTER XIX. THE COUNCIL OF THE GREAT CHIEFS. Notwithstanding the stormy conversation he had had with Eusebio, Eagle Head had continued to treat the prisoners with the greatest kindness, and that extreme delicacy of proceeding which is innate in the red race, and which we should be far from expecting on the part of men whom, without any plausible reason that I am acquainted with, we brand with the name of savages. There is one fact worthy of being noticed, and upon which we cannot too strongly dwell, and that is the manner in which Indians generally treat their prisoners. Far from inflicting useless tortures upon them, or tormenting them without cause, as has been too often repeated, they take the greatest care of them, and appear, in some sort, to compassionate their misfortune. In the circumstance of which we speak, the sanguinary determination of Eagle Head with regard to the mother of Loyal Heart was but an exception, the reason for which was naturally found in the hatred the Indian chief had sworn to the hunter. The separation of the two prisoners was most painful and agonizing; the old servant set off, despair in his soul, in search of the hunter, whilst the poor mother, with a broken heart, followed the Comanche warriors. On the second day, Eagle Head arrived at the _rendez-vous_ appointed by the great chiefs of the nation; all the tribe was assembled. Nothing can be more picturesque and singular than the aspect presented by an Indian camp. When the Indians are on an expedition--whether of war or hunting--on encamping, they confine themselves to erecting, on the spot where they stop, tents of buffalo hides stretched upon poles planted cross-wise. These tents, the bottom parts of which are filled up with mounds of earth, have all a hole at the top, to leave a free issue for the smoke, which, without that precaution, would render them uninhabitable. The camp presented the most animated picture possible; the squaws passed here and there, loaded with wood and meat, or guided the sledges drawn by dogs, which conveyed their wealth; the warriors, gravely squatted around fires lighted in the open air, on account of the mildness of the temperature, were smoking and chatting together. And yet it was easy to guess that something extraordinary was about to happen; for notwithstanding the early hour--the sun scarcely appearing above the horizon--the principal chiefs were assembled in the council lodge, where, judging from the grave and reflective expression of their countenances, they were about to discuss some serious question. This day was the last of those granted by Eagle Head to Eusebio. The Indian warrior, faithful to his hatred, and in haste to satisfy his vengeance, had convoked the great chiefs in order to obtain their authority for the execution of his abominable project. We repeat it here, in order that our readers may be perfectly convinced--Indians are not cruel for the pleasure of being so. Necessity is their first law; and never do they order the punishment of a prisoner, particularly a woman, unless the interest of the nation requires it. As soon as the chiefs were assembled round the fire of council, the pipe bearer entered the circle, holding in his hand the calumet ready lighted; he bowed towards the four cardinal points, murmuring a short prayer, and then presented the calumet to the oldest chief, but retaining the bowl of the pipe in his hand. When all the chiefs had smoked, one after the other, the pipe bearer emptied the ashes of the pipe into the fire, saying-- "Chiefs of the great Comanche nation, may _Natosh_ (God) give you wisdom, so that whatever be your determination, it may be conformable to justice." Then, after bowing respectfully, he retired. A moment of silence followed, in which everyone seemed meditating seriously upon the words that had just been pronounced. At length the most aged of the chiefs arose. He was a venerable old man, whose body was furrowed with the scars of innumerable wounds, and who enjoyed among his people a great reputation for wisdom. He was named Eshis (the Sun). "My son Eagle Head has," he said, "an important communication to make to the council of the chiefs; let him speak, our ears are open. Eagle Head is a warrior as wise as he is valiant; his words will be listened to by us with respect." "Thanks!" the warrior replied; "my father is wisdom itself. Natosh conceals nothing from him." The chiefs bowed, and Eagle Head continued. "The palefaces, our eternal persecutors, pursue and harass us without intermission, forcing us to abandon to them, one by one, our best hunting grounds, and to seek refuge in the depths of the forest like timid deer; many of them even dare to come into the prairies which serve us as places of refuge, to trap beavers and hunt elks and buffaloes which are our property. These faithless men, the outcasts of their people, rob us and assassinate us when they can do it with impunity. Is it just that we should suffer their rapine without complaining? Shall we allow ourselves to be slaughtered like timid ashahas without seeking to avenge ourselves? Does not the law of the prairies say, 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?' Let my father reply; let my brothers say if that is just?" "Vengeance is allowable," said the Sun; "it is the undoubted right of the weak and the oppressed; and yet it ought to be proportioned to the injury received." "Good! My father has spoken like a wise man; what think you of it, my brothers?" "The Sun cannot lie; all that he says is right," the chiefs replied. "Has my brother cause to complain of anyone?" the old man asked. "Yes," Eagle Head replied; "I have been insulted by a white hunter; he has several times attacked my camp; he has killed some of my young men in ambush; I myself have been wounded, as you may see--the scar is not yet closed. This man, in short, is the most cruel enemy the Comanches have, for he pursues them like wild beasts, that he may enjoy their tortures, and hear their cries of agony." At these words, pronounced with an imposing expression, a shudder of anger ran through the assembly. The astute chief, perceiving that his cause was gained in the minds of his auditors, continued, without showing the internal joy he experienced-- "I might have been able, if it had only concerned myself," he said, "to pardon these injuries, however serious they may be; but we have now to deal with a public enemy, with a man who has sworn the destruction of our nation. Hence, however painful be the necessity which constrains me, I ought not to hesitate to strike him in that which is dearest to him. His mother is in my hands. I have hesitated to sacrifice her; I have not allowed myself to be carried away by my hatred. I have wished to be just; and though it would have been so easy for me to kill this woman, I have preferred waiting till you, revered chiefs of our nation, should yourselves give me the order to do so. I have done still more: so repugnant was it to me to shed blood uselessly, and punish the innocent for the guilty, that I have granted this woman a respite of four days, in order to give her son the power of saving her, by presenting himself to suffer in her place. A paleface made prisoner by me is gone in search of him; but that man is a rabbit's heart--he has only the courage to assassinate unarmed enemies. He is not come! he will not come! This morning, at sunrise, expires the delay granted by me. Where is this man? He has not appeared! What say my brothers? Is my conduct just? Ought I to be blamed? Or shall this woman be tied to the stake, so that the palefaced robbers, terrified by her death, may acknowledge that the Comanches are formidable warriors, who never leave an insult unpunished? Have I spoken well, men of power?" After having pronounced this long speech, Eagle Head resumed his seat, and crossing his arms on his breast, he awaited, with his head cast down, the decision of the chiefs. A tolerably long silence followed this speech. At length the Sun arose. "My brother has spoken well," he said. "His words are those of a man who does not allow himself to be governed by his passions; all he has said is just; the whites, our ferocious enemies, are eager for our destruction; however painful for us may be the punishment of this woman, it is necessary." "It is necessary!" the chiefs repeated, bowing their heads. "Go!" the Sun resumed, "make the preparations; give to this execution the appearance of an expiation, and not that of a vengeance; everybody must be convinced that the Comanches do not torture women for pleasure, but that they know how to punish the guilty. I have spoken." The chiefs arose, and after respectfully bowing to the old man, they retired. Eagle Head had succeeded; he was about to avenge himself, without assuming the responsibility of an action of which he comprehended all the hideousness, but in which he had had the heart to implicate all the chiefs of his nation under an appearance of justice, for which, inwardly, he cared but very little. The preparations for the punishment were hurried on as fast as possible. The women cut thin splinters of ash to be introduced under the nails, others prepared elder pith to make sulphur matches, whilst the youngest went into the forest to seek for armfuls of green wood destined to burn the condemned woman slowly, while stifling her with the smoke it would produce. In the meantime, the men had completely stripped the bark off a tree which they had chosen to serve as the stake of torture; they had then rubbed it well with elk fat mixed with red ochre; round its base they had placed the wood of the pyre, and this done, the sorcerer had come to conjure the tree by means of mysterious words, in order to render it fit for the purpose to which they destined it. These preparations terminated, the condemned was brought to the foot of the stake, and seated, without being tied, upon the pile of wood intended to burn her; and the scalp dance commenced. The unfortunate woman was, in appearance, impassible. She had made the sacrifice of her life; nothing that passed around her could any longer affect her. Her eyes, burning with fever and swollen with tears, wandered without purpose, over the vast crowd that enveloped her with the roarings of wild beasts. Her mind watched, nevertheless, as keenly and as lucidly as in her happiest days. The poor mother had a fear which wrung her heart and made her endure a torture, compared with which those which the Indians were preparing to inflict upon her were as nothing; she trembled lest her son, warned of the horrid fate that awaited her, should hasten to save her, and give himself up to his ferocious enemies. With her ear attentive to the least noise, she seemed to hear every instant the precipitate steps of her son flying to her assistance. Her heart bounded with fear. She prayed God from the very depths of her soul to permit her to die instead of her beloved child. The scalp dance whirled ferociously around her. A crowd of warriors, tall, handsome, magnificently dressed, but with their faces blackened, danced, two by two, round the stake, led by seven musicians armed with drums and chicikoués, who were striped with black and red, and wore upon their heads feathers of the screech owl, falling down behind. The warriors had in their hands guns and clubs, ornamented with black feathers and red cloth, of which they brought the butts to the ground as they danced. These men formed a vast semicircle around the stake; in face of them, and completing the circle, the women danced. Eagle Head, who led the warriors, carried a long staff, at the end of which was suspended a human scalp, surmounted by a stuffed pie with its wings out-spread; a little lower on the same stick were a second scalp, the skin of a lynx, and some feathers. When they had danced thus for an instant, the musicians placed themselves by the side of the condemned, and made a deafening noise, singing, whilst beating the drums with all their force, and shaking the chicikoués. This dance continued a considerable time, accompanied by atrocious howlings, enough to madden with terror the unfortunate woman to whom they presaged the frightful tortures that awaited her. At length Eagle Head touched the condemned lightly with his stick. At this signal the tumult ceased as if by enchantment, the ranks were broken, and everyone seized his weapons. The punishment was about to begin! CHAPTER XX. THE TORTURE. As soon as the scalp dance was over, the principal warriors of the tribe ranged themselves before the stake, their arms in hand, whilst the women, particularly the most aged, fell upon the condemned, abusing her, pushing her, pulling her hair, and striking her, without her opposing the least resistance, or seeking to escape the ill-treatment with which they loaded her. The unfortunate woman only hoped for one thing, and that was to see her punishment begin. She had watched with feverish impatience the whirlings of the scalp dance, so greatly did she fear to see her beloved son appear and place himself between her and her executioners. Like the ancient martyrs, she in her heart accused the Indians of losing precious time in useless ceremonies; if she had had the strength, she would have reprimanded them, and rallied them upon their slowness and the hesitation they seemed to display in the sacrifice. The truth was, that in spite of themselves, and although this execution appeared just, the Comanches had a repugnance to torture a helpless woman, already aged, and who had never injured them, either directly or indirectly. Eagle Head himself, notwithstanding his hatred, felt something like a secret remorse for the crime he was committing. Far from hastening on the last preparations, he only assisted with an indecision and a disgust that he could not succeed in surmounting. For intrepid men, accustomed to brave the greatest perils, it is always a degrading action to torture a weak creature, or a woman who has no other defence than her tears. If it had been a man, the agreement would have been general throughout the tribe to tie him to the stake. Indian prisoners laugh at punishment, they insult their executioners, and, in their death songs, they reproach their conquerors with their cowardice, their inexperience in making their victims suffer; they enumerate their own brave deeds, they count the enemies they scalped before they themselves yielded; in short, by their sarcasms and their contemptuous attitudes, they excite the anger of their executioners, reanimate their hatred, and, to a certain point, justify their ferocity. But a woman, weak and resigned, presenting herself like a lamb to the shambles, already half dead, what interest could such an execution offer? There was no glory to be gained, but, on the contrary, a general reprobation to draw upon themselves. The Comanches comprehended all this, thence their repugnance and hesitation. Nevertheless, the business must be gone through. Eagle Head approached the prisoner, and delivering her from the harpies who annoyed her, said in a solemn voice-- "Woman, I have kept my promise; your son is not come, you are about to die." "Thanks," she said, in a tremulous voice, leaning against a tree to avoid falling. "Are you not afraid of death?" he asked. "No," she replied, fixing upon him a look of angelic mildness; "it will be most welcome; my life has been nothing but one long agony; death will be to me a blessing." "But your son?" "My son will be saved if I die; you have sworn it upon the bones of your fathers." "I have sworn it." "Deliver me up to death, then." "Are the women of your nation, then, like Indian squaws, who view torture without trembling?" the chief asked, with astonishment. "Yes," she replied with great agitation; "all mothers despise it when the safety of their children is at stake." "Listen," said the Indian, moved with involuntary pity; "I also have a mother whom I love; if you desire it, I will retard your punishment till sunset." "What should you do that for?" she replied with terrible simplicity. "No, warrior; if my grief really touches you, there is one favour, one favour alone which you can grant me." "Name it," he said earnestly. "Put me to death immediately." "But if your son arrives?" "Of what importance is that to you? You require a victim, do you not? Very well, that victim is before you, you may torture her at your pleasure. Why do you hesitate? Put me to death, I say." "Your desire shall be satisfied," the Comanche replied in a melancholy tone. "Woman, prepare yourself." She bowed her head upon her breast, and waited. Upon a signal from Eagle Head, two warriors seized the prisoner, and tied her to the stake round the waist. Then the exercise of the knife began; this is what it consists of:-- Every warrior seizes his scalping knife by the point with the thumb and the first finger of his right hand, and launches it at the victim, so as to inflict only slight wounds. Indians, in their punishments, endeavour to make the tortures continue as long as possible, and only give their enemy the _coup de grâce_ when they have torn life from him by degrees, and, so to say, piecemeal. The warriors launched their knives with such marvellous skill, that all of them just grazed the unfortunate woman, inflicting nothing more than scratches. The blood, however, flowed, she closed her eyes, and, absorbed in herself, prayed fervently for the mortal stroke. The warriors, to whom her body served as a target, grew warmer by degrees; curiosity, the desire of showing their skill, had taken in their minds the place of the pity they had at first felt. They applauded with loud shouts and laughter the prowess of the most adroit. In a word, as it always happens, as well among civilized people as among savages, blood intoxicated them; their self-love was brought into play; everyone sought to surpass the man who had preceded him; all other considerations were forgotten. When all had thrown their knives, a small number of the most skilful marksmen of the tribe took their guns. This time it was necessary to have a sure eye, for an ill-directed ball might terminate the punishment, and deprive the spectators of the attractive spectacle which promised them so much pleasure. At every discharge the poor creature shrank within herself, though giving no signs of life beyond a nervous shudder which agitated her whole body. "Let us have an end of this," said Eagle Head, who felt, in spite of himself, his heart of bronze soften before so much courage and abnegation. "Comanche warriors are not jaguars; this woman has suffered enough; let her die at once." A few murmurs were heard among the squaws and the children, who were the most eager for the punishment of the prisoner. But the warriors were of the opinion of their chief; this execution, shorn of the insults that victims generally address to their conquerors, possessed no attraction for them, and, besides, they were ashamed of such inveteracy against a woman. Hence they spared the unfortunate woman the splinters of wood inserted under the nails, the sulphur matches fastened between the fingers, the mask of honey applied to the face that the bees might come and sting them, together with other tortures too long and hideous to enumerate, and they prepared the funeral pile upon which she was to be burnt. But before proceeding to the last act of this atrocious tragedy, they untied the poor woman; for a few minutes they allowed her to take breath and recover from the terrible emotions she had undergone. She sank on the ground almost insensible. Eagle Head approached her. "My mother is brave," he said; "many warriors would not have borne the trials with so much courage." A faint smile passed over her violet lips. "I have a son," she replied with a look of ineffable sweetness; "it is for him I suffer." "A warrior is happy in having such a mother." "Why do you defer my death? It is cruel to act thus; warriors ought not to torment women." "My mother is right, her tortures are ended." "Am I going to die at last?" she asked with a sigh of relief. "Yes, they are preparing the pile." In spite of herself, the poor woman felt a shudder of horror thrill her whole frame at this fearful intimation. "Burn me!" she cried with terror; "why burn me?" "It is the usual custom." She let her head sink into her hands; but soon recovering, she drew herself up, and raised an inspired glance towards Heaven,-- "My God!" she murmured with resignation, "Thy will be done!" "Does my mother feel herself sufficiently recovered to be fastened to the stake?" the chief asked in something like a tone of compassion. "Yes!" she said rising resolutely. Eagle Head could not repress a gesture of admiration. Indians consider courage as the first of virtues. "Come, then," he said. The prisoner followed him with a firm step--all her strength was restored, she was at length going to die! The chief led her to the stake of blood, to which she was bound a second time; before her they piled up the faggots of green wood, and at a signal from Eagle Head, they were set on fire. The fire did not for some time take, on account of the moisture of the wood, which discharged clouds of smoke; but, after a few moments, the flame sparkled, extended by degrees, and then acquired great intensity. The unfortunate woman could not suppress a cry of terror. At that moment a horseman dashed at full speed into the midst of the camp; at a bound he was on the ground, and before anyone could have opposed him, he tore away the burning wood from the pile, and cut the bonds of the victim. "Oh! why have you come?" the poor mother murmured, sinking into his arms. "My mother! ho, pardon me!" Loyal Heart cried, "my God! how you must have suffered." "Begone, begone, Rafaël!" she repeated, smothering him with kisses; "leave me to die in your place; ought not a mother to give her life for her child?" "Oh do not speak so, my mother! you will drive me mad," said the young man, clasping her in his arms with despair. By this time the emotion caused by the sudden appearance of Loyal Heart had subsided, the Indian warriors had recovered that stoicism which they affect under all circumstances. Eagle Head advanced towards the hunter. "My brother is welcome," he said, "I had given over expecting him." "I am here; it was impossible to arrive sooner; my mother is free, I suppose?" "She is free." "She may go where she pleases?" "Where she pleases." "No," said the prisoner, placing herself resolutely in front of the Indian chief, "it is too late, it is I who am to suffer; my son has no right to take my place." "Dear mother, what are you saying?" "That which is just," she replied with animation; "the time at which you were to have come is past, you have no right to be here to prevent my death. Begone, begone, Rafaël, I implore you!--Leave me to die to save you," she added, bursting into tears and throwing herself into his arms. "My mother," the young man replied, returning her caresses, "your love for me misleads you; I cannot allow such a crime to be accomplished, I alone ought to be here." "My God! my God!" the poor mother exclaimed, sobbing, "he will not understand anything! I should be so happy to die for him." Overcome by emotions too powerful for nature, the poor mother sunk fainting into the arms of her son. Loyal Heart impressed a long and tender kiss upon her brow, and placing her in the hands of Nô Eusebio, who had arrived some minutes before: said in a voice choked with grief. "Begone, poor mother, may she be happy, if happiness can exist for her without her child." The old servant sighed, pressed the hand of Loyal Heart warmly, and placing the lifeless form of his mistress before him in the saddle, he turned his horse's head and left the camp slowly, no one attempting to oppose his departure. Loyal Heart looked after his mother as long as he could see her; then, when she disappeared, and the steps of the horse that bore her could no longer be heard, he breathed a deep, broken sigh, and passing his hand over his brow, murmured,-- "All is ended! My God, watch over her!" Then, turning towards the Indian chief who surveyed him in silence, mingled with respect and admiration--he said in a firm clear voice, and with a contemptuous look,-- "Comanche warriors! you are all cowards! brave men do not torture women!" Eagle Head smiled. "We shall see," he said ironically, "if the pale trapper is as brave as he pretends to be." "At least I shall know how to die like a man," he replied haughtily. "The mother of the hunter is free." "Yes. Well! what do you want with me?" "A prisoner has no arms." "That's true," he said, with a smile of contempt, "I will give you mine." "Not yet, if you please, good friend!" said a clear, sarcastic voice; and Belhumeur rode up, bearing across the front of his saddle a child of four or five years of age, and a rather pretty young Indian Squaw securely fastened to the tail of his horse. "My son! my wife!" cried Eagle Head, in great terror. "Yes," said the Canadian jeeringly, "your wife and child, whom I have made prisoners. Ah ah! that is pretty well played, is it not?" At a signal from his friend, Loyal Heart bounded on the woman, whose teeth chattered with fear, and who cast terrified looks on all sides. "Now," Belhumeur continued with a sinister smile, "let us talk a bit; I think I have equalized the chances a little--what say you?" And he placed the muzzle of a pistol to the brow of the little creature, which uttered loud cries on feeling the cold iron. "Oh!" cried Eagle Head, in a tone of despair, "my son! restore me my son!" "And your wife--do you forget her?" Belhumeur replied, with an ironical smile, and shrugging his shoulders. "What are your conditions?" Eagle Head asked. END OF THE FIRST PART. PART II. WAKTEHNO--"he who kills." CHAPTER I. LOYAL HEART. The position was completely changed. The hunters, who a moment before were at the mercy of the Indians, felt they were not only in a manner free, but that they had it in their power to impose hard conditions. Many guns were levelled in the direction of the Canadian--many arrows were pointed towards him; but, at a signal from Eagle Head, the guns were recovered, and the arrows were returned to the quivers. The shame of being foiled by two men who audaciously braved them in the middle of their own camp, made the hearts of the Comanches burn with anger. They were sensible of the impossibility of contending with their desperate adversaries. In fact, what could they do against these intrepid wood rangers, who reckoned life as nothing? Kill them? But, in falling, they would slaughter without pity the prisoners whom the Comanches were anxious to save. The most strongly developed feeling among redskins is love of family. For the sake of his children or his wife, the fiercest warrior would not hesitate to make concessions which the most frightful tortures, under other circumstances, could not force from him. Thus, at the sight of his wife and child fallen into the power of Belhumeur, Eagle Head only thought of their safety. Of all men, Indians are perhaps those who know how to bend with the greatest facility to the exigencies of an unforeseen situation. The Comanche chief concealed in the depths of his heart the hatred and anger which devoured him. With a movement full of nobleness and disinterestedness, he threw back the blanket which served him as a cloak, and with a calm countenance and a smile on his lips, he approached the hunters. The latter, long accustomed to the mode of action of the redskins, remained in appearance impassible, awaiting the result of their bold _coup de main._ "My pale brothers," the chief said, "are full of wisdom, though their hair is black; they are acquainted with all the stratagems familiar to great warriors; they have the cunning of the beaver and the courage of the lion." The two men bowed in silence, and Eagle Head continued,-- "As my brother Loyal Heart is in the camp of the Comanches of the great lakes, the hour has at length arrived for dispersing the clouds which have arisen between him and the redskins. Loyal Heart is just; let him explain himself without fear; he is in the presence of renowned chiefs, who will not hesitate to acknowledge their wrongs, if they have any towards him." "Oh! oh!" the Canadian replied with a sneer; "Eagle Head has quickly changed his sentiments with respect to us; does he believe he can deceive us with vain words?" A flash of hatred sparkled in the savage eye of the Indian; but, with an extraordinary effort, he succeeded in restraining himself. Suddenly a man stepped between the interlocutors. This man was Eshis, the most highly venerated warrior of the tribe. The old man slowly raised his arm. "Let my children listen to me," he said; "everything should be cleared up today; the pale hunters will smoke the calumet in council." "Be it so," said Loyal Heart. Upon a signal from the Sun the principal chiefs of the tribe came and ranged themselves around him. Belhumeur had not changed his position; he was ready, at the slightest doubtful gesture, to sacrifice his prisoners. When the pipe had gone the round of the circle formed near the hunters, the old chief collected himself; then, after bowing to the whites, he spoke as follows:-- "Warriors, I thank the Master of Life for loving us redskins, and for having this day sent us two pale men, who may at length open their hearts. Take courage, young men; do not allow yourselves to be cast down, and drive away the evil spirit far from you. We love you, Loyal Heart; we have heard of your humanity towards Indians. We believe that your heart is open, and that your veins flow clear as the sun. It is true that we Indians have not much sense when the firewater has power over us, and that we may have displeased you in various circumstances. But we hope you will think no more of it; and that, as long as you and we shall be in the prairies, we shall hunt side by side, as warriors who respect and love each other ought to do." To which Loyal Heart replied:-- "You, chiefs and other members of the nation of the Comanches of the great lakes, whose eyes are opened, I hope you will lend an ear to the words of my mouth. The Master of Life has opened my brain, and caused friendly words to be breathed into my breast. My heart is filled with feelings for you, your wives, and your children; and what I say to you now proceeds from the roots of the feelings of myself and my friend. Never in the prairie has my hatto been closed against the hunters of your nation. Why then do you make war against us? Why should you torture my mother, who is an old woman, and seek to deprive me of life? I am averse to the shedding of Indian blood; for, I repeat to you, that notwithstanding all the ill you have done me, my heart leaps towards you!" "Wah!" interrupted Eagle Head; "my brother speaks well: but the wound he inflicted upon me is not yet healed." "My brother is foolish," the hunter replied; "does he think me so unskilful that I could not have killed him, if such had been my intention? I will prove to you what I am capable of, and what I understand by the courage of a warrior. If I make but a sign, that woman and that child _will have ceased to live!_" "Yes!" Belhumeur added. A shudder ran through the ranks of the assembly. Eagle Head felt a cold perspiration pealing on his temples. Loyal Heart preserved silence for a minute, fixing an indefinable look upon the Indians; then, raising his shoulders with disdain, he threw his weapons at his feet, and crossing his arms upon his breast, he turned towards the Canadian. "Belhumeur," he said, in a calm, clear voice, "restore these two poor creatures to liberty." "How can you dream of such a thing?" cried the astonished hunter; "why, that would be your sentence of death!" "I know it would." "Well?" "I beg you to do it." The Canadian made no reply. He began to whistle between his teeth, and, drawing his knife, he, at a stroke, cut the bonds which confined his captives, who bounded away like jaguars, uttering howlings of joy, to conceal themselves among their friends. He then replaced his knife in his belt, threw down his weapons, dismounted, and went and placed himself resolutely by the side of Loyal Heart. "What are you doing?" the latter cried. "Make your escape, my friend." "What! save myself and leave you?" the Canadian replied, carelessly. "No, thank you. As I must die once, I had quite as lief it should be today as hereafter. I shall never, perhaps, find so good an opportunity." The two men shook hands with an energetic grip. "Now, chiefs," Loyal Heart said, addressing the Indians in his clear, calm voice, "we are in your power, do with us as you think proper." The Comanches looked at each other for an instant in a state of stupor. The stoical abnegation of these two men, who, by the bold action of one of them, might not only have escaped, but have dictated terms to them, and who, instead of profiting by this immense advantage, threw down their weapons and delivered themselves into their hands, appeared to them to exceed all instances of heroism celebrated in their nation. There followed a sufficiently long silence, during which the hearts might be heard beating in the breasts of those men of bronze, who, by their primitive impulsive education, are more apt than might be believed to understand all true feelings, and appreciate all really noble actions. At length Eagle Head, after a little hesitation, threw down his arms, and approaching the hunters, said, in an agitated voice, which contrasted with the stoical and indifferent appearance he sought in vain to preserve,-- "It is true, warriors of the palefaces, that you have great sense, that it sweetens the words you address to us, and that we all understand you; we know also that truth opens your lips. It is very difficult for us Indians, who have not the reason of the whites, to avoid often committing, without wishing to do so, reprehensible actions; but we hope that Loyal Heart will take the skin from his heart, so that it may be as clear as ours, and that between us the hatchet may be buried so deeply that the sons of the sons of his grandsons, in a thousand moons and a hundred more, will not be able to find it." And placing his two hands upon the shoulders of the hunter, he kissed him upon the eyes, adding,-- "May Loyal Heart be my brother!" "Be it so!" said the hunter, rejoiced at this conclusion; "henceforth I shall entertain for the Comanches as much friendship as, up to this time, I have had mistrust." The Indian chiefs crowded round their new friends, upon whom they lavished, with the ingenuousness that characterizes primitive natures, marks of affection and respect. The two hunters had been long known in the tribe of the Serpent; their reputation was established. Often at night, around their campfire, their exploits had struck with admiration the young men to whom the old warriors related them. The reconciliation was frank between Loyal Heart and Eagle Head; there did not remain between them the least trace of their past hatred. The heroism of the white hunter had conquered the animosity of the redskin warrior. The two men were chatting, peaceably seated at the entrance of a hut, when a great cry was heard, and an Indian, with his features distorted by terror, rushed into the camp. All crowded round this man to learn his news; but the Indian, perceiving Eagle Head, advanced towards him. "What is going on?" the chief asked. The Indian cast a ferocious look at Loyal Heart and Belhumeur, who had no more idea than the others of the cause of this panic. "Take care that these two palefaces do not escape; we are betrayed," he said, in a broken voice, panting from the speed with which he had come. "Let my brother explain himself more clearly," said Eagle Head. "All the white trappers, the long knives of the west, are assembled; they form a war detachment of near a hundred men; they are advancing and spreading themselves in such a manner, as to invest the camp on all sides at once." "Are you sure these hunters come as enemies?" said the chief again. "What else can they be?" the Indian warrior replied. "They are creeping like serpents through the high grass, with their guns before them, and their scalping knives in their teeth. Chief, we are betrayed; these men have been sent among us to lull our vigilance to sleep." Eagle Head and Loyal Heart exchanged a glance of an undefinable expression, and which was an enigma for all but themselves. The Comanche chief turned towards the Indian. "Did you see," he said, "who marched at the head of the hunters?" "Yes, I saw him." "Was it Amick (Black Elk), the principal guardian of Loyal Heart's traps?" "Who else could it be?" "Very well! Retire," said the warrior, dismissing the messenger with a nod of the head; then, addressing the hunter, he asked, "What is to be done?" "Nothing," Loyal Heart replied, "this concerns me, my brother must leave me to act alone." "My brother is master!" "I will go and meet these hunters; let Eagle Head keep his young men in the camp till my return." "That shall be done." Loyal Heart threw his gun upon his shoulder, gave Belhumeur a shake of the hand, and a smile to the Comanche chief, and then directed his course to the forest, at that pace, at once firm and easy, which was habitual to him. He soon disappeared among the trees. "Hum;" said Belhumeur, lighting his Indian pipe, and addressing Eagle Head, "you see, chief, that in this world, it is not often a bad speculation, to allow ourselves to be guided by our hearts." And satisfied beyond measure with this philosophical fancy, which appeared to him quite to the purpose, the Canadian enveloped himself in a thick cloud of smoke. By the orders of the chief, all the sentinels spread round the outskirts of the camp were called in. The Indians awaited with impatience the result of Loyal Heart's proceedings. CHAPTER II. THE PIRATES. It was evening, at a distance nearly equal from the camp of the Mexicans, and that of the Comanches. Concealed in a ravine, deeply enclosed between two hills, about forty men were assembled around several fires, dispersed in such a manner that the light of the flames could not betray their presence. The strange appearance offered by this assemblage of adventurers, with gloomy features, ferocious glances, and strange and mean attire, offered a feature worthy of the crayon of Callot, or the pencil of Salvator Rosa. These men, a heterogeneous mixture of all the nationalities that people the two worlds, from Russia to China, were the most complete collection of scoundrels that can be imagined; thorough food for the gallows, without faith or law, fire or home, the true outcasts of society, which had rejected them from its bosom, obliged to seek a refuge in the depths of the prairies of the west; even in these deserts they formed a band apart, fighting sometimes against the hunters, sometimes against the Indians, excelling both in cruelty and roguery. These men were, in a word, what people have agreed to call, the pirates of the prairies. A denomination which suits them in every way, since, like their brothers of the ocean, hoisting all colours, or rather tramping them all underfoot, they fall upon every traveller who ventures to cross the prairies alone, attack and plunder caravans, and when all other prey escapes them, they hide themselves traitorously in the high grass to entrap the Indians, whom they assassinate in order to gain the premium which the paternal government of the United States gives for every aboriginal scalp, as in France they pay for the head of a wolf. This troop was commanded by Captain Waktehno, whom we have already had occasion to bring on the scene. There prevailed at this moment among these bandits an agitation that presaged some mysterious expedition. Some were cleaning and loading their arms, others mending their clothes; some were smoking and drinking mezcal, others were asleep, folded in their ragged cloaks. The horses, all saddled and ready for mounting, were fastened to pickets. At stated distances, sentinels, leaning on their long rifles, silent and motionless as statues of bronze, watched over the safety of all. The dying flashes of the fires, which were expiring by degrees, threw a reddish reflection upon this picture that gave the pirates a still fiercer aspect. The captain appeared a prey to extreme anxiety; he walked with long strides among his subordinates, stamping his foot with anger, and stopping at intervals to listen to the sound of the prairies. The night became darker and darker, the moon had disappeared, the wind moaned hoarsely among the hills, and the pirates had eventually fallen asleep one after another. The captain alone still watched. All at once he fancied that he heard at a distance the report of firearms, then a second, and all again was silent. "What does this mean?" the captain murmured, angrily; "have my rascals allowed themselves to be surprised?" Then, folding himself carefully in his cloak, he hastily directed his course to the side whence the reports appeared to come. The darkness was intense; and, notwithstanding his knowledge of the country, the captain could only advance with difficulty through brambles, thistles, and briars, which, at every step, impeded his progress. He was several times obliged to stop and look about him to be sure of his route, from which the turnings and windings necessitated by blocks of rock and thickets, continually diverted him. During one of these halts, he fancied he could perceive, at a small distance from him, the rustling of leaves and boughs, like that which is produced by the passage of a man or a wild beast through underwood. The captain concealed himself behind the trunk of a gigantic acajou, drew his pistols, and cocked them, in order to be prepared for whatever might happen; then, bending his head forward, he listened. All was calm around him; it was that mysterious time of night when Nature seems to sleep, and when all the nameless sounds of the solitude are quieted down, so that, as the Indians express it, nothing is to be heard but silence. "I must have been deceived," the pirate muttered; and he began to retrace his steps. But, at that moment, the noise was repeated, nearer and more distinctly, and was immediately followed by a stifled groan. "The devil!" said the captain; "this begins to be interesting: I must clear this up." After a hasty movement forward of a few steps, he saw, gliding along, at a short distance from him, the scarcely distinguishable shadow of a man. This person, whoever he was, seemed to walk with difficulty; he staggered at every step, and stopped at intervals, as if to recover strength. He frequently allowed a smothered complaint to escape him. The captain sprang forward, to bar his passage. When the unknown perceived him, he uttered a cry of terror, and fell on his knees, murmuring in a voice broken by terror-- "Pardon! pardon! do not kill me!" "Why!" exclaimed the astonished captain, "it is the Babbler! Who the devil has treated him in this fashion?" And he bent over him. It was indeed the guide. He had fainted. "Plague stifle the fool!" the captain muttered, with vexation. "What's the use of asking him anything now?" But the pirate was a man of resources; he replaced his pistols in his belt, and raising the wounded man, he threw him over his shoulders. Loaded with his burden, which scarcely seemed to lessen his speed, he hastily returned to the camp by the way he had left it. He deposited the guide close to a half-extinguished brazier, into which he threw an armful of dry wood to revive it. A clear blaze soon enabled him to examine the man who lay senseless at his feet. The features of the Babbler were livid, a cold perspiration stood in drops upon his temples, and the blood flowed in abundance from a wound in his breast. "_Cascaras!_" the captain muttered; "here is a poor devil who has got his business done! I hope before he departs he will, however, tell me who has done him this favour, and what has become of Kennedy!" Like all the wood rangers, the captain possessed a small practical knowledge of medicine; it was nothing new to him to dress a shot wound. Thanks to the attentions he lavished on the bandit, the latter was not long in coming to himself. He breathed a heavy sigh, opened his haggard eyes, but remained for some time unable to speak; after several fruitless efforts, however, aided by the captain, he succeeded in sitting up, and shaking his head repeatedly, he murmured in a low, broken voice: "All is lost, captain! Our plan has failed!" "A thousand thunders!" the captain cried, stamping his feet with rage. "How has this happened?" "The girl is a demon!" the guide replied, whose difficult respiration and gradually weaker voice showed that he had but a few minutes to live. "If you can manage, anyhow," said the captain, who had understood nothing by the exclamation of the wounded man, "tell me how things have gone on, and who is your assassin, that I may avenge you." A sinister smile painfully crossed the violet lips of the guide. "The name of my assassin?" he said, in an ironical tone. "Yes." "Well, her name is Doña Luz." "Doña Luz!" the captain cried, starting with surprise, "impossible!" "Listen," the guide resumed; "my moments are numbered; I shall soon be a dead man. In my position people don't lie. Let me speak without interrupting me. I don't know whether I shall have time to tell you all, before I go to render my account to Him who knows everything." "Speak!" said the captain. And, as the voice of the wounded man became weaker and weaker, he went down upon his knees close to him, in order to lose none of his words. The guide closed his eyes, collected himself for a few seconds, and then, with great effort, said,-- "Give me some brandy?" "You must be mad! brandy will kill you!" The wounded man shook his head. "It will give me the necessary strength to enable me to tell you all I have to say. Am I not already half dead!" "That's true," muttered the captain. "Do not hesitate, then," the wounded man replied, who had heard him; "time presses; I have important things to inform you of." "If it must be so, it must," said the captain, after a moment's hesitation; and taking his gourd, he applied it to the lips of the guide. The latter drank eagerly and copiously; a feverish flush coloured his hollow cheeks, his almost extinguished eyes flashed and gleamed with an unnatural fire. "Now," he said, in a firm and pretty loud voice, "do not interrupt me: when you see me become weak, let me drink again. I, perhaps, shall have time to tell you all." The captain made a sign of assent, and the Babbler began. His recital was rendered long by the repeated weakness with which he was seized; when it was terminated, he added,-- "You see, that this woman is, as I have told you, a demon; she has killed both Kennedy and me. Renounce the capture of her, captain; she is game you cannot bring down; you will never get possession of her." "Hum!" said the captain, knitting his brows; "do you imagine that I give up my projects in that fashion?" "I wish you luck, then," the guide murmured; "as for me, my business is done--my account is settled. Adieu, captain!" he added, with a strange sort of smile, "I am going to all the devils--we shall meet again yonder." And he sank back. The captain endeavoured to raise him again; but he was dead. "A good journey to you!" he muttered, carelessly. He took the corpse upon his shoulders, carried it into a thicket, in the middle of which he made a hole, and placed it in it; then, this operation being achieved in a few minutes, he returned to the fire, wrapped himself in his cloak, stretched himself on the sod, with his feet towards the brazier, and fell asleep, saying,-- "In a few hours it will be light, and we will than see what we have to do." Bandits do not sleep late. At sunrise all were on the alert in the camp of the pirates; everyone was preparing for departure. The captain, far from renouncing his projects, had, on the contrary, determined to hasten the execution of them, so as not to allow the Mexicans time to find among the white trappers of the prairies auxiliaries who might render success impossible. As soon as he was certain that the orders he had issued were understood, the captain gave the signal for departure. The troop set off in the Indian fashion, that is to say, literally turning their backs towards the point to which they directed their course. When they arrived at a spot which appeared to present to them the security they desired, the pirates dismounted; the horses were confided to a few determined men, and the rest, crawling along upon the ground like a swarm of vipers, or jumping from branch to branch, and from tree to tree, advanced, with all the customary precautions, towards the camp of the Mexicans. CHAPTER III. DEVOTEDNESS. As we said in a preceding chapter, the doctor had left the camp of the Mexicans, charged by Doña Luz with a message for Black Elk. Like all learned men, the doctor was absent by nature, and that with the best intentions in the world. During the first moments, according to the custom of his brethren, he puzzled his brain to endeavour to make out the signification of the words, somewhat cabalistical in his opinion, that he was to repeat to the trapper. He could not comprehend what assistance his friends could possibly obtain from a half-wild man, who lived alone in the prairie, and whose existence was passed in hunting and trapping. If he had accepted this mission so promptly, the profound friendship he professed for the niece of the general was the sole cause: although he expected no advantageous result from it, as we have said, he had set out resolutely, convinced that the certainty of his departure would calm the uneasiness of the young lady. In short, he had rather meant to satisfy the caprice of a patient, than undertake a serious affair. In the persuasion, therefore, that the mission with which he was charged was a useless one, instead of going full speed, as he ought to have done, to the toldo of Black Elk, he dismounted, passed his arm through his bridle, and began to look for simples, an occupation which, ere long, so completely absorbed him, that he entirely forgot the instructions of Doña Luz, and the reason why he had left the camp. In the meanwhile, time passed slowly because anxiously; half the day was gone, and the doctor, who ought long before to have returned, did not appear. The uneasiness became great in the camp, where the general and the captain had organized everything for a vigorous defence in case of attack. But nothing appeared. The greatest calm continued to prevail in the environs; the Mexicans were not far from thinking it a false alarm. Doña Luz alone felt her inquietude increase every instant; with her eyes fixed upon the plain, she looked in vain in the direction her expected messengers should arrive by. All at once, it struck her that the high grass of the prairie had an oscillating motion which was not natural to it. There was not a breath in the air; a heavy, stifling heat weighed down all nature; the leaves of the trees, scorched by the sun, were motionless; the high grass alone, agitated by a slow and mysterious movement, continued to oscillate. And, what was most extraordinary, this almost imperceptible motion, which required close attention to be observed, was not general; on the contrary, it was successive, approaching the camp by degrees, with a regularity which gave reason for supposing an organized impulsion; so that, in proportion as it was communicated to the nearest grass, the most distant returned by degrees to a state of complete immobility, from which it did not change. The sentinels placed in the intrenchments could not tell to what to attribute this movement, of which they understood nothing. The general, as an experienced soldier, resolved to know what it meant; although he had never personally had to do with the Indians, he had heard too much of their manner of fighting not to suspect some stratagem. Not wishing to weaken the camp, which stood in need of all its defenders, he resolved himself to undertake the adventure, and go out on the scout. At the instant he was about to climb over the intrenchments, the captain stopped him, by placing his hand respectfully on his shoulders. "What do you want with, me, my friend?" the general asked, turning round. "I wish, with your permission, to put a question to you, general." "Do so." "You are leaving the camp?" "I am." "To go in search of intelligence, no doubt?" "I admit that is my intention." "Then, general, it is to me that mission belongs." "Ay! how is that?" said the astonished general. "Good God! general, that is very plain; I am but a poor devil of an officer, and owe everything to you." "What then?" "The peril I shall run, if peril there be, will not in any way compromise the success of the expedition; whereas----" "If you are killed." The general started. "Everything must be foreseen and provided for," continued the captain, "when we have before us such adversaries as those that threaten us." "That is true. What then?" "Well, the expedition will fail, and not one of us will ever see a civilized country again. You are the head; we are but the arms; remain, therefore, in the camp." The general reflected for a few seconds; then pressing the hand of the young man cordially, he said,-- "Thank you, but I must see for myself what is being plotted against us. The circumstance is too serious to allow me to trust even to you." "You must remain in the camp, general," persisted the captain, "if not for our sake, at least for that of your niece, that innocent and delicate creature, who, if any misfortune should happen to you, would find herself alone, abandoned amidst ferocious tribes, without support, and without a protector. Of what consequence is my life to me, a poor lad without a family, who owes everything to your kindness? The hour is come to prove my gratitude--let me discharge my debt." "But----" the general tried to speak. "You know," the young man continued, warmly, "if I could take your place with Doña Luz, I would do it with joy; but I am as yet too young to play that noble part. Come, general, let me go instead of you, it is my duty to do so." Half by persuasion, half by force he succeeded in drawing the old soldier back; he sprang upon the intrenchments, leaped down on the other side, and set off at full speed, after making a last sign of farewell. The general looked after him as long as he could perceive him; then he passed his hand across his careful brow, murmuring,-- "Brave boy! excellent nature!" "Is he not, uncle?" Doña Luz replied, who had approached and listened without being seen. "Ah! were you there, dear child?" he said, with a smile, which he endeavoured in vain to render cheerful. "Yes, dear uncle, I have heard all." "That is well, dear little one," the general said, with an effort; "but this is not the time to give way to feeling. I must think of your safety. Do not remain here longer; come with me; an Indian bullet might easily reach you here." Taking her by the hand, he led her affectionately to the tent. After leading her in, he gave her a kiss upon her brow, advised her not to go out again, and returned to the intrenchments, where he set himself to watch with the greatest care what was going on in the plain; calculating the while, mentally, the time that had passed since the departure of the doctor, and feeling astonished at not seeing him return. "He must have fallen in with the Indians," he said; "I only hope they have not killed him." Captain Aguilar was an intrepid soldier, trained in the incessant wars of Mexico; he knew how to unite prudence with courage. When he arrived at a certain distance from the camp, he laid himself on the ground, face downwards, and reached, by creeping along thus, a rough piece of rock, admirably situated for concealment and observation. Everything appeared quiet around him; nothing denoted the approach of an enemy. After spending a sufficient time in keenly exploring with his eyes the country beyond him, he was preparing to return to the camp, with a conviction that the general was deceived, and no imminent peril existed, when suddenly, within ten paces of him, an asshata bounded up in great terror, with ears erect and head thrown back, and fled away with extreme velocity. "Oh! oh!" the young man said to himself, "there is something here, though. Let us try if we cannot make out what." Quitting the rock behind which he had been screened, he, with great precaution, advanced a few steps, in order to satisfy his suspicions. The grass became powerfully agitated, half a score men arose suddenly from various points, and surrounded him before he had time to put himself on the defensive, or regain the shelter he had imprudently quitted. "Well," he said, with disdainful coolness, "luckily I know now with whom I have to deal." "Surrender!" one of the men nearest to him shouted. "No, thank you," he replied, with an ironical smile. "You are fools if you expect that. You must kill me out and out before you take me." "Then we will kill you, my dainty spark," the first speaker answered, brutally. "I reckon upon that," said the captain, in a jeering tone; "but I mean to defend myself; that will make a noise, my friends will hear us, your surprise will be a failure, and that is exactly what I wish." These words were pronounced with a coolness that made the pirates pause. These men belonged to the band of Captain Waktehno, who was himself among them. "Yes," retorted the captain of the bandits, "your idea is not a bad one, only you forget that we can kill you without making a noise; and so your clever plan will come to nothing." "Bah! who knows?" said the young man, and before the pirates could prevent him, he made an extraordinary spring backwards, by which he overset two men, and ran with his best speed in the direction of the camp. The first surprise over, the bandits darted forward in pursuit of him. This trial of speed lasted a considerable time without the pirates being able to perceive that they gained ground on the fugitive. Though not relaxing in the pursuit, as they tried as much as possible to avoid being seen by the Mexican sentinels, whom they hoped to surprise, they were obliged to make turnings which necessarily impeded their course. The captain had arrived within hearing of his friends, and he cast a glance behind him. Profiting by a moment in which he had paused to take breath, the bandits had gained upon him considerably, and the young man became aware that if he continued to fly, he should cause the misfortune he wished to avoid. His determination was formed in an instant; he was satisfied he must die, but he wished to die as a soldier, and make his fall useful to those for whom he devoted himself. He placed his back against a tree, laid his machete within reach, drew his pistols from his belt, and facing the bandits, who were not more than thirty paces from him, he cried in a loud voice, in order to attract the attention of his friends:-- "To arms! to arms! Be on your guard! The enemies are here!" Then, with the greatest coolness, he discharged his weapons as if at a target--he had four double-barrelled pistols--repeating as every pirate fell, as loud as he could shout,-- "To arms! the enemies are here! they will surround you! Be on your guard! Be on your guard!" The bandits, exasperated by this brave defence, rushed upon him with great rage, forgetting all the precautions they had till that time taken. Then commenced a horrible but an almost superhuman struggle of one man against twenty or thirty; for it seemed, as every pirate fell, that another took his place. The conflict was fearful! The young man had determined to make the sacrifice of his life, but he was equally resolved to sell it dearly. We have said that at every shot he fired he had uttered a warning cry; his pistols being discharged, at every stroke of his machete that he dealt he did the same, to which the Mexicans replied by keeping up, on their part, a rolling fire of musketry upon the pirates, who showed themselves openly, blindly bent upon the destruction of a man who so audaciously barred their passage with the impenetrable barrier of his loyal breast. At length the captain was brought down on one knee. The pirates rushed upon him, pell-mell, wounding each other in their frantic efforts to destroy him. Such a combat could not last long. Captain Aguilar fell, but in falling he drew with him a dozen pirates he had immolated, and who formed a bloody escort on his passage to the tomb. "Hum!" muttered Captain Waktehno, surveying him with admiration, whilst staunching the blood of a large wound he had received in the breast; "a roughish sort of fellow! If the others are like him, we shall have more than our work to do. Come!" he continued turning towards his companions, who awaited his orders, "do not let us stand here any longer to be shot at like pigeons. To the assault, in God's name!--to the assault!" The pirates rushed after him, brandishing their arms, and began to climb the rock, vociferating, "To the assault! to the assault!" On their side, the Mexicans, witnesses of the heroic death of Captain Aguilar, prepared to avenge him. CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTOR. Whilst these terrible events were being accomplished, the doctor was quietly herbalizing. The worthy _savant_, enraptured by the rich _flora_ he had beneath his eyes, had forgotten everything but the thoughts of the ample harvest he could make. He proceeded with his body bent towards the ground, stopping for a long time before every plant he admired, ere he resolved to pull it up. When he had loaded himself with an infinite number of plants and herbs exceedingly valuable to him, he resolved at length to seat himself quietly at the foot of a tree, and classify them at his ease, with all the care that celebrated professors are accustomed to bring to this delicate operation, mumbling in the meantime, some morsels of biscuit which he drew from his bag. He remained a long time absorbed in this occupation, which procured him one of those extreme delights which the learned alone can enjoy, and which are unknown to the vulgar. He would probably have forgotten himself in this labour until night had surprised him, and forced him to seek shelter, had not a dark shadow come between him and the sun, and projected its reflection upon the plants he had classified with so much care. He mechanically raised his head. A man, leaning on a long rifle, had stopped before him, and was contemplating him with a kind of laughing attention. This man was Black Elk. "He! he!" he said to the doctor, "what are you doing there, my good sir? Seeing the grass moved about so, I thought there was a doe in the thicket, and, devil take me! if I was not on the point of sending a bullet at you." "The deuce!" the doctor cried, eyeing him with an expression of terror, "you should be careful; do you know you might have killed me?" "Well, I might," the trapper replied, laughing; "but don't be afraid! I perceived my error in time." "God be praised!" And the doctor, who had just perceived a rare plant stooped eagerly to seize it. "Then you won't tell me what you are doing?" the hunter continued. "Why, can't you see, my friend?" "Who, I? Yes; I see you are amusing yourself with pulling up the weeds of the prairie, that is all; and I should like to know what for?" "Oh! ignorance!" the savant murmured, and then added aloud with that tone of doctorial condescension peculiar to the disciples of Æsculapius: "my friend, I am gathering simples, which I collect, in order to classify them in my herbal; the _flora_ of these prairies is magnificent; I am convinced that I have discovered at least three new species of the _Chirostemon pentadactylon,_ of which the genus belongs to the _Flora Mexicana_." "Ah!" said the hunter, staring with all his eyes, and making strong efforts to refrain from laughing in the doctor's face. "You think you have really found three new species of--" "Chirostemon pentadactylon, my friend," said the doctor, patronizingly. "Ah! bah!" "At least; perhaps there may be a fourth!" "Oh! oh! there is some use in it, then?" "Some use in it, indeed!" the doctor cried, much scandalized. "Well, don't be angry, I know nothing about it." "That is true!" said the savant, softened by the tone of Black Elk; "You cannot comprehend the importance of these labours, which advance science at an immense speed." "Well, only to think! And it was only for the purpose of pulling up herbs in this manner that you came into the prairie?" "For nothing else." Black Elk looked at him with the admiration created by the sight of an inexplicable phenomenon; the hunter could not succeed in comprehending how a sensible man should resolve willingly to endure a life of privation and perils for the, to him, unintelligible object of pulling up useless plants; therefore he soon came to a conviction that he must be mad. He cast upon him a look of commiseration; shaking his head, and shouldering his rifle, he prepared to go on his way. "Well! well!" he said, in the tone usually employed towards children, and idiots; "you are right, my good sir; pull away! pull away! you do nobody any harm, and there will always be plenty left. I wish you good sport; such as it is. I shall see you again." And, whistling his dogs, he proceeded a few steps, but almost immediately returned. "One word more," he said, addressing the doctor, who had already forgotten him, and was again busied in the employment which the arrival of the hunter had forced him to interrupt. "Speak!" he replied, raising his head. "I hope that the young lady who came to visit my hatto yesterday, in company with her uncle, is well? Poor dear child, you cannot imagine how much I am interested in her, my good sir!" The doctor rose up suddenly, striking his forehead. "Fool that I am!" he cried, "I had completely forgotten it." "Forgotten what?" the astonished hunter asked. "This is always my way!" the savant muttered; "fortunately the mischief is not great; as you are here, it can easily be repaired." "What mischief are you talking about?" said the trapper, beginning to feel uneasy. "You may imagine," the doctor continued, quietly, "that if science absorbs me so completely as to make me often forget to eat and drink, I am likely sometimes not to remember the commissions I am charged with." "To the point! to the point!" said the hunter impatiently. "Oh! good Lord, it's very simple. I left the camp at daybreak to come to your hatto; but when I arrived here, I was so charmed with the innumerable rare plants that my horse trod under foot, that without thinking of pursuing my route, I stopped at first to pull up one plant, then I perceived another that was not in my herbal, and another after that, and so on.--In short, I thought no more of coming to you, and was, indeed, so absorbed by my researches, that even your unexpected presence, just now, did not recall to my mind the commission I had to you." "And did you leave the camp at daybreak?" "Good Heavens, yes!" "And do you know what o'clock it is now?" The savant looked at the sun. "Almost three!" he said, "but I repeat that it is of little consequence. You being here, I can report to you what Doña Luz charged me to tell you, and all will be right, no doubt." "God grant that your negligence may not prove the cause of a great misfortune," said the hunter, with a sigh. "What do you mean by that?" "You will soon know. I hope I may be deceived. Speak, I am listening to you." "This is what Doña Luz begged me to repeat to you----" "Was it Doña Luz that sent you to me?" "Herself!" "Has anything serious taken place at the camp, then?" "Ah! why, yes; and that, perhaps, may make it more important than I at first imagined. This is what has happened: Last night one of our guides----" "The Babbler?" "The same. Do you know him?" "Yes. Go on." "Well! It appears that the man was plotting with another bandit of his own sort, to deliver up the camp to the Indians. Doña Luz, most probably by chance, overheard the conversation of these fellows, and, at the moment they were passing her, she fired two pistols at them, quite close." "Did she kill them?" "Unfortunately, no. One of them, although no doubt grievously wounded, was able to escape." "Which of them?" "The Babbler." "Well, and then?" "Why, then Doña Luz made me swear to come to you, and say stop a bit," said the savant, trying to recollect the words. "Black Elk, the hour is come!" the hunter, impetuously interrupted. "That's it! that's it!" said the savant, rubbing his hands for joy, "I had it at the tip of my tongue. I must confess it appeared rather obscure to me, I could not fancy what it meant; but you will explain it, will you not?" The hunter seized him vigorously by the arm, and drawing his face close to his own, he said, with an inflamed look and features contracted by anger,-- "Wretched madman! why do you not come to me as quickly as possible, instead of wasting your time like an idiot? Your delay will, perhaps, cause the death of all your friends!" "Is it possible!" cried the chapfallen doctor, without noticing the somewhat rough manner in which the hunter shook him. "You were charged with a message of life and death, fool that you are! Now, what is to be done? Perhaps it is too late!" "Oh! do not say so," said the savant, in great agitation, "I should die with despair if it were so." The poor man burst into tears, and gave unequivocal proofs of the greatest grief. Black Elk was obliged to console him. "Come, come, courage, my good sir!" he said, softening a little. "What the devil, perhaps all is not lost?" "Oh! if I were the cause of such a misfortune, I should never survive it!" "Well, what is done, is done; we must act accordingly," said the trapper philosophically. "I will think how they are to be assisted. Thanks be to God, I am not so much alone as might be supposed--I hope within two hours to have got together thirty of the best rifles in the prairies." "You will save them, will you not?" "At least, I will do all that can be done, and, if it please God, I shall succeed." "May Heaven hear you!" "Amen!" said the hunter, crossing himself devoutly. "Now, listen to me; you must return to the camp." "Immediately!" "But no more gathering of flowers, or pulling up of grass, if you please." "Oh, I swear I will not. Cursed be the hour in which I set myself to herbalize!" said the doctor, with comic despair. "Very well, that's agreed. You must comfort the young lady as well as her uncle; you must recommend them to keep good guard, and, in case of an attack, to make a vigorous resistance; and tell them they shall soon see friends come to their assistance." "I will tell them all that." "To horse, then, and gallop all the way to the camp." "Be satisfied, I will; but you, what are you going to do?" "Oh! don't trouble yourself about me. I shall not be idle; all you have to do is to rejoin your friends as soon as possible." "Within an hour I shall be with them." "Courage and good luck, then! Above all, don't despair." Black Elk let go the bridle which he had seized, and the doctor set off at a gallop, a pace to which the good man was so little accustomed, that he had great trouble to preserve his equilibrium. The trapper watched his departure for an instant, then, turning round, he strode with hasty steps into the forest. He had scarcely walked ten minutes when he met Nô Eusebio, who was conveying the mother of Loyal Heart across his saddle, in a fainting state. This meeting was for the trapper a piece of good fortune, of which he took advantage to obtain from the old Spaniard some positive information about the hunter--information which Eusebio hastened to give him. The two men then repaired to the hatto of the trapper, from which they were but a short distance, and in which they wished to place the mother of their friend for the present. CHAPTER V. THE ALLIANCE. We must now return to Loyal Heart. After walking straight forward about ten minutes, without giving himself the trouble to follow one of those innumerable paths that intersect the prairie in all directions, the hunter stopped, put the butt end of his gun to the ground, looked round carefully on all sides, lent his ear to those thousands of noises of the desert which all have a meaning for the man accustomed to a prairie life; and, probably satisfied with the result of his observations, he imitated, at three different equal intervals the cry of the pie, with such perfection, that several of those birds, concealed among the thickest of the trees, replied to him immediately. The third cry had scarcely ceased to vibrate in the air, ere the forest, mute till that moment, and apparently plunged in complete solitude, became animated as if by enchantment. On all sides arose, from the midst of bushes and grass, in which they had been concealed, a crowd of hunters with energetic countenances and picturesque costumes, who formed, in an instant, a dense crowd round the trapper. It chanced that the two first faces that caught the eye of Loyal Heart were those of Black Elk and Nô Eusebio, both posted at a few paces from him. "Oh!" he said, holding out his hand eagerly; "I understand it all, my friends. Thanks! a thousand thanks for your cordial coming; but, praise be to God! your succour is not necessary." "So much the better!" said Black Elk. "But how did you get out of the hands of those devilish redskins?" the old servant asked, eagerly. "Don't speak ill of the Comanches," Loyal Heart replied, with a smile; "they are now my brothers." "Do you speak seriously?" cried Black Elk, with warmth; "can you really be on good terms with the Indians?" "You shall judge for yourself. Peace is made between them and me, my friends. If agreeable to you, I will introduce you to each other." "By Heaven! at the present moment nothing could fall out more fortunately," said Black Elk; "and as you are free, we shall be able to concern ourselves for other people, who are, at this moment, in great peril, and stand in need of our immediate assistance." "What do you mean?" Loyal Heart asked, with a curiosity mingled with interest. "I mean, that some people to whom you have already rendered great services, on the occasion of the last fire in the prairie, are at this moment surrounded by a band of pirates, who will soon attack them, if they have not already done so. "We must fly to their assistance!" cried Loyal Heart, with an emotion he could not control. "Well, that was our intention; but we wished to deliver you first, Loyal Heart. You are the soul of our association; without you we should have done no good." "Thanks! my friends. But now, you see, I am free, so there is nothing to stop us; let us set forward immediately." "I crave your pardon," Black Elk replied; "but we have to deal with a strong body. The pirates, who know they have no pity to look for, fight like so many tigers. The more numerous we are, the better will be our chance of success." "That is true; but what do you aim at?" "At this--since you have made, in our name, peace with the Indians, it could be so managed that they----" "By Heavens! you are right, Black Elk," Loyal Heart interrupted him, eagerly. "I did not think of that. The Indian warriors will be delighted at the opportunity we shall offer them of showing their valour. They will joyfully assist us in our expedition. I take upon myself to persuade them. Follow me, all of you. I will present you to my new friends." The trappers drew together, and formed a compact band of forty men. Arms were reversed, in sign of peace, and all, following the steps of the hunter, directed their course towards the camp of the Comanches. "And my mother?" Loyal Heart asked Eusebio, with a broken voice. "She is in safety in the hatto of Black Elk." "And how is she?" "As well as you could expect, though suffering from great uneasiness," the old man replied. "Your mother is a woman who only lives by the heart. She is endowed with immense courage, the greatest physical pains glide over her. She now feels but slightly the effects of the atrocious tortures she had begun to undergo." "God be praised! But she must no longer be left in these mortal doubts; where is your horse?" "Hidden, close by." "Mount, and return to my mother. Assure her of my safety, and then both of you retire to the grotto of Verdigris, where she will be out of all danger. You will remain with her. That grotto is easily found; it is situated at a small distance from the rock of the Dead Buffalo. When you get there, you have nothing to do but to let loose my rastreros, which I will leave you, and they will lead you straight to it. Do you clearly understand me?" "Perfectly." "Begone then. Here we are at the camp; your presence is useless here, whilst yonder it is indispensable." "I am gone!" "Adieu! we'll meet again." Nô Eusebio whistled the bloodhounds, which he leashed together; he then, after another shake of the hand with his young master, left the troop, turned to the right, and resumed the way to the forest. The hunters, in the meantime, arrived at the entrance of the glade in which the camp of the Indians was established. The Comanches formed, a few paces behind the first lines of their camp, a vast semicircle, in the centre of which stood their chiefs. To do honour to their newly-arrived friends, they had put on their handsomest costumes. They were painted and armed for war. Loyal Heart halted his troop, and continuing to march on alone, he unfolded a buffalo robe, which he waved before him. Eagle Head then quitted the other chiefs, and advanced on his part to meet the hunter, also waving a buffalo robe in sign of peace. When the two men were within three paces of each other they stopped. Loyal Heart spoke the first. "The Master of Life," he said, "sees into our hearts. He knows that among us the road is good and open, and that the words which our lungs breathe and our mouths pronounce are sincere. The white hunters come to visit their red friends." "They are welcome!" Eagle Head replied cordially, bowing with the grace and majestic nobleness which characterize Indians. After these words the Comanches and the hunters discharged their pieces into the air, amidst long and loud cries of joy. Then all ceremony was banished; the two bands mingled, and were confounded so thoroughly that, at the end of a few minutes, they only formed one. Loyal Heart, however, who knew from what Black Elk had told him how precious the moments were, took Eagle Head aside, and explained to him frankly what he expected from his tribe. The chief smiled at this request. "My brother shall be satisfied," he said, "let him but wait a little." Leaving the hunter, he joined the other chiefs. The crier quickly mounted upon the roof of a hut, and convoked with loud cries the most renowned warriors to a meeting in the hut of council. The demand of Loyal Heart met with general approbation. Ninety chosen warriors, commanded by Eagle Head, were selected to accompany the hunters, and co-operate with all their power to secure the success of the expedition. When the decision of the chiefs was made known, it created a general joy throughout the tribe. The allies were to set forward at sunset, in order to surprise the enemy. The great war-dance, with all the ceremonies usual upon such occasions, was danced, the warriors the while continually repeating in chorus:-- "Master of Life, look upon me with a favourable eye, thou hast given me the courage to open my veins." When they were on the point of setting out, Eagle Head, who knew what dangerous enemies they were going to attack, selected twenty warriors upon whom he could depend, and sent them forward as scouts, after having given them some scotte wigwas, or bark wood, in order that they might immediately light a fire as a warning in case of alarm. He then examined the arms of his warriors, and, satisfied with the inspection, he gave the orders for departure. The Comanches and the trappers took the Indian file, and, preceded by their respective chiefs, they quitted the camp, amidst the good wishes and exhortations of their friends, who accompanied them to the first trees of the forest. The little army consisted of a hundred and thirty resolute men, perfectly armed, and commanded by chiefs whom no obstacle could stop, no peril could make recede. The darkness was dense; the moon, veiled by large black clouds, which floated heavily in space, only shed at intervals a dull, rayless light, which, when it disappeared, gave objects a fantastic appearance. The wind blew in gusts, and filled the ravines with dull, plaintive moans. In short, this night was one of those which in the history of humanity seemed destined to witness the accomplishment of dismal tragedies. The warriors marched in silence; they looked in the darkness like a crowd of phantoms escaped from a sepulchre, hastening to accomplish a work without a name, accursed of God, which night alone could veil with its shadow. At midnight the word "halt" was pronounced in a low voice. They encamped to await news of the scouts. That is to say, everyone, whether well or ill placed, laid himself down exactly where he happened to be, in order to be ready at the first signal. No fire was lighted. The Indians, who depend upon their scouts, never post sentinels when they are upon the warpath. Two hours passed away. The camp of the Mexicans was not more than three miles distant at most; but, before venturing nearer, the chief wished to ascertain whether the route were free or not; in case it should not be so, what were the numbers of the enemy who barred the passage, and what plan of attack they had adopted. At the moment when Loyal Heart, a prey to impatience, was preparing to go himself to ascertain what was going on, a rustling, almost imperceptible at first, but which by degrees increased in enormous proportions, was heard in the bushes, and two men appeared. The first was one of the Comanche scouts, the other was the doctor. The state of the poor savant was truly pitiable. He had lost his wig; his clothes were in rags; his face was convulsed with terror; in short, his whole person bore evident traces of struggle and combat. When he was brought before Loyal Heart and Eagle Head, he fell head-foremost to the ground and fainted. Earnest endeavours were immediately made to restore him to life. CHAPTER VI. THE LAST ASSAULT. The lanceros posted behind the entrenchments had received the pirates warmly. The general, exasperated by the death of Captain Aguilar, and perceiving that with such enemies there was no quarter to be expected, had resolved to resist to the last, and to kill himself rather than fall into their hands. The Mexicans, reckoning the peons and guides, in whom they scarcely dared to trust, amounted to only seventeen, men and women included. The pirates were at least thirty. The numerical disproportion was then great between the besiegers and the besieged; but thanks to the strong position of the camp, situated on the summit of a chaos of rocks, this disproportion partly disappeared, and the forces were nearly equal. Captain Waktehno had not for an instant deceived himself with regard to the difficulties of the attack he meditated--difficulties almost insurmountable in an open assault; therefore he had depended upon a surprise, and more particularly upon the treachery of the Babbler. It was only from having been carried away by circumstances, and being furious at the loss Captain Aguilar had caused him, that he had ventured upon an assault. But the first moment of effervescence over, when he saw his men falling around him like ripe fruit, unrevenged, and without gaining an inch of ground, he resolved not to retreat, but to change the siege into a blockade, hoping to be more fortunate during the night by some bold _coup de main_, or, in the end, certain of reducing the besieged sooner or later by famine. He believed himself certain that they would find it impossible to obtain succour in the prairies, where there were none but Indians, hostile to the whites, whoever they might be, or trappers and hunters, who cared very little to intermeddle in affairs that did not at all concern them. His resolution once taken, the captain put it in execution immediately. He cast an anxious look around him; his situation was still the same; notwithstanding their almost superhuman efforts to climb the abrupt ascent which led to the entrenchments, the pirates had not gained a single step. The moment a man showed himself openly, a ball from a Mexican carbine sent him rolling down the precipice. The captain gave the signal for retreat; that is to say, he imitated the cry of the prairie dogs. The combat ceased instantly. The spot, which an instant before was animated by the cries of combatants and the continued report of firearms, sank suddenly into the completest silence. Only, as soon as the men had paused in their work of destruction, the condors, the vultures, and urubus commenced theirs. After pirates, birds of prey! that is according to the order of things. Swarms of condors, vultures, and urubus came hovering over the dead bodies, upon which they fell uttering sharp cries, and made a horrible carnage of human flesh, in sight of the Mexicans, who did not dare to leave their entrenchments, and were forced to remain spectators of this hideous banquet of the wild creatures. The pirates rallied in a ravine, out of reach of the fire, and counted their numbers. Their losses were enormous; out of forty, nineteen only remained. In less than an hour they had had twenty-one killed, more than half of their whole band. The Mexicans, with the exception of Captain Aguilar, had neither killed nor wounded. The loss the pirates had sustained made them reflect seriously upon the affair. The greater number were of opinion it would be best to retire, and give up an expedition which presented so many dangers and so few hopes of success. The captain was even more discouraged than his companions. Certes, if it had only been to gain gold or diamonds, he would, without hesitation, have resigned his projects; but a feeling more strong than the desire of wealth influenced his actions, and excited him to carry the adventure through, whatever might be the consequences to him. The treasure he coveted--a treasure of incalculable price--was Doña Luz, the girl whom he had, in Mexico, rescued from the hands of his own bandits, and for whom he entertained a violent, boundless, characteristic passion. From Mexico he had followed her step by step, watching, like a wild beast, for an opportunity of carrying off his prey, for the possession of which no sacrifice was too great, no difficulty insuperable, and no danger worthy of consideration. Therefore did he bring into play upon his bandits all the resources that speech gives to a man influenced by passion, to keep them with him, to raise their courage, and to induce them to attempt one more attack before retiring and definitely renouncing the expedition. He had much trouble in persuading them; as generally happens in such cases, the bravest had been killed, and the survivors did not feel themselves at all inclined to expose themselves to a similar fate. By dint, however, of persuasions and menaces, the captain succeeded in getting from the bandits the promise of remaining till the next day, and of attempting a decisive blow during the night. This being agreed upon between the pirates and their chief, Waktehno ordered his men to conceal themselves as well as they could, but, above all, not to stir without his orders, whatever they might see the Mexicans do. The captain hoped, by remaining invisible, to persuade the besieged that, discouraged by the enormous difficulties they had met with, the pirates had resolved to retreat, and had, in fact, done so. This plan was not at all unskilful, and it, in fact, produced almost all the results which its author expected. The glowing fires of the setting sun gilded with their last rays the summits of the rocks and the trees; the evening breeze, which was rising, refreshed the air; the great luminary was about to disappear on the horizon, in a bed of purple vapours. Silence was only disturbed by the deafening cries of the birds of prey, that continued their cannibal banquet, quarrelling with ferocious inveteracy over the fragments of flesh which they tore from the dead bodies. The general, with a heart deeply moved by this spectacle, when he reflected that Captain Aguilar, a man whose heroic devotion had saved them all, was exposed to this horrible profanation, resolved not to abandon his body, and, cost what it might, to go and bring it in, in order to give it sepulture,--a last homage due to the young man who had not hesitated to sacrifice himself for him. Doña Luz, to whom he communicated his intention, although perfectly sensible of the danger, had not the heart to oppose it. The general selected four resolute men, and scaling the entrenchments, he advanced at their head towards the spot where the body of the unfortunate captain lay. The lanceros left in the camp kept a watchful eye upon the plain, ready to protect their bold companions with energy, if they were interrupted in their pious task. The pirates concealed in the clefts of the rocks did not lose one of their movements, but were most careful not to betray their presence. The general was able, therefore, to accomplish unmolested the duty he had imposed upon himself. He had no difficulty in finding the body of the young man. He lay half prostrate at the foot of a tree, holding a pistol in one hand and his machete in the other, his head elevated, his look fixed, and a smile upon his lips, as if even after death he still defied those who had killed him. His body was literally covered with wounds; but, by a strange chance, which the general remarked with joy, up to that moment the birds of prey had respected it. The lanceros placed the body upon their crossed guns, and returned to the camp at quick march. The general followed at a short distance from them, observing and watching every bush and thicket. But nothing stirred; the greatest tranquillity prevailed everywhere; the pirates had disappeared, without leaving any other traces but their dead, whom they appeared to have abandoned. The general began to hope that his enemies were really gone, and he breathed a sigh, as if relieved from an oppression of the heart. Night came on with its habitual rapidity; all eyes were fixed upon the lanceros, who bore back their dead officer, but no one remarked a score of phantoms who glided silently over the rocks, drawing, by degrees, nearer to the camp, close to which they concealed themselves, keeping their ferocious looks fixed upon its defenders. The general caused the body to be placed upon a bed prepared in haste, and taking a spade, he insisted upon himself digging the grave in which the young man was to be deposited. All the lanceros ranged themselves around him, leaning on their arms. The general took off his hat, and from a prayer book read with a loud voice the Service of the Dead, to which his niece and all present responded. There was something grand and impressive in this simple ceremony, in the midst of the desert, whose thousand mysterious voices appeared likewise to modulate a prayer, in face of that sublime nature upon which the finger of God is traced in so visible a manner. This white-headed old man, piously reading the office of the dead over the body of a young man, little more than a boy, full of life but a few hours before, having around him that young girl, and these sad, pensive soldiers, whom the same fate, perhaps, threatened soon to overtake, but who, calm and resigned, prayed with fervour for him who was no more; this noble prayer, rising in the night, accompanied by the moanings and the breezes of evening, which passed quivering through the branches of the trees, recalled the early times of Christianity, when, persecuted and forced to hide itself, it took refuge in the desert, to be nearer to God. Nothing occurred to disturb the accomplishment of this last duty. After every person present had once again taken a melancholy farewell of the dead, he was lowered into the grave, enveloped in his cloak; his arms were placed by his side, and the grave was filled up. A slight elevation of the sod, which would soon disappear, alone marked the place where reposed for ever the body of a man whose unfamed heroism had saved by a sublime devotedness those who had confided to him the care of their safety. The mourners separated, swearing to avenge the dead, or that failing, to do as he had done. Darkness was now spread over all. The general, after having made a last round, to satisfy himself that the sentinels were steady at their posts, wished his niece a good night, and laid himself down across the entrance of her tent, on the outside. Three hours passed away in perfect quiet. All at once, like a legion of demons, a score of men silently scaled the entrenchments, and before the sentinels, surprised by this sudden attack, could attempt the least resistance, they were seized and slaughtered. The camp of the Mexicans was invaded by the pirates, and in their train entered murder and pillage! CHAPTER VII. THE BATTLE. The pirates bounded into the camp like jackals, howling and brandishing their weapons. As soon as the camp was invaded, the captain left his people to pillage and kill at their pleasure. Without concerning himself any more about them, he rushed towards the tent. But there his passage was barred. The general had rallied seven or eight men round him, and awaited the bandit firmly, resolved to die rather than allow one of those wretches to touch his niece. At the sight of the old soldier, with his flashing eye, his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other, the captain paused. But this pause did not last longer than a flash of lightning; he got together a half-score of pirates by a shout for help. "Give way!" he said, brandishing his machete. "Come on!" the general said, biting his moustache with fury. The two men rushed upon each other, their people imitated them, and the _mêlée_ became general. Then followed a terrible and merciless struggle between men who, on both sides, knew they had no pity to expect. Everyone endeavoured to make his blows mortal, without taking the trouble to parry those dealt upon himself, satisfied with falling, provided that in his fall he could drag down his adversary. The wounded endeavoured to rise, for the purpose of burying their poniards in the bodies of those who were fighting around them. This fierce contest could not last long; all the lanceros were massacred; the general fell in his turn, struck down by the captain, who threw himself upon him and bound him tightly with his belt, in order to prevent the possibility of his resisting any further. The general had only received slight wounds, which had scarcely penetrated to the flesh; for the captain, for reasons best known to himself, had carefully protected him during the combat, parrying with his machete the blows which the bandits tried to inflict upon him. He wished to take his enemy alive, and he had succeeded. All the Mexicans had fallen, it is true, but the victory had cost the pirates dear; more than half of them were killed. The general's Negro, armed with an enormous club, which he had made of the trunk of a young tree, for a long time resisted all who attempted to take him, crushing without mercy all who imprudently came within reach of the weapon which he handled with such uncommon dexterity. His enemies at length succeeded in lassoing him, and casting him half-strangled to the ground; the captain, however, came to his rescue at the moment when a pirate was raising his arm to put an end to him. As soon as the captain found the general incapable of moving, he uttered a cry of joy, and without stopping to stanch the blood of two wounds he had received he bounded like a tiger over the body of his enemy, who was writhing powerless at his feet, and penetrated into the tent. It was empty! Doña Luz had disappeared. The captain was thunderstruck! What could have become of the girl? The tent was small, almost void of furniture, it was impossible she could be concealed in it. A disordered bed proved that at the moment of the surprise, Doña Luz had been sleeping peaceably. She had vanished like a sylph, without leaving any trace of her flight. A flight perfectly incomprehensible to the pirate, as the camp had been invaded on all sides at once. How was it possible for a young girl, awakened suddenly, to have had courage and presence of mind enough to fly so quickly, and pass unperceived amidst conquerors whose first care had been to guard all the issues? The captain sought in vain the solution of this enigma. He stamped with anger, and plunged his poniard into the packages that might serve as temporary places of refuge for the fugitive; but all without success. Convinced at length that all his researches in the tent were in vain, he rushed out, prowling about like a wild beast, persuaded that if by a miracle she had succeeded in escaping, alone in the night, half dressed, wandering in the desert, he should easily find her again. In the meantime, the pillage went on with a celerity and an order in its disorder, which did honour to the practical knowledge of the pirates. The conquerors, fatigued with killing and robbing, plunged their poniards into the skins filled with mezcal, and an orgie soon succeeded theft and murder. All at once a loud and fierce cry resounded at a little distance, and a shower of bullets came pattering full upon the bandits. Surprised in their turn, they flew to their arms, and endeavoured to rally. At the same instant, a mass of Indians appeared, bounding like jaguars among the packages, closely followed by a troop of hunters, at the head of whom were Loyal Heart, Belhumeur, and Black Elk. The position became critical for the pirates. The captain, recalled to himself by the peril his people ran, left with regret the fruitless search he was engaged in, and grouping his men around him, he carried off the only two prisoners he had made, that is to say, the general and his black servant, and taking skilful advantage of the tumult inseparable from an eruption like that of the allies, he ordered his men to disperse in all directions, in order to escape more easily the blows of their adversaries. After one sharp fire, which caused a slight pause among the Indians, the pirates flew away like a cloud of unclean birds of prey, and disappeared in the darkness. But, whilst flying, the captain, left last to support the retreat, did not cease, as he glided along the rocks, still to seek, as much as was possible in the precipitation of his night, for traces of the young girl; but he could discover nothing. The disappointed captain retired with rage in his heart, revolving in his head the most sinister projects. Loyal Heart, warned by the Indian scout, and more particularly by the recital of the doctor, of the proposed attack upon the camp, had marched immediately, in order to bring succour to the Mexicans as soon as possible. Unfortunately, in spite of the celerity of their march, the trappers and the Comanches arrived too late to save the caravan. When the leaders of the expedition became assured of the flight of the pirates, Eagle Head and his warriors set off on their track. Left master of the camp, Loyal Heart ordered a general battue in the neighbouring thickets and high grass, which the bandits had not had time to explore in detail, for they had scarcely obtained possession of the camp before they were driven out of it again. This battue brought to light Phoebe, the young servant of Doña Luz, and two lanceros, who had taken refuge in the trunk of a tree, and who arrived more dead than alive, conducted by Black Elk and some hunters, who tried in vain to re-assure them, and revive their courage. The poor devils still believed themselves in the hands of the pirates, and Loyal Heart had great difficulty in persuading them that the people they saw were friends who had come too late to succour them, but who would not do them any harm. As soon as they were sufficiently restored to speak collectedly, Loyal Heart went with them into the tent, and required of them a succinct account of all that had taken place. The young quadroon, when she saw with whom she had to do, all at once, regained her wonted assurance; and besides, haying recognized Loyal Heart, she did not require much coaxing to set her tongue going, and in a few minutes made the hunter acquainted with all the terrible events of which she had been a spectatress. "So," he asked, "Captain Aguilar was killed, was he?" "Alas! yes!" the young girl replied, with a sigh of regret for the poor young officer. "And the general?" said the hunter. "Oh! as to the general," said the girl briskly, "he defended himself like a lion, and only fell after a heroic resistance." "Is he dead, then?" Loyal Heart asked, with great emotion. "Oh! no!" she said almost cheerfully, "he is only wounded. I saw the bandits pass as they carried him away; I even believe that his wounds are slight, so much did the ladrones spare him during the combat." "I am glad to hear it!" said the hunter; and he hung his head with a pensive air: then, after a pause of an instant, he added, hesitatingly, and with a slight tremor in his voice, "your young mistress, what has become of her?" "My mistress, Doña Luz?" "Yes, Doña Luz--for so I believe she is called; I would give much to know where she is, and to be certain she is in safety." "She is so, since she is near you," said a harmonious voice. And Doña, Luz appeared, still pale from the poignant emotions she had undergone, but calm; she had a smile on her lips, and her eyes sparkled brilliantly. No one present could repress a movement of extreme surprise at the unexpected apparition of the young lady. "Oh! God be praised!" the hunter cried; "our succour has not, then, been completely useless." "No," replied she, kindly; but she shortly added with sadness, whilst a shade of melancholy clouded her features, "now that I have lost him who was to me as a father, I come to ask your protection, Caballero." "It is yours, madam," he replied with warmth. "And as to your uncle, oh! depend upon me; I will restore him to you, if the enterprise costs me my life. You know," he added, "that before today I have proved my devotion to you and him." The first emotion over, it became a question how the young girl had succeeded in escaping the researches of the pirates. Doña Luz gave as simple an account as possible of what had passed. The young lady had thrown herself, with all her clothes on, upon the bed; but anxiety kept her awake, a secret presentiment warned her to be on her guard. At the cry uttered by the pirates, she started from her bed in terror and amazement, and at once perceived that flight was impossible. Whilst casting a terrified look around her, she perceived some clothes thrown in a disorderly manner into a hammock, and hanging over the sides of it. An idea, which appeared to come to her from Heaven, shot across her brain like a luminous flash. She glided under these clothes, and curling herself up into as little space as possible, she crouched at the bottom of the hammock, without altering the disordered state of the things. God had ordained it that the chief of the bandits, while searching, as he thought, everywhere, never dreamt of plunging his hand into what seemed an empty hammock. Saved by this chance, she remained thus huddled up for full an hour, a prey to fears of the most appalling nature. The arrival of the hunters, together with the voice of Loyal Heart, which she soon recognized, restored her to hope; she left the place of her concealment, and had impatiently waited for a favourable moment to present herself. The hunters were wonderstruck at a recital at once so simple and so affecting; they cordially congratulated the young lady upon her courage and presence of mind, which alone had saved her. When a little order was re-established in the camp Loyal Heart waited upon Doña Luz. "Señora," he said, "it will not be long before day appears; when you have taken a few hours' repose, I will conduct you to my mother, who is a pious, good woman; when she knows you, I feel certain she will love you as a daughter. And then, as soon as you are in safety, I will set earnestly about restoring your uncle to you." Without waiting for the thanks of the young lady, he bowed respectfully, and left the tent. When he had disappeared, Doña Luz sighed, and sank pensively down upon a seat. CHAPTER VIII. THE CAVERN OF VERDIGRIS. Ten days had passed away since the events related in our last chapter. We will conduct the reader, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, into the grotto discovered by Belhumeur, of which Loyal Heart had made his chosen habitation. The interior of the cavern, lighted by numerous torches of that wood which the Indians call candlewood, which burned, fixed at distances on the projections of the rock, presented the aspect of a halt of gipsies, or of an encampment of bandits, whichever the stranger might fancy, who should chance to be admitted to visit it. Forty trappers and Comanche warriors were dispersed about here and there; some were sleeping, others smoking, other cleaning their arms or repairing their clothes; a few, crouching before two or three fires, over which were suspended cauldrons, and where enormous joints of venison were roasting, were preparing the repast for their companions. At each place of issue two sentinels, motionless, but with eyes and ears on the watch, silently provided for the common safety. In a compartment separated naturally from the larger one by a block of projecting rock, two women and a man, upon seats rudely cut with the hatchet, were conversing in a low voice. The two women were Doña Luz and the mother of Loyal Heart; the man who looked at them, while smoking his husk cigarette, and mingled occasionally in the conversation by an interjection drawn from him by surprise, admiration, or joy, was Eusebio, the old Spanish servant, of whom we have often spoken in the course of our narrative. At the entrance of this compartment, which formed a kind of separate chamber in the cavern, another man was walking backwards and forwards, with his hands behind his back, whistling between his teeth an air which he probably composed as his thoughts dictated. This man was Black Elk. Loyal Heart, Eagle Head, and Belhumeur were absent. The conversation of the two women appeared to interest them greatly. The mother of the hunter often exchanged significant looks with her old servant, who had allowed his cigarette to go out, but who kept on smoking it mechanically, without perceiving it. "Oh!" said the old lady, clasping her hands with fervour, and raising her eyes toward heaven, "the finger of the Almighty is in all this!" "Yes," Eusebio replied, with profound conviction; "it is He who has done it!" "Tell me, my darling; during the two months of your journey, did your uncle, the general, never give you a glimpse, by his words, his actions, or his proceedings, of the object of this expedition?" "Never!" Doña Luz replied. "That is strange!" the old lady murmured. "Strange, indeed," Eusebio repeated, who still persisted in endeavouring to draw smoke from his extinguished cigarette. "But tell me," the mother of Loyal Heart resumed, "when you arrived in the prairies, how did your uncle employ his time? Pardon me, my child, these questions which must surprise you, but which are not at all dictated by curiosity; hereafter you will understand me, and you will then acknowledge that the lively interest I take in you alone leads me to interrogate you." "I do not at all doubt it, señora," Doña Luz replied, with a charming smile; "therefore I have no difficulty in replying to you. My uncle, after our arrival in the prairies, became dull and preoccupied; he sought for the society of men accustomed to the life of the desert, and when he met with one, he would converse with him and interrogate him for hours together." "And about what did he interrogate him, my child? Do you recollect?" "Good heavens! señora, I must confess to my shame," the young girl replied, blushing slightly, "that I did not give great attention to this conversation, which I thought at least could interest me but little. I, a poor child, whose life up to that period had glided away sadly and monotonously, and who had seen nothing of the world but through the gratings of my convent, admired the magnificent nature which had, as if by enchantment, risen before me; I had only eyes enough to contemplate these wonders; and I adored the Creator whose infinite power had been revealed to me thus suddenly." "That is true, dear child; pardon me these questions, which fatigue you, and whose object you cannot perceive," said the good lady, imprinting a kiss upon her brow; "if you wish it, we will speak of something else." "As you please, señora," the young girl answered, returning her kiss. "I am most happy to talk with you, and whatever subject you choose, I am sure I shall always take great interest in it." "But we are talking idly, and forgetting my poor son, who has been absent since morning, and who, according to what he told me, ought to have returned by this time." "Oh! I hope nothing can have happened to him," cried Doña Luz. "You take great interest in him, then?" the old lady remarked, with a smile. "Ah! señora," she replied, with emotion, whilst a vivid blush rose to her cheeks, "can I do otherwise, after the services he has rendered us, and will continue to render us, I am sure?" "My son has promised to deliver your uncle; be assured that he will fulfil his promise." "Oh! I do not at all doubt it, señora. What a noble, grand character!" she cried with warmth; "how justly is he named Loyal Heart!" The old lady and Eusebio looked at her and smiled; they were delighted with the enthusiasm of the young girl. Doña Luz perceived the attention with which they were looking at her. She stopped short in confusion, hung down her head, and blushed more than ever. "Oh!" said the old lady, taking her hand, "you may go on, my child; I am pleased to hear you speak thus of my son. Yes," she added, in a melancholy tone, and as if talking to herself, "yes; his is a grand and noble character. Like all exalted natures, he is misunderstood: but patience! God is trying him, and the day will come when justice will be rendered him in the face of all men." "Can he, then, be unhappy?" the young girl ventured to ask, timidly. "I do not say he is, my child," the good mother answered, with a stifled sigh. "In this world who can flatter himself with being happy? Everyone has his troubles, which he must bear; the Almighty measures the burden according to the strength of every man." A movement was heard in the grotto; several men entered. "Here is your son, señora," said Black Elk. "Thank you, my friend," she replied. "Oh! I am so glad!" said Doña Luz, springing up joyfully. But ashamed of this inconsiderate movement, the girl sank back, confused and blushing, into her seat again. It was, in fact Loyal Heart, but he was not alone. Belhumeur and Eagle Head accompanied him, as did several other trappers. As soon as he was in the grotto, the young man directed his steps hastily towards his mother's retreat; he kissed her, and then turning towards Doña Luz, he bowed to her with a degree of embarrassment that was not natural to him, and which the old lady could not but remark. The young lady returned him a salutation not less confused than his own. "Well," he said, with a cheerful smile, "you must have been very tired of waiting for me, my noble prisoners. Time must travel slowly in this horrible grotto. Pardon me for having confined you to such a hideous dwelling, Doña Luz--you are made to inhabit splendid palaces. Alas! this is the most magnificent of my habitations." "With the mother of him who has saved my life, señor," the girl replied, nobly, "I think myself lodged like a queen, whatever be the place I inhabit." "You are a thousand times too good, señora," the hunter stammered; "you really make me confused." "Well, my son," the old lady interrupted, with the evident intention of giving another turn to the conversation, which began to be embarrassing for the two young people, "what have you done today? Have you any good news to give us? Doña Luz is very uneasy about her uncle; she longs to see him again." "I can quite understand the señora's anxiety," the hunter replied, "which I hope soon to be able to put an end to. We have not done much today; we have found it impossible to get upon the track of the bandits. It is enough to drive a man wild with vexation. Fortunately, as we returned, at a few paces from the grotto, we met with the doctor, who, according to his praiseworthy custom, was seeking herbs in the clefts of the rocks, and he told us that he has seen a man of suspicious appearance prowling about the neighbourhood. We immediately went upon the hunt, and were not long in discovering an individual whom we took prisoner, and have brought hither with us." "You see, señor," said Doña Luz, with a playful air, "that it is sometimes of use to be seeking simples. Our dear doctor has, according to all appearance, rendered you a great service." "Without his will being concerned in the matter," said Loyal Heart, laughing. "I do not say the contrary," the young girl rejoined, banteringly, "but it exists none the less; it is to the herbs you owe it." "Seeking for herbs may have a good purpose, I agree; but everything in its proper time; without unjustly reproaching him, the doctor has not always known when to choose it." Notwithstanding the seriousness of the facts to which these words referred, the hearers could not repress a smile at the expense of the unlucky savant. "Come! come!" said Doña Luz, "I will not have my poor doctor attacked; he has been sufficiently punished for his forgetfulness by the grief to which he has been a prey since that inauspicious day." "You are right, señora, and I will say no more about it. Now I must beg your permission to leave you; my companions are literally dying of hunger, and the brave fellows wait for me to take their repast." "But," Eusebio asked, "the man you have taken--what do you mean to do with him?" "I do not know yet; as soon as our meal is over, I mean to interrogate him; his replies will most likely dictate my conduct with regard to him." The cauldrons were taken off the fire, the quarters of venison were cut into slices, and the trappers and Indians sat down fraternally near each other, and ate their repast with a good appetite. The ladies were served apart in their retreat by Nô Eusebio, who performed the delicate functions of house steward with a care and a seriousness worthy of a more suitable scene. The man who had been arrested near the grotto had been placed under the guard of two stout trappers, armed to the teeth, who never took their eyes off him; but he seemed to entertain no wish to escape; on the contrary, he did honour vigorously to the food that was placed before him. As soon as the meal was over, the chiefs drew together apart, and conversed for a few minutes among themselves in a low voice. Then, upon the order of Loyal Heart, the prisoner was brought forward, and they prepared to interrogate him. This man, at whom they had scarcely looked, was recognized the moment he was face to face with the chiefs, who could not repress an expression of surprise. "Captain Waktehno!" said Loyal Heart, in perfect astonishment. "Himself, gentlemen!" the pirate replied, with haughty irony; "what have you to ask of him? He is here ready to answer you." CHAPTER IX. DIPLOMACY. It was an unheard-of piece of audacity in the captain, after what had taken place, to come thus and deliver himself up, without the slightest resistance, into the hands of men who would not hesitate to inflict upon him a severe vengeance. The hunters were consequently astonished at the proceeding of the pirate, and began to suspect a snare; their surprise increased in proportion as they reflected upon his apparent madness. They perfectly understood that if they had taken him, it was because he was willing that it should be so; that he had probably some powerful motive for acting thus, particularly after all the pains he had taken to conceal his track from all eyes, and find a retreat so impenetrable that the Indians themselves, those cunning bloodhounds whom nothing generally could throw off the scent, had given up searching for him. What did he want amidst his most implacable enemies? What reason sufficiently strong had been able to induce him to commit the imprudence of delivering himself up? This is what the trappers asked each other, whilst looking at him with that curiosity and that interest which, in spite of ourselves, we are forced to accord to the intrepid man who accomplishes a bold action, whatever otherwise may be his moral character. "Sir," said Loyal Heart, after the pause of a few minutes, "as you have thought proper to place yourself in our hands, you certainly will not refuse to reply to the questions we may think proper to put to you?" A smile of an undefinable expression passed over the thin, pale lips of the pirate. "Not only," he replied, in a calm, clear voice, "will I not refuse to reply to you, gentlemen, but still further, if you will permit, I will forestall your questions by telling you myself spontaneously all that has passed, which will enlighten you, I am sure, with regard to the facts which have appeared obscure, and which you have in vain endeavoured to make out." A murmur of stupefaction pervaded the ranks of the trappers, who had drawn near by degrees, and listened attentively. The scene assumed strange proportions, and promised to become extremely interesting. Loyal Heart reflected for a moment, and then addressed the pirate. "Do so, sir," he said; "we listen to you." The Captain bowed, and, with a jeering tone, commenced his recital; when he arrived at the taking of the camp, he continued thus:-- "It was cleverly played, was it not, gentlemen? Certes, I can look for nothing but compliments from you who are past masters in such matters; but there is one thing of which you are ignorant, and which I will tell you. The capture of the Mexican general's wealth was but of secondary importance to me, I had another aim, and that aim I will make you acquainted with--I wished to obtain possession of Doña Luz. From Mexico I followed the caravan, step by step; I had corrupted the principal guide, the Babbler, an old friend of mine; abandoning to my companions the gold and jewels, I desired nothing but the young girl." "Well, but it seems you missed your aim," Belhumeur interrupted him, with a sardonic smile. "Do you think so?" the other replied, with imperturbable assurance. "Well, you appear to be in the right; I have, for this time, missed my aim, but all is not yet said, and I may not always miss." "You speak here, amidst a hundred and fifty of the best rifles of the prairies about this odious project, with as much confidence as if you were in safety, surrounded by your own bandits, and concealed in the depths of one of your most secret dens, captain. This is either an act of great imprudence or a still more rare piece of insolence," Loyal Heart said, sternly. "Bah! the peril is not so great for me as you would make me believe; you know I am not a man easily intimidated, therefore a truce to threats, if you please, and let us reason like serious men." "We hunters, trappers, and Indian warriors, assembled in this grotto, have the right, acting in the name of our common safety, to apply to you the laws of the frontiers, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, as attainted and convicted, even by your own confession, of robbery, murder, and an attempt at abduction. This law we mean to apply to you immediately. What have you to say in your defence?" "Everything in its turn, Loyal Heart; we will talk about that presently; but, in the first place, let us terminate, if you please, what I had to say to you. Be satisfied, it is but the delay of a few minutes; I will myself revert to that question which you seem to have so much at heart, as you instal yourself, by your own private authority, judge in the desert." "That law is as ancient as the world, it emanates from God himself; it is the duty of all honest people to run down a wild beast when they meet with one in their passage." "The comparison is not flattering," the pirate replied, perfectly unmoved, "but I am not at all susceptible; I do not easily take offence. Will you, once for all, allow me to speak?" "Speak, then, and let us have an end of this." "That is exactly what I ask; listen to me, then. In this world, every one comprehends life after his own fashion, some widely, others in a narrow way; for me, my dream is to retire, a few years hence, to the depths of one of our beautiful Mexican provinces with a moderate competency--you see I am not ambitious. A few months back, at the termination of several tolerably lucrative affairs which I had happily effected in the prairies by means of courage and address, I found myself master of a pretty round sum, which, according to my custom, I resolved to invest, in order to procure me hereafter the moderate competency of which I was speaking to you. I went to Mexico to place my money in the hands of an honourable French banker established in that city, who answered all my expectations, and whom I recommend to you, if you have occasion for such a person." "What is all this verbiage to us?" Loyal Heart interrupted, hotly. "You are laughing at us, captain." "Not the least in the world. I will go on. In Mexico, chance afforded me an opportunity of rendering Doña Luz a rather important service." "You?" said Loyal Heart, angrily. "Why not?" the other replied. "The affair is very simple. I delivered her from the hands of four bandits, who were plundering her. I saw her, and became madly in love with her." "Man! man!" said the hunter, colouring with vexation; "this exceeds all bounds. Doña Luz is a young lady who ought never to be spoken of without the greatest respect. I will not allow her to be insulted in my presence." "We are exactly of the same opinion," the other continued, jeeringly; "but it is none the less true that I fell in love with her. I skilfully obtained information concerning her; I learnt who she was, the journey she was about to take; I played successfully, as you see. Then my plan was laid, which, as you just now said, has completely failed; but which, nevertheless, I have not yet given up." "We will endeavour to settle that once for all." "And you will do well, if you can." "Now, I suppose, you have finished?" "Not yet, if you please; but at this point what remains for me to say renders the presence of Doña Luz indispensable. Upon her alone depends the success of my mission to you." "I do not understand you." "It would be useless for you to understand me at this moment; but rest satisfied, Loyal Heart, you shall soon have the key to the enigma." During the whole of this long discussion, the pirate had not for a moment lost that self-possession, that sneering smile, that bantering tone, and that freedom of manner, that confounded the hunters. He bore much more the resemblance to a gentleman on a visit at the house of a country neighbour, than to a prisoner on the point of being shot. He did not appear to care the least in the world about the danger he was running. As soon as he had finished speaking, whilst the trappers were consulting in a low voice, he employed himself in rolling a husk cigarette, which he lit and smoked quietly. "Doña Luz," Loyal Heart resumed, with ill-disguised impatience, "has nothing to do with these debates; her presence is not necessary." "You are entirely mistaken, my dear sir," the pirate coolly replied, puffing out a volume of smoke; "she is indispensable, and for this reason:--You understand perfectly, do you not, that I am too cunning a fox to give myself up thus voluntarily into your hands, if I had not behind me someone whose life would answer for mine. That someone is the uncle of the young lady. If I am not at midnight in my den, as you do me the honour to call it, with my brave companions, at precisely ten minutes after midnight the honourable gentleman will be shot without fail or pity." A shudder of anger ran along the ranks of the hunters. "I know very well," the pirate continued, "that you, personally, care very little for the life of the general, and would generously sacrifice it in exchange for mine; but, fortunately for me, Doña Luz, I am convinced, is not of your opinion, and attaches great value to the existence of her uncle; be good enough, therefore, to beg her to come here, in order that she may hear the proposal I have to make her. Time presses, the way to my encampment is long; if I arrive too late, you alone will be responsible for the misfortunes that may be caused by my involuntary delay." "I am here, sir," said Doña Luz, coming forward. Concealed amidst the crowd of hunters, she had heard all that had been said. The pirate threw away his half-consumed cigarette, bowed courteously to the young lady, and saluted her with respect. "I am proud of the honour, señora, that you deign to do me." "A truce to ironical compliments, if you please. I am listening to you; what have you to say to me?" "You judge me wrongly, señora," the pirate replied; "but I hope to reinstate myself in your good opinion hereafter. Do you not recognise me? I thought I had left a better remembrance in your mind." "It is possible, sir, that during a certain time I retained a favourable remembrance of you," the young lady answered, with some degree of emotion; "but, after what has taken place within these few days, I can only see in you a robber and a murderer!" "The terms are harsh, señora." "Pardon them, if they wound you, sir; but I have not yet recovered from the terrors you have caused me--terrors which your proceedings of today augment instead of diminishing. Be pleased, then, without further delay, to let me know your intentions." "I am in despair at being thus ill-understood by you, señora. Attribute, I implore you, all that has happened solely to the violence of the passion I feel for you, and believe----" "Sir! you insult me," the young lady interrupted, drawing herself up haughtily: "what can there be in common between me and the leader of bandits?" At this cutting reproof a flush passed over the face of the pirate: he bit his moustache with anger; but, making a strong effort, he kept down in the depths of his heart the feelings which agitated him, and replied in a calm, respectful tone,-- "So be it, señora; crush me--I have deserved it." "Is it for the purpose of uttering these commonplaces that you have required my presence here, sir? In that case you will please to allow me to retire; a lady of my rank is not accustomed to such manners, nor to listen to such language." She made a movement as if to rejoin the mother of Loyal Heart, who, on her side, advanced towards her. "One instant, señora," the pirate cried, savagely; "since you despise my prayers, listen to my orders!" "Your orders!" the hunter shouted, springing close to his side. "Have you forgotten where you are, miserable scoundrel?" "Come, come! a truce to threats and abuse, my masters!" the pirate replied, in a commanding voice, as he crossed his arms upon his breast, threw up his head, and darted a look of supreme disdain upon all present. "You know very well you dare do nothing against me--that not a single hair of my head will fall." "This is too much!" the hunter ejaculated. "Stop! Loyal Heart," said Doña Luz, placing herself before him; "this man is unworthy of your anger. I prefer seeing him thus he is best in his part of a bandit--he at least plays that without a mask." "Yes! I have thrown off the mask," the pirate shouted, furiously: "and now, listen to me, silly girl. In three days I will return--you see I keep my word," he added, with a sinister smile. "I give you time to reflect. If you do not then consent to follow me, your uncle shall be given up to the most atrocious tortures; and, as a last remembrance of me, I will send you his head." "Monster!" the poor girl exclaimed, in an accent of despair. "Ah! you see," said he, shrugging his shoulders, and with the grin of a demon, "everyone makes love after his own fashion. I have sworn that you shall be my wife!" But Doña Luz could hear no more. Overcome by grief as well as other feelings, she sank senseless into the arms of the mother of the hunter, who with Nô Eusebio, bore her out of the larger apartment. "Enough!" said Loyal Heart, with a stern accent, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder, "be thankful to God, who allows you to go safe and sound from our hands." "In three days, at the same hour, you will see me again, my masters," he said, disdainfully. "Between this and then luck may turn," said Belhumeur. The pirate made no reply, but by a grin and a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders; and left the cavern with a step as firm and free as if nothing extraordinary had happened, without even deigning to turn round, so certain was he of the profound feeling he had caused--of the effect he had produced. He had scarcely disappeared, when, from the other outlets of the grotto, Belhumeur, Black Elk, and Eagle Head rushed upon his track. Loyal Heart remained thoughtful for an instant, and then went, with a pale face and a pensive brow to inquire after Doña Luz. CHAPTER X. LOVE. Doña Luz and Loyal Heart were placed with regard to each other, in a singular position. Both young, both handsome, they loved without daring to confess it to themselves, almost without suspecting it. Both, although their lives had been spent in conditions diametrically opposite, possessed equal freshness of feeling, equal ingenuousness of heart. The childhood of the maiden had passed away, pale and colourless, amidst the extravagant religious practices of a country where the religion of Christ is rather a paganism than the pure, noble, and simple faith of Europe. She had never felt a beating of the heart. She was as ignorant of love as she was of sorrow. She lived thus like the birds of heaven, forgetting the days gone by, careless of the morrow. The journey she had undertaken had completely changed the colour of her existence. At the sight of the immense horizons which spread out before her in the prairie, of the majestic rivers which she crossed, of the grand mountains round whose feet she was often obliged to travel, and whose hoary heads seemed to touch heaven, her ideas had become enlarged, a bandage was, so to say, removed from her eyes, and she had learnt that God had created her for something else than to drag out a useless existence in a convent. The appearance of Loyal Heart, under the extraordinary circumstances in which he had presented himself to her, had won upon her mind, which was at that time particularly open to all sensations, and ready to retain all the strong impressions it might receive. In presence of the exalted nature of the hunter, of that man in wild costume, but possessing a manly countenance, handsome features and noble bearing, she had felt agitated without comprehending the reason. The fact was, that unknown to herself, by the force of the secret sympathies which exist between all the beings of the great human family, her heart had met the heart she sought for. Delicate and frail, she stood in need of this energetic man, with the fascinating glance, the leonine courage, and an iron will, to support her through life, and defend her with his omnipotent protection. Thus had she, therefore, from the first moment, yielded with a feeling of undefinable happiness, to the inclination which drew her towards Loyal Heart; and love had installed himself as master in her heart, before she was aware of it, or had even thought of resisting. Recent events had awakened with intense force the passion which had been slumbering at the bottom of her heart. Now that she was near him, that she heard, at every instant, his praises from the mouth of his mother, or from those of his companions, she had come to consider her love as forming part of her existence, she could not comprehend how she could have lived so long without loving this man, whom it appeared she must have known from her very birth. She no longer lived but for him and by him; happy at a look or a smile, joyful when she saw him, sad when he remained long absent from her. Loyal Heart had arrived at the same result by a very different route. Brought up, so to say, in the prairies, face to face with the Divinity, he was accustomed to adore in the great works he had constantly before his eyes, the sublime spectacles of nature; the incessant struggles he had to sustain, whether against Indians or wild beasts, had developed him, morally and physically, in immense proportions. As, by his muscular strength and his skill with his weapons, he had overcome all obstacles that had been opposed to him; so, by the grandeur of his ideas and the delicacy of his sentiments, he was capable of comprehending all things. Nothing that was good and nothing that was great seemed to be unknown to him. As it always happens with superior organisations early placed at war with adversity, and given up without other defences than themselves to the terrible chances of life, his mind had developed itself in gigantic proportions, still remaining in strange unconsciousness of certain sensations, which were unknown to him, and would always have remained so, but for a providential chance. The daily wants of the agitated and precarious life he led, had stifled within him the germ of the passions; his solitary habits had, unknown to himself, led him to a taste for a contemplative life. Knowing no other woman but his mother, for the Indians, by their manners, inspired him with nothing but disgust, he had reached the age of six-and-thirty without thinking of love, without knowing what it was, and, what is more, without ever having heard pronounced that word which contains so many things in its four letters, and which, in this world, is the source of so many sublime devotions and so many horrible crimes. After a long day's hunting through woods and ravines, or after having been engaged fifteen or sixteen hours in trapping beavers, when, in the evening, they met in the prairie at their bivouac fire, the conversation of Loyal Heart and his friend Belhumeur, who was as ignorant as himself in this respect, could not possibly turn upon anything but the events of the day. Weeks, months, years passed away without bringing any change in his existence, except a vague uneasiness, whose cause was unknown, but which weighed upon his mind, and for which he could not account. Nature has her imprescriptible rights, and every man must submit to them, in whatever condition he may chance to be placed. Thus, therefore, when accident brought Doña Luz before him, by the same sentiment of instinctive and irresistible sympathy which acted upon the young girl, his heart flew towards her. The hunter, astonished at the sudden interest he felt for a stranger, whom, according to all appearances, he might never see again, was almost angry with her on account of that sentiment which was awakening within him, and gave to his intercourse with her an asperity which was unnatural to him. Like all exalted minds, who have been accustomed to see everything bend before them without resistance, he felt himself irritated at being subdued by a girl, at yielding to an influence from which he no longer could extricate himself. But when, after the fire in the prairie, he quitted the Mexican camp, notwithstanding the precipitation of his departure, he carried away the remembrance of the fair stranger with him. And this remembrance increased with absence. He always fancied he heard the soft and melodious notes of the young girl's voice sounding in his ears, however strong the efforts he made to forget her; in hours of watching or of sleep, she was always there, smiling upon him, and fixing her enchanting looks upon him. The struggle was severe. Loyal Heart, notwithstanding the passion that devoured him, knew what an insuperable distance separated him from Doña Luz, and how senseless and unrealizable this love was. All the objections possibly to be made in such cases, he made, in order to prove he was mad. Then, when he had convinced himself that an abyss separated him from her he loved, overcome by the terrible conflict he had maintained against himself, supported perhaps by that hope which never abandons energetic men, far from frankly acknowledging his defeat, but yielding to the passion which was from that time to constitute his sole joy, his sole happiness, he continued doggedly to struggle against it, despising himself for a thousand little weaknesses which his love was continually making him commit. He shunned, with an obstinacy that ought to have offended the maiden, all opportunities of meeting her. When by chance they happened to be together, he became taciturn and sullen, only answering with difficulty the questions she put to him, and, with that awkwardness peculiar to unpractised lovers, seizing the first opportunity for leaving her. The young lady looked after him sadly, sighed quietly but deeply, and sometimes a liquid pearl flowed silently down her rosy cheeks at seeing this departure, which she took for indifference, and which was in reality love. But during the few days that had passed since the taking of the camp the young people had progressed without suspecting it, and this was greatly assisted by the mother of Loyal Heart, who, with that second sight with which all mothers worthy of the name are endowed, had divined this passion, and the honourable combats of her son, and had constituted herself the secret confidante of their love, assisting it unknown to them, and protecting it with all her power, whilst both lovers were persuaded that their secret was buried in the depths of their own hearts. Such was the state of things two days after the proposal made by the captain to Doña Luz. Loyal Heart appeared more sad and more preoccupied than usual; he walked about the grotto with hasty strides, showing signs of the greatest impatience, and at intervals casting uneasy glances around him. At length, leaning against one of the projections of the grotto, he let his head sink on his chest, and remained plunged in profound meditation. He had stood thus for some time, when a soft voice murmured in his ear-- "What is the matter, my son? Why are your features clouded with such sadness? Have you received any bad news?" Loyal Heart raised his head, like a man suddenly awakened from sleep. His mother and Doña Luz were standing before him, their arms interlaced, and leaning upon each other. He cast upon them a melancholy glance, and replied with a stifled sigh,-- "Alas! mother, tomorrow is the last day. I have as yet been able to imagine nothing that can save Doña Luz, and restore her uncle to her." The two women started. "Tomorrow!" Doña Luz murmured; "that is true; it is tomorrow that that man is to come!" "What will you do, my son?" "How can I tell, mother?" he replied impatiently. "Oh! this man is stronger than I am. He has defeated all my plans. Up to the present moment we have not possibly been able to discover his retreat. All our researches have proved useless." "Loyal Heart," the young lady said, softly, "will you then abandon me to the mercy of this bandit? Why, then, did you save me?" "Oh!" the young man cried, "that reproach kills me." "I am not reproaching you, Loyal Heart," she said warmly; "but I am very unhappy. If I remain, I cause the death of the only relative I have in the world; if I depart, I am dishonoured!" "Oh, to be able to do nothing!" he cried, with great excitement. "To see you weep, to know that you are unhappy, and to be able to do nothing! Oh!" he added, "to spare you the least anxiety I would sacrifice my life with joy. God alone knows what I suffer from this want of power." "Hope, my son, hope!" the old lady said, with an encouraging accent. "God is good. He will not abandon you." "Hope! how can you tell me to do so, mother? During the last two days my friends and I have attempted things that would appear impossible--and yet without result. Hope! and in a few hours this miserable wretch will come to claim the prey he covets! Better to die than see such a crime consummated." Doña Luz cast upon him a glance of a peculiar expression, a melancholy smile for a moment passed over her lips, and then she gently laid her delicate little hand upon his shoulder,-- "Loyal Heart," she said, with her melodious, clear voice, "do you love me?" The young man started; a tremor pervaded every limb. "Why that question?" he said, in a deeply agitated tone. "Answer me," she replied, "without hesitation, as I put the question to you; the hour is a solemn one; I have a favour to ask of you." "Oh! name it, señora; you know I can refuse you nothing!" "Answer me, then," she said, trembling with emotion; "do you love me?" "If it be love to desire to sacrifice my life for you--if it be love to suffer martyrdom at witnessing the flowing of a tear which I would purchase with my whole blood--if it be love to have the courage to see you accomplish the sacrifice that will be required from you tomorrow in order to save your uncle--oh! yes, señora, I love you with all my soul! Therefore, speak without fear: whatever you ask of me I will perform with joy." "That is well, my dear friend," she said, "I depend upon your word; tomorrow I will remind you of it when that man presents himself; but, in the first place, my uncle must be saved, if it were to cost me my life. Alas! he has been a father to me: he loves me as his daughter. It was on my account that he fell into the hands of the bandits. Oh! swear to me, Loyal Heart, that you will deliver him," she added, with an expression of anguish impossible to be described. Loyal Heart was about to reply when Belhumeur and Black Elk entered the grotto. "At last!" he cried, springing towards them. The three men talked for a few minutes together in a low voice: then the hunter returned hastily towards the two women. His face was glowing with animation. "You were right, my dear mother," he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone, "God is good: He will not abandon those who place their confidence in Him. Now it is my turn to say, Hope, Doña Luz, I will soon restore your uncle to you." "Oh!" she cried, joyfully, "can it be possible?" "Hope! I repeat! Adieu, mother! Implore God to second me; I am about, more than ever, to stand in need of His help!" Without saying more the young man rushed out of the grotto, followed by the greater part of his companions. "What did he mean by what he said?" Doña Luz asked, anxiously. "Come with me, my daughter," the old lady replied, sorrowfully; "come, let us pray for him." She drew her softly towards the retired part of the grotto which they inhabited. There only remained about half a score men charged with the defence of the two women. CHAPTER XI. THE PRISONERS. When the redskins and the hunters had recaptured the camp of the Mexicans, the pirates, according to the orders of their leader, had spread about in all directions, in order the more easily to escape the researches of their enemies. The captain and the four men who carried off the general and his Negro, both bound and gagged, had descended the declivity of the rocks, at the risk of being dashed to pieces a thousand times by falling down the precipices which gaped at their feet. On arriving at a certain distance, reassured by the silence which reigned around them, and still more by the extraordinary difficulties they had surmounted in reaching the place where they found themselves, they stopped to take breath. A profound darkness enveloped them; over their heads, at an immense height, they perceived, twinkling like little stars, the torches borne by the hunters who pursued them, but who took care not to venture in the dangerous path they had followed. "This is lucky," said the captain; "now, my boys, let us rest for a few minutes, we have nothing at the present time to fear: place your prisoners here, and go, two of you, and reconnoitre." His orders were executed; a few minutes later the two bandits returned, announcing that they had discovered an excavation, which, might temporarily offer them shelter and safety. "The devil!" cried the captain, "let us go to it." And setting the example he started off in the direction pointed out by the scouts. They soon arrived at a hollow nook which appeared tolerably spacious, and which was situated a few fathoms lower down than the place they had stopped at. When they were concealed in this hiding place, the captain's first care was to close the entrance hermetically, which was not difficult, for that entrance was very narrow, the bandits having been obliged to stoop to penetrate into it. "There," said the captain, "now we are snug; in this fashion we need not be afraid of impertinent visitors." Drawing a steel from his pocket, he lit a torch of candlewood, with which, with that foresight that never abandons persons of his stamp even in the most critical circumstances, he had taken care to provide himself. As soon as they could distinguish objects, the bandits uttered a cry of joy. What in the darkness they had taken for a simple excavation proved to be one of those natural grottos of which so many are found in these countries. "Eh! eh!" said the captain, laughing, "let us see what sort of quarters we have got into; remain here, my men, and keep strict watch over your prisoners; I will go and reconnoitre our new domain." After lighting a second torch, he explored the grotto. It dipped deep under the mountain by a gentle descent; the walls were everywhere lofty, and sometimes they were widened into large compartments. The cavern must have received external air by imperceptible fissures, for the light burned freely and the captain breathed without difficulty. The farther the pirate advanced, the more perceptible the air became, which led him to conclude he was approaching an entrance of some kind. He had been walking nearly twenty minutes, when a puff of wind came sharply in his nice and made the flame of his torch flicker. "Hum!" he muttered, "here is a place of exit--let us be prudent and put out our lights, we know not whom we may meet with outside." He crushed the light of his torch beneath his feet, and remained a few instants motionless, to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. He was a prudent man, and thoroughly acquainted with his trade of a bandit, was this captain. If the plan he had formed for the attack of the camp had failed, it had required for that a concurrence of fortuitous circumstances impossible to have been foreseen by anybody. Therefore, after the first moment of ill-humour caused by the check he had received, he had bravely taken his part; resolving, _in petto_, to take his revenge as soon as an opportunity should present itself. Besides, it seemed as if Fortune was willing to smile on him afresh, by offering him, just at the moment when he had the greatest want of it, a refuge not likely to be discovered. It was therefore with an almost unspeakable joy and hope that he waited till his eyes should be accustomed to the darkness, to permit him to distinguish objects and know if he were really going to find a place of exit, which would render him master of an almost impregnable position. His expectations were not disappointed. As soon as the dazzling effect of the blaze of the torch was got rid of, he perceived, at a considerable distance before him, a feeble light. He walked resolutely forward, and at the end of a few minutes came to the so much desired outlet. Decidedly fortune was once more propitious to him! The outlet of the grotto opened upon the banks of a little river, the water of which came murmuring close to the mouth of the cavern, so that the bandits might, by swimming or constructing a raft, go in and out without leaving any traces, and thus defeat all researches. The captain was too well acquainted with the prairies of the West, in which he had for nearly ten years exercised his honourable and lucrative profession, not to be able to know at once where he was on looking around him. He perceived that this river flowed at some distance from the camp of the Mexicans, from which its numberless meanderings tended still more to remove it. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction when he had well examined the environs, no longer fearing discovery and thenceforward at ease regarding his position. He lit his torch again, and retraced his steps. His companions, with the exception of one who watched the prisoners, were fast asleep. The captain aroused them. "Come, be alive! be alive!" he said; "this is not the time for sleeping; we have something else to do." The bandits arose with a very ill grace, rubbing their eyes, and yawning enough to dislocate their jaws. The captain made them, in the first place, securely close up the hole by which they had entered, then he ordered them to follow him with the prisoners, whose legs they unbound, in order that they might walk. They stopped in one of the numerous halls, if we may so term them, which the captain had discovered on his route; one man was appointed to guard the prisoners, who were left in this place, and the captain, with the three other bandits continued their way to the outlet. "You see," he said to them, pointing to the outlet, "that sometimes misfortune has its good, since chance has allowed us to discover a place of refuge where no one will come to seek us. You, Frank, set off directly for the rendez-vous I have appointed with your comrades, and bring them hither, as well as all the rest of our men who did not form part of the expedition. As for you, Antonio, you must procure us some provisions. Go, both of you. It is needless to tell you that I shall await your return with impatience." The two bandits plunged into the river without reply, and disappeared. "As to you, Gonzalez," he said, "employ yourself in gathering wood together for firing, and dry leaves for bedding; come, to work! to work!" An hour later, a clear fire sparkled in the grotto, and upon soft beds of dry leaves the bandits slept soundly. At sunrise the rest of the troop arrived. There were still thirty of them! The worthy leader felt his heart dilate with joy at the sight of the rich collection of scoundrels he had still at his disposal. With them he did not despair of re-establishing his affairs, and of soon taking a signal revenge. After an abundant breakfast, composed of venison, copiously washed down with mezcal, the captain at length turned his attention to his prisoners. He repaired to the hall which served for their dungeon. Since he had fallen into the hands of the bandits, the general had remained silent, apparently insensible to the ill-treatment to which he had been exposed. The wounds he had received, being neglected, had festered, and gave him terrible pain; but he did not utter a complaint. A deep grief took possession of his mind from the moment of his capture; he saw all his hopes overthrown of being able to resume the execution of the project that had brought him into the prairies. All his companions were dead, and he knew not what fate awaited himself. The only thing that brought a slight consolation to his pains was the certainty that his niece had succeeded in escaping. But what was to become of her in this desert, where nothing was to be met with but wild beasts, and still more ferocious Indians? How could a young girl, accustomed to all the comforts of life, support the hazards of this existence of privations? This idea redoubled his sufferings. The captain was terrified at the state in which he found him. "Come, general," he said, "courage! What the devil! luck often changes; I know something of that! _Caray!_ never despair; nobody can tell what tomorrow will bring about. Give me your parole not to endeavour to escape, and I will immediately restore you the freedom of your limbs." "I cannot give you that parole," the general replied with firmness; "I should take a false oath if I did. On the contrary, I swear to endeavour to fly by all possible means." "Bravo! well answered!" said the pirate, laughing; "in your place, I should have replied just the same; only, at the present moment, I believe, with the best will in the world, it would be impossible for you to go a step. In spite, therefore, of all you have said to me, I will restore both you and your servant to liberty, and you may make what use you like of it, but it is freedom of your limbs, please to recollect, that is all." With a stroke of his machete he cut the cords which bound the arms of the general, and then performed the same service for the Negro, Jupiter. The latter, as soon as he was free in his movements, began jumping and laughing, exhibiting two rows of formidable teeth of dazzling whiteness. "Come, be prudent, blacky," said the pirate; "be quiet here, if you do not want to have a bullet through your head." "I will not go without my master," Jupiter replied, rolling his great wild-looking eyes. "That is right!" the pirate remarked with a sneer; "that is agreed upon; such devotedness does you honour, blacky." Turning next to the general, the captain bathed his wounds with cold water, and dressed them carefully; then, after placing provisions before the prisoners, to which the Negro alone did honour, the pirate retired. Towards the middle of the day, the captain called together the principal men of his band. "Caballeros," he said, "we cannot deny that we have lost the first game; the prisoners we have made are far from reimbursing our expenses; we cannot remain quiet under the effects of a check, which dishonours us, and renders us ridiculous. I am going to play a second game; this time if I do not win I shall be unlucky indeed. During my absence, watch well over the prisoners. Pay attention to the last orders I give you: if tomorrow, at midnight, I have not returned, safe and sound among you, at a quarter past midnight, I say, you will shoot the two prisoners without remission; you perfectly understand what I say, do you not?--without remission." "Be at your ease, captain," Frank replied, in the name of his companions; "you may go as soon as you please; your orders shall be executed." "I know they will; but be sure not to shoot them a minute too soon, or a minute too late." "Exactly at the time named." "That is understood. Adieu, then; do not be too impatient for my return." Upon this the captain left the grotto, to throw himself in the way of Loyal Heart. We have seen what the bandit wanted with the trapper. CHAPTER XII. A RUSE DE GUERRE. After his strange proposal to the hunters, the leader of the pirates retook, at his best speed, the road to his den. But he was too much accustomed to the life of the prairies not to suspect that several of his enemies would follow his track at a distance. Therefore, he had put in practice, to mislead them, all the tricks which his inventive mind could furnish with him, making _détours_ without number, retracing incessantly his steps, or, as it is vulgarly said, going back ten yards to advance one. These numerous precautions had excessively retarded his journey. When he arrived on the banks of the river whose waters bathed the entrance to the cavern, he cast a last look around him, to make certain that no busy eye was watching his movements. Everything was calm, nothing suspicious appeared, and he was about to launch into the stream the raft concealed beneath the leaves, when a slight noise in the bushes attracted his attention. The pirate started; promptly drawing a pistol from his belt, he cocked it, and advanced boldly towards the spot whence this alarming noise proceeded. A man bent towards the ground, was busy digging up herbs and plants with a small spade. The pirate smiled, and replaced his pistol in his belt. He had recognized the doctor, who was as much absorbed in his favourite passion as usual; so much so, indeed, that he had not perceived him. After surveying him for an instant with disdain, the pirate was turning his back upon him, when an idea occurred to him, which made him, on the contrary,--advance towards the _savant_, upon whose shoulder he somewhat roughly laid his hand. At this rude salutation, the poor doctor drew himself up in a fright, letting fall both plants and spade. "Holla! my good fellow," said the captain, in a jeering tone, "what madness possesses you to be herbalizing thus at all hours of the day and night?" "How!" the doctor replied, "what do you mean by that?" "Zounds! it's plain enough! Don't you know it is not far from midnight?" "That is true," the _savant_ remarked ingenuously; "but there is such a fine moon." "Which you, I suppose, have taken for the sun," said the pirate, with a loud laugh; "but," he added, becoming all at once serious, "that is of no consequence now; although half a madman, I have been told that you are a pretty good doctor." "I have passed my examinations," the doctor replied, offended by the epithet applied to him. "Very well! you are just the man I want, then." The _savant_ bowed with a very ill grace; it was evident he was not much flattered by the attention. "What do you require of me?" he asked; "are you ill?" "Not I, thank God! but one of your friends, who is at this moment my prisoner, is; so please to follow me." "But----" the doctor would fain have objected. "I admit of no excuses; follow me, or I will blow your brains out. Besides, don't be afraid, you run no risk; my men will pay you all the respect science is entitled to." As resistance was impossible, the worthy man did as he was bidden with a good grace--with so good a grace, even, that for a second he allowed a smile to stray across his lips, which would have aroused the suspicions of the pirate if he had perceived it. The captain commanded the _savant_ to walk on before him, and both thus reached the river. At the instant they quitted the place where this conversation, had taken place, the branches of a bush parted slowly, and a head, shaved with the exception of a long tuft of hair at the top, on which was stuck an eagle's feather, appeared, then a body, and then an entire man, who bounded like a jaguar in pursuit of them. This man was Eagle Head. He was a silent spectator of the embarkation of the two whites, saw them enter the grotto, and then, in his turn, disappeared in the shade of the woods, after muttering to himself in a low voice the word-- "_Och!_" (good) the highest expression of joy in the language of the Comanches. The doctor had plainly only served as a bait to attract the pirate, and cause him to fall into the snare laid by the Indian chief. Now, had the worthy _savant_ any secret intelligence with Eagle Head? That is what we shall soon know. On the morrow, at daybreak, the pirate ordered a close battue to be made in the environs of the grotto; but no track existed. The captain rubbed his hands with joy; his expedition had doubly succeeded, since he had managed to return to his cavern without being followed. Certain of having nothing to dread, he was unwilling to keep about him so many men in a state of inactivity; placing, therefore, his troop provisionally under the command of Frank, a veteran bandit, in whom he had perfect confidence, he only retained ten chosen men with him, and sent away the rest. Although the affair he was now engaged in was interesting, and his success appeared certain, he was not, on that account, willing to neglect his other occupations, and maintain a score of bandits in idleness, who might, at any moment, from merely having nothing else to do, play him an ugly turn. It is evident that the captain was not only a prudent man, but was thoroughly acquainted with his honourable associates. When the pirates had left the grotto, the captain made a sign to the doctor to follow him, and conducted him to the general. After having introduced them to each other with that ironical politeness in which he was such a master, the bandit retired, leaving them together. Only before he departed, the captain drew a pistol from his belt, and clapping it to the breast of the _savant_-- "Although you may be half a madman," he said, "as you may, nevertheless, have some desire to betray me, observe this well, my dear sir; at the least equivocal proceeding that I see you attempt, I will blow your brains out; you are warned, so now act as you think proper." And replacing his pistol in his belt, he retired with one of his eloquent sneers on his lips. The doctor listened to this admonition with a very demure countenance, but with a sly smile, which, in spite of himself, glided over his lips, but which, fortunately, was not perceived by the captain. The general and his Negro, Jupiter, were confined in a compartment of the grotto at some distance from the outlet. They were alone, for the captain had deemed it useless to keep guards constantly with them. Both seated upon a heap of leaves, with heads cast down and crossed arms, they were reflecting seriously, if not profoundly. At sight of the _savant_, the dismal countenance of the general was lighted up by a fugitive smile of hope. "Ah, doctor, is that you?" he said, holding out to him a hand which the other pressed warmly hut silently, "have I reason to rejoice or to be still sad at your presence?" "Are we alone?" the doctor asked, without answering the general's question. "I believe so," he replied, in a tone of surprise; "at all events, it is easy to satisfy yourself." The doctor groped all round the place, carefully examined every corner; he then went back to the prisoners. "We can talk," he said. The _savant_ was habitually so absorbed by his scientific calculations, and was naturally so absent, that the prisoners had but little confidence in him. "And my niece?" the general asked, anxiously. "Be at ease on her account; she is in safety with a hunter named Loyal Heart, who has a great respect for her." The general breathed a sigh of relief; this good news had restored him all his courage. "Oh!" he said, "of what consequence is my being a prisoner? Now I know my niece is safe, I can suffer anything." "No, no," said the doctor, warmly, "on the contrary, you must escape from this place tomorrow, by some means." "Why?" "Answer me in the first place." "I ask no better than to do so." "Your wounds appear slight; are they progressing towards cure?" "I think so." "Do you feel yourself able to walk? "Oh, yes!" "But let us understand each other. I mean, are you able to walk a distance?" "I believe so, if it be absolutely necessary." "Eh! eh!" said the Negro, who, up to this moment had remained silent, "am I not able to carry my master when he can walk no longer?" The general pressed his hand. "That's true, so far," said the doctor; "all is well, only you must escape." "I should be most glad to do so, but how?" "Ah! that," said the _savant_, scratching his head, "is what I do not know, for my part! But be at ease, I will find some means; at present, I don't know what." Steps were heard approaching, and the captain appeared. "Well!" he asked, "how are your patients going on?" "Not too well!" the doctor replied. "Bah! bah!" the pirate resumed; "all that will come round; besides, the general will soon be free, then he can get well at his ease. Now, doctor, come along with me; I hope I have left you and your friend long enough together to have said all you wish." The doctor followed him without reply, after having made the general a parting sign to recommend prudence. The day passed away without further incident. The prisoners looked for the night with impatience; in spite of themselves, a confidence in the doctor had gained upon them--they hoped. Towards evening the worthy _savant_ reappeared. He walked with a deliberate step, his countenance was cheerful, he held a torch in his hand. "What is there fresh, doctor?" the general asked; "you appear to be quite gay." "In fact, general, I am so," he replied with a smile, "because I have found the means of securing your escape--not forgetting my own." "And those means?" "Are already half executed," he said, with a little dry smile, which was peculiar to him when he was satisfied. "What do you mean by that?" "By Galen! something very simple, but which you never would guess: all our bandits are asleep, we are masters of the grotto." "That may be possible; but if they should wake?" "Don't trouble yourself about that; they will wake, of that there is no doubt, but not within six hours at least." "How the devil can you tell that?" "Because I took upon myself to send them to sleep; that is to say, at their supper I served them with a decoction of opium, which brought them down like lumps of lead, and they have all been snoring ever since like so many forge bellows." "Oh, that is capital!" said the general. "Is it not?" the doctor observed, modestly. "By Galen, I was determined to repair the mischief I had done you by my negligence! I am not a soldier, I am but a poor physician; I have made use of my proper weapons; you see that in certain cases they are as good as others." "They are a hundred times better! Doctor, you are a noble fellow!" "Well, come, let us lose no time." "That is true, let us be gone; but the captain, what have you done with him?" "Oh, as to him, the devil only knows where he is. He left us after dinner without saying anything to anybody; but I have a shrewd suspicion I know where he is gone, and am much mistaken if we do not see him presently." "All, then, is for the best; lead on." The three men set off at once. In spite of the means employed by the doctor, the general and the Negro were not quite at ease. They arrived at the compartment which now served as a dormitory for the bandits; they were lying about asleep in all directions. The fugitives passed safely through them. When they arrived at the entrance of the grotto, at the moment they were about to unfasten the raft to cross the river, they saw, by the pale rays of the moon, another raft, manned by fifteen men, who steadily directed their course towards them. Their retreat was cut off. How could they possibly resist such a number of adversaries? "What a fatality!" the general murmured, despondingly. "Oh!" said the doctor, piteously, "a plan of escape that cost me so much trouble to elaborate!" The fugitives threw themselves into a cavity of the rocks, to avoid being seen, and there waited the landing of the newcomers, whose manoeuvres appeared more and more suspicious. CHAPTER XIII. THE LAW OF THE PRAIRIES. A considerable space of ground, situated in front of the grotto inhabited by Loyal Heart, had been cleared, the trees cut down, and from a hundred and fifty to two hundred huts erected. The whole tribe of the Comanches was encamped on this spot. Among trappers, hunters, and redskin warriors there existed the best possible understanding. In the centre of this temporary village, where the huts of buffalo hides painted of different colours were arranged with a degree of symmetry, one much larger than the others, surmounted by scalps fixed to long poles, and in which a large fire was continually kept up, served as the council lodge. The greatest bustle prevailed in the village. The Indian warriors were armed and in their war paint, as if preparing to march to battle. The hunters had dressed themselves in their best costumes, and cleaned their arms with the greatest care, as if expecting soon to make use of them. The horses completely caparisoned, stood hobbled, and held by half a score warriors, ready to be mounted. Hunters and redskins were coming and going in a busy, preoccupied manner. A rare and almost unknown thing among Indians, sentinels were placed at regular distances to signal the approach of a stranger, whoever he might be. In short, everything denoted that one of the ceremonies peculiar to the prairies was about to take place. But, strange to say, Loyal Heart, Eagle Head, and Black Elk were absent. Belhumeur alone watched over the preparations that were being made, talking, the while, to the old Comanche chief _Eshis_, or the Sun. But their countenances were stern, their brows thoughtful, they appeared a prey to an overpowering preoccupation. It was the day fixed upon by the captain of the pirates for Doña Luz to be delivered up to him. Would the captain venture to come? or was his proposition anything more than a rodomontade? Those who knew the pirate, and their number was great--almost all having suffered by his depredations--inclined to the affirmative. This man was endowed, and it was the only quality they acknowledged in him, with a ferocious courage and an iron will. If once he had affirmed he would do a thing, he did it, without regard to anybody or any danger. And then, what had he to dread in coming a second time amongst his enemies? Did he not hold the general in his power? the general, whose life answered for his own; all knew that he would not hesitate to sacrifice him to his safety. It was about eight o'clock in the morning, a brilliant sun shed its dazzling rays in profusion upon the picture we have endeavoured to describe. Doña Luz left the grotto, leaning upon the arm of the mother of Loyal Heart, and followed by Nô Eusebio. The two women were sad and pale, their faces looked worn, and their red eyes showed they had been weeping. As soon as Belhumeur perceived them, he advanced towards them, bowing respectfully. "Has not my son returned yet?" the old lady asked, anxiously. "Not yet," the hunter replied, "but keep up your spirits, señora, it will not be long before he is here." "Good God! I do not know why, but it seems as if he must be detained at a distance from us by some untoward event." "No, señora, I should know if he were so. When I left him last night, for the purpose of tranquillizing you, and executing the orders he gave me, he was in an excellent situation; therefore, believe me, be reassured, and, above all, have confidence." "Alas!" the poor woman murmured, "I have lived for twenty years in continual agony, every night dreading not to see my son on the morrow; my God! will you not then have pity on me!" "Have comfort, dear señora," said Doña Luz, affectionately, and with a gentle kiss: "Oh! I know that if Loyal Heart at this moment be in danger, it is to save my poor uncle; my God!" she added, fervently, "grant that he may succeed!" "All will soon be cleared up, ladies, be assured by me, and you know I would not deceive you." "Yes," said the old lady, "you are good, you love my son, and you would not be here if he had anything to dread." "You judge me rightly, señora, and I thank you for it. I cannot, at the present moment, tell you anything, but I implore you to have a little patience; let it suffice for you to know that he is labouring to render the señorita happy." "Oh! yes," said the mother, "always good, always devoted!" "And therefore was he named Loyal Heart," the maiden murmured, with a blush. "And never was name better merited," the hunter exclaimed proudly. "A man must have lived a long time with him, and know him as well as I know him, in order to appreciate him properly." "Thanks, in my turn, for all you say of my son, Belhumeur," the old lady replied, pressing the callous hand of the hunter. "I speak nothing but the truth, señora; I am only just, that is all. Oh! things would go on well in the prairies if all hunters were like him." "Good heavens! time passes, will he never come?" she murmured, looking around with feverish impatience. "Very soon, señora." "I wish to be the first to see him and salute him on his arrival!" "Unfortunately that is impossible." "Why so?" "Your son charged me to beg you, as well as Señora Luz, to retire into the grotto; he is anxious that you should not be present at the scene that is about to take place here." "But," said Doña Luz, anxiously, "how shall I know if my uncle be saved or not?" "Be assured, señorita, that you shall not remain in uncertainty long. But I beg you not to remain here. Go in, go in." "Perhaps it will be best to do so," the old lady observed. "Let us be obedient, darling," she added, smiling on the girl; "let us go in, since my son requires it." Doña Luz followed her without resistance, but casting furtive looks behind her, to try if she could catch a glimpse of him she loved. "How happy are those who have mothers!" murmured Belhumeur, stifling a sigh, and looking after the two women, who disappeared in the shade of the grotto. All at once the Indian sentinels uttered a cry, which was immediately repeated by a man placed in front of the council lodge. At this signal the Comanche chiefs arose and left the hut in which they were assembled. The hunters and Indian warriors seized their arms, ranged themselves on either side of the grotto, and waited. A cloud of dust rolled towards the camp with great rapidity, but was soon dispersed, and revealed a troop of horsemen riding at full speed. These horsemen, for the most part, wore the costume of Mexican gambusinos. At their head, upon a magnificent horse, black as night, came a man whom all immediately recognized. This was Captain Waktehno, who came audaciously at the head of his troop, to claim the fulfilment of the odious bargain he had imposed three days before. Generally, in the prairies, when two troops meet, or when warriors or hunters visit a village, it is the custom to execute a sort of _fantasia_, by rushing full speed towards each other, yelling and firing off guns. On this occasion, however, nothing of the kind took place. The Comanches and the hunters remained motionless and silent, awaiting the arrival of the pirates. This cold, stern reception did not astonish the captain; though his eyebrows were a little contracted, he feigned not to perceive it, and entered the village intrepidly at the head of his band. When he arrived in front of the chiefs drawn up before the council lodge, the twenty horsemen stopped suddenly, as if they had been changed into statues of bronze. This bold manoeuvre was executed with such dexterity that the hunters, good judges of horsemanship, with difficulty repressed a cry of admiration. Scarcely had the pirates halted, ere the ranks of the warriors placed on the right and left of the lodge deployed like a fan, and closed behind them. The twenty pirates found themselves by this movement, which was executed with incredible quickness, enclosed within a circle formed of more than five hundred men, well armed and equally well mounted. The captain felt a slight tremor of uneasiness at the sight of this manoeuvre, and he almost repented having come. But surmounting this involuntary emotion, he smiled disdainfully; he believed he was certain he had nothing to fear. He bowed slightly to the chiefs ranged before him, and addressed Belhumeur in a firm voice,-- "Where is the girl?" he demanded. "I do not know what you mean," the hunter replied, in a bantering tone; "I do not believe that there is any young lady here upon whom you have any claim whatever." "What does this mean? and what is going on here?" the captain muttered, casting around a look of defiance. "Has Loyal Heart forgotten the visit I paid him three days ago?" "Loyal Heart never forgets anything," said Belhumeur, in a firm tone; "but the question is not of him now. How can you have the audacity to present yourself among us at the head of a set of brigands?" "Well," said the captain jeeringly, "I see you want to answer me by an evasion. As to the menace contained in the latter part of your sentence, it is worth very little notice." "You are wrong; for since you have committed the imprudence of throwing yourself into our hands, we shall not be simple enough, I warn you, to allow you to escape." "Oh, oh!" said the pirate; "what game are we playing now?" "You will soon learn." "I can wait," the pirate replied, casting around a provoking glance. "In these deserts, where all human laws are silent," the hunter replied, in a loud clear voice, "the law of God ought to reign in full vigour. This law says, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'" "What follows?" said the pirate, in a dry tone. "During ten years," Belhumeur continued impassively, "at the head of a troop of bandits, without faith and without law, you have been the terror of the prairies, pillaging and assassinating white men and red men; for you are of no country, plunder and rapine being your only rule; trappers, hunters, gambusinos, or Indians, you have respected no one, if murder could procure you a piece of gold. Not many days ago you took by assault the camp of peaceful Mexican travellers, and massacred them without pity. This career of crime must have an end, and that end has now come. We have Indians and hunters assembled here to try you, and apply to you the implacable law of the prairies." "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," the assembled Indians and hunters cried, brandishing their arms. "You deceive yourselves greatly, my masters," the pirate answered, with assurance, "If you believe I shall hold my throat out peaceably to the knife, like a calf that is being led to the shambles. I suspected what would happen, and that is why I am so well accompanied. I have with me twenty resolute men, who well know how to defend themselves. You have not got us yet." "Look around you, and see what is left for you to do." The pirate cast a look behind him, and saw five hundred guns levelled at his band. A shudder passed through his limbs, a mortal pallor covered his face, the pirate understood that he was confronted by a terrible danger; but after a second of reflection, he recovered all his coolness, and addressing the hunter, he replied in a jeering voice:-- "What is the use of all these menaces, which do not frighten me? You know very well that I am screened from all your violence. You have told me that I attacked some Mexican travellers a few days ago, but you are not ignorant that the most important of those travellers has fallen into my power. Dare but to touch a single hair of my head, and the general, the uncle of the girl you would in vain ravish from my power, will immediately pay with his life for the insult you offer me. Believe me, then, my masters, you had better cease endeavouring to terrify me; give up to me with a good grace her whom I come to demand, or I swear to you, by God, that within an hour the general will be a dead man." All at once a man broke through the crowd, and placing himself in front of the pirate, said-- "You are mistaken, the general is free!" That man was Loyal Heart. A hum of joy resounded from the ranks of the hunters and Indians, whilst a shudder of terror agitated the pirates. CHAPTER XIV. THE CHASTISEMENT. The general and his two companions had not remained long in a state of uncertainty. The raft, after several attempts, came to shore at last, and fifteen men, armed with guns advanced, and rushed into the grotto, uttering loud cries. The fugitives ran towards them with joy; for they recognized at the head of them Loyal Heart, Eagle Head, and Black Elk. This is what had happened. As soon as the doctor had entered the grotto with the captain, Eagle Head, certain of having discovered the retreat of the pirates, had rejoined his friends, to whom he imparted the success of his stratagem, Belhumeur had been despatched to Loyal Heart, who had hastened to come. All, in concert, had resolved to attack the bandits in their cavern, whilst other detachments of hunters and redskin warriors, spread about the prairies, and concealed among the rocks should watch the approaches to the grottos and prevent the escape of the pirates. We have seen the result of this expedition. After having devoted the first moment entirely to joy, and the pleasure of having succeeded without a blow being struck, the general informed his liberators that half a score bandits were sleeping in the grotto, under the influence of the worthy doctor's opium. The pirates were strongly bound and carried away; then, after calling in the various detachments, the whole band again bent their way to the camp. Great had been the surprise of the captain at the exclamation of Loyal Heart; but that surprise was changed into terror, when he saw the general, whom he thought so safely guarded by his men, standing before him. He saw at once that all his measures were defeated, and his tricks circumvented, and that this time he was lost without resource. The blood mounted to his throat, his eyes darted lightning, and turning towards Loyal Heart, he said, in a hoarse loud voice-- "Well played! but all is not yet ended between us. By God's help I shall have my revenge!" He made a gesture as if to put his horse in motion; but Loyal Heart held it resolutely by the bridle. "We have not done yet," he remarked. The pirate looked at him for an instant with eyes injected with blood, and then said in a voice broken by passion, whilst urging on his horse to oblige the hunter to quit his hold. "What more do you want with me?" Loyal Heart, thanks to a wrist of iron, still held the horse, which plunged furiously. "You have been brought to trial," he replied, "and the law of the prairies is about to be applied to you." The pirate uttered a terrible, sneering, maniac laugh, and tore his pistols from his belt:-- "Woe be to him who touches me!" he cried, with rage, "give me way!" "No," the impassive hunter replied, "you are fairly taken, my master; this time you shall not escape me." "Die then!" cried the pirate, aiming one of his pistols at Loyal Heart. But, quick as thought, Belhumeur, who had watched his movements closely, threw himself before his friend with a swiftness increased tenfold by the seriousness of the situation. The shot was fired. The ball struck the Canadian, who fell bathed in his blood. "One!" cried the pirate, with a ferocious laugh. "_Two_!" screamed Eagle Head, and with the bound of a panther, he leaped upon the pirate's horse behind him. Before the captain could make a movement to defend himself, the Indian seized him with his left hand, by the long hair, of which he formed a tuft, and pulled him backwards violently, with his head downwards. "Curses on you!" cried the pirate, in vain endeavouring to free himself from his enemy. And then took place a scene which chilled the spectators with horror. The horse, which Loyal Heart had left his hold of, when at liberty, furious with being urged on by its master and checked by Loyal Heart, and with the double weight imposed upon it, sprang forward, mad with rage, breaking and overturning in its course every object that opposed its passage. But it still carried, clinging to its sides, the two men struggling to kill each other, and who on the back of the terrified animal writhed about like serpents. Eagle Head had, as we have said, pulled back the head of the pirate; he placed his knee against his loins, uttered his hideous war cry, and flourished with a terrible gesture his knife around the brow of his enemy. "Kill me, then, vile wretch!" the pirate cried, and with a rapid effort he raised his left hand, still armed with a pistol, but the bullet was lost in space. The Comanche chief fixed his eyes upon the captain's face. "Thou art a coward!" he said, with disgust, "and an old woman, who is afraid of death!" At the same time he pushed the bandit forcibly with his knee, and plunged the knife into his skull. The captain uttered a piercing cry, which arose into the air, mingled with the howl of triumph of the chief. The horse stumbled over a root; the two enemies rolled upon the ground. Only one rose up. It was the Comanche chief, who brandished the bleeding scalp of the pirate. But the latter was not dead. Almost mad with pain and fury, and blinded with the blood which trickled into his eyes, he arose and rushed upon his adversary, who had no expectation of such an attack. Then, with limbs entwined, each endeavoured, by strength and artifice, to throw his antagonist, and plunge into his body the knife with which he was armed. Several hunters sprang forward to separate them, but when they reached them all was over. The captain lay upon the ground with the knife of Eagle Head buried to the hilt in his heart. The pirates, held in awe by the white hunters and the Indian warriors who surrounded them, did not attempt a resistance, which they knew would be useless. When he saw his captain fall, Frank, in the name of his companions, proclaimed that they surrendered. At a signal from Loyal Heart they laid down their arms and were bound. Belhumeur, the brave Canadian, whose devotedness had saved the life of his friend, had received a serious wound, but, happily, it was not mortal. He had been instantly lifted up and carried into the grotto, where the mother of the hunter paid him every attention. Eagle Head approached Loyal Heart, who stood pensive and silent, leaning against a tree. "The chiefs are assembled round the fire of council," he said, "and await my brother." "I follow, my brother," the hunter replied, laconically. When the two men entered the hut, all the chiefs were assembled; among them were the general, Black Elk, and several other trappers. The calumet was brought into the middle of the circle by the pipe bearer; he bowed respectfully towards the four cardinal points, and then presented the long tube to every chief in his turn. When the calumet had made the round of the circle, the pipe bearer emptied the ashes into the fire, murmuring some mystic words, and then retired. Then the old chief named the Sun, arose, and after saluting the members of the council, said-- "Chiefs and warriors, listen to the words which my lungs breathe and which the Master of Life has placed in my heart. What do you purpose doing with the twenty prisoners who are now in your hands? Will you release them that they may continue their life of murder and rapine? that they may carry off your wives, steal your horses, and kill your brothers? Will you conduct them to the stone villages of the great white hearts of the East? The route is long, abounding in dangers, traversed by mountains and rapid rivers; the prisoners may escape in the journey, or may surprise you in your sleep and massacre you. And then, you know, warriors, when you have arrived at the stone villages, the long knives will release them, for there exists no justice for red men. No, warriors, the Master of Life, who has, at length, delivered up these men into our power, wills that they should die. He has marked the term of their crimes. When we find a jaguar or a grizzly bear upon our path, we kill them; these men are more cruel than jaguars or grizzlies, they owe a reckoning for the blood they have shed, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Let them, then, be fastened to the stake of torture. I cast a necklace of red wampums into the council. Have I spoken well, men of power?" After these words, the old chief sat down again. There was a moment of solemn silence. It was evident that all present approved of his advice. Loyal Heart waited for a few minutes; he saw that nobody was preparing to reply to the speech of the Sun; then he arose:-- "Comanche chiefs and warriors, and you white trappers, my brothers," he said in a mild, sad tone, "the words pronounced by the venerable sachem are just; unfortunately, the safety of the prairies requires death of our prisoners. This extremity is terrible, but we are forced to submit to it, if we desire to enjoy the fruit of our rude labours in peace. But if we find ourselves constrained to apply the implacable law of the desert, let us not show ourselves barbarians by choice; let us punish, since it must be so, but let us punish like men of heart, and not like cruel men. Let us prove to these bandits that we are executing justice, that in killing them it is not for the purpose of avenging ourselves, but the whole of society. Besides, their chief, by far the most guilty of them, has fallen before the courage and weapons of Eagle Head. Let us be clement without ceasing to be just. Let us leave them the choice of their death. No useless torture. The Master of Life will smile upon us, he will be content with his red children, to whom he will grant abundance of game in their hunting grounds. I have spoken: have I spoken well, men of power?" The members of the council had listened attentively to the words of the young man. The chiefs had smiled kindly at the noble sentiments he had expressed; for all, both Indians and trappers, loved and respected him. Eagle Head arose. "My brother, Loyal Heart has spoken well," said he; "his years are few in number, but his wisdom is great. We are happy to find an opportunity of proving our friendship for him; we seize it with eagerness. We will do what he desires." "Thank you!" Loyal Heart replied warmly; "thank you, my brothers! The Comanche nation is a great and noble nation, which I love; I am proud of having been adopted by it." The council broke up, and the chiefs left the lodge. The prisoners, collected in a group, were strictly guarded by a detachment of warriors. The public crier called together all the members of the tribe, and the hunters dispersed about the village. When all were assembled, Eagle Head arose to speak, and, addressing the pirates, said-- "Dogs of palefaces, the council of the great chiefs of the powerful nation of the Comanches, whose vast hunting grounds cover a great part of the earth, has pronounced your fate. Try, after having lived like wild beasts, not to die like timid old women; be brave, and then, perhaps, the Master of Life will have pity on you, and will receive you after death into the eskennane,--that place of delights where the brave who have looked death in the face hunt during eternity." "We are ready," replied Frank, unmoved; "fasten us to the stakes, invent the most atrocious tortures; you will not see us blench." "Our brother, Loyal Heart," the chief continued, "has interceded for you. You will not be fastened to the stake; the chiefs leave to yourselves the choice of your death." Then was awakened that characteristic trait in the manners of the whites, who, inhabiting the prairies for any length of time, end by forsaking the customs of their ancestors, and adopt those of the Indians. The proposition made by Eagle Head was revolting to the pride of the pirates. "By what right," Frank cried, "does Loyal Heart intercede for us? Does he fancy that we are not men? that tortures will be able to draw from us cries and complaints unworthy of us? No! no! lead us to punishment; whatever you can inflict upon us will not be so cruel as what we make the warriors of your nation undergo when they fall into our hands." At these insulting words a sensation of anger pervaded the ranks of the Indians, whilst the pirates, on the contrary, uttered cries of joy and triumph. "Dogs! rabbits!" they shouted; "Comanche warriors are old women, who ought to wear petticoats!" Loyal Heart advanced, and silence was re-established. "You have wrongly understood the words of the chief," he said; "in leaving you the choice of your death, it was not an insult, but a mark of respect that he paid you. Here is my dagger; you shall be unbound, let it pass from hand to hand, and be buried in all your hearts in turn. The man who is free, and without hesitation kills himself at a single blow, is braver than he who, fastened to the stake of torture, and unable to endure the pain, insults his executioner in order to receive a prompt death." A loud acclamation welcomed these words of the hunter. The pirates consulted among themselves for an instant with a look, then, with one spontaneous movement, they made the sign of the cross, and cried with one voice-- "We accept your offer!" The crowd, an instant before, so tumultuous and violent, became silent and attentive, awed by the expectation of the terrible tragedy which was about to be played before them. "Unbind the prisoners," Loyal Heart commanded. This order was immediately executed. "Your dagger!" said Frank. The hunter gave it to him. "Thank you, and farewell!" said the pirate, in a firm voice; and, opening his vestments, he deliberately, and with a smile, as if he enjoyed death, buried the dagger up to the hilt in his heart. A livid pallor gradually invaded his countenance, his eyes rolled in their orbits, and casting round wild and aimless glances, he staggered like a drunken man, and rolled upon the ground. He was dead. "My turn!" cried the pirate next him, and plucking the still reeking dagger from the wound, he plunged it into his heart. He fell upon the body of the first victim. After him came the turn of another, then another, and so on; not one hesitated, not one displayed weakness,--all fell smiling, and thanking Loyal Heart for the death they owed to him. The spectators were awestruck by this terrible execution; but, fascinated by the frightful spectacle,--drunk, so to say, with the odour of blood, they stood with haggard eyes and heaving breasts, without having the power to turn away their looks. There soon remained but one pirate. This man contemplated for a moment the heap of bodies which lay before him; then, drawing the dagger from the breast of him who had preceded him, he said with a smile,-- "A fellow is lucky to die in such good company; but where the devil do we go to after death? Bah! what a fool I am! I shall soon know!" And with a gesture quick as thought he stabbed himself. He fell instantly quite dead. This frightful slaughter did not last more than a quarter of an hour.[1] Not one of the pirates had struck twice; all were killed by the first blow. "The dagger is mine!" said Eagle Head, drawing it smoking from the still palpitating body of the last bandit. "It is a good weapon for a warrior;" and he placed it coolly in his belt, after having wiped it upon the grass. The bodies of the pirates were scalped, and borne out of the camp. They were abandoned to the vultures and the urubus, for whom they would furnish an ample feast, and who, attracted by the odour of blood, were already hovering over them, uttering lugubrious cries of joy. The formidable troop of Captain Waktehno was thus annihilated. Unfortunately there were other pirates in the prairies. After the execution, the Indians re-entered their huts carelessly; for them it had only been one of those spectacles to which they had been for a long time accustomed, and which have no effect upon their nerves. The trappers, on the contrary, notwithstanding the rough life they lead, and the frequency with which they see blood shed--either their own or that of other people, dispersed silently and noiselessly, with hearts oppressed by the spectacle of this frightful butchery. Loyal Heart and the general directed their steps towards the grotto. The ladies, shut up in the interior of the cavern, were ignorant of the terrible drama that had been played, and of the sanguinary expiation which had terminated it. [1] All this scene is historical, and strictly true; the author was present in Apacheria, at a similar execution.] CHAPTER XV. THE PARDON. The interview between the general and his niece was most touching. The old soldier, so roughly treated for some time past, was delighted to press to his bosom the innocent child who constituted his whole family, and who, by a miracle, had escaped the misfortunes that had assailed her. For a long time they forgot themselves in a delightful interchange of ideas; the general anxiously inquiring how she had lived while he was a prisoner--the young girl questioning him upon the perils he had run, and the ill-treatment he had suffered. "Now, uncle," she said at length, "what is your intention?" "Alas! my child," he replied, in a tone of sadness, and stifling a sigh; "we must without delay leave these terrible countries, and return to Mexico." The heart of the young girl throbbed painfully, although she inwardly confessed the necessity for a prompt return. To leave the prairies would be to leave him she loved--to separate herself, without hope of a reunion, from a man whose admirable character every minute passed in sweet intercourse had made her more duly appreciate, and who had now become indispensable to her life and her happiness. "What ails thee, my child? You are sad, and your eyes are full of tears," her uncle asked, pressing her hand affectionately. "Alas! dear uncle," she replied, in a plaintive tone; "how can I be otherwise than sad after all that has happened within the last few days? My heart is oppressed." "That is true. The frightful events of which we have been the witnesses and the victims are more than enough to make you sad; but you are still very young, my child. In a short time these events will only remain in your thoughts as the remembrance of facts which, thanks to Heaven! you will not have to dread in future." "Then shall we depart soon?" "Tomorrow, if possible. What should I do here now? Heaven itself declares against me, since it obliges me to renounce this expedition, the success of which would have made the happiness of my old age; but God is not willing that I should be consoled. His will be done!" he added, in a tone of resignation. "What do you mean, dear uncle?" the maiden asked, eagerly. "Nothing that can interest you at present, my child. You had better, therefore, be ignorant of it, and that I should suffer alone. I am old. I am accustomed to sorrow," he said, with a melancholy smile. "My poor uncle!" "Thank you for the kindness you evince, my child; but let us quit this subject that saddens you; let us speak a little, if you please, of the worthy people to whom we owe so many obligations." "Of Loyal Heart?" Doña Luz murmured, with a blush. "Yes," the general replied. "Loyal Heart and his mother; the excellent woman whom I have not yet been able to thank, on account of the wound of poor Belhumeur, and to whom it is due, you say, that you have not suffered any privations." "She has had all the cares of a tender mother for me!" "How can I ever acquit myself towards her and her noble son? She is blessed in having such a child! Alas! that comfort is not given to me--I am alone!" the general said, letting his head sink into his hands. "And I?" said the maiden, in a faint voice. "Oh! you?" he replied, embracing her tenderly; "you are my beloved daughter, but I have no son!" "That is true!" she murmured, thoughtfully. "Loyal Heart," the general continued, "is of too proud a nature to accept anything of me. What am I to do? how acquit myself towards him? how acknowledge, as I ought, the immense services he has rendered me?" There was a moment of silence. Doña Luz inclined towards the general, and kissing his brow, she said to him in a low tremulous voice, concealing her face upon his shoulder: "Uncle, I have an idea." "Speak, my darling," he replied, "speak without fear; it is, perhaps, God who inspires you." "You have no son to whom you can bequeath your name and your immense fortune, have you, uncle?" "Alas! I thought for a time, I might recover one, but that hope has vanished for ever; you know, child, I am alone." "Neither Loyal Heart nor his mother would accept anything from you." "That I believe." "And yet, I think there is a way of obliging them, of forcing them even." "What is it?" he said, eagerly. "Dear uncle, since you regret so much not having a son to whom you could, after you, leave your name, why not adopt Loyal Heart?" The general looked at her, she was covered with blushes, and trembling like a leaf. "Oh! darling!" he said, embracing her, "your idea is a charming one, but it is impracticable. I should be happy and proud to have a son like Loyal Heart. You yourself have told me how his mother adores him; she must be jealous of his love, she will never consent to share it with a stranger." "Perhaps she might!" the young girl murmured. "And then," the general added, "if even, which is impossible, his mother through love of him, in order to give him a rank in society, should accept my offer, mothers being capable of the noblest sacrifices to secure the happiness of their children, he himself would refuse. Can you believe, dearest, that this man, brought up in the desert, whose whole life has been passed among unexpected, exciting scenes, in face of a sublime nature, would consent, for the sake of a little gold which he despises, and a name that is useless to him, to renounce that glorious life of adventures so full of pleasant and terrible emotions, which has become necessary to him? Oh, no! he would be stifled in our cities; to an exalted organization like his our civilization would be mortal. Forget this idea, my dear daughter. Alas! I feel convinced he would refuse." "Who knows?" she said, shaking her head. "God is my witness," the general resumed, earnestly, "that I should be most happy to succeed; all my wishes would be fulfilled. But why should I flatter myself with wild chimeras? He will refuse, I tell you! And I am forced to confess he would be right in doing so!" "Well, but try, uncle!" she said, coaxingly; "if your proposal be repulsed, you will at least have proved to Loyal Heart that you are not ungrateful, and that you have known how to appreciate him at his just value." "Do you wish it?" said the general, who asked no better than to be convinced. "I _do_ wish it, uncle," she answered, embracing him to conceal her joy and her blushes. "I do not know why, but it appears to me you will succeed." "Well, so be it, then," the general murmured, with a melancholy smile. "Request Loyal Heart and his mother to come to me." "In five minutes they shall be here!" she cried, radiant with joy. And, bounding like a gazelle, the young girl disappeared, running along the windings of the grotto. As soon as he was alone, the general hung down his pensive head, and fell into melancholy and deep reflections. A few minutes later, Loyal Heart and his mother, brought by Doña Luz, were before him. The general raised his head, bowed with courtesy as they entered, and with a sign desired his niece to retire. The young girl complied in great agitation. There only prevailed in this part of the grotto a faint light, which did not allow objects to be seen distinctly; by a strange caprice, the mother of Loyal Heart had put on her rebozo in such a manner that it almost entirely covered her face; so that, notwithstanding the attention with which the general looked at her, he could not succeed in discerning her features. "You have sent for us, general," Loyal Heart said, cheerfully, "and, as you see, we have hastened to comply with your desire." "Thank you for your prompt attention, my friend," the general replied. "In the first place, receive the expression of my gratitude for the important services you have rendered me. What I say to you, my friend--I entreat you to permit me to give you that title--is addressed likewise to your good and excellent mother, for the tender care she has bestowed on my niece." "General," the hunter replied, with emotion, "I thank you for these kind words, which amply repay me for what you think you owe me. In coming to your aid, I only accomplished a vow I have made never to leave my neighbour without help. Believe me I desire no other recompense but your esteem, and I am overpaid for the little I have done by the satisfaction I at this moment experience." "I should wish, notwithstanding, permit me to repeat--I should wish notwithstanding to reward you in another fashion." "Reward me!" the fiery young man cried, colouring deeply, and drawing back. "Allow me to finish," the general resumed, warmly; "if the proposition I wish to submit to you displeases you, well then you can answer me, and answer me as frankly as I am about to explain myself." "Speak, general, I will listen to you attentively." "My friend, my journey into the prairies had a sacred object, which I have not been able to attain; you know the reason why--the men who followed me have died at my side. Left almost alone, I find myself forced to renounce a search which, if it had been crowned with success, would have constituted the happiness of the few years I have yet to live. God is chastising me severely. I have seen all my children die around me; one alone would, perhaps, still be left to me, but him, in a moment of senseless pride, I drove from my presence. Now, in the decline of life, my house is empty, my hearth, is solitary. I am alone, alas! without relations, without friends, without an heir to whom I could bequeath not my fortune, but my name, which a long line of ancestors have transmitted to me without stain. Will you replace for me the family I have lost? answer me, Loyal Heart, will you be to me a son?" Whilst pronouncing these words, the general rose from his seat, seized the hand of the young man and pressed it warmly, his eyes filled with tears. At this unexpected offer the hunter stood astonished, breathless, and not knowing what to reply. His mother suddenly threw back her rebozo, and displaying her countenance glowing and transfigured, so to speak, with intense joy, stepped between the two men, placed her hand upon the shoulder of the general, looked at him earnestly, and in a voice rendered tremulous by emotion, exclaimed-- "At length, Don Ramón de Garillas, you recall that son whom twenty years ago you so cruelly abandoned!" "Woman! what do you mean?" the general asked, in a broken voice. "I mean, Don Ramón," she replied, with an air of supreme majesty, "that I am Doña Jesuita, your wife, and that Loyal Heart is your son Rafaël, whom you cursed." "Oh!" the general cried, falling on his knees, and with his face bathed in tears, "pardon, pardon, my son!" "My father!" Loyal Heart cried, springing towards him, and endeavouring to raise him up; "what are you doing?" "My son," said the old man, almost wild with grief and joy, "I will not quit this posture till I have obtained your pardon." "Arise, arise, Don Ramón!" said Doña Jesuita, in an affectionate tone; "it is long since the hearts of the mother and the son have felt anything for you but love and respect." "Oh!" cried the old man, embracing them closely by turns; "this is too much happiness--I do not deserve to be so happy after my cruel conduct." "Father," the young man replied, nobly, "it is owing to the merited chastisement you inflicted upon me that I have become an honest man; forget the past, then, which is now nothing but a dream, think only of the future, which smiles upon you." At this moment Doña Luz appeared, blushing and timid. As soon as he perceived her, the general sprang towards her, took her by the hand, and led her to Doña Jesuita, whose arms were opened to receive her. "My niece!" he said, with a face radiant with joy, "you may love Loyal Heart without fear, for he is really my son. God, in his infinite goodness has permitted that I should find him again at the moment when I despaired of such happiness!" The young girl uttered a cry of joy, and concealed her blushing face in the bosom of Doña Jesuita, abandoning her hand to Rafaël, who covered it with kisses, while he fell at her feet. EPILOGUE. It was a few months after the expedition of the Count de Raousset Boulbon. At that period the name of Frenchmen stood high in Sonora. All travellers of that nation whom chance brought into that part of America were certain, no matter where they stopped, to meet with a most kind and sympathetic welcome. Urged on by my vagabond humour, without any other object but that of seeing fresh countries, I had quitted Mexico. Mounted upon an excellent mustang, which a friend of mine, wood ranger, had lassoed and made me a present of I had traversed the whole American continent; that is to say, I had made, by short journeys and always alone, according to my custom, a ramble of some hundreds of leagues, crossing mountains covered with snow, immense deserts, rapid rivers, and impetuous torrents, simply as an amateur, in order to visit the Spanish cities which rise along the coast of the Pacific Ocean. I had been travelling for fifty-seven days as a mere wanderer, stopping wherever caprice invited me to pitch my tent. I was, however, approaching the object I had determined on, and I found myself within a few leagues of Hermosillo, that city which, surrounded by walls, possessing a population of fifteen thousand souls, and defended by eleven hundred regular troops commanded by General Bravo, one of the best and most courageous officers of Mexico, had been audaciously attacked by the Count de Raousset, at the head of less than two hundred and fifty Frenchmen, and carried, at the point of the bayonet, in two hours. The sun had set, and the darkness became greater every second. My poor horse, fatigued with a journey of more than fifteen leagues, and which I had overridden some days before in my endeavours to arrive at Guaymas sooner, advanced with great difficulty, stumbling at every step over the sharp stones of the route. I was myself excessively fatigued and was dying with hunger, so that I contemplated with very pitiable feelings the prospect of passing still another night under the starry canopy of heaven. I dread losing my way in the darkness; my eyes in vain scanned the horizon for a light that might guide me towards a habitation. I knew that several haciendas (farms) were to be met within the neighbourhood of the city of Hermosillo. Like all men who have for a long time led a wandering life, during which they have been incessantly the sport of events more or less contrary, I am endowed with a good stock of philosophy, an indispensable thing when one is travelling, particularly in America, where, for the most part, one is left to one's own industry without having the resource of being able to reckon upon any foreign aid. I made up my mind, like a brave traveller, renouncing with a sigh of regret the hope of supper and shelter. As the night grew darker and darker, and as it was useless to ride where I could not see, perhaps in a direction diametrically opposite to the one I ought to follow, I looked about me for a suitable place to establish my bivouac, light a fire, and find a little grass for my nag, which, as well as myself, was dying with hunger. This was not an easy matter in these countries calcined by a devouring sun, and covered with a sand as fine as dust. I, however, after a long search, discovered a miserable tree, in the shade of which a very scanty vegetation had sprung up. I was about to dismount, when my ear was struck with the distant sound of the steps of a horse, which appeared to be following the same route as myself, and which advanced rapidly. I remained motionless. Meeting with a horseman at night in the Mexican plains always suggests ample matter for reflection. The stranger we meet with may be an honest man, but it would be a safer wager to lay that he is a rogue. In this state of doubt, I cocked my revolver, and waited. My waiting was not long. At the end of five minutes the horseman came up to me. "_Buenas noches, caballero_," (Good evening, sir,) said he, as he passed. There was something so frank in the tone in which this salute was, as it were, thrown at me, that my suspicions vanished instantly. I replied. "Where are you going so late?" he said. "In good faith," I replied, ingenuously, "I should be quite delighted if I knew myself; I think I have lost my way, and, in that doubt, I was preparing to pass the night under this tree." "A poor bed that!" said the horseman, shaking his head. "Yes," I remarked philosophically; "but for want of a better I must content myself with it. I am dying with hunger, my horse is knocked up, and we do not either of us care to wander further in search of problematic hospitality, particularly at this hour of the night." "Hum!" said the stranger, casting a glance at my mustang, who, with his head lowered, was endeavouring to snap a few blades of grass, "your horse appears to be well bred; do you think he is so much fatigued that he could not manage to go a couple of miles, at most?" "Oh! he would go for two hours if necessary," I said, with a smile. "Follow me, then, in God's name," the stranger answered, in a jovial tone; "I promise you both a good bed and a good supper." "Which offer I accept for both with thanks," I said, making my horse feel the spur. The noble beast, which appeared to understand what was going on, fell into a very fair trot. The stranger was, as well as I could judge, a man of about forty, with an open countenance and intelligent features; he wore the costume of the inhabitants of the country, a broad brimmed felt hat, the crown of which was encircled by a gold band three fingers broad, a variegated zarapé fell from his shoulders to his thighs, and covered the quarters of his horse, and heavy silver spurs were fastened by straps to his vaquero boots. Like all Mexicans, he had, hanging at his left side, a machete, which is a sort of short and straight sabre, very much like the sword-bayonets of French foot soldiers. Conversation soon commenced between us, and was not long in becoming expansive. At the end of about half an hour, I perceived at some distance before me, issuing from the darkness, the imposing mass of a large house; it was the hacienda in which my unknown guide had promised me a good welcome, a good supper, and a good bed. My horse snorted several times, and of its own accord mended its pace. I cast a curious glance around me, and could discern the lofty trees of a huerta well kept up, and every appearance of comfort. I inwardly rendered thanks to my good star, which had brought about so fortunate a rencontre. At our approach a horseman, placed, no doubt, as a vidette, uttered a loud challenge; while seven or eight rastreros of pure blood, came yelping with joy, bounding around my guide, and smelling me one after another. "It is I," my companion replied. "Eh! come along, Belhumeur," replied the sentry; "we have been expecting you more than an hour." "Go and inform the master that I bring a traveller with me," cried my guide, "and be sure not to forget to tell Black Elk that he is a Frenchman." "How do you know that?" I asked, a little annoyed, for I piqued myself upon speaking Spanish with great purity. "_Pardi!_" he said laughing, "we are almost compatriots." "How so?" "_Dame!_ I am a Canadian, you understand, and I soon recognised the accent." During the exchange of these few words, we had arrived at the door of the hacienda, where several persons waited to receive us. It appeared that the announcement of my quality of Frenchman, made by my companion, had produced a certain sensation. Ten or twelve domestics held torches, by favour of which I could distinguish six or eight persons at least, men and women, coming forward to welcome us. The master of the hacienda, whom I recognized as such at once, advanced towards me with a lady hanging on his arm, who must have been a great beauty, and might yet pass for handsome, although she was near forty years of age. Her husband was a man of about fifty, of lofty stature, and endowed with a marked, manly countenance; around them clung, with staring eyes, five or six charming children, who resembled them too strongly not to belong to them. A little behind them, half concealed, in the shade, was a lady of about seventy and an old gentleman apparently not far from a hundred. I took in at a glance the whole of this family, the aspect of which had something patriarchal in it that attracted sympathy and respect. "Sir," said the hacendero kindly, seizing the bridle of my horse to assist me to dismount, "Esa casa se dé a vm (This house is yours); I can only thank my friend Belhumeur for having succeeded in bringing you to my house." "I must admit, señor," I said with a smile, "that he had not much trouble in doing so, and that I accept with gratitude the offer he was so kind as to make me." "If you will permit it, señor, as it is getting late," the hacendero replied, "and particularly as you stand in need of repose, we will go at once into the eating room; we were on the point of sitting down to table when your arrival was announced." "Señor, I thank you a thousand times," I remarked with a bow; "your kind welcome has made me forget all my fatigue." "We can easily recognise French politeness," said the lady, with a pleasing smile. I offered my arm to the lady of the house, and we proceeded to the eating-room, where, upon an immense table, was served an Homeric repast, the appetizing odour of which reminded me that I had fasted for nearly twelve hours. We took our seats. Forty persons, at least, were assembled round the table. In this hacienda was kept up the patriarchal custom which is now falling into desuetude, of allowing the servants to eat with the masters of the house. All that I saw, all that I heard, charmed me in this abode; it had a perfume of kindness about it which made the heart beat responsively. When the sharp edge of appetite was a little blunted, the conversation, which had languished at first, became general. "Well! Belhumeur," the grandfather asked my guide, who, seated beside me, was vigorously employing his fork, "have you found the track of the jaguar?" "I have not only found one track, general, but I fear the jaguar is not alone, and has a companion." "Oh! oh!" said the old man, "are you sure of that?" "I may be deceived, general, and yet I don't think I am. Ask Loyal Heart; I had something of a reputation yonder, in the prairies of the West." "Father," said the hacendero, making an affirmative sign, "Belhumeur must be right, he is too old a hunter to be at fault." "Then we must have a battue, to rid ourselves of these dangerous enemies. Is not that your opinion, Don Rafaël?" "That was my intention, father. I am glad you approve of it. Black Elk is warned, and everything is ready." "The hunt may take place as soon as is agreeable, everything is in order," said an individual of a certain age, seated not far from me. The door opened, and a man entered. His arrival was saluted with cries of joy. Don Rafaël rose eagerly, and went towards him, followed by his lady. I was the more astonished at this welcome, from the newly arrived guest being nothing but an Indian _bravo_, or independent; he wore the complete costume of the warriors of his nation. Thanks to the numerous sojourns I had made among the redskins, I thought that this man must belong to one of the numerous tribes of the Comanches. "Oh! Eagle Head! Eagle Head!" shouted the children, surrounding him with glee. The Indian took them in his arms, one after the other, kissed them, and got rid of them by giving them some of those little toys which the aborigines of America cut with such exquisite taste. He then advanced smiling, saluted the numerous company assembled in the hall with perfect ease, and took his place between the master and the mistress of the house. "We expected you before sunset, chief," said the lady, in a friendly manner: "it is not right to disappoint your friends." "Eagle Head was on the track of the jaguars," said the chief, sententiously; "my daughter must not have cause for fear; the jaguars are dead." "What! have you already killed the jaguars, chief?" said Don Rafaël, eagerly. "My brother will see. The skins are very handsome; they are in the court." "Well, chief," said the old gentleman, holding out his hand to him, "I see you are determined always to be our Providence." "My father speaks well," the chief answered, bowing; "the Master of Life counsels him; the family of my father is my family." After the repast, I was conducted by Don Rafaël to a comfortable bedroom, where I was not long in falling asleep, though my dreams were very busy with all I had seen and heard during the evening. On the morrow my host my hosts would not hear of my leaving them; and I must confess that I did not very strongly insist upon continuing my journey. Not only was I charmed with the friendly welcome I had received, but still further, a secret curiosity urged me to stay a few days longer. A week thus passed away. Don Rafaël and his family overwhelmed me with kindnesses; life passed with me as if in a continual enchantment. I do not know why, but ever since my arrival in the hacienda, all that I was witness of augmented that curiosity which had seized upon me from the first moment. It appeared to me that at the bottom of the happiness which I saw beaming in every face of this united family, there had been a long train of misfortunes. They were not, as I believed, people whose lives had flowed on calmly and tranquilly; I imagined, though I scarcely know why, that after being a long time tossed about upon the ocean of some trouble, they had at length found a port. Their countenances were impressed with that majesty which great sorrows alone can give, and the wrinkles which furrowed their brows appeared to me too deep to have been traced by anything but grief. This idea was so strongly impressed upon my brain that, in spite of all my efforts to drive it away, it incessantly returned, more tenaciously and more incisively. In a few days, I had become the friend of the family nothing regarding myself was unknown to them; they had admitted me to the closest intimacy. In this state, I had constantly one question on my lips, but I knew not how to shape it, so much did I fear committing a serious indiscretion or reviving old causes of grief. One evening, as Don Rafaël and I were returning from hunting, when we were within a few steps of the house, he placed his arm in mine. "What is the matter with you, Don Gustavio?" he said; "you are dull and preoccupied; do you begin to be tired of us?" "You cannot imagine that," I replied warmly; "on the contrary, I have no words to express how happy I am with you." "Well, remain then," he cried frankly; "there is still plenty of room for a friend at our hearth." "Thanks," I said, much affected, and pressing his hand; "I would that it could be so; but, alas! it is impossible. Like the Jew of the legend, I have within me a demon which, incessantly cries 'Move on!' I must accomplish my destiny." And I sighed. "Now, come," he resumed, "be frank! tell me what it is that occupies your thoughts; for several days past you have made us all very uncomfortable; nobody has dared to question you about it," he added, with a smile; "but I have taken my courage with both hands, as you Frenchmen say, and made up my mind to ask you." "Well!" I replied, "as you desire it, I will tell you; but I entreat you not to take my frankness ill, and to be assured that there is at least as much interest as curiosity in the matter." "Well, then," he said, with an indulgent smile, "confess yourself to me; don't be afraid, I will give you absolution--go on!" "I really should like to make 'a clean breast of it,' and tell you everything." "That is the way,--speak." "I have formed an idea, although I do not know why, that you have not always been as happy as you are now, and that it has been by long misfortunes that you have purchased the blessings you at present enjoy." A melancholy smile passed over his lips. "Pardon me!" I cried eagerly; "pardon the indiscretion I have committed! What I feared has come to pass! Let there be no more question between us, I conjure you, of my silly fancy!" I was really very much hurt at reflecting on my impertinence. Don Rafaël replied to me with kindness. "Why not?" he said; "I see nothing indiscreet in your question; it arises solely from the interest you have conceived for us: it is only when we love people that we become so clear-sighted. No, my friend, you are not wrong, we have all undergone a rude trial. Since you desire it, you shall know all; and perhaps you will confess, after having heard the recital of what we have suffered, that we have indeed purchased dearly the happiness we enjoy. But let us go in; they are probably waiting for us to sit down to table." That evening Don Rafaël retained several members of the family round him, and, after having ordered cigarettes and some wine to be placed upon the table, he said,-- "My friend, I am about to satisfy your excusable curiosity. Belhumeur, Black Elk, and Eagle Head, my father and mother, as well as my dear wife, who have all been actors in the drama of which you are going to hear the strange recital, will come to my assistance if my memory fails me." Then, reader, Don Rafaël related to me what you have just read. I must confess that these adventures, told by the man who had played the principal character, and before those who had so great a share in them,--I confess, I say, that these adventures interested me to the highest degree, which cannot be expected to be the case with you; they, necessarily, lose much coming from my mouth, for I cannot impart to them that animation which constituted their principal charm. A week afterwards I left my amiable hosts, but instead of embarking at Guaymas, as I had at first intended, I set out with Eagle Head on an excursion into Apacheria, an excursion during which chance made me the witness of extraordinary scenes, which I will, perhaps, relate to you some day, if these you have now read have not been too wearisome to you. THE END. 
45690	----	JACK, THE YOUNG TRAPPER _By the same Author_ JACK THE YOUNG COWBOY JACK THE YOUNG TRAPPER JACK THE YOUNG CANOEMAN JACK THE YOUNG EXPLORER JACK IN THE ROCKIES JACK AMONG THE INDIANS JACK THE YOUNG RANCHMAN PAWNEE HERO STORIES AND FOLK TALES BLACKFOOT LODGE TALES THE STORY OF THE INDIAN THE INDIANS OF TO-DAY THE PUNISHMENT OF THE STINGY AMERICAN DUCK SHOOTING AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING TRAILS OF THE PATHFINDERS [Illustration: "WE'VE GOT A BEAVER, I RECKON."--_Page 171._] JACK THE YOUNG TRAPPER _An Eastern Boy's Fur Hunting in the Rocky Mountains_ BY GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL Author of "Jack the Young Ranchman," "Jack Among the Indians," "Jack in the Rockies," "Jack the Young Canoeman," "Pawnee Hero Stories," "Blackfoot Lodge Tales," "The Story of the Indian," "The Indian of To-day," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER KING STONE [Illustration] NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY Twelfth Printing, January 22, 1936 _Printed in the United States of America_ FOREWORD A century ago the western half of the American Continent was unknown. Vast herds of buffalo and antelope swarmed over its rolling plains; elk and deer fed along its rivers; wild sheep and white goats clambered over its rocky heights; bears prowled through its forests; beavers built their dams and houses along every stream. Occasionally a group of Indians passed over the plains or threaded the defiles of the mountain ranges. A few years later the white man began to penetrate this wilderness. Beaver were growing scarcer, and men were forced to go further for them. So the trapper entered these unknown fastnesses and began his work. He followed up stream after stream, sought out remote valleys, crossed deserts. With rifle in one hand and trap in the other, he endured every hardship and exposed himself to every danger. He swam rivers, climbed mountains, fought Indians, and risked life in his struggle for fur. They were men of firm courage and stern resolution, those trappers of the early days. About their life and their work there is a romance and a charm that appeal powerfully to the imagination. Jack Danvers was fortunate in that the man who taught him some of the secrets of that now forgotten life was one who had borne a part in the work of subduing the wild west, and in laying the foundations upon which its present civilization is built. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A COUNCIL OF WAR 1 II. A PLEASANT SPRING RIDE 9 III. AN EXPEDITION FOR FUR 18 IV. MAKING READY FOR THE TRIP 27 V. THE START FOR NORTH PARK 37 VI. TO LARAMIE AND NORTH PARK 48 VII. A TALK ABOUT BEAVER 60 VIII. THE WATER FOWLS' SUMMER HOME 73 IX. A TROUBLESOME GRIZZLY 83 X. A BIG BEAVER MEADOW 95 XI. INDIAN BEAVER LORE 113 XII. PROSPECTING FOR FUR 126 XIII. A LION'S LEAP 140 XIV. SETTING FOR BEAVER 155 XV. THEY SKIN BEAVER 170 XVI. OFF FOR NEW TRAPPING GROUND 191 XVII. TRAPPING THE MINK 209 XVIII. THE ENGLISH PILGRIMS 228 XIX. THE FIRST BIGHORN 246 XX. DANGER FROM THE UTES 264 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "WE'VE GOT A BEAVER, I RECKON" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE TWO BOB-CATS PULLING AND TEARING AT SOME SMALL THING ON THE GROUND 106 A BEAVER APPEARED WITH A LONG STICK, WHICH HE PLACED WITH OTHERS ON THE ROOF 130 A BEAR, SITTING ON HER HAUNCHES, WAS LOOKING ALMOST DIRECTLY AT THEM 186 CHAPTER I A COUNCIL OF WAR "Well, Jack," said Mr. Sturgis, "I am glad to see you back again." "Indeed, Uncle George, you can bet I am glad to get back," replied Jack. "I tell you it just made my heart rise up to ride over the prairie to-day; it seemed to me that I never smelt anything so good as the odor of the sage, and the little birds that kept getting up out of the road and flying ahead of the team and alighting again, seemed like old friends. Then we saw some antelope and a coyote or two. I tell you it was bully. It seemed mighty good, too, to see Hugh after all these months." "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "it is good to get you back, and I hope you will have a good summer. Have you thought of what you want to do?" Jack shook his head. "No," he said, "I have not; it is good enough to be back. As soon as this storm is over I want to go out and take a ride and see the country again." "Oh, this snow won't last long, though it's a pretty rough night now. Where were you on the road when it began to snow?" asked Mr. Sturgis. "We were just about half through the Little Basin," said his nephew. "Hugh had been looking at the sky for quite a little while back, and said that it was going to snow. We drove pretty fast from the Troublesome until we got into the Big Basin; the snow didn't get very deep until about three or four miles back from here. From there on we had pretty slow driving." "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "suppose you go out and see if you can find Hugh, and ask him if he will come in here and sit with us for a little while; I want to talk with you both." "All right," replied Jack, and he disappeared in the direction of the ranch kitchen. It was about the middle of the month of May, and Jack Danvers, after a winter of hard work at school in the East, had come out by the Union Pacific Railroad to spend the summer at his uncle's ranch. His old friend, Hugh Johnson, had met him at the railroad station with a team of horses hitched to a spring-wagon, and the greater part of the drive of forty miles out to the ranch had been made in record time. Then it had begun to snow and blow furiously, and the last few miles of the distance had been passed over much more slowly. In these high altitudes in the Rocky Mountains, snowstorms are common in May and June; yet, though the snow may fall deep at such times, it lies on the ground for but a short time. Jack and his uncle had been talking after supper in the comfortable sitting room of the ranch; a fire of dry aspen logs burned merrily in the large, open fireplace, and their cheerful crackling contrasted pleasantly with the howling of the wind without. As Mr. Sturgis sat filling his pipe in front of the fire, he looked back over the years which had elapsed since he first began to take an active, vivid interest in this nephew of his. He remembered him as a small, pale, shrunken slip of a boy, who spent all his time curled up in a chair, devouring books; a boy seemingly without vitality and without any special interest in life. He remembered how the boy woke up and became alert when he had first spoken to him of the possibility of a trip to the West. How the little fellow had wondered at and enjoyed all the different incidents of life on a cow ranch; and how Hugh Johnson had taken to him, and instructed him in the lore of the prairies and mountains, in which Hugh was so well versed; and how year after year the boy had grown and strengthened, until now he was a young fellow of great promise. Within a few years the boy had changed from a child to something very like a man. While he was going over these years in his mind, Mr. Sturgis heard steps in the passage without, and then Jack's voice, and a moment later the door opened and Hugh Johnson and Jack stepped into the room. "Sit down, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "and fill your pipe; I want to talk with you. You sit down, too, Jack. We have matters to discuss which will be interesting to both of you, I think. It was pretty hard hauling this afternoon, wasn't it?" he continued, addressing Hugh. "Well, yes, Mr. Sturgis, it was so"; said the old man. "The snow finally got so deep that I would not force the horses. They are strong, and are willing, and they might have trotted, but we wasn't trying to catch a train, and they balled up pretty well in this wet snow, and I was afraid that they might slip and strain something. I reckon I told you that I had shod both of them, didn't I, when you said that you wanted me to go in for Jack?" "No," said Mr. Sturgis, "I don't remember that you did, but it was a good thing to shoe them; the roads between here and town are cruel on horses' feet, and, while one trip won't wear down a team's feet, still, they have work to do all summer, and there is so much gravel in this soil that their feet would be bound to get tender before summer is over." "Well," replied Hugh, "that's just the way I think. A pair of shoes in front will last them pretty nearly all summer, and when they are shod we know they won't get tender." While he had been talking, Hugh had whittled himself some tobacco, ground it fine between the palms of his hands, filled his pipe and lit it, and now he sat comfortably by the blaze, with his head encircled by a smoke wreath. "Well, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "I asked you to come in here so that we could talk about what you and Jack are going to do this summer." "Well," said Hugh, "that's for you to say, I reckon. I'm working for you--at least I'm supposed to be working for you, but it seems to me that for the last three or four years I haven't been doing much work, because I've been off playing with Jack every summer. Lord, son," he continued with a smile, "what great travelers you and me are getting to be! First we went up to the Blackfeet and played with them a season; that's when you counted your first coup; and then we went up with them another year, and came down south through the mountains and saw all them hot springs in that country, that they used to call Coulter's Hell, in old times; and then last year we went out to the big water in the west and paddled around in the salt water and got fish. You and me surely have got to be great travelers." "Well, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "I guess we will have to think up something for this year. Of course, you and Jack could sit around and look after the stock, just as the rest of us do here on the ranch, but I believe it would be better for you to go off and make a trip by yourselves. What do you think?" "Well, Mr. Sturgis," said Hugh, "it really would be pleasant to go off and make a long trip, and there's lots of good country left yet that Jack has not seen, but I don't think I get exactly what you mean. If you will speak a little plainer I will understand better." "It is like this, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis; "Jack is out here for the summer, and I want him to have a good time, and to see as much as he can of what there is in this country. It is all beginning to change here so fast that I am afraid the first thing we know the country will be full of people, and every time you want to ride off in some direction you will have to turn out for a wire fence, or you will get lost because there are so many roads running over the prairie. Where do you suppose you could take Jack this summer so as to give him a good time? Of course, I don't want you to take any chances, or to go where there is any danger, but, then, I know you won't do that, so I needn't speak about it." For some moments Hugh sat silently puffing at his pipe and staring into the fireplace, while Jack, on his left hand, watched his face with absorbed interest, wondering what he would say. Presently he raised his head, and turning to Mr. Sturgis, said, "Well, Mr. Sturgis, there's a mighty nice trip to be made in the high mountains down to the southward. It's a country where there's no possible danger that I can see, though, as you know, it's only a little while ago that the Utes wiped out Major Thornburgh's command. Now everything is peaceable, and likely to remain so, I reckon." "Where do you mean, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "down in the Parks of Colorado?" "Yes, sir, that's what I mean. It's a great hunting ground down there still, and besides that, it is a fur country. I have been through there many times, and I never saw any place in the southern country where beaver were so plenty; besides that, as you know, it is up in the high mountains and the fur is good till midsummer. If you all think well of it, Jack and I could go down there and spend a couple of months trapping beaver, and if we have good luck, we might make quite a stake. We wouldn't need to carry much in the way of grub, for the country is full of game, and there are even some bison down there, though it ain't likely that we would get to see any of them. I don't know of any prettier mountains, or where you can live better than you can down there; deer, elk, antelope, sheep, trout, and birds, till you can't rest. That seems to me about the nicest trip one could make without going off far; what do you say to it?" "That sounds good to me, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis. "What do you think about it, Jack?" "Why," said Jack, "it sounds awful good to me. I never thought of making a trip this year. I just thought that I was to come out here and loaf around the ranch, and hunt, and help with the stock." "No," said Mr. Sturgis, "I think it is better for you to be off in the mountains by yourselves, and if Hugh's plan suits you, it suits me, and you can say that it can be carried out." "Splendid!" exclaimed Jack. "But, Hugh," Mr. Sturgis went on, "what's the shortest way to get there; and how would you go?" "Well," said Hugh, "if we should go, I'd say the best way to do would be to take two or three pack horses and start from here with them. Of course, you can drive a wagon all the way down there, through North and Middle and South Park, but I wouldn't want to take a wagon if I could help it. If you wanted to go up in the mountains, why, you'd have to come back to that wagon. You can't make any cut-offs, or short side trips; you've always got to get back to your wagon again. I say, take some pack animals, and then you will be perfectly foot-loose, and can go where you want to and as far as you want to. If I should go that way, I would start from here, go down the Muddy, cross the Medicine Bow, follow up Rock Creek, and cross over to the Laramie, and follow up the Laramie until I got into North Park. From there, it's plain sailing, either through the valley or among the mountains. Son, here, is a good packer, and with a simple outfit like that we can make good time." "Then, when you get into the high mountains," said Mr. Sturgis, "you think you can get some beaver, do you?" "Yes," assented Hugh, "unless things have changed there almightily within a few years. The last time I came through there, I was looking for beaver sign and it seemed to me that all the streams up the mountains were full of beaver, and, as I say, up there in that high country they hold their coats well, and you can trap them until July or August. Indeed, I have known of men that trapped right on through the whole summer, but I don't think it's a good thing to do." "Is there any other fur there?" said Mr. Sturgis. "Not much else," answered Hugh. "Of course, there are some marten, and now and then a wolverine or two, but you can't get them until the snow comes. Mink are not worth much, and otter are so few that you might as well count them out of the question, too; but there are some bears; in fact there should be a good many bears, and their coats are good until July; but if we are going to trap, beaver are what we would have to depend upon. Maybe we might catch a bear or two in a dead fall, but I wouldn't bother to take along one of those big steel traps on the chance of getting one or two hides with it. Those traps are not worth bothering with if you have a long way to go. They are all right to set around the ranch, if you think you need a bear hide, or if you have got a wagon to drive around in, but I have no use for them on a pack. I have heard lately that some of these pilgrims that come from the East and are stuck on getting bears, put out baits and set traps near them, but I never could see any fun in that sort of thing. If you want to hunt bears, why, hunt them, and prove that you are more cunning and skillful than they are. It's no fun to set a trap, and then when a bear gets into it to crawl up and shoot it. It is some fun to get the best of the shyest and wildest animal that goes on four legs, but I don't see where the fun comes in in trapping them, and then crawling up on them and killing them. It's too much like chopping a chicken's head off--and that wouldn't be very much fun for any of us." "I agree with you, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis; "but you know there are all sorts of people back East, just as there are all sorts of people here, and some of those men who come out to hunt, take back great stories about the bears that they have trapped, and about the danger that they were in when they killed the bear. Of course, that does not seem to us very honest, but there are braggarts all over the world." "That's so, Mr. Sturgis," said Hugh. "I guess the frauds are not confined to any one part of the country; you find them 'most everywhere." "So you do, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, as he knocked out his pipe against the stones of the fireplace. "Well," he went on, "about the trip that you and Jack are going to make. Let's think it over for a day or two, and if it still seems good to you, the sooner you start the better." "Very well," said Hugh. "The sooner we get started the better the fur will be, and the longer it will last. We'll chew on it for a day or two, son, and see what we can make out of it." So saying, Hugh rose from his seat, knocked out his pipe, and saying good-night to Mr. Sturgis, disappeared down the passage. Before long Jack and his uncle went to bed--Jack to dream of the glories of the trip, and the beaver he was to trap. CHAPTER II A PLEASANT SPRING RIDE When Jack arose the next morning and looked out of the window on the little valley below the house, and upon the side of the mountain, he saw the ground covered with snow, which glistened in the brilliant sunshine. It did not take him long to get into his clothes, and he rushed through the house and out the kitchen door and down toward the corral. Over the hills beyond the barn a number of horses were galloping, with streaming manes and tails, and behind them was Joe, zig-zagging back and forth, occasionally snapping forward the end of his trailing rope to hurry up the laggards. It was a good sight--one that Jack had not seen for a couple of years--and he ran on down toward the corral, but suddenly a thought struck him, and he stopped, turned, and started back to the house. When he burst into the kitchen again, he said, "Oh, Mrs. Carter, please give me a couple of lumps of sugar for Pawnee; I want to see if the old horse will know me, and whether he does or not, I want to be friends with him." He ran back into the sitting room and got the old whistle which he had taught his horse to obey, and put it in his pocket. Seizing the sugar which Mrs. Carter had put on the table, he hurried down to the corral. When he got there, the horses for the day's riding were being caught up, and he entered. He had long ago lost the old fear that he had had as a little fellow, that the frightened horses would run over and trample him. Stepping out into the middle of the corral, he looked at the bunch of twenty or thirty horses which stood there sleepily, as long as they were undisturbed, but were quick enough to move about and try to dodge the rope when it was thrown at them. By this time the men had caught all their horses, and Joe walked over to the gate, ready to open it as soon as Jack had caught his. Jack called to him, "Say! wait a minute, Joe; I want to try an experiment;" and he put the whistle to his lips and blew the old call that he had been accustomed to use for Pawnee. The horse was standing partly hidden by two or three others, but the moment the whistle blew he raised his head, and turned and looked at Jack. Jack stood perfectly still for a moment or two, and then blew the whistle once more, and the horse stepped forward over toward Jack, with his head up, his ears thrust forward, and an expression of great interest on his countenance. Again Jack blew the whistle, and this time he reached out his hand toward the horse, which again took three or four steps and stopped only a few feet from Jack, reaching out his nose to Jack's hand, as if trying to smell it. Jack put his hand into his pocket and laid a lump of sugar in his palm, and whistled once more, and the horse stepped forward and took the sugar, and as he crunched it in his teeth, stepped forward again, so that his head was close to Jack's shoulder. Jack patted him very gently, and then slipped the rope over his neck and knotted it and began to rub the horse's head and ears. Gradually--as it seemed to Jack--the horse's memory awakened, and after a few moments Jack felt quite confident that Pawnee recognized him and was glad to see him. The horse rubbed his head vigorously against Jack's shoulder, and seemed to enjoy being petted. As their old friendship seemed to be resumed, Jack called to Joe to open the gate, and after he had done so the horses walked out. Some of them had already shed their winter coats, but on others the long hair hung down three or four inches below their necks and bellies. The dust and dirt of the corral was full of shed hair, and great wads of it were lying about everywhere. Just as Jack started out with Pawnee, to take him to the barn, Hugh passed by and said, "Does he know you, son?" "I really think he does, Hugh," said Jack. "At first he didn't, though he remembered the whistle, and recognized the sugar when I held it out to him, but now I believe he knows who I am. It's pretty hard on him to have to remember me, for I expect I have changed more or less in appearance every year, and you know it's two years now since I have seen the old horse." "Yes," said Hugh; "I don't wonder that he was a little slow to know you, but after all, a horse has a long memory, and inside of twenty-four hours it will all come back to him. I reckon that to-morrow he will likely come right up to you in the corral or on the prairie." "He's fat and in fine condition, isn't he, Hugh? He looks to me to be in the bulliest kind of order for a trip." "Lord, yes," said Hugh, "he's fat enough, for I don't think he has done anything for two years. Your uncle would not let him be ridden last year, he was so much afraid that something might happen to him. I shouldn't be a little bit surprised if he would kick and crowhop quite a little when you first get on him. I don't believe he would really pitch, but he's likely to pretend to. He looks fatter than he really is, though of course he's fat enough," the old man went on, "but that long winter coat of his makes him look as round as a ball." "Yes," assented Jack, "it does, of course; and what tremendous coats these horses get in this country, don't they?" "Yes," said Hugh, "they have to; for, as you know, it is fearful cold here in winter, and, of course, the horses are out on the range all the time and they've got to do something to keep themselves warm, so they grow these long coats. Look at this now!" and walking up to Pawnee he put his hand under his brisket, and pulling a little from side to side took off a great patch of hair and held it out to Jack so that he could look at it. There were seen the roots of the long hairs sticking up through a sort of fur or down, such as may be seen next to the skin of an elk or a deer when it is shedding its winter coat. "There," said Hugh, "do you see that fur that grows next to the skin? Most animals in this cold climate develop that during the winter, and you can see that it's almost like the fur on the otter, the beaver, or the muskrat. It must keep out the cold in great shape." "I declare," said Jack, "I never saw that on a horse before. I did see it once on an elk that we killed in the spring; I think it was the first year I came out here, when I hunted with John Munroe. I have seen this same kind of fur on a St. Bernard dog, too; the animals that the monks keep up on the tops of the mountains in Switzerland, away up above timber line, and that they use in winter to look for people who get lost in the snow in the mountains. They have just that kind of double coat, with long hair on the outside and a sort of fur underneath, next to the skin." "Yes," said Hugh, "I guess all animals that live in cold climates get that same kind of coat." While he was speaking, the horn blew, and Jack took Pawnee to the barn and tied him up, and then he and Hugh went in to breakfast. "Well, Jack," said Mr. Sturgis, as they sat at the table, "have you and Hugh had a consultation yet over what you are going to do?" "Not yet, Uncle George," said Jack; "but I guess we will during the day, and we will be able to tell you to-night what our decision is." "This snow will melt right away, and the grass has started enough for you to go off on your trip any time now," said Mr. Sturgis. "And I suppose," said Jack, "if we are going off, the sooner we get started the better. Isn't that so, Hugh?" "I reckon it is, son; and if we're going to try to get any fur of any kind, the sooner we start the better the fur will be. It won't be long now before the animals begin to shed. Of course, a bear hide is good till well into June, and the higher up the animal lives, the longer the coat stays good. Why, in old times, we used to trap all through the summer, but, of course, if we caught fur low down on the prairie it did not bring us the price that prime pelts brought." "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "make up your minds what you want to do, and report to me to-night." "All right, sir," said Hugh, and he and Jack went down toward the barn. "What are you going to do to-day, Hugh?" said Jack. "Why," said Hugh, "Mrs. Carter said that they were all out of fresh meat, and I thought I'd go off and see if I could kill a buck antelope. That's about all that's fit to kill now. Of course, we might go up on the mountain and hunt around, and perhaps find a mountain sheep, but I don't go much on sheep meat at this time of the year." "Why, how's that, Hugh? I thought sheep meat was the best meat there was, except, perhaps, buffalo meat." "Ever eat any in spring time?" said Hugh. "No, of course I never did. I guess you've always been with me when I've eaten sheep meat, and you and I have never killed a sheep in the spring." "Well," said Hugh, "if you kill a sheep now you'll find its meat tastes and smells so strong of garlic that perhaps you'd not care to eat it. I've eaten a good many queer things, but I'd never eat sheep meat in the spring; that is, for choice." "Why is that, Hugh?" said Jack. "I'll tell you," replied Hugh. "About the first green thing that springs up in these mountains is the wild leek, and the sheep, hungering for something green, hunt this up and eat it whenever they find it. The result is, that they taste of it, strong. Didn't you ever hear of that before?" "No, indeed," replied Jack; "that's news to me. I do believe, though, that once in a while when I have been in the country in the spring the milk of the cows has tasted of garlic or onions, and they told me it was because they had been eating the wild leek." "That's straight enough," replied Hugh. "I have drunk cow's milk in spring, out in this country, that tasted strong of sage. Now, you know well enough, without my telling you, that the meat of the sage hen tastes strong of sage, because they feed on it all the time, and didn't Mr. Fannin tell us last year that the hogs and chickens that fed on the dead salmon could not be eaten because they were so fishy? It seems to me he did." "It seems to me he did, too, Hugh. I believe you're right about that." "Well," said Hugh, "I guess that's common enough. I've tasted beef and buffalo both that tasted mighty strong of garlic." "Why, yes, Hugh, I remember now, you told me all about this last year. You told me about it at the same time that Mr. Fannin told us about the hogs and chickens which could not be eaten on account of having fed on the dead salmon. I had forgotten all about it." "Yes, son, I thought we had talked it over before." "Well, Hugh, you explain a good many things to me, and I am afraid I forget some of them." "Well, son, you can't remember everything. Let's go down and saddle our horses now." They went down to the barn and saddled up. Hugh's was a handsome young black horse, nervous and full of spirit, but with a good disposition, and Jack could not help admiring the quiet way in which Hugh walked up to and soothed the horse, talking to him and patting him in a friendly way that seemed to overcome the animal's fears. Pawnee flinched when the saddle blanket was put on, and again when the saddle struck his back, but Jack talked to him and petted him and he stood quietly while the saddle was being cinched. "It will be a good idea for you not to draw that cinch too tight at first, son," said Hugh, "and then to lead him around a little; if he wants to buck, let him buck with the saddle." This seemed good advice to Jack, and he led the horse out of the barn. Pawnee acted a little wild, and kept jumping when a stirrup knocked against his side, but he made no attempt to get rid of the saddle, though nervous about the noise that it made. "He's all right, Hugh," said Jack, "I'll leave him standing here while I run up and get my rifle and cartridge belt." He threw down the reins and the rope, and the horse stood quietly enough by Hugh until Jack returned. Then taking the rope off his neck, he tied it to the saddle, thrust his gun in the scabbard, and throwing the reins back over the horse's head, slowly and carefully mounted. Pawnee stood very quietly, but turned his head around as if curious to see what this weight was that he now felt on his back, and then at a touch of the spur moved off, and Hugh and Jack soon passed over the hill and out of sight of the ranch. As the day advanced the sun grew warmer and the field of snow was dazzling. "We ought to have blackened our faces before we started out," said Hugh. "This is just the kind of day to get a bad attack of snow blindness." "Yes," said Jack, "I can see that's so, but this snow isn't going to last the day out. See how many patches of bare ground are beginning to show, and how the water is running off into the ravines." "That's so," said Hugh. "If it were not for the way it's going it would be a good idea for us to tie our handkerchiefs across our noses. Anyhow, I don't want to get an attack of snow blindness; it's mighty painful, I can tell you, and every time you get it it makes your eyes weaker and more liable to another attack if you are out in the bright sunshine when the ground is covered with snow." "Were you ever snow blind?" asked Jack. "Yes," replied Hugh, "I've been snow blind, but I never had a real bad attack. I've been so that I couldn't see, and the way my eyes hurt was something awful, but it always passed off in a few days. I never had an attack like I've seen some men have, where they would be blind and suffering for weeks at a time." "Where are you going to look for that antelope, Hugh?" said Jack. "Why, I think we might go up toward the head of the Basin and then swing over onto the east side. It's warm over there, and a good many antelope coming back in spring get over there and stop for a while before they scatter out through the Basin. We're likely to see plenty of them this morning, and if we do, it does seem to me that we might as well kill a couple. If you and me are going on a trip pretty soon there won't be anybody here to kill meat for the ranch." "All right," said Jack, "I'd like first rate to kill an antelope again. It seems to me a long time since I've shot at one, and I'd like to find out whether I've forgotten how to shoot." "Well," said Hugh, "you're not likely to have forgotten how to shoot, but your gun may be a little strange to you after such a long rest." The two rode quietly along for some miles without seeing anything more than a few birds that rose from the brushy ravines which they passed, or an occasional coyote trotting over the whitened prairie on his way to some place to take his nap for the day. Down on the lake below could be seen many water fowl, and over it a great flock of these would rise and fly about in the air for a long time, and then alight again on the water. Sometimes the groups of birds formed a black spot in the sky, and then swinging out into long lines looked almost like the smoke of a locomotive carried off over the prairie. It was pleasant riding. Every moment it seemed to grow warmer and warmer, and the snow disappeared from the hills with startling rapidity. CHAPTER III AN EXPEDITION FOR FUR Hugh and Jack had ridden some miles across the Basin without seeing any game except a few distant antelope, for which they did not turn aside. The hills, as they grew more and more bare of snow, were already beginning to turn green with the new grass which showed among the sere and yellow tufts of last year's growth. The buds were swelling on the trees and bushes which grew in the ravines they crossed, but as yet no leaves had begun to appear. Yet, all over the prairie, on and under the bushes, were seen numbers of small birds, some of them migrants on their way to the north, others summer residents that were building or were about to build their nests. Now and then was heard the distant hooting of the sage grouse. After crossing the valley and climbing the hill on the other side of the Basin, they came out on a rolling table-land, from which the snow had almost disappeared, though here and there long lines of white were seen marking some ravine shaded from the direct rays of the sun. Over the plain before them were scattered many antelope, and Hugh said, "Now, son, watch out sharp, and let's get our meat as soon as we can, and get back." As they rode along, they approached the top of each hill carefully, Jack keeping a little behind Hugh, who rode up very slowly to the crest, and before showing anything more than the top of his head, scanned the country beyond. They had passed over one or two such rises, when Hugh slowly bent his head, turned his horse, and rode back toward Jack, saying, as he reached him, "There's a bunch of antelope just over the hill, and they may be just what we want; I saw the backs of two that were feeding; we better creep up there and see what they are, and remember, a dry doe, or even a yearling doe is likely to be better than a buck, and if you get a chance, kill one; I'll do the same." Dropping their horses' reins and loading their rifles, they returned to the hilltop. Hugh went slowly and carefully, bending lower and lower as he approached the crest, and finally dropped on his knees, and crept forward. At last he stopped and very slowly raised his bared head, for he had left his hat behind him, to take another look; then, with the same slow motion, he lowered his head, and turning, motioned Jack to come beside him. As Jack reached him, Hugh whispered, "There's a big buck off to the right that you can kill, and there's another buck right in front of me that I'll take after you've shot. Get ready now, and kill your animal." Cocking his rifle, Jack slowly raised his head, and in a moment saw the black horns of an antelope that was looking off over the prairie. He waited an instant, and then, as the animal lowered his head, he rose up a little higher, drew a careful bead on the spot that Hugh, years ago, had told him to shoot at--the little dark curl of hair just behind the foreleg--and fired. The antelope rushed away, and immediately a dozen others that had been still nearer to the hunters and out of sight, followed him. They ran part way up the next slope and then stopped nearly a hundred and fifty yards off, and as they did so, Hugh's rifle came to his shoulder and he fired. The animal that he had shot fell in his tracks, and the others rushed off over the hill. The hunters rose to their feet, and went back to the horses, picking up their hats on the way. When they were in the saddle, Jack said to Hugh, "Did you see anything of my buck?" "No," said Hugh, "I don't feel sure whether he fell into the ravine as they crossed, or whether he went on. I heard the ball strike him, though, and I reckon we'll find him presently." Riding over toward the animal that Hugh had shot, they crossed the ravine, and just as they were rising the hill, Hugh stopped his horse and said, "There's your buck," and pointed down the ravine where, seventy-five or eighty yards from them, the antelope was seen standing with his head down, evidently unable to go further. Jack pulled up his horse and looked at the animal, and said, "I don't know whether I had better give him another shot, or wait for him to die." "Well," said Hugh, "I reckon if I was you, I'd get off and shoot him again; he's hard hit, but sometimes one of those fellows will give you a chase of three or four miles if he gets frightened, even though he may have a mortal wound." "All right," said Jack, and he dismounted, and stepping back behind the horses, he shot from the shoulder, and the antelope fell over and was hidden in the brush of the ravine. It took but a short time to clean Hugh's buck and put it on the horse, and a few minutes later, Jack's was similarly tied on his horse. Both animals had fair heads, but Hugh had said, "It's not worth while to pack all this extra weight back to the ranch; we may as well cut it down as low as possible so they had removed the heads and necks and shanks, before tying the carcasses behind the saddles with the buckskin strings with which they were provided. While they were doing all this, the sky had become overcast and the wind had begun to blow up cold from the west. They mounted their horses and started back for the ranch, stopping at the first snowbank, where, in the moist snow they washed the blood from their hands. "Well," said Hugh, "this wind is blowing up right cold; if we had a sheltered place to sit down, I would like to smoke a pipe, but as we haven't, I reckon we better keep on across the valley until we find a lee over there where we can sit and smoke and talk." But by the time they had crossed the valley the sun had come out again, and Hugh said, "Now, son, if we keep poking right along and don't stop, we will get back to the ranch in time to get some dinner. I move that we do that, for I'm right wolfish." "Good enough," replied Jack, "that will suit me; we'll have all the afternoon to smoke and talk." They were yet half a mile from the ranch when they heard the dinner horn, but after they had hung up their meat, unsaddled their horses, and got into the house, they found the men were still at the table, and sat down with them. How good that first dinner did taste to Jack after his morning's ride! There was the last of some elk meat, killed the fall before by Hugh, potatoes, canned tomatoes, and lots of good bread, and plenty of milk and cream. Joe said to Jack, as he watched him eat, after he had finished his own meal, "Eat hearty, Jack; it's a mighty good thing to enjoy your victuals like you do!" "Well," said Jack, "I've enjoyed lots of good meals in my life, but it seems to me that this is the best I ever did eat, and this milk is splendid, too. I can drink a quart of it." "It's something you don't get often on a cow ranch in this country," said Joe. "'Pears like the more cows a man has, the less milk he gets; but I tell you it's a mighty good thing to have, and it helps out the eatin' wonderfully." "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "it always seemed to me that it is worth while to have the best food there is going, just as far as you can afford it." "You had better drink all you can, son," said Hugh, "because if you and me are going off for a trip, to be gone two or three months, you won't see any milk for a mighty long time." Jack grinned as he replied, "Don't be afraid, Hugh. I'm going to fill myself just as full of the good things as I possibly can, and when I get where I can't have them, why, I will enjoy the things we can have just as much as I know how." "That's good philosophy, Jack," said his uncle; "stick to it; always get the best you possibly can, but never grumble if that best is pretty poor." Dinner over, Hugh and Jack adjourned to the bunk house, and there, sitting in its lee in the warm sunshine, they began to discuss their plans. "Now, Hugh," said Jack, "what do you think about our summer's trip? Tell me all you can, for I want to know what is coming. Of course whatever you say goes." "Well, son," said Hugh, "you have traveled and hunted and seen Indians, but there's one thing you have not done; you haven't done any trapping. It seems to me that it would not be a bad idea for you to learn something about that. I used to be a pretty fair trapper in my young days, and I reckon we can go down south here in the high mountains and perhaps get some fur; not much, but enough, maybe, to pay our expenses, and then we can come back here and turn it in to Mr. Sturgis as a sort of pay for our time and for the use of the horse flesh we have had." "That seems to me a bully idea, Hugh; it does seem a shame for me to come out here every year and take you away from the ranch for all summer, for I suppose that, of course, my uncle pays you right along?" "Sure he does," said Hugh. "He paid me my wages that season we spent up in the Blackfoot country, and again when we came down through the mountains, and again out in British Columbia, just the same as if I had been here hunting and wrangling horses for the ranch, working thirty days in every month. Of course, he does this on your account, he don't do it on my account; he does it because he is fond of you, and wants you to have a good time, and wants you to learn things about this Western country. I'm a kind of hired school teacher for you, and I tell you, Jack, I like the job, and I reckon you do, too. The reason I speak to you about it now is because you're older, and you ought to think about things more, and not just take the good things that come to you, like a hog under an acorn tree." "Of course, Hugh, I understand, and I'm glad that you speak to me like this about it; but what do you mean by 'a hog under an acorn tree'?" "Why don't you know that old saying about a hog going along and eating the acorns under an oak tree and never stopping to think where they come from, or who sends them? I expect it's just because he's a hog." "No," said Jack; "that's new to me." "Well," said Hugh, "I reckon it's a mighty good saying. To go back," he resumed; "now we can go down into the high mountains south of here on the other side of the range and trap, and maybe get a few beaver. Of course beaver ain't worth much now, but they are worth something. If we were out on the prairie down in the lower country it wouldn't be worth while to do it, because beaver fur gets poor early in the summer, but up in the mountains, where I think of going, fur is good all the year round--better in the early spring than it is late in the summer--but it's good enough all the time." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "what particular place did you think of going to?" "I thought of North Park," said Hugh. "There are high mountains there, plenty of game and fish, and it used to be a great country for beaver. It's a good many years since I've been in there. It must be a dozen years or more. Last time I crossed through there I had been camping on Henry's Fork of Green River, along with Ike Edwards, old John Baker, Phil Maas, and Dick Sun. That was a good bunch of men; mighty few like them in the country now. They were all old-timers, and all had skin lodges and lived there with their women in the country near Bridger, and in winter moved into houses which they had on Henry's Fork. I reckon I'll have to tell you something about them some of these days, but now we'll stick to our trip. "North Park is high up, with mountains on both sides of it, mighty high mountains, too, and if there are any beaver living in that country, we will probably he able to find them. Beaver is about all the fur that's worth bothering with. There are not many marten, and if there were, the fur would not be good now. Of course, you may get a bear or so, and each bear would bring about seven or probably ten dollars, if we kill them before they begin to shed. Beaver is worth three or four dollars a pound. That would make a skin worth about five or six dollars--that is, a good skin. It's a good deal of a trick to skin a beaver and dry his pelt in good shape. It's one of them things, of course, that you have got to learn. "On the other hand, beaver trapping is mighty hard work, and you had better know it beforehand. You've got to be in the water more than half the time, and have to get your beaver back to camp and skin 'em, and by the time you have been running to your traps, getting your beaver, setting your traps, packing your catch to camp and skinning it, you will think you've done a mighty good day's work. All the same, son, you're pretty husky, and there's no reason why you should not do a full day's work, but I tell you one thing we had better do, because it will add a whole lot to our comfort--we had better get rubber boots for both, before we start out, so that we won't get any wetter than we have to get. I have had a touch of rheumatism in past years, and I don't want to get any more of it." "That seems bully, Hugh," said Jack. "I'm willing to work harder this year than ever before, and I'm bigger and stronger and better able to do work than I ever was before. I'll try to hold up my end just as well as I can." "Well," said Hugh, "it ain't like as if we were stone broke, and trying to make a raise to carry us through the winter. We needn't work any harder than we feel like, but when I tackle a job I like to make it a good one, and I reckon you feel that way, too." "Yes," said Jack, "that's the way I feel about it, for that is the way the people I think most of in the world have always talked to me." "That's good sound sense, my son," said Hugh. "Now tell me, Hugh, how do we go from here down into North Park?" "It's quite a ways," replied Hugh; "eight or ten days' march. We go from the ranch down the Muddy to the Medicine Bow, up that river quite a little way, and then cross over the divide to the Big Laramie and follow that up into the Park. That takes us pretty well on to Laramie City, and I guess we may as well go there anyhow, if we are going to get the rubber boots I spoke about." "In that case we ought to start just as soon as we possibly can, oughtn't we?" said Jack. "I understand that the sooner we get onto the trapping grounds the better the fur will be." "You're dead right," said Hugh, "and I'd rather start to-morrow than the day after." "Well," said Jack, "is there any reason why we should not start to-morrow?" "I don't know of any," said Hugh; "but your uncle is the doctor, and he'll have to tell us what to do." "Well," said Jack, "what's the matter with hunting him up and finding out?" "All right," said Hugh, "let's look for him." Mrs. Carter, when asked as to the whereabouts of Mr. Sturgis, said that the last she had seen of him he had started down toward the blacksmith's shop, and there, a little later, Hugh and Jack found him and Joe busy tinkering with some iron work needed for the horse rake. The two stood around and watched the blacksmithing for a time, and then Mr. Sturgis looked up with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "You two look like scouts that have come in to make a report; what is it?" "You tell him, Hugh," said Jack, and so Hugh reported the conversation which had taken place and the conclusion that they had reached. "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "I don't know but you are right, but whether you start to-morrow or next week there is no reason why you should not get your stuff together and have it all ready to pack on the animals. If I were you, I would go and get out your pack riggings, select the horses you want to use, and get Mrs. Carter to put up your grub." "Hurrah!" said Jack, and he threw his hat up to the roof, and then felt much mortified when it fell into the forge bucket and he dipped it out all wet; he then rushed out of the shop toward the house, while Hugh followed more slowly, going to the store room to get out the pack saddles and their riggings. CHAPTER IV MAKING READY FOR THE TRIP A little later, when Jack came into the storeroom, he found three pack saddles and three blankets with various other pieces of the riggings strewn upon the floor. Lying by each saddle was its lash rope and cinch, its sling rope and the hackamore for the animal. A pile of saddle blankets rested in one corner of the room, from which those required for the trip would be selected. Hugh was rummaging in the storeroom, and presently came out carrying a piece of canvas and a small sack, from which he took a palm, a large sail needle with a crooked point, a piece of beeswax, and a ball of heavy thread. These he put on the floor, and then taking up the piece of canvas he cut from its side a long strip about fifteen inches wide. "What are you going to do, Hugh?" said Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "we're liable to have considerable climbing to do in the mountains, and while probably we won't have to make any long drives nor climb any very steep hills, yet we may want to do both. If we have anything of that sort to do, we want to keep the backs of our horses in good order. If our animals are carrying any loads these will have a tendency to slip off backward when the horse is going up hill, or to slip off forward when coming down hill. I believe we'll save ourselves and animals both, if we rig up breast bands, and breechings, too, on these saddles. Of course, one of them has a crupper already, but that does not amount to much. I believe we'd better do what I've said, and then we're pretty sure that the loads, if they are properly lashed, will stay put, and won't be giving us everlasting trouble." "How many packs do you intend to take, Hugh?" "Why," said Hugh, "I should think three will be a plenty; one to carry our beds, war sacks, and tent; one to carry our mess outfit and grub; and one to carry our fur, if we get any. The third horse will go light for part of the way, and then later we can use him to save the others. Of course, we could get along with two animals, but not so well, if we're going to bring anything back with us; and, of course, there's always a probability of that, though, on the other hand, we may not get anything at all." "Well," said Jack, "three packs aren't much to bother with, and we ought to be able to travel fast with them." "No," said Hugh, "three won't be much trouble, and we can get a good start every morning, if we want to." While they had been talking, Hugh had set a saddle upright on the floor and had run a rope in front of it about where the animal's breast would come, and then brought the rope back to the side of the saddle; measuring the canvas by this, he cut off three strips, and then doubling them over he took the palm and sail needle and with waxed thread stitched the two edges together so that he had a double thickness of canvas, six or eight inches wide and long enough to reach from one side of the saddle to the other, around the animal's breast. Similar bands were cut and sewed for breeching, and then Hugh pointed out to Jack where one difficulty lies in using such aids to travel. "You have got to have the breast band so low that it will press on the breast and not on the throat, otherwise you stop your animal's wind--choke him. Again, if you have it too low, and if it isn't held up by anything from above, it's likely to drop down to the animal's knees. Probably the best way for us to do is to run a string through one edge of the band, bring it up, and pass it over the horse's neck and down through the edge on the other side. There's less danger, of course, of the breeching slipping down, because it will catch on the animal's hocks. Still, I think I'll try and see if I can find a couple of cruppers for these other saddles, and then we can tie the supports for the breeching to the crupper band, midway of where it runs back from the saddle. Really, to make good breeching we ought to have it so that it can be shortened up or lengthened out, and so that it will fit any animal that the saddle is put on. I don't see how we can get along without straps and buckles, but as we haven't got any, we'll just put on a couple of snaps, two or three inches apart. I'll go ahead and sew the breeching and the breast straps on one side, anyhow, and after we get up the animals, we can fit them." "By the way, Hugh," said Jack, "how much grub will we want to take with us? I told Mrs. Carter that we would be gone for a couple of months; was that right?" "Yes," said Hugh, "we'll be gone a couple of months, anyhow, I should think, maybe more, but, of course, we expect to live mostly on what we kill. We'll need coffee, sugar, bacon, and flour, and baking powder, but it seems to me that it's not worth while for us to take much of that sort of thing from here. If we're going to stop in Laramie City, we can buy all that stuff there right on the railroad, and in that case, we only need to take from here a fifty-pound sack of flour, a little bacon, and a little coffee and sugar. Maybe Mrs. Carter would bake us bread enough to last us for a few days, and that would save us wrestling with frying-pan bread for a while. I reckon she would do it, if you asked her." "All right," replied Jack, "I'll ask her, and I bet she'll do it, too. She has always been mighty nice to me." "Yes," said Hugh, "she's a mighty nice woman." For a little while Hugh sat silent, busy with his work of sewing up the bands of canvas and attaching them to the saddles on the off side. Presently he said, "Look here, son, it 'pears to me you're not doing much work." "No," said Jack, "that's so, but I don't know enough to make those breast bands and breeching to help you, do I?" "No," said Hugh, "I had better do this part of the business myself, but don't you see these riggings have got to be fitted to the animals? Now, why don't you go out and saddle up and bring in the horse bunch, and then we'll pick out the animals we need for the trip." "All right," said Jack, "I'll go," and he started for the door. "And while you're about it," said Hugh, "stop up at the house and tell Mrs. Carter that we shan't want much grub. It may save her lifting down a lot of heavy flour sacks, and that's no work for a woman, anyhow." "Good!" said Jack, and he ran up to the house and explained to Mrs. Carter what Hugh had said. A little later he was in the saddle, and spurring Pawnee over the hills north of the ranch, looked for the horse bunch. He knew about where they would be found at this time of the day, and at this season of the year, and before long he rode over a hill and saw them scattered out before him over a level hay meadow on which the grass was just beginning to be green. In a few moments he had rounded them up and started them toward the corral, but without hurrying them, for in the bunch there were a number of little colts that were rather shaky on their spindly, crooked legs, and he did not want to hurry them. In fact, as they trotted along toward the ranch, he let several of the old mares and colts drop out by the way, trying only to keep the young horses headed for the ranch. Presently the bunch trotted over the last hill and down to the gate of the corral, and stopped. Jack rode around to one side, got off and dropped his reins, let down the bars, and then remounting rode behind the horses and drove them in. Then he hitched Pawnee to the fence, and went into the storeroom to report to Hugh. Hugh's job seemed to be over, though one end of each band of the breeching and the breast straps was still free from the saddle. "Well," said Jack, "you've worked pretty fast, Hugh, haven't you? I have the horses all in now, and if you'll come out and pick the ones you want, I'll catch them and tie them up, and we'll let the others go again." Hugh rose to his feet and went up to the corral, carrying with him the three hackamores that belonged to the saddles they had selected. He looked over the bunch very thoughtfully, and then said to Jack, "Catch that bay with the bald face and the white hind feet." Jack stepped into the corral and threw his rope, but the bald-faced bay dropped his head and crowded in among the other horses so the rope slid off. Coiling the rope again, Jack stepped forward to the bunch, and as the horses started to run around the corral he made a quick throw and caught the bay, and led it over to where Hugh stood. Then he put the hackamore on it and took it out to the gate and tied it to the fence. "Now catch the big dun," said Hugh, and in a few minutes Jack had him, and the hackamore was put on him. "Now," said Hugh, "take that heavy-set, iron-gray colt. He's only three, and don't know nothing, but he's gentle enough and it's time he learned. We'll let him be the third of the pack animals, and when he comes back he will be a good pack horse. "Now let the others out," said Hugh, after Jack had brought over the iron gray. "We'll put these horses in the hay corral to-night, and then when morning comes we'll know where they are; but first we've got to fit these saddles to them. Let's go down and bring up the blankets and the saddles and see how they go." One after the other the pack saddles were cinched on the horses, each one having a good roll of blankets under it. "These confounded horses are so fat now," said Hugh, "it's a hard matter to make the saddles stick on them anyway. It's a good deal like trying to cinch up a barrel; but they'll lose flesh after they've been on the road a little while, and luckily there's no load for them to carry just now. I'm putting on more blankets than I would if these horses were a little thinner. I hate to put too many blankets under a saddle. It's just as bad as not putting enough, and mighty likely to make a horse's back sore." "Now," said Hugh, after the saddles were all in place, "let's measure these bands, and then we'll mark them with a pencil and this afternoon or to-night I'll fix them up so that they'll be in shape to put on to-morrow morning." The work did not take long. The breast and breeching bands were brought around against each animal's breast and hips, and the place where they should be attached on the near side was marked with a pencil. After this was done, the saddles were taken off, the horses, with their hackamore shanks tied up, were turned into the hay corral, and Hugh and Jack went back to the storeroom. While Hugh continued his work on the saddles, Jack sat cross-legged on the floor watching him and asking many questions. "Are you going to take a tent with you, Hugh?" said Jack. "Yes, sir," said Hugh. "I can get along all right without a tent, when I know it ain't going to rain or snow, but when I know it's going to rain I am powerful partial to some kind of shelter. Of course, if we had a small lodge, and we were sure we could get lodge poles wherever we went, I'd prefer a lodge, but as we can't have just what we want, I'm going to have a tent. Your uncle has got the nicest kind of an A tent with jointed poles, and I expect he'll be willing to let us have it. At least, I'm going to ask him for it. I don't reckon it will be in use at all this summer. You must understand that up in the mountains, and especially at this season of the year, we're likely to have lots of rain, and maybe some snow, and certainly plenty of thunder storms. Now, of course, you can get along all right when it's wet, and you can cook in the rain and eat in the rain and eat wet grub, too, if you have to, but I've always found that a man was just a little bit better off and more comfortable if he kept dry, and I've found, too, that it doesn't take much more work to keep dry than it does to keep wet. These jointed poles are the greatest things out. When they are taken apart they are about three or four feet long; there are only six pieces. They lash first class, and make a good top pack. They give you a chance, too, to put up a tent wherever you are, and into the tent you can bring all the things you want to keep dry. 'Most always you can arrange things so that you can do your cooking under some sort of cover, and even if you do get a little damp you can dry off in front of the fire, go to bed dry, and sleep dry at night. Your saddles, your ropes, and your blankets all are kept dry, and that helps you a whole lot in getting away in good shape and season in the morning. It only takes a few minutes to put up a tent, but those few minutes and the extra work will be more than paid for some night When perhaps it snows hard, and you know that if your things were lying out in the weather it might take you half a day or all day to go around and dig them out of the snow, or in fact you might have to wait until the snow melted before you could find them again." "Well, Hugh, it seems to me it's a pretty good idea to take a tent, especially if we're likely to strike such weather as you tell of." "We're likely to, of course," said Hugh; "but that doesn't mean that we will. I've seen it perfectly fair up there in them mountains day after day and week after week, but then, again, I've seen it rain and snow for weeks at a time. Yes, we'd better take a tent by all means, unless it is going to be in the way." Hugh had finished his work on the pack saddles long before supper time, and the two went up to see what grub Mrs. Carter had laid out, carrying with them two rawhide panniers, which were to hang one on either side of a pack saddle, and in them they packed the grub and carried them back to the storeroom. The load was a light one, and Jack did not stagger under his share of it. After supper that night, Mr. Sturgis talked with Hugh and Jack and told them that he agreed with them that they had better start as soon as they could, and be gone as long as they liked. "You will be pretty close to the settlements all the time, I take it," he said to Hugh, "and if either of you feel like it, I should like to have a letter from you from time to time, telling me how you're getting along and what you are doing. Of course, I don't want to have you feel obliged to carry on a correspondence with me, but whenever you do get within reach of a postoffice let me hear from you that you are all right. I know you are both pretty well able to take care of yourselves, and I shan't do any worrying about you, but I have a curiosity to know what fur you find, and generally what you see down there in those high mountains. I have never been down there myself, and if I had the time I should like to go with you. I hear that there is some great fishing in those streams. To-morrow morning I will get out my trout rod and reel and some flies, and you had better take the outfit with you. You should be able to carry it so that it won't break, and very likely there will be a good many times when you can catch some fish. You won't suffer for things to eat, because there is plenty of game in those mountains down there. You will have a good time, and maybe you will catch beaver enough to make a coat apiece. Do you expect to see any Indians, Hugh?" he asked. "Why, yes, Mr. Sturgis, I reckon we will see some Utes, but they are all quiet now, since they killed their agent and had a fight with Thornburgh's command. I always had an idea that the truth of that business never came out, and that the Utes had a good deal more to stand than any of us know about, before they broke out the way they did. I lived down on the edge of their country once, for several years, and knew most of the Uinta Utes, and they were always good and kind people, and brave, too. You know they were always at war with the Pawnees, Sioux, and Cheyennes, and in fact with pretty much all the Plains people, and they generally managed to hold up their end pretty well, too." "Well," said Mr. Sturgis, "when can you get ready to start?" "Why, I reckon we can get off soon after day to-morrow morning, if you think best," said Hugh. "By all means," said Mr. Sturgis. "You haven't wasted any time, have you? Got everything ready?" "Yes," said Hugh, "everything. I was thinking that maybe we would not take much grub along with us; not more than enough to last for six or eight days, and then we could buy the supplies for the main trip at Laramie, if you think best." "That's a very good idea, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "and you had better do it. I will give you an order on the store at Laramie for whatever you want, and you can travel light until you get there; then you will have to load up heavy, but there is a good road down into the Park, I hear, and perhaps you can cache a part of your supplies down there, after you get there." "I guess that's a good idea," said Hugh. "Maybe we'll do it." "Well," said Hugh, after a pause, "if it's all settled we start to-morrow morning, I reckon I'll say good-night and go to bed." Jack and his uncle sat a while longer in front of the fire talking, and then they went to bed. CHAPTER V THE START FOR NORTH PARK It was just gray dawn next morning when Jack awoke and tumbled out of bed. As he passed the corral on his way down to the bunk house, he saw Hugh moving about among the horses, and entering, found that the pack animals were all saddled. "Hello, son!" said Hugh, "I'm glad to see you stirring. We want to get our loads out, so that as soon as we've eaten breakfast we can pack up and go. You better roll up that bed of yours and bring it down here and put it with mine over there against the fence, and then we want to bring down the grub and the mess kit, and make up our packs." For a little time both were busy journeying to and fro between the house and the corral, carrying down loads of food, the small mess kit packed in a soap box, the ax, the hatchet, the Dutch oven, packages of ammunition, and their guns. Hugh showed Jack how to lash together the six pieces which made up the two uprights and the ridge pole of their small tent, and then with a number of pieces of canvas and some lengths of rope, Hugh began to make up the packs for the pack animals. "While I'm working at this, son," he said, "do you go up and put the saddles on the riding horses. Don't cinch them up, but just draw the latigos tight enough to hold the saddles in place, and have the bridles handy; and, by the way, you'd better get that coil of half-inch rope that's in the storeroom. We'll take all that along, for we may need picket ropes before we get back. Ropes are something that are awful easy lost on a trip." Jack got the rope, which he threw down with the other things over which Hugh was working, and then went up and saddled Pawnee and Hugh's black. He watered both horses, and then tied them in their stalls and left them munching their hay. When he returned to the corral, Hugh had apparently finished his work, but while they had three pack horses, there were only two loads piled up. Jack looked about for a third, and Hugh noticing this, said, "You see, son, we've got so little to pack that we may as well put it all on two horses and let the third one go without a load. You see, when we buy our grub at Laramie, we can stick a good part of it on him, and put more on the other horses as well. As it is now, neither of the loaded horses will have had more than half what he ought to carry." The call to breakfast came about this time, and after the meal was over all hands went down to the corral and stood around while Hugh and Jack packed their horses. A few moments later they had mounted, turned their pack train loose, and after shaking hands all around and saying good-by to Mr. Sturgis, they started down the valley. For some miles the ride was a familiar one to Jack, for he had passed over it a number of times on his hunting trips and on his way to the Powell ranch. He had nothing special to do except to keep the pack animals close up to Hugh and to prevent them from turning off and trying to return to the ranch. This they kept doing for the first few miles, and at last Jack quite lost patience with them and began to ride fast after them, chasing them back at a gallop so that at times they ran ahead of Hugh. After he had been doing this some little time, Hugh stopped and motioned to him to come up to him. When Jack had done so, Hugh said, "If I were you, son, I'd be more quiet with the horses. The more you run them, the harder they'll be to manage, and you're liable to wear out the horse you're riding if you keep charging up and down in this way. You can always handle a horse easier if you do it quietly than if you lose your temper. You know we've talked about that two or three times before, and I've told you that your way of getting mad at a horse did not go." Jack felt quite penitent when Hugh spoke to him in this way, and answered: "I know you are right, Hugh; I do get mad at these miserable horses. They seem to have no sense at all, and keep trying to turn around and go back." "Well, now," said Hugh, "I'll tell you. You say they have no sense. Perhaps they don't understand what we're trying to do and where we are trying to go. I'll go over there and sit down and smoke, and while I'm doing that it might be a good idea for you take each one of the horses off by itself and tell it where we are going to, and why we are going, and why he must not go back." For a moment Jack felt rather silly, and then he burst out laughing and said, "Hugh, you are the queerest chap I ever saw. I never met anybody that could make a fellow see so plainly what a fool he was making of himself. It's pretty silly to get angry at these horses because they don't want to leave their range; how could they be expected to know anything about going in one direction or another? I will try to keep my temper better, and handle the horses with better judgment." "Do so," said Hugh. "But now, I tell you what we can do. Suppose you lead for a while if you feel like it, and I'll follow and drive the horses. All you've got to do is to keep straight ahead down the valley, and along toward night we'll come to the mouth of the Muddy and camp there." "No, sir!" said Jack. "You go ahead and lead; there's where you belong, and I'll follow and drive the horses; it will give me a lesson in patience, and that is something that I need. You and the Indians we have hunted with have taught me to be patient in hunting, but I have not learned to be patient with horses." "All right," said Hugh, "I'll go ahead, or I'll come behind, just whichever you please; but if I'm to go ahead, you drive the horses with good sense." "I'll try," said Jack, and from that time on the horses, very largely owing to the way in which they were treated, went along much better. There was little that was interesting on the road for the greater part of the day. On either side of the stream stretched the wide sage plain of silvery green. Beyond this plain, to the right, rose the tall naked hills, almost blood red, while to the left, as far off, was a yellow, chalky bluff. Among the red hills Jack had several times been hunting deer and elk, and just beyond the chalky bluff was Bate's Hole, where Jack had killed his first mule deer. It was but a little after noon when Hugh stopped his horse, and when Jack had come close to him, said, "Son, there are some antelope over this next hill, and we need fresh meat; why not slip off your horse and go up to the top of the next hill and see if you can find a buck that you can kill." "All right," said Jack. He jumped from the saddle, threw down the reins and started for the crest of the ridge beyond. As he slowly and carefully advanced, he saw, not far ahead of him, a pair of small horns, which he knew must belong to a yearling buck antelope, and dropping on his knees, he crept forward until close to the ridge; then slowly raising his head, he saw but a short distance from him a fine young buck antelope looking across the valley and standing broadside on. Jack raised his gun and fired, and the antelope fell, while a half dozen others not seen before rushed into view from behind the hill and scampered off into the plain. The one that Jack had shot struggled to his feet and stood with lowered head, facing in the direction in which its comrades had gone. Jack threw his rifle to his shoulder again, intending to shoot once more, but the antelope looked as if it were badly wounded, and he did not think that it could run far. Turning about, he signaled Hugh to come on, saw him ride over to Pawnee, grasp the bridle reins and start towards him. Then Jack slowly walked over the crest and up to the antelope. There was, of course, a possibility that the animal might run, and Jack cocked his rifle and held it at a "ready," but the antelope, shot through the lungs, was breathing heavily and was in no condition to run away. Still, it kept its feet, and Jack was doubtful as to how to handle it. He certainly did not care to go in front of it and take it by the horns, and he did not like to put down his gun and attempt to stab it with his butcher knife. Finally he put down the gun close by the antelope, and stepped up behind it with drawn butcher knife, caught its hind leg and tried to hamstring it. It was not until then that he realized something of the strength of even so small an animal as this. It kicked and struggled, and Jack, while he managed to keep his hold of the leg, was shaken and twisted about in a way that greatly astonished him. He dared not let go, for fear the antelope would run away, but he had no idea as to how long the struggle would last. However, after a minute or two, which seemed to him like a very long time, the antelope's efforts grew weaker, and finally it fell over on its side. By the time Hugh had come up with the horses, Jack had cut the little buck's throat. "What was the matter?" said Hugh. "You seemed to be having quite an active time down here." "Active time!" said Jack, "I should say so! I had no idea that an animal as small as this antelope could shake me up as he did. I made a poor shot, for I hit him too high up, and from the way he breathed, I think I just cut the upper part of his lungs. I shall have to practice shooting if I am going to help keep the camp supplied with meat this summer." "Oh, don't you bother about practicing," Hugh said. "Two or three shots will get you back into your old way again, but that's a regular green-horn trick to shoot too high. It seems to me that mighty few people know how low the life lies in any animal. I keep telling you where to shoot at in an antelope, and you must remember it." "Of course you do, Hugh," said Jack; "I know that well enough. I try to shoot at that little curl of hair; that's what I aimed at, but you see I drew my sight too coarse." "Well," said Hugh, "just a little shooting is what you need, and you'll get plenty of that in a very short time now." Hugh got off his horse, and they began to skin the antelope, which was a very short operation. The hide strips off an antelope very easily, just as the hide strips off a deer. Jack noticed that on his side Hugh kept turning under the edge of the skin, so that the hair side was always next to the ground or else turned well under the edge. Jack, on the other hand, simply laid the hide on his side on the ground, and twisted and pulled it about; sometimes the flesh sides would come together, and some of the antelope hair rubbed off on the body. Hugh said to him, "You might as well learn to skin an antelope right, son. You know the hair smells quite strong, and if you let the hair touch the meat, the meat gets this smell and tastes of it. Lots of people don't like that taste, and so I always make it a point to keep the hair from touching the skin. You see how I'm working it on my side, always keeping the flesh side to the body." "I see," said Jack, "and now that you have told me, I see why you do it. Of course I've tasted the flavor of the antelope hide in the meat, and I don't like it a bit, myself. I will remember that after this in skinning. Are there other animals, the meat of which is affected by the touching of the hide?" "Well," said Hugh, "the meat of the tame sheep gets an awful strong taste if the wool is allowed to rub against it, and sometimes I think the meat of the wild sheep gets the same taste; anyhow, it's just as well to keep the hair side of the hide away from the meat of the animal it belongs to. At best the hides of these animals are full of dirt and dust, and there is a common prejudice against making that sort of thing your food. We have to eat a lot of it, of course, but at the same time we don't want to eat any more than we have got to. You take the hide of a deer or an elk or a buffalo, just after you have stripped it off, rub your hand down the outside of it, and see what a lot of dirt you will get on your hand. Of course, the Indians don't think much about a little thing like that, and perhaps the average plainsman don't, but I've noticed a few times how very dirty these hides are, and it seems to me worth while to be as clean as we can with the skinning." The antelope being lifted off the hide, its body was rested now for a moment on the top of a sage bush, while Hugh went to his saddle and from one of the strings behind it untied a cotton sack. The antelope was quickly quartered and the pieces packed in this sack, which was lashed on the unloaded horse, and they went on. Camp was made that night some miles above where the Muddy runs into the Medicine Bow River. There was no timber, but the grass was good, and there was plenty of sage brush and some dry willow bushes, so that they had fuel enough to cook their meals. By the time the horses were picketed and the coffee was boiling, it was dark. The day had been warm and bright, and as the night was clear, they decided that it was not necessary to put up the tent. After supper they sat by the fire, Jack questioning Hugh about the country they were going to. "You have talked to me a good deal about the Northern countries, but I don't know that you have ever said anything about the Parks of Colorado, and I don't know just what they are. Of course, we will see them before long, but I should like to have some idea of the country before we reach it." "Well," said Hugh, "I can tell you pretty clearly what these Parks are like. They are just big basins of open country lying between ranges of high mountains. In some places they are fifteen or twenty miles across and twice as long as they are wide, and the mountains on either side are very high--not like the mountains back of the ranch, but running away up above timber line. There are no people in North Park, though I believe within the last two or three years some folks have begun to drive cattle in there for the summer; but in Middle Park and South Park, which are nearer Denver, there are some settlements. In North Park and in Middle Park there is lots of game--in fact, I reckon it's one the greatest game countries there is left now. You will find elk, deer, antelope, sheep, and maybe a few buffalo, but no moose, and no white goats. If you imagine a big plain like the Basin we have just come over, with high mountains all around it, you will have a pretty good idea of North Park. "There's a wagon road from Laramie into the Park--a good wagon road, but after you pass Pinkham's you won't see any settlers until you get over the divide into Middle Park. The North Platte heads in North Park, and, of course, there are no fish in that. Then you ride over a low divide and strike one of the heads of Grand River, and there, even up in the shallow water in a small brook you can catch lots of trout." "Why is it, Hugh, that there are no trout in the Platte River?" "I reckon a thousand people have asked that question, and nobody has ever been able to answer it, so far as I know. We all just know that there are no trout in the stream, but why it is, nobody can tell. Neither in the Platte River nor in any stream that runs into it, so far as I know, are there any trout, and it does seem queer."[1] [1] In recent years the North Platte River has been stocked with trout. "Why, yes, Hugh, that does seem queer; but where do the trout come from that are in the other Rocky Mountain streams? I know that they are not the same kind of trout that we have back East. Those have red spots, and these have black ones." "You just can't prove it by me," said Hugh; "but I've always believed that they came from the other side of the mountain, over the range. How they got over to this side, I do not know, but I reckon that there are ways for fish to move about and get scattered over the country, that maybe you and I don't know anything about. There's one place up north of here where there's a little spring right on the crest of the mountain, from which the water flows both ways. That is to say, it flows down into the Yellowstone on one side and into the Snake River on the other, and so from this same spring water goes to the Atlantic Ocean and to the Pacific Ocean. Now, of course, it might be possible for a trout from the west side of the range to push his way up a western stream until he got into this little spring, and then he might push his way down the stream, which runs east, and where one fish went another might follow; and so that stream might get stocked. It may be that in times past there have been a number of places like that where a fish could climb over the range. Mind, I don't say that is the way that it happened, but it seems to me it might have been that way." "That's mighty interesting, Hugh," said Jack; "I never heard of that place before. What do they call it?" "Why," said Hugh, "they have a good name for it, they call it 'Two Ocean Spring.' Long ago I heard of it from mountain men a great many times, and I have been there once or twice. It's in the right high mountains just east of that Yellowstone Park that we came down through two years ago. They call the two little creeks that run out from it, Atlantic Creek and Pacific Creek, and these seem to me to be very good names for them, too. I heard that not very long ago a government outfit crossed over there and made a map of the country." "Jerusalem!" said Jack; "that's one of the places I'd like to go to." "Well," said Hugh, "you're likely to see just as pretty places as that in these mountains this summer. The little pool up there, that these two streams run out of, is just like any other little shallow lake on top of a divide, and there isn't any wonderful scenery there. It's a good game country, though not any better, I think, than what we came through when we made that trip with Joe two years ago; but it is a pretty country to travel through; open parks and quaking aspen groves and high peaks of mountains sticking up every little while. Oh, yes, it's a real nice country." "Well," said Jack, "I would like to go there, but dear me! what a lot of country there is out here, and how much time it would take to visit all of it!" "That's so," said Hugh, "there's a right smart of country that I have never seen, and I have been out here a pretty considerable time." For a little while both sat silently looking into the fire, and listening to the sharp barks and the shrill wailings of a coyote perched on a hill not far from them. The noise made seemed to Jack to be enough for a half dozen animals, and yet he suspected that very likely it was all made by one. At last he spoke to Hugh about it, and said, "How many of those coyotes do you think there are yelling out there, Hugh?" "Well, I don't know," said Hugh; "there must be at least one; he makes plenty of noise, doesn't he?" "I should think so," said Jack. "I thought there must be at least half a dozen." "No, I don't think so," said Hugh; "if there were more than one, you would be apt to distinguish their voices, and there would be barking at different times. Instead of that, if you will listen to this fellow you'll hear him bark and then howl and stop, and then bark again. I reckon he's hungry, and is trying to call up a partner, and to-morrow morning they will go hunting together and try to kill a rabbit or two, or maybe pull down an antelope. They are queer beasts." "Yes," said Jack, "and mighty cunning, I expect." "Lord, yes," said Hugh, "they are cunning enough. A fox is a fool to one of those coyotes." CHAPTER VI TO LARAMIE AND NORTH PARK They were up before light next morning, and by the time the sun had risen, the little train had started off southward. Crossing two low divides, they found themselves, before noon, on Rock Creek, and traveled up that without incident until late in the day. Everywhere scattered over the valley and the bluffs, antelope were feeding in good numbers. About the middle of the afternoon Hugh proposed that they should stop and smoke and let the animals feed for a little while, and they did so. The men lounged in the shade of a clump of bullberry bushes, for the sun was hot. After half an hour's rest, Hugh said, "Well, son, let's gather up these horses and be moving. We want to get beyond Rock Creek Station to-night. I don't think much of camping in or close to a town, and especially not close to Rock Creek. There's where they unload considerable freight for the ranches up north, and there's usually a good big crowd of bull-whackers there, and most of them drunk. Let's get by there before we camp." They were stepping out to get the horses, when Hugh stretched out his hand and touched Jack, saying, "Hold on a minute, son, what's that coming down the creek?" Jack looked, and could see far off a flock of birds coming. They were stretched out in a line and seemed to have white bodies with black tips to their wings. "What are they, Hugh?" he said, as they both crouched on the ground and watched the distant birds. "I'm not sure," replied Hugh. "There are mighty few birds that are white with black tips to their wings. These might be white geese or white cranes or gulls or pelicans. They can't be gulls, for they don't fly right, and they are not white cranes, I am sure. They are either geese or pelicans, and we'll soon know which." The birds drew nearer and nearer, and presently Hugh said, "They are not geese, either; they must be pelicans. I hope they'll come over us, for they'll make a fine show, and I reckon they will follow the water." Very slowly, as it seemed to Jack, the great birds approached. He was astonished at their tremendous spread of wing and at their curious appearance. They flew in single file, nine of them, the bill of each just about so far from the tail of the bird before it. Their necks were crooked so that the back of the head seemed to rest on the body, and Jack could not but think that in this matter they carried themselves just like herons. Their enormous yellow bills shone in the bright sunlight, and the feet stretched out behind were yellow, but seemingly paler than the bills. To Jack two or three of them seemed to have a wash of gold color on the side of the head, but except for that they were pure white all over except the black wing tips. On steady wing they followed the windings of the stream, not more than thirty or forty feet above the water, passed the travelers without noticing them, and then disappeared down the stream. "My!" exclaimed Jack, as they grew smaller in the distance, "that was a fine sight, Hugh. I never expected to see anything quite like that. I did not know that there were many pelicans in this country, though, of course, there are plenty of them further west, at least that's what the books say." "Yes," answered Hugh; "there are lots of them out West, especially in Utah and Nevada, so I've heard, but there are a few scattered all over the Western country. Now and then one sees them up in Montana, and sometimes down here, and pretty much everywhere, but it's a long time since I've seen a lot together this way." "Well," said Jack, "I'm mighty glad they came along just when they did." A few minutes later the train was in motion, and not long before sunset they passed through the town of Rock Creek. As Hugh had said, much freighting was going on here, and many wagons with white tilts were drawn up side by side, while at a distance on the prairie, herds of stock fed, each watched by a herder. Scattered about near the different groups of wagons, were the camps of the bull-whackers, and a few men were seen, though most of them were presumably in the cook tents eating their suppers. The train had almost passed through the camps, when from between two tents a hundred yards off to one side, Jack saw a little man run out, turn and run down toward another camp, and almost immediately behind him was another much larger man who carried in his hand a good stout club. The little man did not run so fast as the one behind him, and presently the pursuer overtook him and began to beat him with the club. The second or third blow knocked the small man flat to the ground, but he did not remain there, and springing to his feet, he turned and caught the tall man around the neck with his left arm and in a moment the tall man fell to the ground, while the little fellow walked off. It had all happened quickly, and almost by the time Jack had called Hugh's attention to it, the little fellow had quickened his steps and was now running away from the camp. As Hugh and Jack looked back they could see dark stains spreading over the white undershirt that the large man wore, and it was evident that the little fellow had stabbed his antagonist. Almost at once from three or four directions men came running toward the wounded man, and a little later two or three men rushed out from tents, carrying rifles and cartridge belts. Jack had said to Hugh, "Oh, Hugh, that man is wounded; shan't we go over and help him," to which Hugh had replied, "Don't you do it, son; let us get ahead as fast as we can and not mix up with these fellows' quarrels. You can't tell what these half-drunken men will do. They are liable to try to knock one of us off our horse if the notion takes them. The best thing we can do is to put as much ground between them and us as we can. There's one comfort," he added; "if they do shoot at us they can't hit us." Meantime, shots were sounding out on the flat, and Jack could see the little man running hard for the distant bluff, while behind him two or three men were running or staggering and shooting with pistols and rifles. Before very long, Hugh and Jack had put two or three miles between Rock Creek and themselves, and just after sundown they camped in a pleasant part of the valley where there was good grass and water, but not much wood. While Hugh was cooking supper, a man came along on horseback and stopped to speak with them. Hugh asked him if he would not alight and have a cup of coffee, and he accepted. "Have you men just come from Rock Creek?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said Hugh. "We have just passed through there an hour ago. A lively place, isn't it?" "Too lively for me," said the stranger; "I've got charge of that bull train, and those drunken bull-whackers will break my heart if I don't get them out from the railroad before very long. Three or four of them got drunk and quit on me the other day, and I've been into Laramie to try and get some more. I've got three that are coming up on the passenger to-night." "Well," said Hugh, "we saw a couple of them having fun with each other as we came through. There was a big man pounding a little man, and the little man turned and cut the big man, and then pretty much the whole camp turned out and chased the little fellow off over the prairie, and the last we heard they were still shooting at him." "Yes," said the foreman, "that don't surprise me a bit. That little fellow was Wild Tex, and the big fellow was Donovan. Donovan has always been picking on Tex, and when he gets drunk he is worse than ever. I've been expecting that Tex would kill him, but he's a mighty patient little cuss and hasn't done it yet." "Well," said Hugh, "he had a good chance to do it to-day, and if Donovan gets well I hope he'll have learned a lesson." "I hope so," said the foreman, "but I don't think he is one of the kind that learns lessons." The foreman sat with them until they had finished supper, and then getting up said, "Well, I must be going. I've got to round up my outfit and get them started to-morrow morning, if I can. A mighty good cup of coffee you gave me. So long." The next night they camped close to Laramie, and early the next day went into the town and purchased their supplies, not forgetting a pair of rubber boots for each. It was only the middle of the morning when the loads were put on and they started south over the open prairie on their way to North Park. Now Jack felt that the trip had really begun. The ride over the open prairie was delightful. The mountains toward which they were journeying showed many strange shapes and curious colors, and the wagon road which they were following was constantly dipping down steep hills and climbing others. The first few miles showed them many cattle and horses, but no game, but later, as they approached the mountains, a few antelope began to be seen, and there were many well-known western birds of the dry country, which now for two years Jack had not seen. Towards evening they reached Beaver Creek, a tributary of the Laramie, and after following it up for a few miles, camped for the night. The day had been a long one, and not long after supper both Hugh and Jack turned into their blankets and were soon sound asleep. Off again at an early hour next morning, they traveled for a long way through the pleasant green timber, where the foot fall of the horses made no sound on the forest floor of dead pine needles, and where no sound was heard except occasionally the call of a gray jay, the rattle of a woodpecker's bill on a dead limb, or the soft whistle of a crossbill in the tree tops. Jack felt obliged to follow behind Hugh, though he really wanted to ride beside him and talk about the pleasant country through which they were passing. Still it was his business to watch the horses, especially so now during the first day of travel through the timber, where a pack horse, unless watched, might possibly get hung up by a tree and break something or disturb his pack. It was this morning, after leaving camp on the Beaver, that they came to what is called the Neck of the Park, and passing over the divide, followed down the valley, at first narrow, but gradually becoming wider, which at length lead them to a more open country. They passed Pinkham's Ranch, and then took the right-hand road, which Hugh said led to the mines at Hahn's Peak. Soon after leaving Pinkham's, they passed a cabin, near which was a small spring, from which bubbled up a constant supply of cool water abundantly charged with what Jack thought might be carbonate of soda. At all events the water was fresh, sparkling, and delicious, and he thought that if it were nearer to a market it might be bottled and sold. Soon after they left the soda water fountain, they crossed a high steep ridge and then passed down a gentle descent toward the North Platte River. On either side of the trail they were following the mountains were rough, and weathered pillars of granite stood out bare among the ancient cedars on the hillside. They camped in the beautiful valley of the North Platte on the edge of a splendid level meadow covered with fine grass, on which in the evening and again next morning Jack saw from three to four hundred antelope at a time. There were also ducks, rabbits, sage hens, and blue grouse; abundant food, Jack thought, for any hunters who are satisfied with enough. That evening Jack wandered away from camp and found in a clump of willows, not more than a quarter of a mile from it, a curious collection of long-eared owls. He could not think what brought so many of them to this place, unless it was for a shelter during the day, which would enable them to get out of the bright glare of the sun, for nowhere else in the neighborhood could shade be found except in this growth of willows. Here, too, in the tops of the willows he noticed a number of domed nests of magpies, and from the calls of the birds that he heard around about, he felt sure that they were occupied. When he got back to camp, Hugh said to him, "Do you know, son, that last antelope you killed is pretty nearly gone? We ought to have another one, or at all events some meat before long. You might start out to-night, though it's a little late, or we can lay over here to-morrow until noon and you can go out and try to kill something." "Say we put it off until to-morrow morning, Hugh," said Jack, "and I'll start out early, and see what I can do." As soon as breakfast was over next morning and it was light, Jack started off along the edge of the valley to look for an antelope. He did not have to look far to see a great many, for the bluffs and river bottom were covered with them, but he walked for some time before he could find any of the animals so placed that they could be approached. However, at length, as he cautiously peeped over a point of the bluff which stretched down toward the river, he saw well beyond it a single buck antelope, and what was more to the purpose, about half way between the antelope and the point of the bluff, a clump of willows which would give him an opportunity to approach it. Luckily, no wind was blowing. He drew back a little and descending the bluff, rounded its point so that the willows concealed him from the buck, and then hurrying along toward the patch of brush, soon found himself within a hundred yards of the antelope. By a careful shot he killed it, and a little later with the hams and saddle on his back he was on his way toward the camp. After the antelope had been skinned and put in the sack, it was loaded on a pack, and they started on again. The country was open and covered with sage brush, and often from the high bluffs they could see little lakes, which shone like silver in the sun. They camped early. That evening, after supper, as they sat about the campfire, Jack asked Hugh many questions about trapping. "Well, son," said Hugh, "trapping is a big subject, and it's pretty hard to learn much about it, except by setting your traps. You'll have a chance to set plenty of traps for beaver, and beaver is what we always used to call the hardest fur to trap." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "what about trapping wolves? Are they not worth trapping? Are they hard to catch, or is it not much trouble to catch young wolves?" "Those that are one to two years old are easy caught, but if a wolf has been traveling the prairie for three or four years, he gets to be pretty smart. Wolf skins are worth from four to six dollars apiece, and so, of course, wolves are worth trapping, but in old times we always used to poison them, and that was cheaper and a whole lot less trouble than catching them in traps. Besides that, a wolf is a powerful, strong animal, and he can pack off a trap with him just as if he weren't carrying anything at all. Then, too, on the prairie there is usually nothing to fasten a trap to, and unless you carry a lot of iron picket pins with you, you lose your traps about as fast as you can set them." "You have told me all about poisoning wolves, Hugh," said Jack, "but you never said anything about trapping, and I don't understand how you fix the bait in a trap. You certainly can't put it on the pan, for you don't want to catch the wolf by the nose, and if you did, he would pull free." "Of course he would," said Hugh; "you want to catch a wolf by the foot, and to do that you must scatter your bait around the trap so that he will put his foot in it; but after all, in trapping wolves you don't use bait at all. Generally you use a scent, something that a wolf smells and wants to smell more of, and you raise that above the ground a foot or eighteen inches and set your trap so that he will step into it when he tries to get near the scent." "That's news to me," said Jack; "I supposed that you always set your traps with something to eat." "No," said Hugh; "very seldom. The beaver medicine that we use is just something to smell of; not to eat at all. But about wolf bait: the worst smelling thing that you can get hold of is about the best bait for wolves. Some people use asafetida or other drugs that they can buy in the shops, but the best thing that I know of is to take a piece of fresh meat, put it with some grease in a wide-mouthed bottle or jug, and let it stand in the heat for a week or two, until it gets to smelling very badly. Then add to it some beaver castor and about a quart of oil or grease, and cork it up tight. Of course, when you set your trap you must be careful not to leave any scent of yourself on it. Some people smoke their traps every time they set them, and if they can, use a fire of green pine boughs, but I don't count much on that. I believe that though smell of fire may kill the human scent, it makes the wolves suspicious. I think the better way is to wear gloves when you set your traps, and to be careful always to keep the traps to the windward of you. Don't let the wind blow from you to the traps. Of course, in setting, you have to dig out a hole in the ground large enough to let the trap set in it, so that the jaws will be just level with the ground. Then sprinkle over the trap a light covering of dust, and after the trap is set take a stick eighteen inches or two feet long, sharpen one end of it, dip the other end in your bottle of scent, and stick the sharpened end in the ground so that the end with the scent on it will pretty nearly overhang the trap. "You have to fasten your trap, of course. If you don't do that the wolf will carry it away. The best way to fasten it is to bore a hole through the end of a stick three feet long and as big as the calf of your leg, pass the end of a chain through that, and then drive a staple through the ring and into the log. Then if the wolf gets into the trap, he is not held in one place struggling to get out, and twisting the chain, and so likely to break it, but he starts off dragging the stick, which makes a plain trail, catching every now and then in the sage brush and so making him go slowly. It doesn't give him a chance to fight the trap. If you go to your traps every day, you will find that a wolf will not drag the clog very far before you overtake him. Then you probably have to shoot him. "As I say, there is a lot of work in trapping wolves that way, and I would hate to have to earn my living by doing it. If it should happen that we should get to any place where wolves are plenty we can set two or three traps for them, but I don't want to do that until we have tried beaver trapping, because I am afraid we will lose some of our traps." "I had no idea, Hugh," said Jack, "that wolves were so cunning and so powerful." "Yes," said Hugh, "they are strong animals, and when they have grown old they are pretty smart. They are mighty tough, too. Haven't I ever told you about that wolf that Billy Collins killed three or four years ago at the ranch?" "No," said Jack, "I don't think so." "Well," said Hugh, "I only speak of it to show how tough a wolf is. Billy had gone out just in the gray dawn of the morning, and just as he shut the door behind him, a big wolf came around the corner of the house. Billy jumped back into the house to get his gun, and the wolf ran off and stopped to look around on the top of that little knoll south of the house. He was about a hundred yards off, and Billy fired and the wolf yelled and fell down, and then started off. Billy and old Shep, the house dog, started after him, and when they got up to where he had stood, they found the ground all covered with blood and a broad blood trail leading off over the hills. Billy started on the trail, expecting to find the wolf over the next hill, but he followed him for two miles before he overtook him, and then the wolf was strong enough to sit up and fight off the dog, and needed another shot to kill him. But when Bill went up to him he found that the bullet had gone almost the whole length of the wolf and had smashed one of its shoulders. I had a friend who was trapping down in South Park and set two or three traps for wolves, and one morning when he found one of them gone, he went back and got two or three hounds that were at the ranch and took after the wolf through the snow, for it was winter. They chased that wolf with the dogs for thirteen hours before they got him, and he came mighty near getting away then." CHAPTER VII A TALK ABOUT BEAVER "Well, now, Hugh," asked Jack, "what can you tell me about beaver trapping?" "Why, son," said Hugh, "I can tell you whole lot about beaver trapping. There is a great big book to be written yet about beaver and how to trap them, and when that book is written there will be enough left out of it to make another book." "I've always heard," said Jack, "that beaver was about the smartest animal there was, and the one most difficult to trap, but, of course, I don't know anything about it. I have seen a few dams and the tops of a few houses up north, but you can't learn much about beaver by looking at his work." "No," said Hugh, "not much, and before you can learn anything about trapping beaver, you've got to know something about the nature of the beast." "Well, that's the very thing I want you to tell me about," replied Jack. "I want to find out all that I can about the beaver, before I see any. In the first place, suppose you tell me how big they are." "Well," said Hugh, "they are the biggest gnawing animal we have in this country. A full grown beaver will weigh from forty to sixty pounds; perhaps big ones will average as heavy as a half sack of flour." "My," said Jack, "that's bigger than I supposed they were. I have always heard of the beaver as a little animal. It seems to me that it's a big one." "Yes," said Hugh, "it's quite a sizable animal, and if you've got a half dozen to pack to your camp on your back you'll think they are pretty good sized animals before you get them all in." "Well, where do they live?" said Jack. "I reckon," replied Hugh, "that they live all over this country of North America, from Texas north as far as there are any trees. You know that the food of the beaver is the bark of certain trees, and, of course, they can't live anywhere except where these trees grow, but I have heard of them 'way down in Texas, and I know that the Northern Indians away up toward the limit of trees trap beaver a plenty, so that I expect they are found over the whole country. I have heard your uncle say that there were some beaver in Europe, but over there I reckon they have been about cleaned out. Too many people killing 'em, I reckon." "Well," said Jack, "I guess they are found all over North America, north of the United States, anyhow; because I know that the coat of arms of Canada has the beaver on it." "Yes, I reckon the beaver was the reason that Canada was settled, and in fact the beaver was what led men into all this western country. In the early days, soon after Lewis and Clark went across the continent, the fur traders began to push their way into this western country, north and south, and beaver was what they were after. You see in those days it was a mighty valuable fur, worth a good deal more than it's ever been since. "Just as soon as the white men came into the country and found the Indians wearing robes made of beaver, and clothing trimmed with beaver and other fur, they began to trade for the robes, and to tell the Indians that if they'd bring them in beaver skins they'd give them knives and needles and beads, and later, rum, and, of course, that set the Indians to killing beaver as fast as they could. "But, as I say, it wasn't until after Lewis and Clark got across the continent that trapping began down in the United States. Along in the 30's, though, white men began to get up fur companies and to hire the best trappers that they could get, and they pushed out in all directions, up the Arkansas, up the Platte, and up the Missouri River, setting their traps in every valley and cleaning out the beaver as fast as they could. Then they got into the mountains, and there they found more beaver and better fur, and there, too, is where they began to run across Indians to bother them. The Blackfeet were the worst. They used to steal our horses and take our traps, and now and then a scalp, when they could, and they made us a great deal of trouble. The prices for fur were good until in the 40's, just before I got out into the country. Then they fell, and for the next twelve or fifteen years every old trapper that you met was growling about the fact that beaver weren't worth anything any more. "Your uncle tells me that there has been a whole lot of books written about those early trapping days, but I have never seen any of them. Of course, then it was all wild country and lots of things were happening, and a man had to keep his eyes open pretty wide. As I have told you, the Indian wars did not begin until long after that, and most of the trouble that we had with the Indians was with parties of wild young men, who had started off to war, and were anxious to get glory, and to go back to their villages and brag about what they had done. The fights were with these little parties and not with the tribes. But, at the same time, a bullet or an arrow from one of these little parties would kill a man just as dead as if he had been fighting with a tribe." "That's all mighty interesting, Hugh," said Jack. "It seems to me that you never get through telling me interesting things about this country in the old times. I wish that I knew how to write, so that I could put it all down, and some day write a big book about your adventures." "Well," said Hugh, "I'm mighty glad you can't do that. I reckon if I were to see you taking all these notes down in a notebook I wouldn't talk so much as I do." "Well," said Jack, "if I knew how to write, you bet I'd write such a book. I sort of wonder that Uncle George has never done that. He spends a great deal of his time writing in winter, when he is back in New York." "Well," Hugh went on, "let's go ahead about the beaver. You know that they build dams across streams to hold back the water, and that they build houses in the ponds that they make. Have you ever looked carefully at these dams?" "No, I don't believe I have," Jack replied; "people have pointed them out to me, and they've shown me places along the streams where trees and brush had been cut down, and have said to me, 'that's beaver work,' and I have seen piles of sticks in the water and have been told that those were houses, but I never had any idea how any of this work was done." "They build their dams across streams," said Hugh, "and hold back the water and often spread it over quite a wide space of the valley, and in this water they build their houses. I have always supposed that the ponds were made as a protection for the animals. You see, they are big and slow. They can't run away from anything that wants to kill them, and so the only means they have of getting away from their enemies is to dive down into the water and swim under it. Then their enemies, whether they are humans or animals, can't follow them. Of course, I have no more idea than you how the beaver got the idea of protecting themselves in this way, but I believe it is for protection they make these ponds, and for nothing else. You'll see that their houses are built out in pretty deep water, and when they are scared from shore they go out and get into their houses, and if somebody tries to pull down the houses where they live, then they can swim to the shore and hide there, with their noses just above water." "Well," said Jack, "that's news to me. I always accepted the fact that they built dams to hold the water back, but I never had any idea why they did it." "No," said Hugh, "I reckon not. I never heard anybody that did know why, but I am just giving you my idea. You'll hear a whole lot of stories about the wonderful things that beaver do, and in many of these stories there is not a grain of truth, but they do wonderful things enough as it is. You don't have to lie about them to make them out mighty smart animals." "Yes," replied Jack, "I have heard of some of these wonderful things. I think some of the books say that the beaver can cut down a tree so that it will fall exactly where they want it to lie, just as a lumber-man in the woods will fell a tree where he wants it to lie. They say that when the beaver want to build a new dam they look along the stream until they find a place where there is a tree of just the right length, and then they fell it across the stream for a foundation for their dam." "Yes," said Hugh, "I have heard that story, too, but I don't believe it. Beaver will cut down trees, and mighty big ones, too, but I don't believe that they can cut down a tree so that it will fall in a particular direction, and if it does fall in a direction to be useful to them, that's just nothing but accident. What they cut trees down for is for the food that they know is growing on the tree. They want to get at the tender bark of the branches for their food, and that's what they cut the trees for. All the same, it's mighty wonderful sometimes to see what big trees they will cut down, and how smart they are about cutting them. They will gnaw a deep gouge below and then gnaw another cut eight or ten inches above, and pull the chip out; a chip just about as big as an axman would cut out with an ax. They are smart about that, but they haven't any idea which way the tree is going to fall." "Well," said Jack, "that seems natural enough, and besides that, I should think that even if beaver did know how to fell the tree to lie in a particular direction, they could not always do it with these crooked old cottonwood trees that grow along the streams." "Yes," said Hugh, "some of them are so crooked and grow so slantwise that no axman could fell them the way he wanted." "I have seen it stated in books, too," Jack went on, "that they always fell a tree just long enough to reach across the stream, and no longer. I never could see how that could be, because it would be impossible for beaver to measure the height of a tree." "Oh," said Hugh, "that's all nonsense; they don't do anything like that. There is one thing which they do, though, that people don't give them credit for, or at least I have never heard anybody speak about it; they'll build a dam across a creek and raise the water, and make a big wide pond. Maybe the water flows over the top of the dam pretty freely for its whole length. Such a pond will be lived in for a good many years. During all those years the rain and the melting snow, and all the water that falls, carries down from the hills soil and dead leaves and sticks and a whole lot of trash, and after a time the pond fills up and gets too shallow for the beaver to use it. Then maybe they'll raise the dam for its whole length, and make the pond bigger, and then after years of time this larger pond will partly fill up and grow shallow. After a time the beaver will, perhaps, leave the pond, and go somewhere else to build another. Then, after a few years the dam will rot out and break down, the pond will go dry, the water will get back to its old channel, and grass and willows and other brush will grow up over the old bottom of the pond, and there you've got a big wide flat--what we call a beaver meadow. All along streams all over this western country there are big strips of flat land that have been made just in this way by the beaver." "I have never thought of that before, Hugh, and I never heard anybody speak of it. The time may come when people will farm on these big flats, never knowing how they were made." "Yes, that's a fact," said Hugh, "and already there are lots of places down toward the prairie where folks have started ranches on land of just that sort. "Let me tell you another thing that beaver are smart about. Sometimes they will make a pond in a particular valley, quite a distance from any place where their food grows. Often there are no willows, and the quaking aspen grows only along the foothills, maybe quite a little distance from the edge of their pond. Sometimes they will dig out a ditch or canal all the way from the edge of the pond up close to where the aspen grows. Of course, the water from the pond fills up these ditches, and the beaver will follow them up close to the aspens, cut down their feed there, and cutting the trees and brush into convenient lengths, carry them to the ditches, dump them in and then take and swim with them back to their houses, or the places where they store their food. This always seemed to me pretty smart, because, while it must be a lot of work for them to dig the ditch, it's a tremendous saving of labor for them to be able to float these sticks to where they want them." "That seems to me mighty intelligent, Hugh, and I should think, too, that they might have another motive in digging these ditches. If they had to travel two or three hundred yards on dry land, wouldn't there be a good deal of danger of their getting caught away out from the water and killed?" "Lots of danger," said Hugh, "and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they made these ditches more for their safety than to save themselves work. They are mighty industrious animals, the beaver. You know, if we see a man that is hard at work all the time, we say he works like a beaver. They are busy animals, and they keep at it all the time." "What animals are there, Hugh, that kill the beaver? I suppose man is the worst enemy it's got, but there must be a lot of others, such as wolves and, perhaps, bears." "Yes," said Hugh, "a beaver has lots of enemies. As I have said to you, it's heavy and slow; it can't run away nor climb a tree, and it has no special means of defending itself. A beaver's got a good set of teeth, but while he can give one or two pretty strong bites, that would not help him much in a scrap with any animal near his own size. "A bear, of course, would kill a beaver every time if he could get hold of him; so would a big wolf. A single coyote might not be able to, but two or three coyotes could get away with him in short order. "Didn't you ever, back East, see a dog get between a woodchuck and his hole? You know the woodchuck will sit up and chatter his teeth, and perhaps he will bite the dog once when the dog runs in, but that's the end of the woodchuck. The beaver has got longer teeth, and can bite a little harder and deeper, but he is not built for fighting, and what's more, he never means to fight if he can help it. "The wolverine sometimes lies around beaver ponds and maybe once in a while catches one, but wolverines are pretty scarce, and I don't think they get many. I believe that the animal that gets more beaver than any other is the lynx. They are small, to be sure, but they are mighty quick, and they have got those long claws, and they can jump on a beaver and cut him up pretty badly before he can get hold of them. I have often seen places where beaver had been killed, and I know it was done by lynxes; that is, by bob-cats, and also by the big gray lynxes. One time, a good many years ago, I saw a lynx waiting to catch a beaver. As it happened, he didn't get him, but he tried hard enough. "I happened to be riding down William's Fork, and had to pass through a point of timber, and just before I got out to the pond, on the other side, I stopped my horse for a minute to look around and see what I could see. There was a big beaver dam just below me, on the river, and I knew of it, for I had often passed there. I could see nothing, and was just going to start on again, when, as I happened to look over across the creek just opposite me, I saw something move. For a minute I could not tell what it was, and then I saw lying among the sage brush a big bob-cat, whose color matched the ground and the weeds about him so well that it was hard for me to make out his shape. At one end of him, however, there was something black that kept moving regularly in little jerks, and, of course, I knew that this was his tail, and that he was watching something in the stream and getting ready to jump on it. I looked at the stream carefully, and for a moment could not see anything, and then, just below the bob-cat, I made out something swimming in the water, close under the bank, but to save my life I could not tell whether it was a duck, or a muskrat, or what. When this thing, whatever it was, had got nearly to the bob-cat, which kept crouching flatter and flatter all the time, the thing suddenly dived and hit the water a tremendous rap with its tail, and then, of course, I knew that it was a beaver that had been swimming up stream, and that the bob-cat had seen it, and was waiting for it to get within reach, and then was going to jump on it. Of course, bob-cats don't like the water very well, but all the same, they will go into it for food." "What did the bob-cat do when the beaver dived, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Oh, after a minute or two," said Hugh, "he seemed to realize that the game was up, and he then got up and walked away into the sage brush. I have often wished that the beaver had come on a little further so that I could have seen the end of the thing, and seen whether beaver or bob-cat would have come out ahead. You see, the beaver must have been swimming in pretty deep water, and, of course, if he had had sense enough to grab the bob-cat and hold on to him, no doubt he could have drowned him, but I don't reckon the beaver would have had sense enough for that; he would have just tried to get away, and I guess he would have succeeded." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "it is interesting to hear of these animals, but as you say, it's pretty hard work to really learn anything about them by reading or hearing people talk. The real way is to see the animals themselves, and I hope we will do that before very long." "Yes, son, we ought to. In fact, by to-morrow afternoon we ought to get to where there used to be a great big beaver meadow. I don't know, of course, whether we will find any beaver there now or not, but it's a good place to go and look for them. I have seen the time when it was full of beaver, and if we could find it as full now as it was then, we ought to be able to load up a pack horse with fur." "My!" said Jack; "don't I wish we could. That would be fine." "Put some more wood on the fire, son," said Hugh, "and I'll smoke my pipe, and then we'll go to bed." Jack rose from his comfortable seat, and going over to where some cottonwood branches had been dragged together, brought two or three good-sized logs, and raking the fire together, threw them on. The dry wood blazed up with a cheerful flame that almost reached the branches of the pine tree beneath which their tent was pitched, and Hugh, after filling his pipe and lighting it by means of a twig thrust into the fire, sat back and declared that this was solid comfort. "It's a bully good camping place, isn't it?" said Jack. "First class," was the reply, "and we are going to have good weather and good country to camp and travel in all summer, except when we have thunderstorms. Of course, we have got to expect that, for there is lots of thunder and lightning in these mountains. We will get wet once in a while, but that's no great harm." "No, indeed," said Jack, "getting wet is a part of the play." "Tell me, Hugh," he added after a pause, "what other fur may we expect to see here?" "Why, son," said Hugh, "there is mighty little that will be good now, except bears. As I told you at the ranch, any bears that we can kill before the first of July will be good prime skins, but right after that they begin to get sunburned and rusty, and begin to shed off, and then, the first thing we know, they are not worth skinning for about three months. Along in October they begin to get a pretty good coat again, though it is not so very long." "Well," persisted Jack, "there is fur in the mountains here, I suppose." "Lord, yes," said Hugh. "There are a few otter, lots of mink, and a few marten high up in the hills; once in a while a wolverine, and once in a while a fisher; but none of this fur, except the otter, will be good in summer, and otters are so scarce that they are not worth bothering with." "I should not have supposed there would be any otter here, because the streams are so small." "There are not very many," said Hugh, "but yet more than you think. You see there are worlds of fish in many of these mountain streams, and where there are fish you are pretty sure to find otter. In some of the lakes high up in the mountains I have seen lots of otters, but as I say, there aren't enough to try to trap." "What is the fisher, Hugh?" asked Jack. "I have heard of that animal, but I don't very well know what it is. Is that the same creature that the books speak of as the black cat?" "I reckon it is," replied Hugh. "I have heard some trappers call them by that name. Really, it always seemed to me like a big marten, and why people called it fisher, I don't know. I never saw one near water, and I don't believe they catch fish. They are great things to climb round in the trees, and they are quicker in them than any squirrel you ever saw. I have seen them chasing martens and I believe that they eat them. I know they eat porcupines, for though I never saw one kill a porcupine, I have seen them with porcupine quills in their faces and in their forelegs, but bless you, the quills didn't seem to bother them a mite. You take a dog or a cat that had as many quills in it as I have seen in some fishers, and it would be all swelled up and not able to see out of its eyes, nor to walk; but I have seen fishers stuck full of quills and I never saw one swelled up or apparently hurt at all. They don't seem to get inflamed by the quills the way a dog or a cat does." "I suppose, Hugh, there is no great chance of our being able to shoot any of these animals while we are hunting?" "No," replied Hugh, "I don't think there is. Of course, you never can tell what you might run across when you are going through the timber or up over the rocks on the mountains, but as a rule these animals will see, or hear, or smell you before you know they are around, and they'll just slip out of sight, and either get away as fast as they can, or else watch you to see what you are going to do. I remember that the only wolverine I have killed in a good many years was one that I saw traveling along over the rocks when I was up above timber-line one time waiting to try to kill a sheep. He just walked up within easy shot, and, of course, I killed him. A mighty pretty looking animal he was, too, with his smooth coat all shining in the sun and blowing in the breeze. "But, look here, son, if you and I are going to get off in any sort of season to-morrow morning we'd better turn in now. Suppose you go down to the creek and get a bucket of water, and I'll go out and look around through the horses, and then we'll make down our beds." "All right," said Jack, and he did as requested, and a little later the camp was peacefully sleeping, as the fire died down. CHAPTER VIII THE WATER FOWLS' SUMMER HOME It was still dark when Jack awoke next morning, but when he struck a match and looked at his watch he saw that daylight was not far off, and rising and putting on his clothes he started to light the fire. Hugh, having heard him, arose, and before long breakfast was well under way. Then Jack went out to where the horses were picketed and set free all but one, and this one he changed to fresh grass, so that the horses might start with full bellies. The sun had not yet risen when breakfast was over, and Jack had brought in and saddled all the horses. They made an early start, for the day's journey was to be a long one. For the first hour or two of the march it was interesting to Jack to watch the antelope that were seen on both sides of the trail, and to see how differently those acted that had the sun on their backs from those that had the sun shining in their faces. Sometimes there were antelope on both sides of the trail, and when those that were looking away from the sun started to run, then those that were looking toward the sun started also. But if the little pack train approached antelope with the sun on its back, so that the antelope were looking toward the sun, the timid animals, unable to distinguish what these moving objects were, would let them come up very close without showing any alarm. Jack had often seen the same thing happen with other animals, so it was not new to him, but, nevertheless, it was interesting, and he spoke of it to Hugh. "Yes," said Hugh, "that is interesting, and, of course, brings up the old question of how useful their different senses are to wild animals. Some people say that a deer has bad eyes; that he can't see well, and, of course, we all of us know that all game depends on its powers of scent for warning that its enemies are about. Most game can hear well enough, and can distinguish between the ordinary sounds of the timber or the mountains and those made by a man going through the timber or rattling the rocks. The people that say that game can't see are mistaken, I think. They don't go quite deep enough into the matter. What I believe is, that many wild animals don't notice a man and so don't take him for an enemy, if he keeps absolutely still. An animal's eye is quick to catch any motion, but a man standing still may be taken for a stump, or a rock, or a bump of earth. The deer's eye does not stop to look carefully at stumps and rocks and bumps of earth, but if one of these things moves, then the eye stops and studies it, and is likely to find out what it is." "Of course that is so, Hugh," said Jack, "but I never thought of it before. I remember, though, that when I went duck shooting on Great South Bay with my uncle, and was sitting in the blind, he always warned me never to make a sudden motion, but that if I wanted to lower my head to get it out of sight behind the blind, I should do so with a slow, gradual motion." "Of course," said Hugh, "but if you stop and think a minute you will know that that is just exactly what you do now when you are hunting in this country. If you raise your head up so that it shows over a ridge, and see an antelope feeding there, you don't duck down to get out of sight; you lower your head very slowly. If you made a quick motion the antelope would see you out of the corner of his eye, and would run away without waiting to ask any questions. If you lower your head gradually, he does not see the slow motion, and you can have a chance to crawl up to him." "That's so," assented Jack; "I must be pretty stupid not to be able to think of these things." "Well," replied Hugh, "of course you have to think, and boys don't always stop to do that. Men, after they have lived a good many years find that they have to do it. But this is what I wanted to say about the power of game to recognize danger from man; a deer knows that there is danger only from living things, and he knows also that only living things move, so that if he sees anything make a sudden motion he knows that he must be on the lookout." All day they traveled on through a broad valley, and toward night camped at the foot of a high, bare hog-back running north and south, one of the foothills or spurs of the main range to the north. There was a good spring where they camped, and quite a wide stretch of level prairie, in which were half a dozen large alkali lakes, and on these lakes were great numbers of water fowl. Some of them were so large that Jack thought they must be geese, and getting his field glasses out of the packs he looked at them and found that they really were geese. "How is it, Hugh," he said, "that geese are found here as late in the season as this? Here it's nearly the first of June, and it seems to me all geese ought to have passed north to their breeding grounds before this." "I'll allow," answered Hugh, "that the geese ought to be on their breeding grounds by this time, but why do you say they ought to be up north?" "Why", said Jack, "I thought all geese went north into Canada to breed, except a few that breed in northern Montana, right close to the Canada line." "Well," said Hugh, "there's where you are mistaken. The geese breed right here in these mountains, and quite a way south of here, too. Then you know yourself, you've seen them breeding on the Missouri River, although that is pretty well north, of course." "Yes," said Jack, "I've seen them up north, but I didn't suppose that any of them stayed as far south as this." "That's a mistake," said Hugh. "In old times they used to breed on the prairies as far south as Kansas, and maybe still further south. Many a time I have seen them breeding in Nebraska and in northern Kansas, and from that away north as far as I've been. Swans, too, used to breed in the same country. The reason they don't breed there any more is because the white people have come in and killed them at all times of the year, and so they go on to a country further away from where the white people are." "Well, live and learn," said Jack. "I got my knowledge about that from the books, but I guess the books don't know everything?" "Well," said Hugh, "I guess the books know just as much as the men knew that wrote them, and I suppose there's a lot about this western country that they don't all know yet." "Say, Hugh," said Jack, "after we've had supper I'm going over to these lakes to try to see what birds there are on them. Do you mind coming along?" "No," said Hugh, "I'll go with you, but first we've got to get supper and got to get up wood enough for to-night and to-morrow morning. I'll rustle the supper if you'll pack in the wood." "Done," said Jack; and for the next fifteen or twenty minutes he was busy dragging in aspen and cottonwood sticks of which, before very long, he had a good pile. After supper Hugh said to Jack, "Son, to-morrow we'll have to kill something, for there's only enough meat left for a couple of meals. I don't like to eat meat that is just fresh killed, but if to-morrow you'll kill a deer or a good fat antelope, we will carry it a day and then it will be just about right to eat." They washed up the dishes before they started, and then walked over to the lakes, the sun being only about an hour high. The lakes were shallow, and their shores, sloping up very gradually from the water's edge, were all of soft, yellow mud, so that it was not possible to get close to the water without sinking deep in the mire. The abundance and variety of birds seen was very striking. White gulls flew slowly over the water, and beautiful avocets, striking objects from the contrasting black and white of their plumage, waded along near the shore. Flocks of tiny shore birds tripped lightly over the soft mud of the banks, and brown and black long-billed curlews stalked over the grassy prairie. Many of these birds were evidently breeding, and displayed great anxiety when the visitors approached their nests. The curlews especially were demonstrative, and flew about close above the men's heads, uttering loud, shrill cries. On a little knoll near one of the lakes, Hugh and Jack sat down and adjusted the glasses to study the birds that were floating on the water. Geese and ducks of several species were there, and Jack could detect also grebes and coots, and the curious little shore birds known as phalaropes, which swam about in the water with a curious nodding motion of the head that reminded Jack of the rails. Jack was very much excited at this display of bird life, for he realized that at this season of the year all these birds had either eggs or young, and there were a multitude of birds that he had never seen before, and whose eggs he had never seen nor even heard about. "Why, Hugh, it seems to me we ought to stop over here a day and see if we can't collect a lot of the eggs of these birds. I think there are some birds here whose eggs have never been described. Just think what a great thing it would be if I could take them back and show them to the ornithologists who have never seen them." "Sure," said Hugh, "that would be great. How are you going to know when you get an egg back East what bird it belongs to?" "Why," said Jack, "I suppose I could remember. I guess my memory is good enough for that." "Maybe it is," said Hugh. "I know mine wouldn't be, especially if I had to do with a lot of eggs of birds that I never had seen before. I should have to tie the egg round the neck of each bird and take both home." "Well," said Jack, "of course, if you are going to collect the eggs I suppose you ought to collect the parent birds at the same time." "I suppose," said Hugh, "that you've got your tools for fixing up these eggs to take away with you, cached somewhere in the packs, haven't you, and some sort of a chest to carry these eggs in? I expect if we put a lash rope over them and pull pretty hard it will smash some of the eggs, won't it?" Jack sat silent for a little while, and then looked at Hugh. "I never saw anybody that could make a fellow feel like such a fool as you can." "Why," said Hugh, "I don't want you to feel like a fool." "No," said Jack, "I suppose maybe that is not what you want. I suppose that you want to make me think before I speak." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's something I would like to do. That would be a bully lesson for you to learn, and I think you are learning it, only maybe not very fast." "Of course," said Jack, "you know just as well as I do that I haven't any stuffing tools with me, or any tools for blowing eggs, or anything to carry bird skins and eggs in if I had them. Of course, if we were to put such things on the packs they'd get broken and smashed up in forty ways and wouldn't be worth throwing away." "No," said Hugh, "I don't reckon they would." "Well," sighed Jack, "it's mighty aggravating to sit here and look at all these birds and think that there must be lots of their eggs all about and I can't get hold of them." "I'll allow that must be pretty aggravating," said Hugh; "but if you wanted to go off to collect bird skins and eggs why didn't you think of it before you started out from the States, and bring along with you the tools you wanted to use? Suppose I had started from the ranch to trap beaver, and had come down here without any traps, what would you have thought of me?" "Well," said Jack, "I suppose I'd have thought you were a pretty queer trapper." "I reckon so," said Hugh, "and I think you're a pretty queer bird collector, as yet. You may become a good one later, though." It soon grew too dark to distinguish the birds, and the two returned to camp, where they built up a big fire, for the night was chilly. Several times after the fire began to blaze up, they saw an owl fly into the circle of light and pass once or twice about the fire and then out into the darkness again. "What gets me, Hugh," said Jack, after they had settled themselves comfortably by the fire, and Hugh's pipe was going well; "what gets me, is what has become of all the animals and birds that used to inhabit all this country? Of course, when I first came out here I saw antelope and buffalo in wonderful numbers, and there are lots of them now, but there must have been a time, say a hundred or two hundred years ago, when perhaps there was just as many buffalo and elk and deer in Illinois or Ohio as there were in Wyoming and Montana when I came West. Now, of course, all those animals have disappeared from that country, and in the same way birds have disappeared. There must be places still all over the West here where birds come and breed, just as thickly as they do on these little ponds that we've been looking at to-night. And in old times they may have bred just as thickly in the swamps of Illinois and Ohio as they do here in this valley. What's become of them all?" Hugh did not answer, but made with his hand the sign for "gone under," meaning dead. "Yes," Jack went on, "I suppose they are, but is that what is going to happen to all the wild animals and birds in this country? Is the whole of North America going to be swept bare of all the birds and animals that belong to it, and just have nothing in it except sheep and cattle and dogs and things? That's the way it seems to me, but I hope that's not the way it's going to be." "Well, son, that's one of the things that we have often talked over, but it's a pretty hard thing to prophesy about. There's one thing sure, all big animals are going to be killed off, except those that are found in parks like that Yellowstone Park we came through two years ago. I expect that there, elk and deer and sheep and antelope may be found for a long time. But people are going to come into this western country, thicker and thicker, and, of course, they are not coming here for their health, they're coming here to make money. One man will start a band of cattle, another will have a bunch of sheep, another will farm along the creek; ten to one, mines will be found all over these mountains, and the first thing any of us know the country will be full of people and towns and railroads and factories. Of course, you don't need me to tell you that there can't be any game when the country gets full of people." "I suppose that's just what will happen, Hugh. I suppose a time will come when there won't be any more buffalo, and maybe when there won't be any elk or even deer. I'm glad that I was born in time to see something of these wild animals." "Yes," said Hugh, "you are lucky to get to see them, because I believe that they're not going to last many more years. I wouldn't be surprised if twenty or twenty-five years saw them pretty much all wiped out. I expect that I'll be dead before that times comes, but likely you'll be alive all right." Jack sat thoughtfully staring into the fire as though he were contemplating the death of all game, and of Hugh as well. Presently Hugh went on: "Now, about the birds, it's a little different. They've got wings, and can fly, and do fly long distances. They don't have to stop in one place, and, of course, away up north there is a whole lot of country yet that the people haven't got into, and I expect a good many of the birds that used to breed in Illinois and Ohio, as you were saying just now, don't stop any longer in that country, but keep on going to the north. "I've seen Hudson Bay men that came down from that northern country who say that in some of the lakes and big rivers up there the natives at the right time of the year kill a powerful lot of fowl. There must be dead loads of them there, and then when molting season comes and they lose their wing feathers and can't fly, the natives take after them in their canoes and kill them with sticks and spears, and then dry them. I believe that's a regular part of their living up there." "There must be an awful lot of ducks and geese that breed in that great country up there, Hugh. It's almost the whole width of the continent, is it not? and a thousand or fifteen hundred miles north and south?" "Yes," said Hugh, "it's an awful big country, and mighty few people in it. You know, don't you," he went on, "that the food of a number of the Hudson Bay Posts, during certain seasons of the year, is dried or frozen fish, and dried or smoked geese? They kill the geese spring and fall, as they are passing back and forth, and so many of them that they store them up for the winter and summer food." "My," said Jack, "what a place that would be to go shooting in!" "Don't fool yourself, son. When you kill game regularly for the food it yields, it stops being fun to hunt and it becomes real work. I know it's so because I've done it." "To-morrow morning," added Hugh, "unless I miss my guess, you'll see the biggest beaver meadow you ever saw, and we'll get to it toward night. Then beyond, and not far off, is the main range, where we can hunt if we want to, but I don't know as we'll be able to get there. Haven't you noticed something like smoke off to the west? 'Pears to me I have, and it may be that the range is on fire. If it is, that will let us out as far as hunting goes." "I hope there isn't any fire," said Jack; "I want very much to get up into the mountains." "Well," said Hugh, as he rose and began to take the straps off his bed and to unroll it, "even if we should not be able to get into the mountains here, we can do it further south. We'll see how the high hills look to-morrow." In a little while the two were fast asleep, and as the fire died down no sound was heard except the calls of the water fowl from the nearby lake. CHAPTER IX A TROUBLESOME GRIZZLY They had sat up so late the night before that neither Hugh nor Jack was astir very early next morning, and the sun was well above the horizon before they started west toward the high ridge which lay between them and the main snowy range. The horses were now so accustomed to traveling together that they needed no driving, and Jack and Hugh rode side by side ahead of the packs, though every now and then Jack looked back to see that the animals were coming on well. Occasionally an animal would stop and lag a little, and graze alongside the trail, but usually a shout from Jack would cause it to stop feeding, and it would trot along until it had overtaken the others. Each morning about an hour after starting, when the ropes had stretched a little, the train was halted and the lashings tightened upon all the animals, and after that they needed no attention. Of course, if a bad stream or a very steep ravine had to be crossed, Jack dropped behind and followed the pack animals, but the packing was so well done that it was very seldom they had to give any attention to the loads. As they rode along Hugh said to Jack: "If we had a big train or heavy loads, I would go 'round the point of the hog-back, which would make us travel five or six miles further but would be a good deal easier on the horses, but our animals are fat and strong, and lightly loaded, and we may as well make the cut-off and cross the ridge." The ascent of the hog-back was steep at first, but then became more gradual. Several times during the climb they stopped to let the horses breathe. On the way up, several big buck antelope were seen, each one feeding alone, but as they were all at some little distance from the trail, Jack thought it better to let them alone, on the chance later of getting a shot which would require less time. They had nearly reached the crest of the ridge when Hugh, waving his hand toward the west, remarked, "I thought so; the range is afire," and Jack could plainly see the smoke rising some ten or fifteen miles distant. A little further on they could see the whole range, and found that everywhere to the south it was on fire, and that the fire seemed to be moving northward. Columns and masses of thick white smoke rose from the mountains in many places, and were rolling steadily along from south to north. The fire seemed to be chiefly on the lower slopes of the mountains. Above it could be seen the green timber, and above that again gray rocks bare of vegetation, whitened a little further up by occasional patches of snow, and still higher were great fields of snow, pure and shining when touched by the rays of the sun, but seeming gray and soiled where shadowed by clouds or by a column of ascending smoke. "No use to think of hunting there, is there, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Not any, son," replied Hugh. "We'll have to strike into the hills somewhere else. But look at that beaver meadow this side of the mountain." Jack lowered his eyes to the valley, and was astonished at what he saw. There, spreading over miles and miles, north and south, was a great carpet of green, bordered on either side by the gray and yellow prairie, and intersected by a thousand tiny streams that glistened in the sunlight. It looked like a vast carpet of emerald velvet over which had been spread an irregular net of silver cords. Beautiful it was, but the most astonishing thing about it all was its great size. It seemed to stretch north and south for ten or fifteen miles, and east and west for half as many. The view presented astonishing contrasts in the aspect of the mountains, snow-capped, timber-clad, and fire-swept; and not less in the lower land, with its opposites of arid sage brush prairie, and of watered, verdant meadow. Jack turned to Hugh: "That's the most wonderful thing I've seen since I've been out West, Hugh. Did you ever see anything like it?" "Well," said Hugh, "it's sure a pretty sight, but I wouldn't want to say that it was the prettiest thing that I'd ever seen. One sees a whole lot of fine sights out in this country. 'Pears to me I've heard you say a good many times that different things are the most wonderful things you'd ever seen." "Well," said Jack, "that's so. I never get through wondering at the sights here in the mountains, and I don't suppose it's true that each thing is more wonderful than anything else I've ever seen, but I do keep being surprised at all these beautiful sights." "Well," said Hugh, "what do you think of stopping off at the first water we come to, and taking off the loads and letting the horses rest while we cook a cup of coffee?" "That will suit me, Hugh," said Jack, "but I'd like to stop somewhere so I can look at this show that is spread out in front of us." "We can do that all right," said Hugh, "and I think over in that little ravine just below us we'll find some water. There are some willows down there, and that must mean a spring somewhere near." They started on, Jack following behind to keep the horses up and to catch them when they got to the stopping place. Hugh kept on down the slope, and then turning short to the right descended into the ravine. He had got part way down the slope when suddenly his horse threw forward his ears and stopped. Two of the pack horses turned at right angles and began to climb the sides of the ravine. At the same moment, from under a cedar just ahead of Hugh, a bear sprang up and rushed down the ravine. Jack caught a glimpse of the animal, and saw Hugh throw his rifle to his shoulder and fire, but as the black horse was trying to run, Jack was not sure that the shot had told. Jack spurred his own horse up the side of the ravine where the pack horses had gone, and in a moment was high enough to see portions of the ravine down which the bear had run. He wheeled Pawnee so that he could shoot handily, and having loaded his rifle, sat there watching for the bear. Suddenly it appeared, and he could see it while it ran twenty-five or thirty yards along the ravine. It was a hundred and fifty yards off, but he threw his rifle to his shoulder, and aiming high and well ahead of the bear, fired. The animal turned a somersault at the shot, and then regained its footing and disappeared. Hugh, meantime, had galloped on down the ravine, and a moment of two later his rifle spoke again. Jack was strongly tempted to ride down and see what had happened, but feeling that it was now too late to do anything, and that the bear had either been killed or had escaped, he rode round the pack horses and drove them on down the ravine, following Hugh's course. Presently he came to a place where some willows grew at the side of a patch of green grass, and there out of the bottom of the bluff bubbled a spring of clear water. Jack tasted it and found it sweet and good, and then caught up the pack horses and tied them to the willows. A few moments later Hugh galloped back, dismounted, and said: "Well, let's take the packs off here," and in a few moments the horses were relieved from their loads, and were turned loose on the green grass, with their hackamores dragging. Jack saw that Hugh had blood on his hands, but forebore to ask any questions. He felt sure that presently Hugh would tell what had happened. "Now, son," said Hugh, "we've got quite a job on our hands skinning that bear. It's a good-sized fellow, and you know that skinning a bear is a good deal of a job." "Where is he?" said Jack. "About a half mile down that little valley, right in the open. He's got a fine hide and we want to save it. It ought to mean eight or ten dollars to us. Suppose we go right down there and take his jacket off, and then come back and eat and pack up and go on. That's going to cut off your looking at the scenery, but we can't afford to waste that bear's hide." "No," said Jack, "you're dead right, of course. Let's go and do it now. We can look at scenery 'most any time, but we don't get bears every day. How was he hit, Hugh?" Jack went on. "There were only three shots fired." "I guess they all hit him," said Hugh. "My horse was hopping round so when I fired the first shot that I expected I'd miss him clean, but I don't think I did. I shot him too far back and too high up. When the ball hit him he fell and bit himself, and then got up and kept on. I started after him, but just then he disappeared round a point, and when I got up to it he was away ahead of me. Then you shot and you hit him, because he fell again and then got up and went on again, but he was hard hit then and going slowly, and before long I got up to him and killed him. The hide is in good order, and we are pretty lucky to get it." The two mounted and rode down the valley, presently reaching the bear, which, as Hugh said, was a big one with a beautiful long coat of shining brown. The long claws of the fore-feet showed that he was a grizzly and a very large and handsome specimen. The next hour and a half was spent in skinning the bear, and long before this operation was finished, Hugh and Jack were tired and more or less covered with grease. "This will be good practice, son, if we get any beaver," said Hugh. "You see, in skinning a beaver you've got to work just as you do on this bear. You can't do any stripping; every inch of hide you take off has got to be cut free from the fat that lies under it, and as you see, that's a mighty long, slow business." "I should say it was," said Jack, "and a mighty greasy business, too. It seems to me as if I was all covered with oil, and I am, up to my elbows, and my face, too. Seems to me my face never itched before as it does now, and when I rub it with my greasy hands of course my face gets all grease, too." "Yes," said Hugh, "it's a very different thing skinning a bear or beaver, from skinning a deer or a buffalo, but this is just a part of the game, son, and this hide will pay us good wages for the trouble we've been to." "There," Hugh went on, as he made a last cut, "that hide is free on this side down to the middle of the back. How are you getting on on your side?" "I've got a lot more to do," said Jack. "All right," said Hugh, and he came around to Jack's side and began to help him, and presently it seemed as if the hide were free throughout. "Now," said Hugh, "I tried to lift and drag that bear just after he was dead, and I couldn't stir it, and I don't believe you and I can do any better now; let's try." They took hold of the bear's hind-legs and tried to lift and pull the carcass off the hide, but it was too heavy for them to move. "Well," said Hugh, "get your rope off Pawnee and we'll see what a horse can do." When Jack had brought his lariat, it was knotted about the hind-legs of the bear, and then after tightening the cinches of his saddle, Jack mounted, took a double turn of the rope around his saddle horn, and then slowly started Pawnee up the valley while Hugh took hold of the bear's hide to keep it in place. The carcass began to slide off the hide, and Hugh with his knife made two or three last cuts, which freed the hide from the carcass, and presently the hide lay there spread out flesh side up. After the rope had been untied from the carcass, the two went over the hide with their knives scraping away all the fat that they could get off, and presently Hugh declared that it was in shape to be spread and dried. "We're likely to have some trouble getting this on a pack, because, of course, no horse likes to pack a bear hide, but I guess we can do it all right. Instead of taking it back to where we left the horses, let's spread it out here and bring one of the animals down here and load it on him." "All right," said Jack, "and now let's get back to camp. I feel like having a wash." Returning to the horses it took some little time with water, mud, and sand--for, of course, the soap was in the pack and they did not want to open it--to cleanse themselves of the grease from the bear. The smell of the beast they could not get rid of, and this gave them some trouble when they were catching and loading their animals, for the horses snorted and jumped and pulled back when they caught the scent of either of the two. However, at last they had their lunch, and then loaded their horses, and went down to the bear skin. As Hugh had said, the matter of loading it was not easily performed. It was first lashed up into a secure package, to be put on as a top pack, and then the lightest loaded of the horses was brought up to it. The horse did not like it a bit, but at length by blindfolding him with a coat tied about his head, he stood quietly enough for Hugh to place the load on his back, but Jack was obliged to hold the rope, for the horse, notwithstanding his blindfolding, kept stepping about and was very uneasy. Hugh managed to tie the skin on so that it would stay, and then Jack, going around to the off side, helped to put on the lash rope firmly. When they took off the coat, however, and the horse saw what was on his back, he bucked fiercely all over the meadow, and would have stampeded the other horses when he passed near them if it had not been that Hugh and Jack, both mounted, had a firm hold on their ropes. At last the horse became tired of bucking, but its fears were not quieted, for every little while it would look back at its pack and snort and rush here and there, much afraid of the load it was carrying. "That bear skin is going to make us a lot of trouble, son," said Hugh, "and the sooner we get it dried so that some of the smell will be gone out of it, the better it will be for us. Let's go on now to the edge of that beaver meadow and camp there. We'll have to spend a day or two drying this hide and getting the horses used to it." For the rest of the day they had much trouble with their horses, for every time the trail crooked around so that the odor of the bear skin was carried to the other horses of the train, there was a scattering, and Jack had to round up the animals and bring them back again. It was nearly dark when they finally camped at a little spring at the border of the beaver meadow, where a little clump of cottonwood trees gave shelter and wood for the campfire. Not long before they reached the stopping place, dark clouds had begun to rise over the mountains to the west, and gradually the whole western sky became overcast. "Looks like we were going to have a rain storm," said Hugh; "and I wish we might, and a good hard one. It would put out the fire on the mountains and cleanse the air of the smoke." "Yes," replied Jack, "I wish it would rain. I hate to see all that timber burning. It will take a long time for the mountains to become green again." "Yes," said Hugh, "many and many a year; and sometimes, of course, after the fire has gone over the hills like that they never again are covered with timber. I have seen mountains way down in the south-west that at one time must have been covered with splendid great trees, and then had been burned over and no trees ever grew there again. There are big logs lying on the hillside now that are all that is left of those old forests, but no sign of any new timber springing up anywhere." "Well, how long ago were those mountains burned over?" asked Jack. "You can't prove it by me," said Hugh. "I've asked that question a good many times, and I have never found anybody that was old enough to know anything about when the fires took place. It must have been long, long ago." "But why don't those old logs that you were speaking about, rot and disappear?" asked Jack. "I'll tell you why," said Hugh. "It's because that country is so dry. I don't believe more than six inches of rain falls there in the year, and nothing ever rots; things just dry up and lie there, getting drier and drier all the time." "And yet," said Jack, "when we came down through the mountains from the north, we saw lots of country that had been burned, and almost everywhere a lot of new green timber was springing up to take the place of the old burnt tree trunks that were getting ready to fall." "That's so," replied Hugh; "but I remember that we passed over some places where the forests had been burned, where there was no sign at all of anything growing, no sign of any soil; nothing except the bare gravel or the rock." "Yes," said Jack, "I remember that, too." "I reckon it's like this," explained Hugh. "If the fire passes over the country quickly and just burns or kills the standing trees and doesn't heat the soil too much, then the seeds that have been dropped by the trees and are lying hidden in the soil, sprout and new timber grows up, but if the fire catches in the soil of the forest, which you know is made up of the needles and branches and cones of the pine trees, and if that soil is dry enough so that it will burn, then the fire keeps creeping through it, burning it where it's dry enough to burn, or heating it where it's too damp, and so all the seeds that are lying in it are either burned or cooked, and there is nothing left to sprout. Then after that, a few years of rain storms will wash away all the soil, and as there's nothing left on the mountain to furnish seeds, no timber ever grows. I take it, a great deal depends on the condition of the soil at the time the fire goes through. If it's dry, the seeds of the trees are likely to be killed. If it's damp, they're likely to live after the fire has passed and to send up another crop of trees." "It seems an awful shame, Hugh, that all this timber should be destroyed and all game should be driven out. Of course, the timber has no commercial value now. I suppose it's too far from any market, and there's no way to get it out." "No," said Hugh, "you couldn't sell it for anything, of course, but the time will come, I expect, when there'll be some use for all this timber. This country is going to fill up with people sometime, and those people will need houselogs, corral poles, and fence-posts; and then besides that, nobody knows what mines may not be found in these mountains; and if mines ever are found and worked, there is going to be a lot of lumber needed to timber them with." When the camp was reached the western sky looked very threatening, and Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, let us get these loads off as quick as we can and picket the horses, and then we'll get the tent up. I reckon we are going to be rained on to-night, and we may as well sleep as dry as we can." It took but a few minutes to throw the loads off the horses, and to picket them, and immediately the little tent was raised and the beds and packs got under cover. By this time it was dark, and over the mountain-tops to the west could be seen lightning flashes, playing far above the red glow of the forest fire. "Yes," said Hugh, as he looked toward the mountains, "I believe that rain will come pretty near putting that fire out to-night. At all events it will check it." The storm advanced toward them, and presently the light of the fire grew dimmer as the rain passed over it and advanced toward the valley. Supper had hardly been cooked when the first few drops reached them, and after piling plenty of wood on the fire, they retreated to the tent to eat. It was a hard thunder storm, and before long flashes of lightning were thick all over the sky and the thunder was crashing and rattling above their heads. "I don't believe we'll get drowned out here to-night," said Hugh, "for this place where we've camped is a few inches higher than anything round about it, but we may find our things pretty damp in the morning, for this hard rain sifts through even good canvas like this," and he pointed to the tent above them. "There's one thing you want to look out for when you are camping in a dry country, son," he went on; "don't ever camp down in a ravine, no matter how dry it may seem to be. I've known three or four cases where a lot of fellows camped in a nice grassy spot in the middle of a ravine and along during the night there came a cloud-burst somewhere up on the high prairie, and the water came rolling down the ravine and floated all the fellows off. I guided a party of scientific chaps one time that did just that. The ravine was dry when they went to sleep, and they were washed away during the night, and the next morning the ravine was pretty nearly dry again, but they spent two or three days traveling down that gulch, picking up their things that had been carried away by the water and digging them out of the mud and sand. Some of the men might easily enough have got drowned if the storm had lasted a little longer." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "why did you not tell them not to camp in such a place." "I did," said Hugh, "but they laughed at me, and thought that because there wasn't any water there then, and hadn't been for a long time, there never would be any. I took my blankets and slept on a little point eight or ten feet above the bottom of the ravine and the water never got to me, but I had to laugh at two or three of the young fellows who waded out close to my bed. Of course, it was dark and they didn't know where they were, nor what had happened. I heard them calling and shouting to each other, and before that I had heard the water coming, so that I knew what was taking place, but I could not do anything to help any of them." "Well, after that, Hugh, I expect those men had more respect for your advice, didn't they?" said Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "I don't know but they did." CHAPTER X A BIG BEAVER MEADOW The next morning dawned bright and clear. Jack and Hugh were both up before sunrise, and while Hugh was kindling the fire, trying to make wet wood burn, Jack went down to the stream to get a bucket of water. He was just about to stoop over to fill his bucket, when suddenly he saw something swimming along under the water, and placing his bucket on the ground, he fired at the object just as it passed in front of him. The stream was narrow and deep, so that he shot almost directly down into the water, and as soon as the splash made by the ball ceased, he could see something struggling below him, and reaching down into the water he caught the animal by a foot, and lifting it out threw it on the bank. It was a little beaver. Jack had seen plenty of beaver hides, but never before a living beaver, and this seemed to him very small, and, judging by what Hugh had previously told him, he concluded that it was a young one. It would not weigh more than ten or twelve pounds. Filling his bucket, he carried his water in one hand and the beaver in the other, with the rifle under his arm, up to the tent, and surprised Hugh by throwing the beaver on the ground. "Well," said Hugh, "is that what you shot at? I wondered whether you could have run on a deer down by the creek, or maybe an antelope. This is a good piece of meat you've brought in. Beaver is first-class eating, and this is a nice, fat, tender kitten. About three months old, I should say, by the size, and it's mighty early for kittens as big as this. You'll get your first lesson in skinning a beaver to-day, and your first taste of beaver meat, too. Won't it be, or did you ever eat beaver when you were with the Blackfeet?" "No, Hugh," said Jack, "I don't think I ever tasted it. I'd like to." "We'll have beaver tail soup, too," said Hugh. "This tail's only a little one, but it'll be enough to give us a taste. Beaver tail used to be considered great meat by the old-time trappers, something like back fat among the Indians. I never cared much about beaver tail. It's too oily for my taste. I should think those Indians we saw last summer up in British Columbia would like it, but I like something a little more solid. "Lay that kitten in the shade," he went on, "and after we've got through our breakfast we'll stretch that bear hide. You must remember that that is like so much cash in our pocket. We've got to save all the fur we get this trip, and no fur is ever safe until it's good and dry." As they sat at breakfast, they looked toward the mountains. The morning was still, and instead of the flames and the onrushing clouds of smoke which they had seen the day before, there were now only a few smoke wreaths lazily curling up toward the sky at occasional points on the mountain side. "Yes," said Hugh, as he waved his knife toward the range, "I reckon that storm last night put out that fire. In the first place it wet all the timber, green and dry, and then it wet all the dead underbrush and the needles and dry branches with which the ground is covered. I think everything got a good soaking, and I believe that now the fire will go out. Anyway, I hope so." "I suppose you have no more idea than I have how the fire got started?" asked Jack. "No," said Hugh, "no man can tell about that. A fire may get started in forty ways. Usually, it's some fellow goes off and leaves his campfire burning, and then a puff of wind comes up and blows some of the coals into some dry grass or something that catches fire easy, or else the Indians may set fire to the timber just for the purpose of driving the game into some big stretch of country where it is easy to hunt it. Of course, Indians get the credit for a whole lot of fires that they never set, and I believe that half the fires are started by white men, just from carelessness, like throwing down a lighted match, or chucking away a cigarette that will burn for ten or fifteen minutes. On the prairie, of course, lots of fires are started by the railroad. The sparks from the locomotive fall among dry grass. Sometimes in the timber lightning starts a fire. There are lots of ways in which the forests can be burned, and as long as there's so much forest, and it's nobody's business to look after it, of course, these fires will keep burning year after year." "Well now, son," said Hugh, "after they had finished eating, if you'll get another bucket of water I'll wash the dishes, and then we can stretch that bear hide." Jack brought another bucket of water, which Hugh set on the fire, and while it was heating he directed Jack to unlash the bear hide and to drag it out a little away from camp. After this had been done, he sent him down to look along the stream to see if he could find any birch or alder brush, telling him if he could do so to get enough branches to make thirty or forty wooden pins. Taking the ax, Jack went down the stream and could find neither birch nor alder. He did find, however, a thicket of small ash saplings, and cutting down half a dozen of these he put them on his back and dragged them back to camp. "Couldn't find any birch?" said Hugh. "Well, I don't know as I'm much surprised. It's pretty well south for birch, but that makes better pins than 'most anything else. However, this ash will have to do, I reckon." He took the saplings and with the ax cut them into lengths of about eight or ten inches, and then taking the thickest ones he split them. Then he said to Jack: "Get out your knife now, son, and help me whittle pegs. We want quite a lot of them, for I would like to stretch this hide nicely, and take it in in good shape." For half or three-quarters of an hour the two were busily employed whittling down and pointing pins, and they had a large pile of them before Hugh declared that there were enough. They carried the pins over to where the bear skin lay and threw them on the ground; then turning the hide flesh side up they stretched it as nearly square as possible, and then with their jack-knives went round its border, cutting holes half an inch long in the margin of the hide at intervals of about six inches. When these had all been cut, the hide was again spread out, and Hugh, with the ax, drove two pins through holes, one in each side of the neck, and then, stretching the hide to its full length, drove two more in holes each about a foot on either side of the tail. Then two pins were driven at one side of the hide between fore and hind leg, and two on the other side, between fore and hind leg. The hide now was held in position, and going about it, Hugh, with great care, drove in his pins, stretching the hide so that it was nearly square, though a little longer from head to tail than from side to side. Of course, the four legs and the head made the square irregular, but, on the whole, Hugh declared, after he had finished, that it was a very good job. "I shouldn't have stretched this hide quite so large, son," he said, "if it hadn't been so very well furred. Usually the hair is thin on the flanks, and if you stretch a hide much you get places on either flank just in front of the hind-legs where there is scarcely any hair at all, and a bear hide that shows up like that never brings a good price. You notice, though, that on this hide the fur is just about as good on the belly as it is on the back. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if your uncle bought this hide himself, instead of letting us sell it to some fur buyer. "Now, I don't want the sun to burn it," he went on, "so we'll just go down to the creek and get a lot of willow brush and make a shade for it. If the sun shines all day on this fat it will more than half cook it, and that will spoil the hide." Hugh and Jack went down to the stream, and cutting a lot of the green-leafed willows, brought them up and so arranged them that the direct rays of the sun were kept from the hide. "Never dry a hide in the sun," said Hugh; "always in the shade. Let the wind and the dryness in the air take up the moisture for you. Then your hides will always sell well." "Well, son," said Hugh, when the job of stretching the hide and shading it was ended, "do you feel pretty wolfish?" "Yes," said Jack, "I believe I'm ready for dinner." "All right," said Hugh, "we'll skin that little beaver, and roast him for our dinner. If we have any luck trapping you'll have plenty of skinning to do before we get back, and I guess you'll be pretty sick of it." Returning to the camp they took the beaver kitten to the shade of one of the cottonwood trees, and Hugh showed Jack how to skin it. "You split it," said Hugh, "from the chin right straight down the middle of the belly to the root of the tail, and then take off the skin just as you would with any other animal. You must have a whetstone by you and keep your knife sharp, and be careful in your cutting so that you make no holes in the hide. At the same time you must skin close to the hide, and not leave any fat on it. When you get to the legs, cut the skin all around just above the feet on fore and hind legs, and at the tail cut all around the bone, just above where the scales begin. In skinning around the eyes, see that you don't cut the eyelids, and when you get to the ears, cut them off close to the hide on the inside. Now, go ahead and see what you can do." Jack split the beaver as directed, and carefully worked back the hide, first on one side and then on the other. It was slow business. In his effort not to cut holes in the skin he made short cuts, and the peeling off of the hide seemed to go very slowly. However, he worked it along with much patience until he got to the legs and the tail, and cut them around, as Hugh had instructed. Meantime, Hugh had gone off and cut some long willow sprouts, and returning to where Jack sat, occupied himself in making a circular hoop, which, he told Jack, was to stretch the skin on. He bent a long twig into a circle, and with the slender branches on the end tied the smaller and larger ends together. By this time Jack had the beaver about half skinned, and Hugh, drawing his knife, took hold of one side of the hide and helped, and in a very few minutes the carcass was free and lying on the grass, while beside it lay the skin, flesh side up. "Well, son," said Hugh, "that is a pretty good job, considering it's the first beaver you ever skinned. It will be a good practice for you. You see, if we should ever be lucky enough to get half a dozen beaver in a morning it will take us about all day long to skin them." "Whew!" said Jack, as he stood up and stretched his cramped limbs, "that's something like work. I guess most fellows, when they think of trapping, think only of how good they feel when they catch their beaver, and how good they feel when they sell the skins. They don't remember how much work it takes to get the skins ready for market." "That's so, son," said Hugh, "but then, I guess that's true about 'most everything in life. The miner thinks only about the rich haul that he is going to make; he doesn't reckon on the number of hours that he's got to swing a pick or a sledge or hold a drill before he strikes pay streak. He just thinks of striking it rich, and then getting the money for his mine. There's lots of human nature in all of us. "Well, now," he went on, "the first thing we want to do is to go down to the creek and get rid of some of this grease that we have accumulated, and then we can come back and cook our dinner." It took a lot of scrubbing with soap and sand to free themselves from the oil of the bear and the beaver, and the smell of the grease they could not get rid of. When they had returned to the tent Hugh sent Jack to cut a long, green, forked stick. Sharpening this at its larger end, he drove it firmly into the ground in such a position that it would overhang the fire. He tied a stout cord to the hind-legs of the little beaver, built up his fire of dry cottonwood, and let it burn down to good, red coals, and then hung the beaver to the fork of a green stick so that it swung directly over the coals. Then he told Jack to get a long, green, willow twig, and from time to time to give the beaver's carcass a twirl, so that it would constantly keep turning over the fire. Then Hugh himself began preparations for the rest of the dinner, which, after all, consisted only of bread and coffee. The hot coals soon caused the grease to drip from the meat, which slowly twirled over the fire, and by the time Hugh had baked his bread and cooked his coffee he declared that the meat ought to be done. It was taken from the fire and a slash with a knife showed that it was cooked through. Hugh divided it into two pieces, and putting it on two tin plates, gave one to Jack and took one himself. "Now, son," he said, "try this meat, and see how you like it. Most of us think that kitten is pretty good food. Of course, it isn't like fat cow, or even like mountain sheep or elk, but to my mind it's quite as good as any bird or fish that there is." For some time Jack's mouth was so full that he could not comment on the dinner, but, after a time, he declared in response to a question by Hugh, that the meat was "prime." "But what is this queer, half-bitter taste that it has, Hugh?" he asked. "Why, son, that's extract of cottonwood and willow bark. Don't you know that is what the beaver feed on, and, of course, the flesh tastes of it? This little fellow is not very strong, but I've sometimes eaten old beaver that was so bitter that you really didn't want to eat much of it." "Well," said Jack, "this is about the tenderest meat that I've ever eaten, and I like the bitter flavor." "Yes," said Hugh, "it's mighty nice, and then this fellow is so young that you don't have to mind the ribs at all; you can chew them right up and swallow them down." "Well," said Jack, "I say it's prime, and I hope we'll have lots more beaver meat before we go in." "No doubt we will," said Hugh; "but no doubt, also, it will not be as good as this has been. It's not every day that one gets a kitten beaver, and it's mighty poor policy to kill them. You see this little bit of a hide isn't worth anything, whereas, if the kitten had been allowed to grow a year more the hide would have been worth, maybe, four or five dollars. Now it isn't worth more than seventy-five cents." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "if I had known that perhaps I wouldn't have shot it, but you see, I didn't know that kitten ought not to be killed, and if I had known about it I had no time to think." "No," said Hugh; "it was all right to kill this one, but I'm just telling you so that after this you'll know about kittens. We try always to set our traps so as to catch only the old beaver. Of course, Indians will sometimes tear down a dam and kill all the beaver in a pond, but then Indians haven't much idea of looking out for the future. I say, kill what old beaver you can and leave the young ones to grow up. If you don't get them next year somebody else will, and we'll hope that whoever does will have sense enough to spare the young ones." When dinner was over and the dishes washed, Hugh told Jack to bring him the little beaver's hide and the willow hoop that he had made, and then after cutting holes all around the margin of the hide, he took a string and passed it through one of the holes, around the hoop, through another hole and around the hoop again, and so went all around the skin until it was fairly and evenly stretched on the willow hoop. "There, son," he said to Jack, "that is the way to stretch a beaver hide. Now hang this up somewhere in the brush where the sun can't get at it, nor the wolves and coyotes, either, and by to-morrow morning it will be dry enough so that we can fold it and put it in the pack." Jack soon found a good place in the shade near the tent and hung the skin up, well out of the reach of any animals that might be prowling about. When he had returned to the tent, Hugh had about finished washing the dishes, and Jack wiped them and they were put away in a corner of the tent. "Hugh," said Jack, "you told me to hang the beaver skin where the animals could not get at it, but what about that bear skin out there? May not some of the animals trouble that to-night?" "Not so, son; the smell of the bear skin ought rather to frighten off the animals. At the same time I haven't very much confidence in the miserable coyotes that this country seems to be full of, so I am going to put a scare out around that hide to-night, and to-morrow morning you will see that nothing has disturbed it." "Well, I shall be mighty glad to see what you do to it, Hugh," said Jack. "Oh," said Hugh, "there is nothing special about it. I'm going to protect that hide by taking advantage of the cunning of the coyote. He is always on the lookout for traps and snares of one kind or another, and he won't go close to where he thinks there is a trap. Now, if I put four sticks in the ground at the corner of that bear skin, and run a little string from the tops of these four sticks all around the hide, the coyotes will not pass under that string, because they'll think that maybe it's some kind of a trap to catch them. You see, the coyotes are like some men you have heard of; sometimes they are a little too smart." When Hugh had finished his pipe Jack said, "What shall we do this afternoon, Hugh? You were going to visit this beaver meadow this morning if we hadn't had that bear skin to attend to. Is there time enough for us to go down there now?" "Plenty of time," said Hugh. "I was just going to propose it. There's an awful big stretch of beaver work here and I guess that a great deal of it has been abandoned. We want to find out where the beaver are now, and when we've learned that and something about their ways, we can get out our traps. If you like, I'll go down with you now and look for ponds that have beaver in them." "All right," said Jack; "I'm ready." "Well," said Hugh, "let's go on now, and I reckon this is as good a time as any to christen those rubber boots that we bought in Laramie. We are likely to find it pretty wet down there, and I don't care to take a horse in those thick willows until I find out a little about them myself. An old beaver meadow is a mighty mean place to take horses. There are bogs and beaver sloughs and old abandoned beaver holes, and it's easy for a horse to fall down, and sometimes mighty hard to get him up again." Hugh and Jack donned their rubber boots, and taking their rifles, started down toward the main stream. The meadow here was miles in width and it was quite uncertain how far they could go. As well as they could see, much of the meadow was overgrown with tall willows, but on the other hand, there seemed to be many open, grassy meadows. Before plunging into the willows they followed along the edge for some little distance and at last Hugh said, "Let's turn in here, son, there seems to be a game trail running in the direction we should go." Sure enough, they found a well-traveled and dry game trail which showed that last autumn it had been traveled by bands of elk, for the bark was rubbed off the willows as high as Hugh's head, where great horns of the bulls had forced the stems of the brush apart on either side of the trail. The way led just in the direction they wanted to go, that is, across the valley, and ten or fifteen minutes' brisk tramping brought them to the edge of a green, grassy meadow of considerable extent. Just as they reached the edge of the willows Hugh paused and motioned with his hand, beckoning Jack to come up to his side. "Look there, son," he said, pointing, and Jack saw, only about forty yards away, two bob-cats pulling and tearing at some small thing on the ground, a little distance out in the meadow. Hugh said, "You try to kill the one that is nearest to the brush, and I'll see if I can take the other one on the jump." Jack leveled his rifle and took a careful side aim at the breast of one of the cats, which stood facing him. On the crack of the gun the one he had fired at fell over, while the other jumped high in the air, and when it struck the ground again stood looking to see whence the noise had come. It looked only for an instant, for then Hugh's gun also spoke, and the animal fell over. "Well," said Hugh, as he reloaded his gun, "I wouldn't have looked for those two bob-cats in such a place as this. I reckon their hides are not worth much, but they might make you a pair of shaps, son; let's go over and get them and see what it is that they were eating." Walking over to the place, they found that the bob-cats had been devouring the carcass of a little spotted fawn. "Look there, now," said Hugh; "that's the sort of work these fellows are at day in and day out all the year round. Of course, after a while the fawns get too big and shy for them to tackle, but these bob-cats are all the time killing something that ought to be allowed to live. I suppose that every two or three days for the next month or two each of these cats will kill a young deer, or a young antelope, or maybe a young elk. That would make twenty head of young game animals to a cat each summer. It's mighty lucky that there ain't any more of those fellows in the mountains than there is." He stooped over and looked at the head of the lynx he had shot, and then at the one that had fallen to Jack's gun. The latter was shot through the neck and showed a small hole where the bullet went in and a large one where it came out. The lynx he had killed had only one bullet hole in its neck, the ball having entered its mouth and having knocked out some of its front teeth. "You ought to shoot closer, son," he said to Jack. "Every hole cut in a skin takes a little off its value. You might remember this." [Illustration: TWO BOB-CATS PULLING AND TEARING AT SOME SMALL THING ON THE GROUND.--_Page 106._] "Yes, Hugh, I know I ought to have shot it through the head, but the range was short and I was a little afraid that if I fired at its head I might overshoot." "Well," said Hugh, "of course, you might have done so, and at the same time you ought to know how to hold your gun so that you would know just where the bullet would hit at every range from twenty yards up to two hundred." "Well," said Jack, "I have been pretty lucky with my shooting, but you know that I can't shoot like you, Hugh; and I don't believe I ever will be able to." "Nonsense," said Hugh. "When you once know your gun thoroughly, provided it's a good one, you can shoot just where you want to, and just as well as any man alive." "Well," said Jack, "I'll try to be more careful after this. Lord knows, I want to be a good shot, but you can never make me believe that I'll ever learn to shoot as well as you do, Hugh." "Yes, you will," said Hugh. "Now, let's see what we can do with these bob-cats, son, and then go on a little further and find out something about how these beaver down here are living." Hugh took from his pocket a buckskin string and tied the two cats together. Jack climbed up among some stout willow stems and by his weight bent them down to within five or six feet of the ground, and then Hugh hung the cats across them. When Jack came down the stems rose nearly to their former height and left the lynxes suspended well out of reach of any prowling animal. Then the two went on. As they walked on over the meadow where the thick grass stood knee-high, the ground became more and more moist, until presently the water quite covered the soil. "We must look out here, son," said Hugh; "we may strike bad places anywhere and must go carefully." Presently they were stopped by a ditch two or three feet wide, in which a few inches of water seemed to stand. Hugh stepped across it, finding the bank on the other side firm enough, and Jack jumped after him. "This," said Hugh, "is one of those ditches that I was telling you about that the beaver dig to float their feed down to their ponds. If we could follow it back to the brush we would find that the willows all along it had been cut off." A little beyond this they came to a place where the water was deeper and where the mud under the water was soft, and here they stopped and turning up the stream, followed as nearly as they could the edge of the old pond. Standing in the grass, out where the water was deeper, Hugh pointed out a number of little mounds overgrown with grass and low willows, which he told Jack were old and long-deserted beaver houses. "If we could get out to them," he said, "we should find under that brush a solid foundation of sticks and mud. Those houses will last for a long time, for as the sticks are kept wet all the time they don't rot, but just become water-soaked and will last pretty nearly forever." The grass, the mud and water, and the frequent detours they had to make made their progress up stream slow, but at length they came to a grass-grown wall a foot or two higher than the rest of the ground, and when he saw that, Hugh gave an exclamation of satisfaction. "Now," he said, "I think we'll have better going. This, you see, is an old dam, and the chances are we can get on it and cross the stream, and on the other side, where the bottom is narrower, we shall have better going." It turned out just as he had said. The dam, though soft in places, was generally so firm that they could walk along on it pretty comfortably. Over toward its further end it was partly broken down and the water of the stream trickled over and through it for a width of about twenty feet, but by carefully feeling their way and at every step testing the dam with their feet, they managed to cross the running water, and from there to the other side of the valley the dam was firm. On this west side of the stream the moist bottom was much narrower and they presently found themselves on firm ground, and started to walk briskly up the creek. "All this work here," said Hugh, "is very old, and I haven't seen any sign of beaver being here for a long time. We'll go up stream as far as we can, but we must cross to the other side before it gets night. We'd be pretty badly off if we were caught in this beaver swamp after dark. We'd sure have to spend the night here. I wouldn't be much surprised if we found that we had to move camp and go up further toward the head of the stream. The beaver have certainly left this part of it." They hurried on, and for a mile or two nothing was said. The sun was hot and the rubber boots which both wore seemed clumsy and heavy. Jack felt pretty tired but he said nothing of this to Hugh. Presently, from the dry upland where they were walking they could see ahead of them a pond, and then, a little later, the dam which held back its waters. "There," said Hugh, "that looks to me like fresh work. Don't you see there in that dam some green leaves sticking up? That looks as if the dam had been lately mended; so lately that the twigs and brush used in repairing it have not yet died and lost their leaves." Jack could see this, and then as he looked over the pond he saw a long wake in the water close to the bank, and caught Hugh's arm and said, "Look there. Hugh, away over there under the bank. What is that swimming? Of course, it may be a duck, but may it not be a beaver?" Hugh looked carefully, and presently the object which was swimming passed a little bay so that it was distinctly seen as a small, round object. "That's a beaver, son," said Hugh. "You can see for yourself that it isn't a duck, and the only other thing it could be would be an otter or muskrat. It is too big for a muskrat and it doesn't seem like an otter. There are beaver down there, and what's more, they haven't been disturbed for a long time, or else they wouldn't be out swimming around like that in the heat of the day. Let's go down and take a look around; but keep quiet; don't make any quick motions, and whatever you see, don't fire your gun. If there are any beaver there we want to get some of them." The two walked slowly down toward the dam, taking advantage of whatever little cover there was in the way of inequalities of the ground or of willow brush. Down close to the water's edge grew a good many willows, and they were thus able to get quite close to the dam, and sitting down there they watched the water. For a long time, as it seemed to Jack, it was absolutely still, and then, while he was staring as hard as he could at the farther bank and the place where the dam met it, Hugh touched him and made a little motion with his head, and Jack, following the direction of his companion's eyes, saw, not more than twenty-five yards off, two beaver swimming down toward the dam, each with his head slightly turned to one side, and each dragging after him a green stick about three or four feet long. The two animals came on down to the dam, and without the slightest suspicion that they were being watched, crawled out of the water, dragging their sticks after them. When they left the water they were so close to the watchers that they were hidden from them by the dam, and just what they were doing could not be seen. Jack touched Hugh, and when he bent down his head, whispered to him, "Couldn't we crawl up a little closer and watch them?" Hugh shook his head. A few moments later the two beaver entered the water again and swam off up the pond. When they had disappeared Hugh touched Jack, and turning about, they crept away among the willows in the direction from which they had just come. When they had left the dam some way behind them, Hugh stopped and said to Jack, "Now, let us go on up this pond, and try to see where these beaver are living and where they're working. Keep out of sight as much as you can. I don't want them to know that there are any people about. It looks to me as if nobody had been trapping here for years, and as if we had struck something good. Now, come on, I want to walk fast and find out all I can to-night, and then we've got to get back to the camp as quickly as we can." They hurried along up the stream, Hugh looking carefully at the willows and aspens along the border of the meadow, and sometimes going down toward the edge of the pond. They crossed a number of places where branches, some of them quite large, had been dragged over the ground, but Hugh contented himself with saying to Jack, "You see, these beaver are working all along here, and they have to go quite a little way for their food." The beaver pond was quite a long one, but at last they reached its head. Here they came upon a game trail which seemed to lead back across the stream, and turned into it in the hope that it might lead them to the other side. From one high point above the pond they got a good view of its whole length, and Hugh pointed out half a dozen grayish brown objects raised two or three feet above the water's surface, which he told Jack were beaver houses. "It may be, son," he said, "that we'll have to bring our outfit across and camp up at the head of this pond. It's too far from our present camp for us to trap here conveniently." The game trail led them across the wide stream valley by a good, hard road. At only one point was it deep and muddy, and just here by good luck they found an old cottonwood tree, felled long ago by the beavers, which bridged the bad place. Once on the other side of the valley, they turned sharply down stream, and after a long walk, reached the game trail by which they had crossed it earlier in the day. They went down this until they came to the place where the lynxes had been hung up, and getting these, they went back to camp, reaching it just about sundown. "Well," said Hugh, "I feel as if we'd had quite a walk. I guess you are ready for supper, aren't you, son?" "You bet I am," said Jack; "but the first thing I want to do is to shed these rubber boots. They seem to me the heaviest things I ever had on my feet, and I believe I've got three or four blisters from walking in them. I'd rather go barefoot than wear these again." "Don't you believe it, son," said Hugh. "You'll be mighty glad of them boots before many days, now. I expect before long to have you wallowing around in the mud and water like a terrapin." CHAPTER XI INDIAN BEAVER LORE The two ate their supper that night with the eagerness of hungry and tired men. Jack thought that the term "wolfish," that Hugh sometimes used to express hunger, had a good deal of meaning. He was so greedy over his food that when the first helping was put on his plate he began to bolt it, as he said to Hugh, "like a hungry dog." "Better eat slowly," said Hugh. "You'll get a good deal more comfort out of your food and it will do you a whole lot more good. As a rule the hungrier you are the slower you ought to eat. I've seen a number of starving people in my time, and the longer they'd been without food the less we gave them at a time. It makes a man pretty mad, though, when he is just ravenous, if he can't pitch right into his grub and eat all he wants." "Yes," said Jack, "I've always heard that people that had been without food or without water for a long time ought to have their food or their water given them a very little at a time." "That is so," said Hugh. "If a man takes all he wants to it's pretty sure to make him sick. I remember one time when I made quite a ride one day in about eleven hours, about seventy-five miles we called it. There was a Pawnee Indian that ran alongside of my horse the whole way. In other words, for eleven hours he ran about seven miles an hour. Sometimes he slowed down and got a mile or two behind, and then he'd run harder and catch up to me and keep right alongside the loping horse for hours. When we got to the Republican River I was good and tired. I wouldn't let my horse drink at first, and just wetted my head without drinking, but that Indian sat down on the bank and borrowed my quart cup and drank it seven times full while he was sitting there, and then he was sick--Lord! how sick he was. When my horse had cooled off I let him drink, and then we crossed the river and camped on the other side." "Well, why did you make that long ride?" asked Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "we had gone down from the old Pawnee agency to take back south some horses that had been stolen, and when we were coming back we passed through some white settlements, and the white men being new to the country, and not knowing anything about Indians, wanted to kill my people and arrest me. I had all I could do to get the bunch through without anybody getting hurt, and to keep out of trouble myself, but I finally did it, and when we got out of the settlement I told the Indians that we'd all better make for home, and that we'd better separate in doing it. This Indian, Sun Chief, and I came along together. They all got in finally without any more trouble." "When was that, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Why," said Hugh, "that was in '67 or '68, I think. It was just after the railroad had passed through Eastern Nebraska." By this time supper was over and the dishes washed, and though Hugh and Jack were tired it hardly seemed time to go to bed. "I wish, Hugh," said Jack, "that you would tell me something about what we saw to-day, and something more about the way the beavers live." "Sure", said Hugh; "I'll tell you all I know, but that is not much yet, as far as what we saw to-day goes. We found a dam and some houses, where, I am sure, there are quite a number of beaver, maybe twenty-five or thirty, and maybe more, and from what we saw, I am pretty sure that they are gentle and unsuspicious. We ought to be able to get some of them, but until we've looked about more I can't tell much. What I think we'd better do is spend a day or two more prospecting, especially on this side of the creek, and then we'll move camp according to what we see, and then go to work to set some traps. You saw enough to-day to get some idea of how the beaver live. You saw an old dam and a new one, and you saw some houses. Did you ever see a muskrat house back East?" "Yes," said Jack, "I've seen a good many." "Did you ever see one opened?" asked Hugh. "No. I never did," said Jack. "Well, now, a muskrat and a beaver are pretty close relations, I take it. They live in much the same way, and build houses that are a good deal alike. Of course, a muskrat doesn't build dams, and a muskrat's tail is flattened from side to side, while the beaver's tail is flattened from above downward, but in many ways they are a good deal alike. They both live in their houses during the winter, and if they're driven from their houses they swim under the water to some place where there's an air-hole in the ice and where they can put up their noses to breathe. Of course, both beaver and muskrat must have air. A muskrat builds his house by heaping up mud and reeds and grass in a shallow pond at a distance from the bank. The beaver builds his by heaping up the same sort of stuff, only bigger, that is to say, sticks and brush and mud in a shallow pond away from the bank. Each sort of house has in it one or more rooms with a kind of a bench all round the walls where the animals sit or sleep, and with a hole somewhere near the middle of the floor leading down through the bottom of the house and out into the open water. I have seen beaver houses opened. Generally, they have only one big room, but sometimes a big house will have two or three rooms in it, and each room has a separate passage out into the water. I think that perhaps several families take part in building such a big house as that, and each family has its separate home. "Beaver, you know, don't always live in houses. There's a kind that people call bank beaver, and they just dig a hole in the bank under water, which slopes up a little and finally gets above the level of the water, and there they dig out quite a good-sized room not so very far under ground. These bank beaver live for the most part in rivers or in natural lakes, and as a rule they don't build any dams. They are just like any other beaver, but I expect they live in the way that is handiest to them." "Yes," said Jack; "'adapt themselves to their environment,' as Uncle George says." "Yes, I reckon that's it," replied Hugh. "But those words are a trifle too long for me to understand. Now," Hugh went on, "this room that the bank beaver lives in is quite a big one, maybe four feet or so across, with a sort of bench or shelf all round it, where the beaver sit and sleep, and, of course, with the water in the middle, where the tunnel that they have dug comes up into the room. Usually there's a growth of willows or other brush on the ground above it, and quite a thickness of earth, so that there's no danger of any animal that walks around on the ground putting his foot through into the room. Of course, these holes are usually dug so that the mouths of them are always under water and so that the water always stands as near as possible at the same level, but if a big flood comes along, these bank beavers sometimes get drowned out, and have to leave their homes and sit around on the bank and in the brush waiting for the water to go down. I remember once, quite a number of years ago, making a big killing of beaver at a time like that." "Where was that, Hugh?" asked Jack. "I'd been hunting through the winter," said Hugh, "supplying meat to some of the forts along the Missouri River near where Bismarck is now; Fort Stephenson, Fort Lincoln, and sometimes Fort Rice. I would kill my meat and then pack it in to the posts. Game was plenty at the heads of all the streams running into the Missouri, and it was no trick at all to get what meat I wanted. There were no buffalo, but plenty of elk, deer, and antelope. I was pretty lucky about my hunting and got meat when the Indians couldn't, and two or three times that winter I came pretty near having a row with them. They had a notion that I had some sort of medicine that brought the game to me and kept it away from them, and some of the village Gros Ventres said they were going to kill me if I didn't leave the country, but, of course, that was just their talk, and I stayed there and kept on hunting." "I wish you'd tell me about that, too, Hugh," said Jack. "Well, I can only tell you about one thing at a time. I thought you wanted to hear about how I got those beaver." "All right," replied Jack, "tell me about that first, and then about the Indians." "Well," Hugh continued, "I was up quite a way on the Little Missouri, not anywhere near the head, of course, but about forty miles from the mouth, when there came a big rain and a warm spell, and all the snow melted at once, and pretty nearly the whole bottom of the river filled up. The beaver on that creek are all bank beaver. There are no houses at all, except maybe a few on some little creeks that run into the river. The weather got so bad and rainy that I started down to go to Berthold, and as I traveled down the river about the first things that I began to see were beaver sitting around on the banks and on driftwood, stupid and confused, and not knowing enough to jump into the water when I came along. Of course, I began to kill them, shooting them through the head, and I soon saw that I had a big job on my hands, and that I could kill more in half a day than I could skin in two or three days. Besides that, I had been out some time and was short of ammunition. What I did was to kill in the morning what beaver I could skin in the rest of the day, and for two or three days I was kept mighty busy, and working hard late into the night. Then the river went down and the beaver disappeared, all going back into their holes again, I suppose. I made quite a bit of money on that trip, and if I had had a man with me to skin all the time I could have got twice as many as I did, maybe three times as many. I think if I'd had a helper I could have killed one hundred and twenty-five beaver without trying very hard. I've often thought if a man could go down the Little Missouri in a boat at such a time, and with one of these little pea rifles, he could get an awful lot of fur." "But I don't understand, Hugh," inquired Jack, "how the beaver let you come right up to them and shoot them." "Well," said Hugh, "of course I didn't walk right up to them, making plenty of noise; I went as quietly as I could and shot as carefully as I could, but the beaver seemed to have lost their wits. They weren't shy and watchful, as beaver 'most always are. They just sat there in the rain and looked miserable." "Dear me," commented Jack; "if you could find beaver as plenty as that only a few years ago, what immense numbers of them there must have been in the old times." "Yes," said Hugh, "it's wonderful to think of it, of course, and yet you must remember that all the regular trapping had stopped more than twenty years before that, and that it was only once in a while a man came along and set some traps, and even then he didn't make a business of trapping. He got just a few beaver and then went on. And it's wonderful how quickly any sort of wild animal increases if they're let alone. I believe that you might trap out all the beaver, except one pair, from a stream, and then leave that stream alone for twenty years and go back there and you'd find just as many beaver there as there were the first time you visited it." "That brings up another thing, Hugh, that I wanted to ask you about," said Jack. "How many young ones do the beaver have?" "I think," replied Hugh, "that they have four, and maybe sometimes six. I know you take any place where there are three or four beaver houses, and if you can go there and watch them, and the beaver are not too shy, you'll see an awful lot of kittens playing around at the right time of the day. I don't believe that the beaver breed until they are two years old, because more than once I've seen what I took to be one family, which consisted of two old ones, four or five nearly as big as the old ones, and four or five only half grown. That makes me think that the young ones stay with their parents until they are considerably more than one year old, but when the young ones are about full grown, I expect the old ones drive them off. Beaver are pretty mean; they're great things to fight among themselves, and I've seen many a one all scarred and cut about his head and neck and shoulders, where he'd been fighting with another one. After the full-grown ones are driven off by their parents, I reckon they start out and either build themselves houses somewhere nearby, or perhaps go on up or down the stream, and either join some other colony, or build a dam for themselves." "I don't understand, Hugh, how it is that the beaver know enough to build these dams which are strong enough to hold back the water in these creeks." "Well, son, I don't believe that I can help you out a bit. All I know is, that the beaver do it, and that their dams are strong and hold back the water, and that if you go and break down a dam, so as to let the water run out of the pond, the beaver will come down that night and mend the dam, and the next morning you'll find the pond full, or nearly full. Somehow or other, they understand just how to put together sticks and stones and mud so that the dam will hold. Sometimes the dam runs straight across the creek, sometimes it curves a little downward, that is to say, the hollow of the dam looks up the stream; sometimes it curves a little the other way, so that the hollow of the dam looks down the stream. You'd think that this was the strongest way to build, and it has seemed to me the dams built in that shape are usually found on the strongest running streams, but I can't be sure about it, because I don't know that I ever took particular notice. Anyhow, I know that all people that I've ever seen, Indians and whites alike, think that the beaver is smart." "I don't wonder," said Jack, "and now I remember," he went on, "that the Blackfeet have a lot of beliefs about the beaver. They think he's strong medicine." "Sure, they do," said Hugh; "they have lots of beliefs about it, and they think it's one of the greatest animal helpers." "I know they do," said Jack. "I remember now, that one time Joe took me to a ceremony where old Iron Shirt unwrapped a beaver bundle. I didn't know whether I would be allowed to see it, but Joe asked Iron Shirt, and he told me to come. I didn't understand what it was all about, but they unwrapped the bundle, which had in it a great lot of the skins of birds and small animals, and while it was being unwrapped, and after it was opened, Iron Shirt prayed and sang, and then two or three women who were present to help, danced around on their knees in the queerest way you ever saw. Joe said they were imitating the beaver." "Yes," said Hugh, "I saw one of those bundles unwrapped one time. It is a big ceremony. You know they have lots of stories about people that have been helped by the beaver. There's one of those stories about a poor young man who loved a certain girl, but he was so badly off and was so homely that she wouldn't have anything to do with him, so he went off and wandered over the prairie, feeling awful badly and wanting to die, and when night came he lay down by the stream to go to sleep, and while he was lying there a strange young man came to him and asked him to go to his father's lodge. The young man walked down to the edge of the stream and the poor boy followed him. When they got to the water's edge, the young man told the poor boy to follow him, and do just as he did. Then the young man dived into the water, and the poor boy followed him, and presently both came up inside of a lodge, and there sitting on the seats about the lodge were the old beaver, and when they got inside of the lodge the young man turned into a beaver, too. Then the old beaver spoke to the poor boy, and told him that he knew all about his trouble and wanted to help him, and asked him to spend the winter in his lodge. The poor boy was glad to do so, and during winter the old beaver taught him all their medicine, and gave him all their power. "Then the next spring the poor boy went out of the lodge and joined a party of his people who were going to war, and by the help of the beaver he killed the first enemy that they met, and scalped him, and this was the first time scalps were ever taken. This gave the poor boy great credit, and soon after he was able to marry the beautiful girl, and to become a head warrior, and later a big chief." "That's a pretty good story, Hugh," said Jack. "Yes," replied Hugh, "it's a pretty good story, but it is like a good many of those Indian stories which often have for their hero some poor, miserable young fellow who, being helped by some animal--his dream, they call it--comes out all right, and gets the thing that he wants." "Of course, the Blackfeet," Hugh went on, "have a great deal of respect for the power of what they call the under-water people--_Suye tuppi_. I reckon you've heard about them." "Yes," replied Jack, "they are people and animals that live at the bottom of lakes and streams, and have great power." "That's it," said Hugh. "But it isn't the Blackfeet alone that have these strong beliefs about the beaver. I guess all Indians are alike in the way they look at these animals. I know the Pawnees and Cheyennes feel the same way. Both tribes have queer stories about them. I reckon I never told you about one thing that is said to have happened to a young Cheyenne man a long time ago." "I don't remember it if you have, Hugh. What was it?" "Well," said Hugh, "in ancient times, the Indians used to kill lots of beaver. They liked the meat, and they used to make robes of the hides. In those days they had no steel traps, and the only way that they could get beaver was either to shoot them with their arrows or to tear down the dams, and when the water had run off, to get them out of their houses. It was a good deal of work to pull down the houses, and they used to train small dogs to go into the holes in the houses and worry the beaver until they would get mad and chase the little dog out through the mouth of the passage way, and there the Indian would be waiting with a club to knock the beaver on the head. Sometimes, however, the beaver would not come out far enough to be hit, and then they'd have to go into the house and kill them there, or pull them out. "Once a party of people had torn down a dam and killed a number of beaver from the houses. But one man was working at a house, and couldn't get the beaver out of it. His dog would go in and bark, but the beaver would not come out to where the young man could kill him; so the young fellow got down and crawled into the passageway, and presently got close enough to the beaver so that he could get hold of its foot. He wasn't strong enough to pull it out, so he backed out of the hole and called to a woman on the bank to bring him a rope. When she had brought it, he crawled into the hole again and tied it to the beaver's foot, and then came out, and three or four people began to pull on the rope, so as to haul the beaver into the daylight. He came very slowly, moving forward only a short distance and then holding on, but at last they began to see something coming, and presently, when they had pulled this thing to the mouth of the hole, they were astonished and frightened to see that instead of being a beaver it was a queer little old white man whom they were pulling out by the rope tied to one of his legs. When they saw what they had at the end of the rope, they were all so frightened that most them ran away; but the young man who had tied on the rope, before running away, went down to the beaver house and took the rope off the old man's leg so that he might be free again. Then he climbed up onto the bank and hung the rope on a tree, and made a prayer, and went away himself." "What do you suppose it was they saw, Hugh?" said Jack. "Bless you, son, I have no more idea than you have. I reckon that what they saw was a beaver, but of course that was not what they thought they saw. You'll find lots of Indians that imagine that they've seen things, or that things have happened to them that you and I would say couldn't possibly have been seen, or couldn't possibly have happened. The Indians have got pretty strong imaginations and then again maybe they have eyes to see things that we white folks can't see. I have seen a whole lot of queer things in Indian camp, things that I couldn't explain, things that I've seen with my own eyes, yet that most white people would say were just my imagination." "I know, Hugh; you told me about some of those things, and, of course, I can't see how they could possibly have happened, and yet because you saw them I believe that they did happen." "Of course, son, you know that I think that they happened; but, of course, maybe I might have been fooled about them. "Well, to go back to the beaver," he went on; "'most all Indians that I ever had anything to do with believe in a big old white beaver that is the chief of all beaver. I guess nobody ever saw him, but lots of people have seen him in dreams, especially in dreams where they went to the lodge of all the beavers. That is a dream that has come to a good many men, at least you often hear stories about people who have had the dream. This old white beaver is of great power. He knows about everything that has happened, and if by any chance he doesn't know about it himself, he calls all the other beaver together and asks them, and it's pretty sure that some one of them has some knowledge about the matter. "You see, the beaver are scattered all over, inhabit all the waters, and are active, and going about all through the hours of darkness, so they are very likely to know about things that have happened, about which all the people are ignorant; such things, for example, as women being captured and carried off at night, or war parties traveling at night. If a man has a beaver for his dream, he is pretty likely to be lucky in everything that he undertakes." "All the animals seem to have been very important to the Indians," said Jack. "They didn't exactly worship them, but they believe that they had great power to help." "Yes," agreed Hugh, "that is true, of course. The Indians pray to the spirits of the animals, and to the spirits of the mountains and rocks and trees, and ask them to help them, but the way I understand it, they don't worship any of these things. They pray to them just the same as white folks pray to saints, but way up above all these different spirits or medicines that the Indians talk about, there is some great person who has the power, and to him all these prayers are carried by the spirits that are prayed to. It's a mighty complicated thing, you see, son," he went on. "I can't understand it, and I reckon the Indians themselves don't understand it much better than I do, and I know they can't explain it. Some of them have tried to, but they get just about as far as I get, and then they are stuck." "Well, I suppose religion is a pretty hard subject anyhow, Hugh," remarked Jack. "I suppose it is," said Hugh, "and I reckon if you were to take a hundred white men out of the same church, and were to ask each one of them just exactly what his beliefs are, you would find that no two of the hundred would exactly agree." They sat for a little while looking at the fire, and then Hugh said, "Well, son, we've had a pretty long day and I reckon it's about time to go to bed." "That will suit me," said Jack, and they turned into their blankets. CHAPTER XII PROSPECTING FOR FUR It was not yet light next morning when Jack was awakened by a dull tapping, not often repeated, and as his senses grew clearer it seemed to him that the sound was like that made by an animal stamping its hoof on the ground. He crept silently out of his blankets, felt about for his cartridge belt and gun, and when he had found both, crept to the door. He had hardly got there when he heard again, more faintly, a stamping of a hoof, and then a snort which he knew was made by a deer. Meantime, Hugh had awakened, and, raised on his elbow, was watching Jack. The light was still so faint that objects could hardly be distinguished, but gradually, as the eastern sky began to flush and the light crept up toward zenith, Jack made out a deer standing fifty or sixty yards away, and looking at the tent, and then heard rather than saw it stamp its foot. Two or three times he put his rifle to his shoulder and glanced along the barrel, but he could not yet see his fore sight. Two or three times the deer stepped forward a little way, and then stopped and again stamped. Evidently the tent, shining white in the dim light of the morning, puzzled her, and she was trying to make out what it was. She had never seen anything like this before. As the light grew, Jack could see that it was a small doe, probably a yearling, and just the meat they needed. At length he put his gun to his shoulder again and found that he could see the sights, though not very clearly, and drawing a coarse sight and aiming low down at the brisket of the animal, which stood facing him, he pulled the trigger. The deer sprang in the air, and then turning, ran swiftly toward the brush and disappeared. "Get it?" asked Hugh, as Jack moved back on his bed and began to put on his trousers and shoes. "I don't know," said Jack, "the light was too dim for me to see much. I ought to have killed her, but I could hardly see my sights. I wouldn't be much surprised, though, if we were to find her. She seemed to me to jump as if she had been hit." In a very few moments Hugh and Jack were both dressed, and while Hugh began to kindle the fire, Jack walked off in the direction where the deer had last been seen. It was now full day, and before he had gone far the brilliant disk of the sun began to show over the eastern horizon. The tracks were plainly seen where the deer had sprung into the air, and then turning, had run swiftly toward the willows. It was easy to follow the trail, but there was no blood, and this gave Jack rather a feeling of chagrin, for he did not like to feel that he had missed. As he went on the tracks were less deeply marked in the ground, rather as if--Jack thought--the animal had recovered from its fright. He had only just begun to think about this, when suddenly he almost fell over the deer lying in front of him. It had run about a hundred yards. Jack turned and looked back toward the tent and at that moment Hugh, who had been putting wood on the fire, turned his head and looked toward his companion. Jack waved his hat as a sign that he had found the animal, and then began to prepare it to take to camp. It was a young doe and quite fat, and Jack felt quite pleased that he had got so good a piece of meat. It did not take long to prepare it for camp, and as the animal was small, and the distance short, Jack took it by the ears and easily dragged it over the smooth grass up to the camp. "Well," said Hugh, as he stooped over and felt of the carcass, "that's good. A nice little white-tailed yearling, and quite fat. From now on we've got to kill bucks or yearlings or dry does, for the old ones that are nursing their young won't be fit to eat." "It's queer, Hugh," said Jack, "I didn't find a bit of blood on the trail. I just followed the tracks, and I was watching them so closely that I almost fell over the deer at last. The bullet entered the breast low down and went through the whole length of the animal, and both where the bullet went in and where it came out, the skin had slipped to one side so as to cover the hole in the flesh. Of course she bled a lot, but not a drop of it came out of her body." "Yes, that happens so every now and then in those shots that go through an animal lengthwise, and they're especially likely to happen if the animal was standing when the shot was fired, and then makes a big effort afterward." Breakfast was nearly ready, and by the time Jack had washed his hands Hugh had poured out the coffee and they both sat down. "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "what are we going to do to-day? Shall we move, or shall we stop here one more night?" "I think," said Hugh, "that the best thing we can do is to take the saddle horses and go on up the creek a few miles on this side and prospect. After we've done that, we can make up our minds what is best to be done, but it's pretty certain that we will want to go over and camp two or three nights by that pond that we saw yesterday." "Yes," said Jack, "I should think that was something that we ought to do, sure." It took but a few minutes to skin the deer and hang the carcass up in one of the cottonwood trees, where it would be safe from any wolf or coyote that might come about the camp, and then catching up their riding horses, they saddled them and started up the stream. For several miles the bottom was wide and usually thickly fringed with willows. Several times they dismounted, tied their horses, and went in as far as they could toward the main stream, but twice they were stopped by water, or mud, or by beaver sloughs that were too wide for them to cross. Hugh said little, but shook his head from time to time as he looked over the valley. It was evident that he was dissatisfied. Jack forebore to ask questions, for he could see that Hugh was occupied in observing, and was thinking hard. They had gone five or six miles up the valley, and it was now about noon, when, on rounding a point of willows, they could see before them quite a large pond. Hugh drew up his horse and for ten or fifteen minutes sat there watching, and then drawing back, he rode up behind the willows, dismounted, and tied his horse. Jack did the same. "This looks better, son," said Hugh. "We'll go in here afoot as far as we can and watch this pond and see what we can see. I think there are beaver here, and probably this is the place we want to camp by." As quietly as possible they made their way toward the edge of the water, passing on the way several trails where the beaver had been dragging brush to the water. The signs showed that this had been done no longer ago than last night, for on the ground were scattered fresh, green willow and cottonwood leaves, and in two or three places the bark had been knocked off willow stems by whatever had been dragged along, and these wounds were absolutely fresh. Presently they came to the edge of the willows, and still keeping themselves concealed, crept up to a little knoll, where they sat down and peered through the tangle of stems out over the pond. There before them was a long dam which Jack, with his experience of the day before fresh in his mind, could see had been recently worked on. Out in the water were a number of the hay-stack-shaped houses of the beaver, and even while they were looking, to Jack's astonishment and delight a beaver appeared on one of them, carrying in his mouth a long, white, peeled stick which he placed among others on the roof. Jack looked at Hugh, wondering if he had seen the beaver, too, and Hugh gave a little motion of his head. At two or three points on the dam animals were at work, beaver, of course, but too far off to be certainly recognized. Jack wished with all his heart that he had brought his glasses. For nearly an hour they sat there, and then crept away as noiselessly as they had come, apparently unobserved by the animals. When they had returned to their horses, Jack felt that he might speak. "Wasn't that a pretty sight, Hugh?" he said. "I don't think I ever saw anything quite as fine as that. I believe it would be a great deal more fun just to get up close to these beaver and watch the way they live, than it will be to trap them and kill them." "So it would, son," said Hugh, "if we were just coming out for fun; and I reckon it's pretty nearly as good fun for me to watch them critters as it is for you. At the same time I feel as if we needed some of that fur that is swimming around there, and as if we were going to get it. It'll be quite a lot of work, but it's work that will be fairly well paid for." "Yes, Hugh, of course you're right. I want to trap some beaver and get some fur, and either take it home or sell it; but didn't we have a good time when we were sitting out there watching those animals? I tell you, when that beaver crept up on the house there and put that white stick in it's place, my heart pretty nearly jumped out of my body. I never expected to see anything like that." [Illustration: A BEAVER APPEARED WITH A LONG STICK, WHICH HE PLACED WITH OTHERS ON THE ROOF.--_Page 130._] "Yes," agreed Hugh, "it was nice. I'll acknowledge that; and we're likely to see lots more of it. Of course we want to see the pleasant sights, and then besides that we want to get something to show for our trip. I think we'll do both. Come on now, let's mount and go on further. The day is only about half gone and I want to learn all I can." From here on for quite a long way up the stream, beaver seemed abundant. The valley had grown much narrower, and instead of being a wide, grass-grown prairie with more or less morass about it, it was a narrow valley filled with beaver ponds, most of which seemed to be occupied. They took a hasty survey of it and had no more opportunity to watch the animals at their work and their play. Several times as they were riding along the edge of the valley they startled white-tailed deer from the willows, but all those they saw were old does. "I reckon," said Hugh, "that the fawns are too little as yet to run with their mothers. The old ones hide them and run away, and then just as soon as the danger is past they circle back and come close to them again. Curious thing, isn't it, son, that these little fawns don't give out any scent?" "Mighty curious if it's so, Hugh." "That's what people say," declared Hugh, "and I reckon likely it's true, because, if you think of it, you'll know that the wolves and coyotes are hunting all the time for these little fawns, and it's pretty sure that they don't find many of them. If they did, the deer wouldn't be half as plenty as they are." "Then I suppose the white tails hide their young ones just as the elk and the antelope do," said Jack. "Yes," said Hugh, "that's just what they do, or for a matter of fact just the way a buffalo cow hides her calf, or a common cow hides hers. You see all these animals seem to have that one instinct. When their young ones are very small and too weak to run fast or far, they hide them, and the plan works well, too, for I guess it carries most of them through. That fawn that those two lynxes were eating the other day was probably either one that they stumbled on by accident, or else perhaps one that had died from some sickness. They do that sometimes." The sun was only a couple of hours high when they turned their horses and, riding out on the prairie, galloped swiftly back to camp. The straight road and good pace made their return journey seem much shorter than it had been in the morning. Supper over, they lounged about the fire, on which Jack had piled so much wood that it gave a bright and cheerful blaze. Hugh was evidently thinking over what he had seen during the day and making up his mind about to-morrow, and Jack, feeling lazy, stretched out on the ground near the fire, and presently went to sleep. A little later Hugh called to him and said, "Rise up, son, and let us talk over what we are going to do. We'd better settle that before we go to bed." Jack rubbed his eyes and sat up sleepily, while Hugh got out his tobacco and filled his pipe, and then sitting cross-legged before the fire and puffing out huge wreaths of smoke, he said to Jack, "Now, son, there are plenty of beaver here, and if we have any luck at all we could load one horse just from this stream. I don't know, though, whether it's going to pay us to spend weeks of time setting traps and skinning beaver. I think it's worth while for us to do some trapping and get some fur, but I doubt if it's worth our while to spend the whole summer doing it. Suppose to-morrow we move up close to that big pond that we found to-day and make camp there and then trap until we get tired of it. When we've had as much as we want of this one place, we can move on and go somewhere else. It isn't quite as if we were trying to make money enough trapping to carry us over the winter. You don't greatly need the money that the fur would bring, and as for me, I've got my job, and it's no matter of life and death to get this fur. We're out here mainly for pleasure and for you to learn something about the country, and the ways of the things that live in it. We are free to do about as we please. What do you think?" "Why, Hugh," replied Jack, "that seems to me a good way to look at it. Let's trap here as long as we want to, and then travel on and go somewhere else. I want to get up into the high mountains, and I suppose you do, too. We want to have a little hunting and to see as much of the country as we can." "All right, son," said Hugh, "we'll let it go at that. And to-morrow morning in good season we'll move camp up the creek. I'll be glad to get these horses onto fresh grass. Of course, they are not working to amount to anything and don't greatly need the food, but I've sort of formed the habit of wanting my horses always to have the best there is going." "All right," rejoined Jack; "the first thing when we get up to-morrow I'll bring in the horses and saddle them, and it won't take so very long to get started." "No," Hugh assented, "that's one good thing about us, we travel pretty light and can go fast and far if we have to." There was a little pause while Hugh knocked the ashes out of his pipe, got his tobacco and lighted the pipe again. Then Jack said to him, "Hugh, there's one thing I want to ask you about; how does it come that these beaver here are so tame and are out swimming around in the water in the middle of the day? I have always heard that in old times it was sometimes possible to see beaver out at their work in the early morning and again in the evening, but that during the day they were always in their holes. I thought that the beaver was a night animal, and that of late years, since it had been trapped and hunted so much, it never came out at all in the daytime." "That is something, son, that I can't understand at all: why we've seen these beaver the way we have. I don't think I ever saw beaver acting just this way, though I've heard of old men, those that were out here trapping in the early days, say that in those times beaver were about all day long. They didn't talk as if the beaver were a night animal, but as if it were going about through the day, just, for example, as prairie dogs do, or whistlers, or others of these gnawing animals that we commonly see. I've an idea that it's only since people began to hunt the beaver that he has took to working nights and sleeping days, but of course I don't know anything about this; that's just my notion. Anyhow, from the way these beaver here are acting, I should say that it was a long time since they had been trapped or disturbed in any way, and that seems queer, for you see we are not very far from the railroad, and there are always idle people lying around a place like Laramie, people that believe they know how to trap, and who, if they knew of a place like this, would think they could make their everlasting fortune here. I wonder some of those fellows haven't found the place. Then, on the other hand, we're not so very far from where the Utes range, and it would seem to me only natural that some of their young men might run across a place like this and try to get the fur. Of course, if they had come they would have made a scatteration of these beaver by tearing down the dams and getting as many of the animals as they could out of the houses. But nothing has been disturbed; there's no sign of white people or Indians, and, what is a great deal better evidence, the beaver are absolutely tame. We'll get some of them before long, I reckon." "I hope so," said Jack, as he rose to his feet and threw another stick or two on the fire. Then squatting down by it, he said: "Three or four days ago, Hugh, I asked you how big beaver were, and you told me, and ever since then I've been trying to think of something that my uncle told me two or three years ago about an old time sort of beaver that doesn't exist any more on the earth. I think it was what you were telling me about the Indians' belief in medicine beavers that made me think of it. Uncle George told me that out in Ohio there was found a skeleton, or part of the skeleton, of a great big animal just like a beaver, but about as big as a black bear. That would mean, I suppose, weighing three or four hundred pounds, wouldn't it?" "Yes," said Hugh, "about that." "Well," said Jack, "this beaver lived in those old times, a good way back, but not nearly as far back as those older times when the coal was made. It lived about the same time that they used to have mastodons in this country." "Hold on," said Hugh, "say that again. What is a mastodon?" "Why," said Jack, "it's a great big animal, a good deal like an elephant. You have seen elephants, haven't you?" "Yes," said Hugh, "once when I was a small boy I saw one. He was a powerful big animal." "Well," said Jack, "a mastodon was like an elephant, only bigger, and he was different in some ways, but I've forgotten how. I think it was something about his teeth. The mastodon didn't live such a very great while ago, because I remember Uncle George said that the bones of those that they have found had not yet turned to stone. Of course all these fossils that come from the older times have changed into regular stone. They are just rocks with the shape of bones or shells or whatever it may be." "Yes," said Hugh, "I know about that, because I've seen a heap of them. They're just rocks in the shape of the different things that they used to be." "Well," said Jack, "anyhow the main thing is that in that time when there were mastodons in this country, there was also a big animal like a beaver, that would weigh several hundred pounds." "He must have had fine fur," said Hugh, "but I reckon it would have been powerful hard work setting traps for that fellow. You'd have to have bear traps to catch him, and it's no joke to set a bear trap. You say all they know about him is that they found his bones?" "That's all," said Jack. "Uncle George showed me a picture of a skull once, and I remember that it was longer than a wolf's skull, and it had two great big gnawing teeth reaching down from the front of the jaw." "Powerful strange things there used to be on this earth a long time ago," said Hugh, in a meditative tone. "Yes, indeed," answered Jack, "and think how little we, any of us, know about those things. Even the smartest men, those who have given up all their time to studying these things, don't seem to know much about those old times. I know it's awful easy to ask them questions that they can't answer." "I suppose a man of that kind doesn't want to say anything unless he's dead sure it's so," said Hugh. "Likely enough he's made his reputation by always being right, and he's afraid to make any guesses." "Maybe that is it," said Jack, "but I remember one time going to New Haven with my uncle, and we went into the Peabody Museum, and one of the professors there, a Mr. Marsh, took us around and showed us the greatest lot of bones you ever saw. He could tell us a great many things about the skeletons and parts of skeletons that he showed us, but I know my uncle asked him a great many questions about other things, and he would just laugh and say he didn't know anything about it, and nobody else did." "Well," said Hugh, "it's each man to his trade. I suppose I can hunt and trap and know something about animals, and these professors work over their birds and their bugs and their bones. Some of the stories they tell are pretty hard to believe, and yet I reckon they are all true." "Oh, I guess so," said Jack. The next morning before daylight had fairly broken, Jack was afoot and on his way out to the horses. They were brought in and tied up to the willows, their saddles put on and ropes coiled, picket pins got together, and all the various property of the camp, which so easily becomes scattered about, was collected before breakfast was ready. The bear skin, which had now been drying for three or four days, was taken from the ground and brought into camp. Hugh, when he looked at it, said that it was in first-class condition and had not been burned by the sun. "Save all these pins, son," he said, "wrap them up in a gunny sack; they may be useful to us later on, and may save us half a day's whittling." "Now," he said, "you take hold of one side of this hide and I'll take hold of the other, and we'll fold it up hair side in and make it small enough to go on top of one of the packs. It won't frighten the horse so much, now that it has lost its fresh smell." They folded the hide as Hugh had said, and it made a small, flat package of convenient size to go in the load. After they had eaten their breakfast, Jack took down the tent and folded it, rolled the beds, and got most of the packs ready. Hugh's kitchen was the last thing to be prepared, and then after a general tightening of the saddles, the loads were lashed on the horses' backs and they set out up the creek. Jack's last duty, and one which he performed at every camp, was to ride carefully about the fire, and about where the tent had stood, and look all over the ground, to see whether anything had been left behind. It was nearly noon when they reached the new camp ground. A pretty spot, raised well above the level of the stream bottom, with a big fringe of willows to the west, which would give shelter from any storm rushing down the mountains, and a little grove of cottonwoods which made a pleasant shade and would furnish fuel. Along a ravine which emptied into the bottom there grew a few box elder trees. "Well, Hugh, this is a good camp," said Jack. "First-class," replied Hugh, "all except the water. Suppose you go down into the willows there and see if you can find a spring. There must be water right close by here, but I haven't seen any." In a few minutes Jack returned, reporting an excellent though small spring right in the edge of the willows close to the camp. "We ought to dig it out, son, and make it bigger, if we are going to water the horses there," remarked Hugh. "All right," said Jack, "I'll do that now." After the tent had been put up, two of the horses picketed, and dinner eaten, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, if you want to go off on a prospecting tour this afternoon, you better go. I am going to be busy all the afternoon looking over my traps and making my medicine." "Your medicine, Hugh," asked Jack, "what is that?" "My beaver medicine," Hugh answered; "that is the stuff we are going to use to make the beaver come into the trap." "Oh, yes," said Jack, "I know; I've heard about that. It's a great secret how it's made, isn't it, Hugh? I used to ask the trappers up among the Blackfeet, and they always made some joke about it and never would tell me what it was." "Well," answered Hugh, "you'll find all trappers are just like that, but before we get home I guess you will see me make it, and then if you use your eyes and nose, perhaps you'll learn how to make it yourself. But this afternoon," he went on, "I am going to take out my traps and go over them, see that they work well, and get them ready to set to-morrow. If you want to go hunting or looking around, or studying anything, you go ahead and do it, only I'd get back here an hour or two by sun, so that we can have our supper by daylight." "All right," said Jack. "I think I'll take my rifle and walk on up the creek. We don't greatly need any meat, but I might see something that was worth shooting at." "Well," said Hugh, "if I were you I wouldn't shoot much down in the valley. I'd like to keep everything about camp as quiet as possible for the next two or three days." "I'll remember it," said Jack, and rising he took up his rifle and strode off up the stream. CHAPTER XIII A LION'S LEAP A cool breeze was blowing down from the mountains, and although the sun was warm it was not uncomfortably hot. Here and there little wisps of smoke drifted from points on the mountainside where some old log was still smouldering, but the fire as a whole seemed to have been extinguished by the rain. Away down to the south the mountainsides were all black, and from the border of the burned country great tongues of the same dark color here and there stretched out into the green timber that clothed the unburned mountainside, showing where the onrushing flames had scorched the tops of the pine trees; but to the north of this the timber was still brightly green. Before Jack had gone far, the valley grew narrower and the hills on either side higher. On his side of the stream the bluffs now drew closer to the willows, and were occasionally broken down into Bad Land shapes, where no grass grew and where the clay was deeply guttered by the rain. In the ravines, which at short intervals broke through these steeper bluffs, grew huge old cottonwoods, not very tall, but thick, and with gnarled, twisted branches. Evidently at some seasons of the year great quantities of water passed down through these ravines, for their beds were deeply washed. In the valley and on the hillsides Jack saw many antelope, but there was meat enough in camp to last them for a day or two, and it hardly seemed to him worth while to kill anything. "At least," he thought, "if I do fire a shot, I will wait until I have started back toward the camp, so that I can carry the meat with me as I go in." As he went on he kept watching the willows to his left, thinking that at any time a white-tail deer might appear among them, and he kept an equally good lookout on the bluffs and up the ravines to his right, where there was always a possibility of seeing a black tail or even a mountain sheep. He was standing looking up one of these ravines, watching a doe antelope that had been feeding there, which, having seen him, was trotting off further up the ravine, when, without the slightest warning, as the doe was passing under the branches of a huge old cottonwood that grew on the border of the watercourse, something yellow sprang out from the branches of the tree, and descending on the doe, struck her to the ground. Although she was a long way off, Jack could hear her bawl in fright, and he instantly saw that a panther had been resting among the branches of this tree, and had sprung at the doe as she passed by. The doe and the panther were in plain sight as he stood there, but dropping to the ground he crept swiftly to a little coulée which led down to the bottom of the ravine, and running down this, he started up the ravine as fast as he could. The watercourse was narrow, its sides steep, and its bottom entirely dry. The big cottonwood from which the panther had leaped was the first one in the ravine, and by watching its branches he could tell when it would be necessary for him to begin to go cautiously in order to creep up and get a shot at the great cat. For the most part, the bed of the ravine was covered with sand, over which he could run noiselessly, but every little while he came to a bed of drift pebbles, and here he felt obliged to go more slowly. Presently the towering crown of the great cottonwood came in sight again, now not more than seventy-five yards distant, and Jack began to look for a place where he could climb up the steep banks of the ravine to get a shot. In a moment more a little side wash gave him the opportunity that he sought, and clambering up four or five feet of broken-down clay, he found himself in a coulée, which furnished an easy way to the level ground above. Taking advantage of another little side wash that came in, he presently found himself on the level ground where the cottonwood stood, and looking through the sage brush, he tried to catch a glimpse of the panther. For a moment or two he could see nothing of it, but then something white caught his eye, and raising his head a little higher, he saw the white breast and belly of the doe, and the panther stretched out beside her with his teeth apparently fixed in her neck. The panther's eyes were half closed, almost as if it were asleep, and it was paying no attention to its surroundings. This time Jack thought that he could try to make a close shot, and resting his elbow on his knee, he sighted carefully for the panther's head, and pulled the trigger. The animal did not move, but when the smoke cleared away and Jack looked again he saw that the beast's head was turned a little to one side, and that its cheek was resting on the doe's neck. He felt pretty confident that his ball had gone where he wished it to, and taking two or three loose cartridges in his right hand, he rose to his knees and took a long stare at the panther. Still it did not move, and when, after a slow approach, he had come close to it, he could see just over its eye a little red spot, and circling round to the other side, he saw a larger bleeding hole from which the ball had emerged. When he pulled the panther away from the doe and turned her over to look at her, he saw that the cat must have leaped short, for on her hips were marks of four deep scratches where the sharp claws of one paw had sunk into the antelope's skin, and then on her left side at the shoulder were the marks of the other paw. Except for that the doe was unhurt, save where the panther had bitten her throat. Jack made up his mind that he would take a part of the doe to camp, as well as the panther's skin. It took him some time to skin the cat, and then rolling up the hide, and cutting off the hams and saddle of the doe, he put both on his back and went down the ravine to the valley. It seemed to him that the weather had grown much warmer, but he forgot that he had been first running and then working hard. When he reached the valley, he was undecided whether to go back to camp at once or to keep on a little further up the stream and see if there was anything more worth seeing, but when he looked at the sun he saw that there were yet three or four hours before its setting, and he determined to continue his walk; so he went down to the edge of the willows and among them hid his meat and his panther hide, and then kept on slowly up the stream. A mile or two further on he came to a place where the willows ceased, and the stream bending toward the side up which he was traveling had been dammed and spread out in a pond which reached almost across the valley, and on his side came almost up to the bluffs. It was not a new dam, for along the borders of the pond grew tall rushes, almost as high as his head. He entered them to see if he could get to the water's edge and look out over the pond, but hardly had he stepped among them when, almost from under his feet, a duck sprang up and flapped away through the reeds, as if unable to fly. Jack knew, of course, that he had startled the duck from her nest, and that her pretense of being wounded was only a ruse to draw him away from her precious eggs, and looking down on the spot from which she had sprung he saw something white, and pushing aside the reeds with his hand, saw a mass of pale gray down and feathers, and when he had parted this with his fingers, he saw beneath it half a dozen smooth, cream-colored eggs. He left the nest undisturbed and tried to peer through the reeds to get a look at the duck, which was now swimming about in the water calling excitedly. Presently he got a good glimpse of it and saw that it was a female shoveler duck. A few steps further toward the water's edge he found the ground so soft and miry that he could go no further, and drawing back, he walked toward the bluff through the rushes, and before he had gone far had found three more duck's nests. This seemed to be a great breeding place. A little further on the rushes ended, and as he stepped out of them he startled from the shore, just above the water's edge, a multitude of birds, some of which flew away low over the water, half flying and half running over it, while others swam away, sunk almost below the surface, and after they had gone a little further, disappeared entirely. Jack knew, of course, that the first of these were coots or mud hens, and the others were grebes, and he knew also that somewhere close by would be found their nests. After looking around a little bit he saw in the edges of the rushes, and seemingly floating on the water, little bunches of grass or other vegetation, which he thought must be nests, and as he wanted to see what was in them he looked around to find how he could get out to them. The mud was so deep that he dared not wade to them, for he remembered the narrow escape that he had two or three years ago when he had been caught in the quicksands of the Musselshell River, and had been saved from drowning only by the timely arrival of Hugh. Then he began to look about to see if he could not find a long stick or pole which he could throw on the mud, and on it could wade out to the nests, but nothing of the sort was near. Then it occurred to him that if he went very carefully through the reeds and bent them down to step on, they might keep him from sinking deep into the mud and might support him until he got out to the nests. At all events this was worth trying, though he determined to be very cautious about it. He stripped off his clothes, except his shirt and hat, and then going down through the reeds, bent them over, and stepping on them as he went, and every now and then resting his foot on a bunch of the roots, he managed to get out to the nearest nests. They were loosely built of dead stems of the rushes, roughly piled together and apparently floating on the water, but anchored to the bottom by two or three green stems that grew up through the nest. The eggs were nearly oval, a little bigger than a pigeon's egg, and all of a soiled white color, and lying apparently in the water. These Jack decided must be the nests of the grebes, for he remembered that the eggs of the coots are spotted, and besides, would be larger than these eggs. His footing was so uncertain that he was satisfied with the inspection of two or three of the nests, and then made his way quickly to shore. It took him a long time to get rid of the mud that he had picked up in his journey, but at last he got dressed and kept on around the pond. As he reached a point close to the bluffs where he could see the whole width of the pond, he was astonished to see the great number of birds that were living on it. A few of them were ducks, but the most were smaller birds, coots, grebes, phalaropes, and sandpipers. All of them seemed to be in companies, and Jack concluded that the birds that he could see were probably the males, whose mates were scattered about near at hand, sitting on their nests. Near a little point of tall wire grass which extended out into the pond, Jack saw a pretty sight, a family of little Carolina rails, such as he had often heard his uncle talk about. The mother walked deliberately about the soft mud, bobbing her head and from time to time jerking her absurdly small tail, while following her in single file were nine tiny black objects not much larger, it seemed to him, than bumble bees, black and downy, evidently her newly hatched chicks. Now and then the mother would run hurriedly in one direction or another and catch something in her bill, and then would utter a call which brought the little ones close about her. Then, seemingly she would drop her prey on the ground, and the little ones would scramble for it. Jack lay on the ground for some little time watching this pretty sight, and then suddenly he noticed that the sun was beginning to get low, and realized that it was time for him to start for camp. He hurried back as fast as he could, and before long found his meat and his panther's skin undisturbed, and putting them on his back, went on, reaching camp just before sundown. Hugh had supper cooked and was sitting by the fire, smoking. "Well, son," he said, "I didn't know but what maybe you had got lost. I see that you've been busy. What's that you've got--a piece of antelope meat and a lion?" "That's what, Hugh," said Jack. "I tell you, I've had a great time this afternoon. A whole lot of fun, and a lion's skin." "Well," said Hugh, "you surely have had a good time. I expect I'd have been glad to have gone with you if I had known you were going to see a lion. How did you get him?" So, while they were eating supper, Jack told Hugh the story of the killing of the lion, and then talked with him at great length about the sights he had seen on the beaver pond. "Yes," said Hugh, "there are sure lots of birds on all these ponds, and as we were saying only the other day, they breed here and nothing much disturbs them." "But, Hugh," asked Jack, "why don't the wolves and the coyotes make it their business to hunt around these ponds and catch the old ducks and eat their eggs, too? I should think that a family of coyotes could easily enough clean out all the birds on a pond." "Well," replied Hugh, "that's something that I've often thought about, and I don't know why they don't do it. Once in a long time, of course, you will find a duck's nest or a nest of a sage hen where the old bird has been caught and the eggs eaten, but that is something that you don't often see. I suppose, perhaps, one reason is that the birds are always on the lookout, and if they see or hear an animal they fly off, pretending to be injured, and the animal chases them, just as I remember I once saw you chase an old grouse that led you away from her young ones. Still, all I can say is that I don't know why it is that more nesting birds are not destroyed by wolves, coyotes, foxes, badgers, and skunks." "Now, some of those nests that I found, nests that belonged, I think, to the grebes, were floating out in the water and a little way from the shore," said Jack. "I can understand how they would be safe, because an animal would have to go through deep mud and water to get them; but why the ducks' nests, that are built on the shore, and often up on the high land and at a little distance from the water, are not all of them robbed by these animals, I don't see." "No," said Hugh, "that's a puzzler, I'll confess. You remember how plenty the birds are about some of those little, shallow lakes we passed up in the northern country. There'd be quite a flock of geese and a great lot of ducks and all sorts of wading birds, big and little, living on them all summer, and when autumn came, the water would be nearly covered with the birds, showing, as it seems to me, that the breeding birds had all had pretty good luck in raising their young." "Well, anyhow, Hugh, it was mighty good fun going around the edge of the lake there, and seeing all these birds, and one of the funniest sights I saw was a little mother rail and nine little chickens, each one of them hardly bigger than the end of your finger." "What is this bird you call a rail, son?" asked Hugh. "I reckon I don't know it by that name." "Why," replied Jack, "it's a pretty small bird that lives in the tall grass on the edge of the water. It's sort of greenish brown above, with some white marks, has long legs, a little bit of a tail, a short bill, and a body not much bigger than that of a blackbird." "Why," said Hugh, after a moment's thought, "that must be one of those sacred birds that the Blackfeet Medicine Lodge women put on their sacred bonnets. You mean a little, short-winged bird, don't you, that when you see it, 'most always runs into the grass instead of flying away, and if you do make it fly, it flies very slowly for a short way and then drops down into the grass again?" "Yes, Hugh," Jack answered; "that's the very bird. Back East they shoot them, and they're splendid eating." "Well," said Hugh, "there isn't more than a mouthful of flesh on each one of them. I reckon it would take a good many to make a meal for me." "That's so," said Jack; "they're pretty small, but they're awful good. The way people shoot them is like this. The birds in the autumn come down from the north and live in the tall grass and reeds along the edge of the bays and rivers. They pick up their food among the grass and on the muddy flats, but when the tide rises they are forced up from the ground, and walk among the reeds and grass on the floating vegetation. When the tide gets up nearly to the top, the gunners start out in flat-bottomed boats, two men to a boat. The shooter stands in the bow, and in the stern is a man with a long pole, who shoves the boat through the grass, and as it goes along it disturbs the rails, which have to get up and fly a little way to get out of the boat's road. When they rise out of the grass the gunner shoots at them. In old times they say that there used to be thousands of these rail in the marshes, and sometimes a man would get from a hundred to a hundred and fifty in a tide, that is, in two to three hours. As soon as the tide gets low enough so that the boat can no longer shove easily over the mud flats and through the grass, the rail can run faster than the boat can go, and the shooting is over." "Well," said Hugh, "that seems to me mighty queer--killing these little bits of birds just for the fun of it. It must cost a man quite a lot to do shooting of that kind." "Yes," said Jack. "Of course men do it for amusement, and not for what they make out of it. Why, I think they pay the shover a dollar and a half or two dollars a tide, and then, of course, the ammunition costs something, and perhaps a man has to go quite a long journey on the railroad to get to the rail grounds." "Well," said Hugh, "I don't believe I'd find much fun doing that sort of thing; but then," he continued, "I don't find much fun in hunting nowadays; it's simply a question of getting something to eat." "Yes," said Jack, "I understand what you mean. Out here where game is so plenty the fun of hunting is largely taken away. I expect that it is the doubt in hunting, the uncertainty whether you are going to get a shot or not, that makes hunting interesting." "I reckon that's it," said Hugh. "It's the gamble that there is in it; the chance that there is about it, that makes men like it. But say, son," he continued, "before we forget it I want to tell you something about these little rail birds. You know they've got mighty short wings and it seems hard for them to fly. Now what do you think the Indians up north say about these birds?" "I am sure I don't know, Hugh; what is it?" asked Jack. "Why, they say that these birds make their journeys north and south on the backs of the cranes--not herons, I don't mean, those fellows that live along the water--but regular sandhill cranes; those fellows that make so much noise flying over in spring and fall." "Well," said Jack, "that's funny, and that reminds me of something, too; but first I want to ask how they know that the rail migrate in that way; what makes them think so?" "I've asked that question, too," said Hugh, "and this is what old Saiyeh told me--" "Saiyeh--that's Mad Wolf, isn't it, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Yes," said Hugh; "old Mad Wolf, he said that once when he was out on the prairie with two or three other men, they saw some cranes coming, and hid, and the cranes flew over them and they shot at them and perhaps killed one or two, and when they fell to the prairie, two or three of these little birds came down with them." "That's mighty interesting," said Jack; "and that reminds me of something that I have read, written by some German who studied birds. He said that there were some small birds of Europe that crossed the Mediterranean by riding on the backs of the wild geese." "That's queer, too," said Hugh; "and yet I don't see why it might not be so." "Oh," rejoined Jack, "there was a long, long article about it in one of the New York papers, copied from some paper printed in Europe. I wish I could remember more about it. It gave the names of the different kinds of little birds that were thought to cross that big water in that way, and it also told about some African people, perhaps they were Arabs, who knew and always had known that these little birds made their journeys north and south in that way." "Now, tell me, son, you are a good deal younger than I am; isn't there some white man's story about a dispute among the birds as to which one could fly the highest, and doesn't the story say that the eagle flew highest, but that some small bird got on his back, and after the eagle had turned to come down, flew a little higher still, and then came down and won the prize?" "Yes," said Jack, "there is just such a story. The little bird that beat the eagle was the wren, a tiny little bird." "Well," said Hugh, "I suppose there have been a whole lot of mighty smart men that have been trying for a long time to find out all about birds, but I reckon there are some things left yet that they do not know." "I guess so," said Jack, "a whole lot of things." "Hugh," he went on, after a pause, "the Indians must have a great many beliefs and stories about birds and animals, haven't they? I don't mean sacred stories, or stories where birds and animals help them, but just tales about the animals, and how they live and what they do." "Yes," said Hugh; "they do so. Of course, you know that there are lots of Indians who believe that they can understand the talk of the wolves. If they hear a wolf howling they know that he is speaking, telling them some news or other, and they can understand him and interpret for him to other Indians that don't understand the wolf's speech. Then, there are some Indians, Blackfeet, who say that they can understand what the meadow lark says when he is singing. The Cheyennes say this, too, but they say that the meadow lark says only one thing; that is, the song always repeats, 'I come from Tallow River.' Tallow River, you know, is the South Platte River. The Blackfeet names for the killdee and for the big curlew are in imitation of the cry of each bird. Blackfeet call the little chickadee 'Neo-po-muki,' and that means, according to them, 'summer is coming.' Yes, there are a whole lot of beliefs and stories about birds and animals that are pretty interesting. Of course, the birds and the animals seem a whole lot closer to the Indians than they do to us. They come pretty near to being the Indian's comrades and every day associates. There is one story that old Shell, a Cheyenne Indian, told me once, that I thought was a mighty good story, and if you like I'll try to repeat it to you before we go to bed." "I wish you would, Hugh," said Jack. "I always like to hear those stories, and it seems to me that you know an awful lot of them." "Well," replied Hugh, "I've heard a lot of them in my time, and I wish that I could remember them all. This is what old Shell told me as near as I can remember. He said: 'A long time ago my father was out walking in the hills and he came to a high cut cliff. The cliff was broken and overhung a little, and almost everywhere it was covered with the mud nests of swallows. It was about the time in spring when the eggs hatch, and the swallows were flying about gathering food and bringing it to the young ones. They were thick about the nests, and made a great deal of noise. My father sat there and looked at them for quite a long time. Presently he saw the birds gathering in great numbers about a particular place on the cliff, and when he looked carefully to see what attracted them, he saw a great snake crawling along on a ledge. Presently the snake came close to a lot of nests built all together, and raised its head and put it into one nest after another and ate the young birds. The swallows kept flying at the snake, but they could not stop it. All at once all the birds gathered together and flew in a great throng away to the east. All the old ones were gone; none were left about the nests. While my father sat there wondering where they had gone, he saw the swallows coming back in a great black bunch, and flying in front of them was a swift hawk, which every now and then whistled as it flew along. The birds came on and when they were close to the cliff the hawk whistled loud. When he did that, the snake raised its head and turned it toward the hawk, and the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake and flew away out of sight. When the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake without doing anything to it, the swallows made a great noise and followed him as he flew away, calling as if asking him to come back. So all the birds flew over the hill out of sight, but my father sat there waiting to see what would happen. "'Before long he saw the swallows come back over the hill a second time, and now the bird leading them was a bald eagle, and as it flew it whistled as eagles do. When the eagle drew near to the snake, the snake raised its head and looked at the eagle, and when the snake looked, the eagle seemed to be afraid, and it turned and flew away out of sight, the swallows following it and making still more noise. "'A third time the swallows came back over the hill, and flying in front of them was a gray eagle, and as it drew near, the gray eagle whistled as the bald eagle had done. The gray eagle came up flying swiftly, but when the snake raised its head and looked at the eagle it seemed as if a flash of light blazed from the snake's eyes, and the gray eagle made the same turn as the others had made, and flew away out of sight, while all the swallows made a mournful noise. "'The gray eagle flew out of sight down the creek, and the swallows followed it and were gone a long time. Pretty soon, though, they could be seen coming back just like a black mass, and this time their leader was a heron. When the heron drew near the side of the cliff the snake raised its head and looked at the bird, and it seemed as if blue sparks of fire flew from the snake's eyes. The heron did not turn aside from the snake when it raised its head, but flew straight on, and when he had come close to the snake he ran his bill clear through its body and it fell to the ground and died, and the swallows gathered around the snake in great crowds and trampled all over it.' That is the way old Shell said that the swallows tried to save their children." "That's sure a good story, Hugh," said Jack. "It's got the same old number four in it, hasn't it?" "Yes," said Hugh; "of course we look to find that in every Indian story. You'll have to try four times before you succeed at anything." "Well, son," he said, "let us go to bed. We ought to be starting out in good season to-morrow, for unless I am mistaken we'll have quite a long day of it." CHAPTER XIV SETTING FOR BEAVER "Well, son," said Hugh, as he was cooking breakfast next morning, "we've got a full day's work cut out for us, and we'd better make it as light as possible. You may as well go and catch up the saddle horses and bring them in. We have a load of traps to carry, but we can put them on our saddles. Down in this country, and at this time, we can set our traps without danger, and yet, just as a matter of habit, we'd better take our guns along. Those and the ax and our traps and my bottle of 'medicine' will be all that we'll need." "All right," said Jack; "I'll go now, and bring the horses in and saddle up"; which he did. By the time the horses were saddled, breakfast was ready, and soon after they had finished, the sack of traps was emptied on the ground, and Hugh tied four behind his saddle, and Jack four behind his. "My, but these traps are heavy," observed Jack; "and strong, too. I should think that they would hold any animal except, perhaps, a bear." "Yes," said Hugh, "they're strong enough, and they've got to be to hold a beaver, for he pulls pretty hard when he gets his foot in a trap. However, if they are properly set he doesn't have a chance to struggle long, for he plunges right for deep water and the trap holds him down, so that he drowns." Just as they were about to start, Hugh disappeared into the tent, and rummaging around among the packages there, presently emerged with a good-sized stick of wood in his hand, to one end of which was tied a long buckskin thong forming a loop, which he hung over his head so that the stick rested on his breast. Jack looked at it in some astonishment, and then saw that the stick was apparently a big wooden bottle formed of a birch stick three inches or more in diameter, in which a hole had been bored. This hole was stopped by a wooden plug driven into the hole, thus corking the bottle tightly. Evidently the stick had been used a long time, for it was worn and polished by much handling. "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I suppose that is your beaver medicine, but I never had any idea that you carried it in a bottle like that." "Yes, son, that's the bottle, and I have used it for a good many years. You know that in old times when I first came out into this country glass bottles and tin cans weren't very plenty here, and glass doesn't last long anyhow. This is the sort of a bottle that everybody used in early days, and I've had this for a long time and had considerable luck with it." "I never dared ask you what the medicine was made of, Hugh," said Jack, "but I suppose when you get to using it you'll let me have a smell of it, won't you?" "Sure," said Hugh. "That's what it's made for, to be smelled of. But before you know what beaver medicine is made of, you'll have to be a real trapper." The two swung themselves into the saddles and started off up the stream. Jack carried the ax, the head of which was protected by a leather case which covered its cutting edge, in his rifle scabbard under his leg. "Now, son," said Hugh, "judging from what you said yesterday about the creek above here, I believe it's worth our while to ride quite a way up and see whether it gets narrow. If it does, we can perhaps set our traps first up there, because they will be easier to handle. I don't want to set around these big ponds if I can help it. There is too much danger of our losing some of our traps, and then if a beaver gets out into deep water it's barely possible that we might lose the float-stick, or else that it might get hidden, and even if we should find it out in deep water there's no way to get at it except to swim for it. You and I don't want to do that if we can help it. This water is pretty cold, for it comes right down from the snow." "That is one of the things I was wondering about, Hugh; how you were going to find your traps or your beaver in case they got out into the water in these ponds a long way from shore." "I'll show you how we fix that sort of thing, son; but as I say, we haven't traps enough to take very much risk." As they went on up the stream Jack pointed out to Hugh where he had killed the panther the day before, and showed him the pond where he had seen the birds. Not very far above this they came to a place where a few willows grew, and where a beaver dam, holding back the water, had made a long, narrow, and rather deep pond running through the meadow. "There," said Hugh, pointing to it, "that looks like a good place to set, but we'll go on further and see what we find." Above this pond the stream for some distance rippled noisily over a rocky bottom, but soon they came to another dam, above which was found another long and narrow pond with two or three houses near its lower end. At two places toward the upper end there were grassy points which projected into the pond, and one of which ran nearly across it. "That looks like a good place for us to set a couple of traps, son," said Hugh. "Now, I wish that you would go into that pine timber just at the edge of the meadow and get me a couple of dead pines if you can find them, six or eight feet long and three inches through at the butt. Then sharpen the butt end so that I can drive it good and deep into the mud, so that it will hold. When you get the sticks, come around by the outer edge of the meadow and then ride in as near the edge of the pond as you can, coming well below me. I am going over now to the edge of the water to sort o' prospect." Jack rode up into the timber and soon found a couple of young, dead trees which he chopped down, and from which he cut the required lengths. Then trimming the branches from the sticks, he sharpened the butt of each, and hanging one of them on either side of the horse, rode slowly back. Hugh's black horse was grazing at the edge of the meadow, and Hugh himself could be seen down close to the water's edge. Jack left Pawnee by Hugh's horse, and taking the sticks on his shoulder walked over to the water's edge, making a circle so as to come toward Hugh from the down-stream side. Before he had reached the water, Hugh signed to him to stop, and then came back toward him and said, "There's a good place here for two traps, and I'll set them, and you may as well come with me and watch what I do." Jack noticed that Hugh had stuck in his belt half a dozen straight willow twigs from a foot and a half to three feet long and about as large around as a lead pencil. "Now, the first thing you want to remember, son, is that you mustn't leave any sign or any scent for the beaver to notice. They're smart animals, and if they see anything unusual, or if they smell anything strange, it puts them on their guard and you're not likely to have them go to your traps. Of course, here it's a little different because these beaver seem so tame, but you may as well try to begin right." "Now I'm going to set two traps, one on each of these little points that you see running out into the pond. We've got to start in here and walk in the water up to where we're going to set, and I think that right close under the bank here we'll find the bottom hard enough for us to travel on. Just away from the bank it drops off sharply, and that is the best kind of water to set in for beaver. Now I will go ahead with these traps and you follow after me, carrying those sticks. You've cut them just about right, and I'll show you pretty soon what they're for. They are what we call float-sticks." Hugh took two of the heavy traps in his hand and entering the water began to wade up the stream. Jack noticed that he kept far enough from the banks so that his clothing did not touch any of the overhanging grass or weeds. The water was not so deep as Jack had supposed, and did not come up within several inches of the tops of his rubber boots. He stepped into the water after Hugh, and tried to imitate all his motions, dragging after him the two float-sticks, but keeping also away from the bank. Presently Hugh stopped at the lower of the two points and waded out a step or two, but the water deepened so rapidly that he at once drew back. He now turned to Jack, and reaching toward him Jack passed Hugh one of the float-sticks. Hugh made a large loop of the long chain which was attached to the trap and passing it over the small end of the pole let it down to within a foot or two of the butt, and then drew the loop close between the stubs of the branches which Jack had cut off in trimming the little tree. Hugh took some pains with this, working on the chain until it tightly encircled the stick and could not be pulled up or down. Then taking the stick by its smaller end, he felt with it for the bottom some six or eight feet out from the bank, and when he had found a place that was satisfactory to him, thrust the sharpened end of the stick into the mud at the bottom. By repeated efforts he drove the stick so deep that the end which he held in his hand was almost submerged. Meantime, the trap, which was fast to the other end of the chain, lay on the bottom close to his foot. He now took the trap, and rolling up his sleeves, stood with one foot on either spring of the trap and by his weight bent these springs down so that he could set the trap. Then holding it by the chain he lifted the trap out of the water and brought it within ten or twelve inches of the grassy margin of the pond. Then he said to Jack, who stood silently near him, "We can't do much talking here, son, but after we get these traps set I'll explain to you what I've been doing, and why. Take notice, though, that I'm putting this trap in pretty shallow water, but that there's deep water just outside." Hugh worked a little while on the bottom until he had scraped out a flat, firm bed in which the trap was placed, then from the up-stream side of the trap he scraped up one or two handfuls of soft mud and scattered it above the trap so that two or three minutes later, when the water had cleared, Jack could barely see the outline of the jaws showing in the mud which covered trap and chain. Then Hugh drew from his belt one of the shorter of the willow twigs, submerged it, and with his knife, also held under water, split the twig in half a dozen places for an inch or two from the end. Then he returned his knife to its sheath, and still holding the twig under water with his other hand, drew the cork from the bottle of beaver medicine, lifted the twig from the water and thrust the split end into the bottle and drew it out dripping with a brownish fluid, the odor of which, as it came to Jack's nostrils, seemed exactly that of a rotten apple. Then Hugh thrust the other end of the willow twig into the bottom on the shoreward side of the trap, so that the split end stood about ten inches above the trap. "There," said Hugh, "that's done. Now let's go on, but be very careful when you come to the trap to keep out from the shore as far as you can, and to step well over the chair." A little further on, when they came to the second point, this operation was repeated almost in the same way, except that here Hugh took eight willow twigs and thrust them into the bottom, running out toward the deep water, four on the up-stream side of the trap and four on the down-stream side, the twigs being so arranged as to form a wide V which might guide the beaver toward the bait-stick which formed the apex of the V. In arranging these guiding wings, Hugh was careful not to touch any part of the twigs which projected above the water with his hand, but when he thrust the twigs into the bottom he held his hand under water, and the portion of the twig that he had touched was also under water. Hugh and Jack now retraced their steps, going down the stream until they reached the point where they had entered it. Then Hugh motioned Jack to go ashore, and after he had done so, Hugh splashed the bank where Jack had stepped, plentifully with water, and passing on a few yards further down the stream left it by a little bay, the shore of which he plentifully wetted with water before he stepped out on the grass. Then the two went over to their horses, mounted, and rode up the stream. Jack had watched closely what Hugh had done and understood why most of the operations that he had gone through with had been performed, yet there were many questions that he felt like asking. "Now, son," said Hugh, after they had reached the upper end of the meadow, "let us go into this little piece of pine timber of yours and cut some more float-sticks; it is worth our while to carry some of them along with us. I don't know whether in trimming those sticks you intended to leave those branches sticking out as long as you did, but whether you meant to do it or not, it was just the right thing." "Yes, Hugh," said Jack, "I understood from what you had told me what you wanted those sticks for, and of course I could see that you wanted them fixed so that the chain in the trap would not slip either way." "That's it, exactly," said Hugh; "and I'm glad you listened so carefully and understood so well. Now, of course, if we couldn't find sticks with the branches just right, as those two sticks had, we might have to cut a notch in the float-stick, or we might have to try to bind the chain to it in some way or another. But there's work enough about beaver trapping at best, and if you can find the right kind of sticks, always better use them." In the pine timber there were plenty of dead young trees, from which they selected four which made good float-sticks. "I don't know, Hugh," said Jack, as they were hanging the sticks on their saddles, "just why you take a dry stick." "Well," said Hugh, "there are two or more reasons for that. In the first place the beaver, if they happen to find the dry float-stick, are less likely to try their teeth on it than they would be if the stick were green. If you used a green cottonwood or willow or birch stick for your float-stick, very likely the beaver might carry it and your trap off into deep water before they got near the trap. Besides that, if a trapped beaver dives for deep water and manages to pull up your float-stick and it floats away, a dry one will float higher than a green stick and will be more easily seen and recovered." "Yes, I see," said Jack. "That's plain enough. I suppose that you kept your hands under water so much in order to wash away the human scent." "Yes," said Hugh, "that is so. There are lots of men who will never hold the trap or the bait-stick or anything connected with the trap, so that the wind will blow from them to it. They believe that the human scent will stick to anything, and that the beaver can smell it. I don't go quite as far as that, but I do know that if there were a hard breeze blowing I'd always get to the leeward of the trap and of all the things I left near the trapping ground." "Well," said Jack, "I wondered as I saw you setting those traps to see how awful careful you were about everything you did." "Well," said Hugh, "I suppose that's habit, but it's necessary. You take a man that is careless, and that leaves sign about everywhere, and you'll find that he never catches any fur. I have been out with men of that kind, and they were always poor trappers." As the two started on Jack looked at the sun and asked, "Do you know what time it is, Hugh?" "About noon, I guess," said Hugh. "I guess so, too," said Jack, "and just think, it's taken us a whole morning to set two traps." "Yes," replied Hugh; "it has taken a long time, and we'll be lucky if we get two or three more set before it's time for us to turn back to camp, but in two or three days you'll find that things will run along a good deal smoother and we won't have to take quite so much time as we have to-day." They went on up the stream, keeping well back from it, but occasionally, where there was an opening in the brush, riding out to the bank. A mile or two further on another dam was found with a pond smaller than the one below, and immediately above this the rise of the valley was sharper so that the stream was swift and shallow. After they had left the horses and were prospecting along the bank for a place to set, Hugh pointed out to Jack a slide from the grassy bank down into the water, which he said had been made, not by the beaver, but by an otter. "Sometime," he said, "we may try to catch that fellow. We're not rigged for it to-day, and I guess we'd better stick to beaver." At a little point near the head of the pond on the east side Hugh set another trap just as he had set the two previous ones, and then going to the head of the pond they crossed over and set another on the west side. Here the main current ran close under the bank, and Hugh was obliged to build up a little bed of stones and gravel on which to rest his trap. "You see, son," he said, "you must have your trap so near to the top of the water that when the beaver makes a kind of a dive with his foot to raise his head up close to the medicine on the bait-stick, he will strike the pan of the trap with a foot and so spring it. Sometimes, if the water is a little deeper over the trap than a man thinks is just right, and he hasn't any way of building up a firm bed for the trap to rest on, he will take a stick and thrust it into the bank, pointing out level into the water about two inches below the surface. The beaver, swimming along toward the medicine, will hit this stick and it will stop him, and then when he makes a strong effort with his foot to get over it he will sink his foot so deep under water as to hit the pan of the trap. "There," he said, as he backed away from the last trap set. "Now let us walk up the stream for a little way, and then go out of it and around to the horses. I have always thought that if a man takes reasonable care in setting his traps, there is more danger that the beaver will notice where he's gone in and out of the stream than there is of their suspecting something about the trap. Of course, you've got to be careful always in setting, but I've always had an idea that when a beaver gets the scent of the medicine in his nose he becomes so intent on that that he doesn't notice other signs right about the trap." They kept on up the stream for quite a little way, and then leaving it, went around to their horses again. Hugh looked at the sun as they mounted, and said, "We have lots of time to get back to camp, and I think it might be worth while for us, on our way back, to go down to the two traps we set below. We might easily have something in one of them, seeing how tame these beaver are, and how they seem to be out all day long." On the way back, they stopped as suggested, but only went near enough to the bank of the stream to see that neither trap had been disturbed, and then returned to camp. Half an hour was spent in stretching the lion's skin that Jack had killed the day before, and while they were at work at this Hugh said, "There seem to be quite a lot of lions in this country, son, and it's worth while to kill one every chance we get. We might run across a camp of Utes down here, and the Utes, like all other Indians that I know anything about, think a great deal of lion's skins. The chances are that you could trade this skin for three or four good beaver, and of course those would be worth a great deal more than a lion's skin, which is good for nothing except to look at. The Indians, you know, like lions' skins to make bow cases and quivers. I have often thought that maybe they have the same idea about the lion's skin that they do about the feathers of hawks or owls." "How do you mean, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Why," said Hugh, "you know that the Indians think a great deal of all the birds that catch their prey; that is, the eagles, hawks, and owls; they value them and their feathers in war, and they think that wearing those things helps them to be successful in war. I suppose the idea is that as the hawk or the eagle is fierce and strong and successful in attacking his enemies, so they, if they wear his feathers, will be fierce and strong and successful. In other words, they think that the qualities of the bird will be given to them if they have about them something that belongs to the bird. "Well, now, here's a mountain lion; he is cunning and cautious, creeping about and scarcely ever being seen, able to catch his prey and hold and kill it with his sharp claws and his strong teeth, and maybe the Indians think that if they have about them something that belongs to him they will also have some of his qualities." "Jerusalem, Hugh," said Jack, "I like to hear you tell about what the Indians believe, and why they believe it. I wonder if most men who have seen much of Indians understand as well as you do how they think about things. Of course, it's fun to hear you tell about their habits and what they do, but it's better fun yet to hear you tell about how they think about the different matters of their living." "Well, son," said Hugh, "I've talked a heap with Indians about all these matters, and I do like to hear how they feel about them. I guess maybe there are lots of other people feel the way you and I do; but most of the old-time hunters and mountain men didn't think about much of anything except gathering a lot of fur and then going in and selling it, and getting their money and spending it as quick as they could, and then starting out to get more fur. "I mind that once your uncle, when I was telling him some story about Indians, said to me, 'The proper study of mankind is man,' and when I told him I thought so, too, he said that that was something that some poet said a couple of hundred years ago." "Well, I guess it's so, Hugh," said Jack, "no matter who it was said it." When the panther skin had been stretched, Hugh told Jack to put around it the same protection that they had stretched about the grizzly bear skin, and soon after this had been done supper was ready. The dishes were washed before the sun had set, and building up the fire, the two companions lounged about it with the comfortable feeling which follows a day of hard work. For setting traps, although it does not sound like very hard work, had really required a good deal of effort. "Now, son," remarked Hugh, "we want to get started to-morrow morning in good season, and we ought to be on our way before it's plain daylight. Of course, I hope that we'll find a beaver in every trap, but it may be that we won't find anything but feet." "How do you mean, Hugh? Is it so that the beaver will gnaw their feet off to get out of a trap?" "Not so," said Hugh. "I don't reckon a beaver knows enough for that in the first place, or could do it in the second. A beaver's foot is made up of a whole lot of pretty strong bones, and I question whether even a beaver could cut through those bones, and then he wouldn't know enough to do it. All a beaver knows when he gets caught is to struggle, and pull, and twist, and turn, and try to get away. Very often, if the traps are not properly set, they do get away, leaving their feet in the trap, but they don't gnaw their feet off; they twist them off. That is something that can be done and often is done, and that's the reason, as maybe I've told you before, that we always try to set our traps so that a beaver as soon as he gets caught, will plunge into deep water, and will be held there by the trap until he drowns. Then he has no opportunity of fighting with the trap and trying to get free. Of course, it often happens that it isn't possible to set your traps so that your beaver will drown, and where that isn't possible, you are likely to lose a good many of the beaver that you catch. It used to be a common thing to catch beaver with only three feet, sometimes with only two, and I once caught one that had only one foot, a hind foot that he got into the trap." "I should think, Hugh, that a beaver that had been caught once and had got away would be mighty hard to catch again." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's so, of course. He's always on the lookout for a trap, and then, too, if a beaver has lost a foot, a quarter of the chance of getting him is gone. If he's lost two feet he's only got two feet that can get into the trap, instead of having four, like an ordinary beaver. Lots of queer things happen in beaver trapping. I reckon I never told you that story of old Jim Beckwourth's about the beaver and the trap that was stolen by a buffalo." "No," answered Jack. "That sounds as if it ought to be a queer story or a pretty good lie." "Well," replied Hugh, "Jim Beckwourth had the name of being the biggest liar that ever traveled these prairies, but I wouldn't be surprised if he told the truth that time, and, anyway, Jim Bridger was with him when he found the trap with the beaver in it out on the high prairie a couple miles from where it was set. "It seems, according to the story--it happened long before my time--that Jim came to a place where he'd set a trap and found that it was gone. There was sign there that some buffalo had crossed the creek just at this point. Jim hunted up and down the stream and couldn't find hair nor hide of the trap. The next day he and Jim Bridger went back again and looked some more, and not being able to find anything, they started on to join their party that was moving, and followed the buffalo trail that led from the place where the trap had been set. They had gone a couple of miles out on the prairie when they saw something, and going up to it found it to be a beaver, still in the trap, with the chain and float-stick all attached. Jim always claimed that one of the buffalo when crossing the creek got his head tangled in the chain of the trap and carried beaver, trap, and float-stick away out to the prairie before dropping it. It's a good story, but I'd hate to swear to it or to anything else that Jim Beckwourth ever said." "That is a good story, Hugh," said Jack. "Isn't it wonderful," he added after a pause, "what strange things happen out here on the prairie, but there are lots of them that people back East wouldn't believe at all." "Well, of course," said Hugh, "we all of us measure things up by what we ourselves have seen and done, and when we hear about things that are outside of the range of our own experience, we think they're wonderful." For an hour or two longer they sat about the fire chatting over various matters, and then on Hugh's repeating the suggestion that to-morrow morning they must be early afoot, they went to bed. CHAPTER XV THEY SKIN BEAVER The crackling of the fire was the first thing to rouse Jack next morning, and when he sat up in bed he saw that it was still dark, and that Hugh was at work cooking breakfast. "Time to be astir, son," said Hugh, who had heard Jack's movement, and in a very short time Jack was dressed and down by the spring dousing himself with the cold water. The air was sharp and Jack crowded close to the fire, but soon a cup of coffee and some hot antelope meat warmed him up. The horses were brought in and saddled, and carrying the four traps on their saddles, and the ax, the two started up the stream. Dawn was beginning to show in the east, and before they had reached the first of the beaver traps the sun was up. As they rode along after it got light, Hugh kept close to the edge of the willows and seemed to be looking for something, which presently he found. This was a willow sapling which forked just above the ground, sending up two sprouts to a height of twelve or fifteen feet. He cut the sapling off below the fork, cut off one of the main branches close to the fork and then trimmed the other branch, having thus a limber pole ten or twelve feet long with a stout hook on its heavier end. This he carried with him. When they left the horses he gave it to Jack, saying: "Pack this for me, son, while I carry the ax and a couple of traps." They approached the stream by the same route that they had followed the day before, and when they had come in sight of the place where the first trap had been, Hugh said, "Something has happened here"; and pointed to the stream just below where the trap had been set, where Jack saw one end of the float-stick projecting above the water. "Well," said Hugh, "I reckon we've got to get back that trap of ours and see what there is in it." When they had come opposite the float stick, Hugh put the ax in the water, and taking the long willow pole from Jack, reached out, caught the float-stick and pulled it in within reach of his hand, and he gave the willow back to Jack and began to drag the trap toward him. Almost at once he said to Jack, "Well, son, we've got a beaver, I reckon"; and a moment or two later, after hauling in the chain, he lifted the trap out of the water, and Jack saw the head and shoulders of a good-sized beaver. "Now," said Hugh, "we'll go up and look at the other trap, and then set over again. These are pretty good places, and we might catch several beaver here." As Jack passed the trap and the beaver, which here lay almost at the surface of the water, he looked down at it with the greatest interest, but there was no time to stop and examine it. Hugh was plowing along through the water toward the other point, and Jack could see the end of the float-stick of the trap there just sticking out of the water, and looking much as it had looked the day before, after the trap had been set. Hugh said nothing, but advanced to the point, and then motioned to Jack to give him the willow pole, with which he felt in the water near the base of the float-stick and after two or three efforts hauled in the trap, in which there was a beaver. "Pretty good luck so far, son," said Hugh. "Now I am going to set this trap over again here, because that float-stick is firm and this is a rattling good place. Suppose you take this beaver and drag it down to the place where we leave the creek, and then maybe take the other beaver down there, too. By the time you've done that, I'll have set the two traps, and then we'll take the two beaver out." Jack took the dead beaver by a fore-paw and walked back along the shore. When he had reached the other trap, he tried to take the other beaver from it, but the springs were too stiff, and so he left it and went on down to the point where they were to go out of the water. As he looked back, he saw Hugh coming down to the trap in which the beaver was, and leaving the animal that he had been dragging at the edge of the water, he went back to Hugh, who by this time had freed the other beaver and was at work resetting the trap. Jack dragged this beaver down to the first one, and in a few moments Hugh had overtaken him, and they started across the meadow, dragging the beaver over the grass. When they reached the horses one of the animals was put on behind each saddle and they started up the creek to visit the other traps. Here their luck had been equally good, and two beaver were taken from these two traps and the traps reset. "Well, son," said Hugh, "if this sort of thing keeps up we'll have to bring a pack horse along with us to carry the beaver into camp. Now let us take all four of these animals up into that pine timber over there and skin them and save ourselves the trouble of carrying them to camp. If we need any of the meat we can take that down, of course." "It looks to me, Hugh," said Jack, "as if the skinning of these four beaver was going to be quite a job." "Well," said Hugh, "so it will. I didn't suppose that we'd get more than two to-day, and figured that we would take them down to camp, but after this I think it would be a good idea for us to carry our skinning knives and whetstones with us." "Our skinning knives, Hugh?" questioned Jack. "Why, we've both got our skinning knives in our belts now." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's so, but those are not the best kind of knives to skin beaver with. They're all right when you are skinning game where you make wide sweeps, and do a lot of stripping; but where you've got to naturally whittle a hide off, as you have to do with a beaver, and at the same time have to be mighty careful not to make any cuts, a smaller, shorter knife is better. It is easier to handle, and you can work more quickly with it. I'll show you the knives we'll use when we get back to camp to-night. Now, if you've got such a thing in your pocket as a jack-knife, and I'm pretty sure you have, you better get that out, and we will look for a couple of whetstones as we go along." They loaded the two additional beaver on their horses, and walked, leading them. After they got out away from the bottom, Hugh stopped three or four times and picked up several stones, most of which he threw away, but at last he seemed to find two that suited him. They had gone some distance from the place where the last beaver were captured, when, at the edge of a little piece of pine timber, Hugh stopped and said, "Here is a good place, son, to tackle this job; throw down those beaver that are on your horse and drop your rope, and we'll let the horses feed while we work." The beaver were drawn off to one side, and then Hugh gave Jack one of the stones that he had picked up and explained to him how to whet the blade of his jack-knife so as to get a keen edge on it. Then the toil of beaver skinning began. It seemed to Jack pretty slow, and he had no more than half finished his first beaver when Hugh threw the hide from his to one side and pushed the carcass away. Jack, however, finished his beaver before Hugh had finished the second one, and the two worked together on Jack's second beaver, and when they started back they had a couple hours' daylight yet before them. "Now," said Hugh, "we'll stop and get some willows on our way back to camp and stretch these hides to-night. Then we'll be able to start in fresh in the morning. If you ever let this work pile up on you, your troubles begin sure. I'd rather skin all night than leave one beaver over till next morning." After they got into camp that night, Hugh gave Jack a lesson in making the hoops on which to stretch the pelts; and the fur that they had taken during the day was hung up in one of the trees to dry. Jack looked at the stretched beaver skins, and thought that they seemed like great furry shields, only that they were about four times as big as any shield that he had ever seen. Jack was tired that night as he sprawled on the ground by the fire, and it did seem to him as if everything in camp smelled of beaver. He said to Hugh: "I wish there was some way of getting rid of this smell of the beaver and the beaver grease." "Oh," laughed Hugh, "you haven't got used to it yet. If you don't like the smell of beaver grease you'll never be a real trapper. That's what the trapper lives in, and after a while he gets so he likes it. If you are going to handle beaver and skin beaver, you can't help but smell of them." "Well," said Jack sleepily, "I think it's a pretty high price to pay for the fur." "Well," replied Hugh, "try it a few days, and if you don't like it better, why, we can quit trapping and turn to something else. I noticed to-day along the creek, son," he went on, "a lot of mink tracks. Now, of course, mink isn't worth much of anything. Not much more than muskrat, but it's fur all the same, and if you feel like it we can make a few dead-falls and get some mink. They ought to be pretty good here, close to the mountains." "You catch them with dead-falls, do you, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Yes, the mink is a pretty simple-minded animal, and he'll go into 'most any kind of a trap. We ought to have some fish or bird for bait, though. I suppose maybe we could get some suckers out of this creek, but I guess the easiest way would be to kill one of those birds that you showed me the other day." "Oh, no, Hugh," said Jack, waking up, "don't let's do that; they're all breeding now, and it would be a pity to break up a family. Wouldn't mink go into a trap baited with beaver meat?" "Maybe," answered Hugh; "I never heard of anybody using that for bait. We'll get something, though, and catch a few if you like, but if the beaver are going to act as they did to-day, why, they'll keep us busy for a little while. To-morrow, if we get time, I want to go round on the other side of that pond and set a couple of traps there, and then come down below and set two traps there. We've got eight traps, and they might as well all be in use." "Well," said Jack, "I can imagine beaver getting too thick. I am surely going to buck if this trip comes down to just plain beaver trapping." "Well, don't make up your mind in too much of a hurry, son," said Hugh. "You'll be able to use your hands a little better after two or three days' practice, and I am sure you'd like to take a nice pack of beaver back East to show to your friends." They went to bed early that night, but again next morning Hugh had Jack up before dawn. He was rested now, and felt more interested in the work of trapping than he had the night before. The two got away from camp before sun-up, and on visiting their traps again found that each one contained a beaver. Hugh showed Jack how to set a trap, and Jack readily learned that it was knack rather than strength that was required to compress these powerful springs. The work went on a little faster than it had the day before. They took the beaver over to the same place and skinned them there. Before they reached it, however, Hugh said to Jack, "Look out, son, something has been here interfering with our pile," and sure enough when they got to the place they saw that two of the beaver had been dragged off down the ravine. Following the trail a little way, it appeared that three bears had found the carcasses and had made away with two of them. The tracks showed a good-sized grizzly and two quite small cubs. "Well," said Hugh, "I don't care very much to be feeding these bears, but it's less trouble for us to skin here than to carry the beaver to camp. Now these bears are our meat, son, if we want them. We can build a trap and catch the old one, or we can come here and sit around and watch for them, and kill them with our guns. I am inclined to think that would be the better way, because it's a whole lot of trouble to build a bear trap, and we haven't got the tools, and we haven't got the timber right here. At least," he said, looking around, "no such timber as I would like." "Well," he went on, "let's skin our beaver and then to-morrow we'll see what has happened." To-day Jack found that skinning a beaver was much easier than it had been yesterday. He learned how to grip and turn over the hide, and how to make his knife strokes longer and more effective. This day Hugh had not forgotten to bring the little skinning knives of which he had previously spoken. It was not yet noon when the work of skinning was ended and they had wiped the grease off their knives and hands and tied the bundle of fur behind one of the saddles. "It goes better to-day, son, doesn't it?" said Hugh. "Why, yes," replied Jack; "that wasn't such very hard work. I could skin another beaver and not mind it greatly." "Well," said Hugh, "instead of doing that let us go out here and cross the creek and go down on the the other side and set these other traps. Do you want to take any of this meat along? There's one young beaver there that might be good and tender, but as far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon have antelope meat." "So would I, Hugh," said Jack. "But now look here, I'm thinking about those bears. Can we not fix this meat here in some fashion so that they can't carry it away, or if not that, can't we fix it so that it will give some trouble, and they'll make more sign than they did yesterday?" "Why, yes," said Hugh, "we can stake it down and maybe that will make them stop and eat it here. We can hang it up in a tree, and that will make them stay around here and get them used to the place." Jack smiled at Hugh's joke, and then proposed that they should hang one of the beaver up in a tree out of reach of the bears. Hugh agreed, and Jack climbed up into the pine tree, where Hugh threw him a rope by which he hauled up the carcass of a beaver, which he hung over a limb in such fashion that it could not be shaken out by the wind. "There," said Hugh, "I reckon before we get through we'll have those bears regularly wonted to this place, but I'd rather not shoot at them, or fire any guns until we have finished our trapping." "Well," said Jack, "we can be pretty sure that the bears won't go away as long as we leave something for them to eat here every day." "No," said Hugh, "they won't leave the place as long as there's food." "Do you know, son," he went on, "what the best thing in the world is to drag, if you want to make a trail around a trap to bring a bear to it?" "No," said Jack, "what is it?" "Why, it's a beaver. I don't know whether it is that bears are especially fond of beaver, or whether its just the strong smell, but if you take a beaver carcass and drag that, every bear that crosses the trail will follow it up. We'll have to try that in case we set a bear trap anywhere." "Why, Hugh," replied Jack, "that's just what a wolfer told me on the boat that year we went to Benton; or at least he told me a beaver made the best kind of a drag for wolves." "Well," said Hugh, "he told you true." Mounting, they rode to the stream, and crossing, followed it down on the west bank. Hugh set two more traps in the pond where they had taken the last beaver, and on the west side of the pond below he set two, and in another pond still lower down, two more, near its head. Now all the eight traps were set. As they rode back to camp, Hugh said to Jack, "I'm beginning to feel sorry for you already, son, for you're liable to have a day of pretty hard work to-morrow. If we should get eight beaver, I reckon you'd think you had your hands full. Besides that, I'm beginning to feel a little touch of rheumatism in my right arm, and I don't know whether I'll be able to use a knife to-morrow or not. This wading around in the water, even in rubber boots, isn't good for a man as old as I am." Jack looked hard at Hugh to see whether he was joking or not, and did not answer, but looked away, and then quickly looking back again caught the twinkle in Hugh's eye, which told him that his friend was just making fun of him. "Tired to-night, son?" said Hugh, after supper had been eaten and they were comfortably sitting by the fire. "No, Hugh," replied Jack, "not as tired as I was last night." "Well, son, you've heard lots about the old trappers and the life they led, and how full it was of danger and excitement, and maybe romance, but this thing that we're doing now is just about the old life, except that we don't have to keep our guns in our hands all the time, and our eyes peeled for Blackfeet. The old trapper got up in the morning, went to his traps, set them, brought in his fur and skinned and stretched it, and then went to bed and slept. Of course, every little while he killed a deer or a buffalo to eat, but most of his life was hard work, and all he got for it was money enough to buy powder and lead and traps for his next season's work, and a few days or a week or two of what he called a good time at the post. They say cow punching is hard work, but I don't believe any man ever worked harder than the trapper of the old days, and he was always in danger of being rubbed out. I tell you that these ranchmen and cowhands nowadays that are always bellyaching about how hard they have to work, have a mighty easy time, and don't you forget it." "I guess that's so, Hugh. I guess a good deal of those wonderful good times that we think other people have, exists only in our imagination." "You bet they do," said Hugh. "Now, fur is good, it brings money and we all like to have it, but I tell you it's like every other thing in this world, it's got to be paid for. If you go into a store back East and want to buy beaver skin, you've got to pay so much money for it. If you want a beaver skin here you've got to start out, find where there are beaver, splash around in the water setting your traps, skin and stretch your beaver hide, and then carry it back in to the railroad. The price you pay for a beaver skin back East isn't very much, considering all the work that's been done before that beaver skin came into the store of the man that sells it to you." "I never thought of it just in that way before, Hugh," said Jack. "I know I've heard people in the East grumble because furs were so expensive, but, of course, those people didn't know any more than I knew what it cost to get them." "No," said Hugh, "I reckon they didn't, but if you think about it you'll see that I'm right. Every good thing has got to be paid for by somebody. "Well, now, we'd better go to bed," Hugh went on, "and to-morrow when we go to our traps, I think we'll take a couple of pack horses. We may have good luck, and if we should get five or six beaver, they will be more than we'll want to pack on our riding horses. In fact, I don't know but that we might as well separate, and one go up on each side of the creek, looking at the traps; do you suppose you could set some of these traps yourself?" "I don't know," said Jack, "I think I understand the theory of it all right, but whether I can really do it is a question; and besides that, we've only one bottle of beaver medicine." "That's so," said Hugh. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll make an early start and look at the traps together, and I'll have you set them all, and then we'll go and skin whatever beaver we have taken." "I guess that will be better," said Jack. The next morning they picketed one of the pack horses and took the other two with them. The horse left in camp was uneasy, and long after they got out of sight they could hear him neighing for his companions, but it grew light before long, and just before they turned into the stream bottom, Jack rode up on a little knoll from which the camp could be seen, and on his return reported to Hugh that the horse was feeding contentedly enough. They crossed the stream to the west bank, and to Hugh's great satisfaction found that each one of the traps on that side held a beaver. These they loaded on one of the pack horses, and then crossing the stream at the head of the upper pond, they found two more beaver. As they passed the various traps, Hugh had Jack set them, explaining again the importance of keeping the human scent away from the traps and from the bait-sticks, and showing him that washing in water was the best way to get rid of that scent. "If you have to handle anything above water," said Hugh, "do it with gloves on and see that these gloves are often smoked on the outside. That will kill the scent." After they had crossed the stream, Hugh said, "Now, suppose I go up to our skinning ground and go to work on these beaver, and you take this other pack horse and go on down and lift the other traps. You ought to be able to set them, and if you happen to find anything in them you can get it out to where the pack horse is and put it on him and bring it up here. You see we have six beaver now, and it's going to take quite a little while to skin them, and I'd better be busy at that than wasting an hour to go down to these other traps." "Yes," said Jack, "I think I can manage all right. Anyhow, I'll try. I think I've got clearly in my head just how the traps ought to be set." "Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon you have. If I were going down with you, I would move those traps a little bit, but perhaps you had better not try that; but do as you like about it. Anyhow, get back as soon as you can." The morning had only half passed when they parted, and half an hour later Jack had taken two beaver from the other traps and was struggling with the problem of setting them. It was not very easy to do this alone--not nearly so easy as it had been when Hugh was by to make a suggestion to him if he began to do something in the wrong way. However, he set both traps, but had some difficulty in thrusting the float-stick of the lower one into the bottom. He remembered in dipping the bait-stick into the medicine to hold the stick close to its sharpened end, and not to touch any portion of it that was to stand above water with his hand or his clothing. After the traps had been set, he dragged the two beaver over the meadow to where the horse stood, and fastened a sling rope about the neck of one of the beaver, and the other end of the rope about the root of its tail, and then pulling steadily and evenly on the ropes from the other side of the pack horse, he raised first one and then the other beaver up on the saddle and lashed them firmly there. Then with the animal's hackamore in his hand, he mounted and rode to join Hugh. Hugh was found sitting cross-legged on the pine needles, and hard at work. Already he had stripped the skin from one beaver, and another was almost finished. "Hello," said Hugh, "we're surely in great luck to-day. If this was in old times, I'd say we would have to look out for Indians to-night. So much good luck is likely to be followed by some that is bad. "Say," he went on, "we haven't time to look around much now, but after we get through skinning these beaver I want you to see what the bears did here last night. They regularly cleaned up all the meat we left here, and one of them has been up that tree trying to get at the carcass that you hung up there." Jack dropped his load off the pack horse and pulled the beaver over near to Hugh, and while he did so he was looking at the tree and could see the scratches on the bark where some animal had climbed up. "But, Hugh," he said, "they are grizzly bears, and I thought that grizzlies never climbed trees." "Well," said Hugh, "the big ones don't. I reckon it's because they're too heavy and their front claws are too long, but the little fellows can scramble up a tree pretty well, and often do. Many a time I've come on an old bear with cubs and seen the young ones race up a tree while the mother footed it off through the timber." "Then you think it was a cub that climbed up this tree?" "Yes," said Hugh, "a cub, and a little one, too. If you look at the claw marks on the tree, you'll think the same thing." "Well," said Jack, "we'll have to take these bears in, I guess." "Yes," said Hugh, "we'll do that, and we can try it 'most any time. You see that little knoll over there on the prairie? By coming down that ravine beyond it, and creeping up to the edge of the knoll, we can get a shot at them any time, if they are here." "So we can," said Jack. In fact, whether by accident or by Hugh's choosing, the position was a strategic one. A ravine led from the upper prairie to the stream bottom, and just above it was a high, rounded knoll, only a short rifle shot from where they were sitting. "Have you any idea, Hugh, about what time the bears come here?" "No," Hugh responded, "I haven't; but judging from the way all game here acts, they ought to be right tame, and to be about any time of the day, except about midday when the sun is hot." "Well," asked Jack, "what's the matter with trying them to-morrow morning before we got to the traps?" "No harm in it at all," said Hugh; "but if we should get one or two bears and four or five beaver, it would give us a whole day's hard work, but then if we get too tired we can rest the next day." "Well," Jack suggested, "we might try the bears to-morrow, and then go to the traps, and let whatever luck we have determine what we'll do next day." "All right," said Hugh; "say we do." After a pause, he went on, "As we were saying the other night, son, we don't want to make a labor of this trip. We've got sixteen beaver now in three days; they ought to be worth fifty dollars, and I don't know but that we've stayed here about long enough. If we should make another good catch to-morrow, we might pack up as soon as our fur is dry enough and go along further. Of course, I reckon that by staying here and working hard, we should get three or four hundred dollars' worth of fur out of this stream. You can see we haven't half gone over it yet; we haven't touched that big pond down below where there must be plenty of beaver. But as I said before, we are not out here to make a grub stake for winter." "I think with you," said Jack, "that perhaps it would be just as well to move camp to some other place." "Well," said Hugh, "we'll see what happens to-morrow." And now for a while nothing was said, and the silence was broken only by the occasional whetting of a knife. Hugh peeled off the beaver skins pretty rapidly, and by this time Jack was becoming quite skillful. Nevertheless, the afternoon was well advanced before the last of the pelts was freed from its carcass and they were ready to go. The eight skins spread out on the ground made a fine showing. "Notice that pelt, son," said Hugh, pointing to one of the hides that was very much darker than the rest. "It isn't often you see as good a beaver pelt as that. That one is worth any three of the others, perhaps any four. Color counts for an awful lot in any fur, and it isn't often that you see one so nearly black as that one, though I've seen one or two." The pelt in question was not only very dark, but was peculiarly fine and silky, and on parting the hair, Jack saw that the fur beneath was also very dark. "We'll have to take special care of that pelt," said Hugh. "It's valuable." It was nearly sundown when they got to camp, and by the time they had finished supper, night was falling. Jack felt pretty tired, but no amount of exertion ever seemed to weary Hugh. "Your muscles must be made of wire," said Jack. "Here am I nearly tired to death, and you seem just as fresh as you did this morning. I wish I could stand as much as you can." "It isn't that I'm any stronger than other people," said Hugh, "but I'm doing work that I'm used to, and have been used to all my life; so it isn't as hard on me as if I were doing some new job. Now, if you were to sit me down by a table and make me write letters for two or three hours, I expect I'd get fearful tired, and yet I've seen your uncle sit down and write all day long, from morning until supper time at night, and it never seemed to tire him a bit. It's all in being used to your work." "Yes," said Jack, "I expect there's a whole lot in that." "Now, son," said Hugh, "if we're going to try those bears to-morrow we'll have to go up on the prairie and make a circle to get into that ravine, and then come down to the place we're going to shoot from. Of course, it may be that the bears won't be there, and in that case we'll just go on to our traps. We'll have to leave the horses somewhere up in the ravine, where they'll be out of sight, and then go back for them. Of course, if by any chance the wind should be wrong, we won't see anything of the bears, but if it's right still, or if the wind is from the west, we may get a shot. I don't think we need to start out specially early, but, of course, we want to get there soon after sun-up." It was quite light next morning when they rode up on the prairie and headed north to cross the ravine, from which they hoped to approach the bears, and the sun had risen some time before they reached it. From time to time they got glimpses of the stream valley, which showed them where they were, and at last Hugh turned to the left and rode down a little ravine which soon became deeper. Presently he stopped and said to Jack, "Son, you stay here with the horses and let me go ahead and look down at the stream, so that I can find out just where we are. I think this is the coulée we were looking for, but I'm not quite sure of it"; and he strode off down the gulch. A little later he came back, saying, "This is the place, and down here only a short distance is a clump of brush where we can tie up our horses." After leaving the horses, they went forward on foot, walking in the bottom of the ravine, whose high banks on either side concealed them, and as they approached the stream Jack began to recognize the different features of the landscape and knew just where their skinning ground was. Soon the little knoll that they had spoken of the day before came in sight, and there they left the ravine and walked toward the hill's crest. There was no wind, and Jack felt sure that if the bears were there they would get a shot. As they cautiously lifted their bared heads above the fringe of grass on the crest of the hill, they saw the place where they had been sitting yesterday lighted up by the clear rays of the newly risen sun. Under one of the trees was a tawny bundle, of which Jack could make nothing. He was only sure that it had not been there the day before, but a little to the right of this bundle was a bear sitting on her haunches and looking out down the stream and almost directly at them, and Jack heard Hugh whisper, "Better shoot quick, son, she's liable to see us any second. I'll take one of the cubs." [Illustration: A BEAR, SITTING ON HER HAUNCHES, WAS LOOKING ALMOST DIRECTLY AT THEM.--_Page 186._] Jack slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder, but even his deliberate movement must have been seen by the bear, for she sprang to her feet just as he pulled the trigger, and he felt certain that he had scored a miss. At the instant that he fired, the bundle under the tree separated itself into two little bears, one of which instantly scrambled up the tree, while the other ran toward its mother. A shot rang out from Hugh's rifle, but Jack's eyes were fixed on the old bear and he could not see the result. At Jack's shot, the old bear had started directly toward the crest of the knoll from which it had come, and Jack was astonished at the speed with which she approached. He slipped another cartridge into his rifle and fired again, apparently without effect, and again, but still the bear came on, and by this time she was not more than thirty yards off, coming up the gentle slope at railroad speed. Jack heard Hugh say, "Steady, son, steady. Keep your wits about you. Run off a few yards to your left and I'll go to the right, and let the next shot be plumb center." Jack made a couple of jumps to the left and whirled and again threw up his gun. As he did so he saw that the bear was running toward Hugh, who was at some little distance to the right. Jack fired well in advance of the bear's shoulder, and at the shot she fell to the ground, but instantly sprang to her feet and continued her course toward Hugh. She had come within two or three jumps of him when his rifle spoke, and the bear collapsed upon the prairie. Hugh had reloaded and sprung to one side and stood waiting. He called out to Jack, "Hold on a bit, son, don't go near her. She is dead enough, but we'll give her time to finish dying." In a moment or two the bear gave a few convulsive struggles and stretched out her legs and was indeed dead. "How came it you didn't stop her with your first shot, son?" said Hugh. "Why," said Jack, "didn't you notice that she saw us and moved just as I fired?" "Well," said Hugh, "she surely kept coming. I want to see where all those shots went, and why she didn't die quicker. Your last shot would have killed her in a short time, but she might have run fifty or sixty yards, and have torn up two or three men before she died. Let's look at her." As they took hold of the animal to turn her over she did not seem very large, yet they found her so heavy that it was not easy to turn her on to her back, and they could not have lifted her from the ground. In the forehead, over and just inside of the right eye, the ball that had stopped her final rush had entered and had passed through the brain. Jack's last ball had struck her just behind the elbow, and had passed through the heart. A wound was found where a ball had cut across the belly just back of the ribs, and Jack concluded that this was his first shot. They could not find his other balls, but those, if they had hit her, would be seen when the bear was skinned. "What became of the cubs, Hugh?" said Jack, as they arose from their examination. As he spoke, there was a scraping sound behind them, and turning their eyes toward the timber, the little bear that had been up a tree was seen to reach the ground and to disappear among the trees before there was time for either of them to pick up his rifle. "Well," said Hugh, "that little cuss rather played it on us, didn't he? One of us ought to have gone down there and killed him--that is, if we wanted him--of course, his hide wouldn't be of any special use; it's only that it sounds more like something to kill three bears than it does to kill two." "Then you got the other cub, did you, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Yes," said Hugh, "he sort o' stopped to look when his mother began to run, and I killed him." "Well," said Jack, "we've got quite a job on our hands now with two bears to skin and our traps to take up." "Right you are," agreed Hugh, "we've got a full day's work. Now, what do you think? I believe the best thing for us to do is to take up these traps, skin these bears and whatever beaver we get, and then to move along?" "Yes," said Jack, "I guess that's the best thing to do. As you said the other night, we didn't come out here to do hard work all summer, and it's certainly better fun to be traveling around than it is to be skinning beaver all day. We ought to get some more beaver on other creeks, I should think, but even if we don't, we've got enough to make a half dozen beaver robes." "Well," said Hugh, "we don't want to be wasting any more time than we have to. Now, shall I sit here and skin this bear, and leave you to go and pick up the traps, or will you skin the bear and let me go for the traps?" "Which do you think would be better, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Well, there's hard work enough in either job," said Hugh, "but I think if I were you I'd sit here and do the skinning, and let me go for the traps. If we get any beaver, there'll be quite a lot of pulling and hauling and carrying to do, getting the beaver and the traps both out and loading them onto the horses." "All right," said Jack, "I'll go at this old lady at once, then, and when you go back for the horses, bring Pawnee along and leave him here with me." Jack got out his skinning knife and whetstone and at once set himself at the task of skinning the bear, while Hugh returned up the ravine, and before long came back leading the two pack horses and Jack's riding horse. CHAPTER XVI OFF FOR NEW TRAPPING GROUND The morning seemed a long one to Jack, and the hide seemed to stick very close to the old bear. As the day advanced, the sun broiled down hotter and hotter, while Jack cut and pulled and sweated over the carcass, and seemed to make very slow progress. Gradually, however, the hide fell away more and more from the flesh, until it only clung to the body under the line of the back. Jack worked as far under the body on either side as he could, and then pushing the carcass over, freed the hide from it almost everywhere, except under the shoulders. Try as he might, he could not lift the body so that he could make the final cuts here. At last, however, it occurred to him to call his horse to his aid, and tying his lariat about the forelegs of the bear, he took a turn of it about the horn of his saddle and started Pawnee away, dragging the carcass a few feet to one side, and then leaving his horse standing there to hold the carcass in position, he went back and with a few more cuts separated the hide from the carcass, and then dragged the latter off the hide. It had been a hard job, and Jack was covered with bear's oil and perspiration, but he felt that it would not do to stop here, so turning the bear's hide flesh side down upon the grass, he went down to where the cub lay. First, however, he looked to see where the balls had gone from the other shots that he had fired at the bear. One of them he found slightly imbedded in the muscles of the foreleg, but there was no trace whatever of the other, which must have been a clean miss. He could hardly believe that a ball from his powerful gun would have stopped and flattened on the muscles of the bear's leg, as he found this one had done, but the evidence was plain there under his eyes. The work of skinning the little bear was trifling, compared to the labor that he had put on the old one. Its skin was thinner and its fat softer, and it took him only about an hour to get the hide off. When he had done this, he took it up and spread it out by the old one. He was just about to get on his horse and ride up to the top of the bluff to see whether he could see anything of Hugh, when down in the valley below him he heard a sound of breaking sticks and crushing undergrowth, and a moment later, to his amazement, a little bunch of buffalo broke out of the willows, raced across the valley, plunged into the stream, crossed it, and, with the activity of cats climbed the bluffs and disappeared. There were five of them, two old cows with their calves, and another that looked like a heifer. At no time had they been within easy rifle shot, and as a matter of fact, Jack was so astonished at their appearance that he did not think of shooting. Afterward he was very glad that this had been so, because at that distance he might well enough have wounded an animal which he could not afterward recover. Besides that, they did not need the meat. Before he had recovered from his astonishment at the appearance of these buffalo, Jack saw Hugh approaching, and he saw that each of the pack horses that followed him had a load, and when he saw it Jack almost groaned at the thought of having to do more skinning. When Hugh had come close, Jack mounted and they rode over to the place where they usually did this work, and on unloading the pack horses it was seen that there were six beaver. "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "it seems to me we're having a little too much luck." "More than you bargained for, eh, son?" said Hugh with a smile. "Well, it's certainly a fact that everybody in this world has got something to growl about. It's either not enough, or the wrong kind, or sometimes it's too much. Now, suppose I'd told you before we left the ranch that we'd get more beaver than you would feel like skinning; I guess you would have laughed at me a little, wouldn't you?" "Of course I would!" exclaimed Jack. "We've got to learn about all these things by having them happen to us, I suppose. I never would have believed that we could catch more fur than we wanted." "No," said Hugh, "I reckon not." "Well, at least," said Jack, "I've got the skin off both these bears." "So I see," replied Hugh, "and you did mighty well. I didn't suppose you'd have skinned more than one of them; in fact, I didn't feel sure but that the old one would tire you out, and I might have to help you when I got back. You stuck to that job well, son, and I'm glad you did." It made Jack feel good to have Hugh say that, for he was not much accustomed to speak words of praise. "Did you have any trouble with your traps, Hugh?" said Jack. "I thought you were gone a long time, but perhaps it was only because I got so tired of what I was doing." "Well," said Hugh, "it took quite a while to make the rounds and to pick up the traps and get the beaver out, and then one of those traps you set yesterday wasn't very well fixed, and the beaver had pulled up the float-stick and got ashore on a mud bank, and got away, just leaving his paw in the trap. If we were going to stop here and trap for a while, you would see that that would make quite a difference in our trapping. That beaver will warn all the others in his pond, and maybe all the others in other ponds, and they'll be a heap shyer from now on. Then there was one trap that hadn't been sprung. However, we've got six beaver, and it will take us till pretty near night to skin them; so we better start in and not spend any more time in chinwhack." "Good enough," said Jack; "but I mean bad enough." In a few moments they were hard at work and before they had finished their task the sun had sunk close to the tops of the western mountains. The beaver skins and the traps were packed on one of the horses, and then taking the other pack animal up to the top of the knoll, Hugh tied his coat over his head. They made a bundle of the bears' skins and lashed them on the pack saddle. When they had finished, Hugh said, "Now tie up this rope, son, and let me start on with the other pack horse and you stay behind and watch this fellow. Likely he'll buck when we take the blind off, but after he gets tired he'll follow." Hugh mounted, holding the rope of the other pack horse, and then riding up to windward of the blinded horse, took his coat from its head and rode on. The horse started quietly enough, until a turn in the trail carried to its nostrils the scent of its load. When it realized that the hateful thing that it smelt was on its back it was panic stricken for a while, and began to try to get rid of it by bucking. But after tiring itself out by pitching and by running, first in one direction, and then in another, it followed the other horse toward camp. Jack, who had stayed behind it, had to do some riding from side to side to keep it from running off over the prairie, or up the stream. When they reached camp it was not easy to catch the pack horse, the more so because none of the other horses was willing to go anywhere near it, especially from the leeward side. "Well," said Jack, after they had finally got the load off and turned the horses loose, "this business of packing green bear hides on horses doesn't seem to be all that it is cracked up to be." "It's always so," replied Hugh. "No horse likes to pack a bear hide, or rather no horse likes a bear or the smell of a bear. Of course there are some old plugs that will tote 'most anything, but these young horses haven't had experience enough to be willing to pack bears." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, that evening after supper, "we've got a day more to spend here, anyhow, for we've got to dry these hides." "Yes," replied Hugh, "we've go to do that, of course. We'll do well if we get off the day after to-morrow." A little later Hugh said, "By the way, son, I saw tracks of a little bunch of buffalo down the creek to-day. I knew there were a few down here in these parks, and I thought maybe we might see some of them, but I didn't expect to run on them right here." "Oh!" exclaimed Jack; "I meant to speak to you about that. I saw five buffalo to-day. They came out of the brush and crossed the creek right below where I was skinning the bear." "You did, eh?" asked Hugh interestedly. "Were there two calves with them?" "Yes," said Jack: "two calves and two cows, and I thought a heifer." "That's the bunch," declared Hugh. "The tracks I saw were right fresh, and there were two calves and two cows and one smaller track. Now, I wonder where they came from. I reckon the fire must have driven them out of the mountains, and they must have crossed over and got into the brush below here, and just been working up the creek, sticking to the timber all the time. You know, these buffalo down here are what mountain men call bison, that is, they're buffalo that live in the timber. There used to be lots of them all through the mountains." "Are they just like the plains buffalo, Hugh?" asked Jack, "or are they different?" "Well," said Hugh, "most people say they are different, but I never could see any more difference between them and the plains buffalo than there is between a mountain beaver and, say, a Missouri River beaver. These bison are darker and look to be a little heavier set than the plains buffalo, but I don't think that except for the color there is any great difference, and the difference in color is easily accounted for, because they live in the timber and don't get sunburned as the plains buffalo do, which are always out in the sunlight. Maybe we'll kill one before the trip is over, and then you can look at it and compare it in your mind with the buffalo you've seen on the prairie. I'd like to know what you think about it yourself." The next day immediately after breakfast Hugh and Jack stretched the bear hide, and while Hugh went over it with a dull knife and scraped from it all the fat that he could, Jack busied himself in stretching the beaver hides and hanging them up to dry in the shade. This work occupied them both till noon, and after dinner they sat about and rested, for now they had been hard at work for a number of days. "I reckon, son," said Hugh, "that we'll not make a very long march to-morrow. We can't do anything toward packing our fur until morning, and likely enough we won't get started until about noon. Then, however, we can make a march that will at least take us to another creek. I've half an idea that the best place for us to go now is back to the Platte, and perhaps, from there to the Michigan." "What's the Michigan, Hugh--a place or a stream?" "It's a creek," said Hugh, "and a good-sized one, that comes down out of the mountains from the east. There are some beaver on it. Maybe you'd like to stop there and trap." "I don't know," said Jack; "but I've an idea that I've had trapping enough to last me for two or three days. Maybe I'll look at it differently, though, when we get on the Michigan." The next morning Hugh looked at the bear hide and declared that he believed that by noon it would be set sufficiently so that they could take it up and pack it and move on, and that the last of the beaver hides could be handled in the same way. During the morning they took the beaver pelts that were already dry and folding them once made a pack of them, which, when tightly lashed, they covered with gunny sacking. These, with the first bear hide, were to make a top pack for one of the animals. About the middle of the day the pins which held the bears' hides were pulled up, the hides folded over, and after the beaver pelts had been taken from the hoops and each one folded once, these were put together to make a second pack, which also was to go on top of a load. The hides were not dry, but could be spread out again at the next camp. The morning had been dull and lowering and by the time their packs were made up and dinner eaten, a heavy mist was creeping down the mountainside toward the valley. Jack brought in the horses and saddled them all, and the work of packing was soon accomplished. By the time the little train was in motion a heavy mist was upon them, which sometimes was almost a rain. To one who is used to travel on the plains or the mountains it makes but little difference whether the march is through rain or sunshine. If it rains, the traveler protects himself as well as possible, and goes on his way as cheerfully as he can, consoled by a certain philosophy which may be only habit, or may be a disregard for discomfort which he knows is but temporary. If the sun is clear and bright, on the other hand, he is still more cheerful; but under no circumstances are his spirits greatly lowered. Men who have not had experience in life out of doors are likely to be depressed by a march through rain. One becomes more or less wet, and it seems hard not to have a house to go into to dry one's self. Tents have to be pitched on wet grounds, blankets are damp, meals must be cooked in the rain and are likely to be cold and wet, so that for one who is not used to outdoor life a rainy day is a real misfortune. On the open prairie a low hanging mist makes objects at a distance look like something quite different from what they are. Antelope seen through fog appear as large as horses, and a coyote may be taken for a gray wolf. If the fog is confusing to the human being who rides through it, it is, sometimes, not less so to the game. Even the keen eyes of the antelope are sometimes deceived at such a time. Jack was just riding over a low ridge behind the pack horses when over another ridge close at hand appeared two antelope cantering briskly toward him. They did not see him until they had come within a hundred yards, and then instead of turning and running away, they put on a burst of speed and ran directly in front of him, passing between himself and the last pack horse, and not more than thirty steps from him. Just as they were about to pass in front of him, Jack shouted at them and one of the two turned and ran directly toward him, crossing before his horse so close that it almost seemed as if the horse would run over it. Again Jack shouted just as the antelope was in front of him and the animal turned sharp to the right, and darted by him, going like the wind. If his rope had been free Jack could have easily caught the antelope, or if his gun had been in his hand he could have touched it with the barrel. Hugh did not loiter on the ride, but kept his horse going at a little jog-trot, and generally Jack kept the pack horses close behind him. By the middle of the afternoon the rain had ceased and the fog lifted, and when they rode down among the willows at the bottom of the Platte they were warm and dry again. The valley was plentifully dotted with feeding antelope. After a camp had been made Jack asked Hugh if it would not be well to kill something, for the last of the fresh meat had been consumed that morning, and unless something was killed they would have to eat bacon to-night. Hugh agreed that meat was needed, and as soon as the horses had been attended to and the tent put up, he advised Jack to go off and get a buck, saying that he himself would attend to the hides and spread them out to dry for the few hours of daylight that still remained. Down below the camp there was a large group of antelope which were widely scattered out, so that the prospect of getting within range was not very good, but after a little careful maneuvering Jack found himself on the creek bottom with about thirty yards of level grass land to cross before he could reach the willows, under cover of which the herd might be approached. A single old doe was staring at him very intently, and he wished to wait until she should move out of sight. The other animals, however, were already beginning to feed toward the bluffs, and after waiting for a few moments he saw that if he was to get a shot he could delay no longer. He dropped on his hands and knees, therefore, and crept through the grass toward the willows. He was in plain sight of the doe, which continued to look at him, and he could only hope that she might take him for some animal feeding in the bottom. There were numbers of cattle along the creek, and it was altogether possible that the antelope might take him for a cow or a calf. What he had hoped for happened, and before he had reached the willows he saw that the old doe was feeding once more. He crept carefully through the willows and got up close to a big buck, and feeling absolutely sure of it, threw up his gun to his shoulder and fired, making a clean miss, shooting well over the antelope. He was much mortified at his failure, so much so that he returned to camp depressed in spirit, and when Hugh asked him where his meat was he replied only by the Indian sign for "all gone," and did not speak until supper was ready. After the dishes were washed up and they were sitting by the fire taking the comfort that follows a day's travel, Jack burst out, "Say, Hugh, I don't suppose you ever make a perfect fool of yourself; but did you ever do so when you were a young man?" "Why, yes, lots of times, I expect, son," said Hugh. "What do you mean?" "Why," said Jack, "this afternoon I crawled up within fifty yards of a big fat buck and had a standing broadside shot at him, and I thought the work was all done, except carrying in the meat, and when I shot at him the ball must have gone four or five inches above his back." "How?" said Hugh. "I reckon I know how it was. You were so sure of him that you didn't take the trouble to sight your gun." "Yes," said Jack; "I guess that's just about what happened. I never had any question but that I would kill him, and I suppose I was so sure I forgot to look at my sights." "Well," said Hugh, "I guess that has happened to all of us at one time or another, but after it's happened a few times, we get to understand that you can't hit things with a rifle ball unless you shoot straight every time." "My! I felt cheap when I missed," said Jack. "It was not so much that I should have to come and tell you what a stupid thing I had done, but it was the change from being so sure and so confident that I had what I wanted, to seeing it slip through my fingers and skip off." "Well," said Hugh, "I was astonished to hear your shot and then see you come into camp without anything, because, of course, I know as well as you do that usually you shoot pretty carefully, and you've been mighty lucky in your hunting. I sort o' fixed my palate for some fried antelope liver to-night, and it seemed like quite a drop to come down to bacon." "Well, the next shot I fire," declared Jack, "you bet I'll take care and try to send the ball where it belongs. I don't want to have this thing repeated." "Well," replied Hugh, "if you are going to shoot a rifle you've got to give it your attention first, last, and all the time. You never can be sure of hitting anything unless you keep your mind fixed on what you're doing. A careless man is neither a good hunter nor a good rifle shot." "Well," said Jack, "you bet I'm going to remember that after this." During the afternoon Hugh had spread out the green hides in his bundle and given them an opportunity to dry a little more, and then had repacked them, so that bright and early the next morning they were on their way again. Soon after noon they reached the crossing of the Michigan, and on the way there Jack got a shot at a fine buck antelope and killed it, and put the hams and sirloins on his horse. They made a pleasant camp in a grassy bottom of the Michigan, and after eating, Jack set out to walk a little distance down the creek in search of adventure. While strolling along the bluffs overlooking the narrow river bottom, he came upon a little slough in and near which was several sorts of water birds. Of these the most interesting was a family of green-winged teal, an old mother, followed by eight tiny young. As soon as the old bird saw Jack she swam to the margin of the pool and ran off into the grass with the eight little ones strung out in a line and pattering over the mud behind her. The scene was a pretty one, and much as Jack would have enjoyed seeing one of the little fellows closer at hand, he did not go near the grass which she had entered, to disturb the small family. A little further down the river in a quiet pool he saw, a hundred yards below him, a duck swimming about in plain sight. Making a little round back from the water, so as to get out of sight of it, he crept up and tried to see the bird in order to find out what it was, but it had disappeared. Going on down the river, he happened to look back and he saw in the same place what seemed to be the same duck doing the same things. Again he went away from the water and returned to the place, and tried to see the bird, but again it disappeared. Jack wondered if it might not be one of the medicine birds about which the Indians had talked, a spirit which took the form of a bird and then, perhaps, changed into some other object of the landscape. It was not nearly supper time when he returned to camp. He found that Hugh had spent the afternoon busying himself about the hides, and that these, except the bear's skin, were by this time all dried. Hugh declared that there was no reason now why they might not go on and make a full day's march, because the bear hide could finish drying at any time. "If we're going into the mountains, son," said Hugh, "there is a good road into them not far from here. I don't know what game we'll find. Very likely nothing, except a few deer, or possibly, if we get up high enough, a sheep or two, but anyhow I mind that it's a pretty country on the Michigan, and we might as well go up there as anywhere else." "I would like to do it, Hugh, and if you say so, we will." "Let it be so," said Hugh. "Now, son," he continued, "down here in the park is one of the greatest summer ranges for antelope that ever was, but we've got meat enough to do us for a few days, now, and unless you see something extraordinary in the way of a head, it seems to me I wouldn't bother with these antelope." "No," said Jack, "I don't think it's worth while to, and I don't mean to. The only reason for shooting at them now would be to see whether I could hit them, and if I want to find out about that I can stick a chip up against a tree and shoot at it." "That's right," said Hugh. "Of course, if you need an animal, kill it, but don't kill it just to gratify your curiosity or your love for hitting things." After an early start next morning a hunter's trail was followed up toward the mountains. The way led through dense pine forests alternating with pretty, park-like openings, and some miles nearer to the main range they camped by some little springs. As Hugh had said, the antelope here were extremely abundant and very tame. In the timber there were many signs of deer, occasionally a snowshoe rabbit was seen, and more than one brood of blue grouse was startled from its feeding ground among the low brush. The young were about the size of quail, and after being flushed the first time lay very hard. Jack amused himself several times by getting off and walking in the direction which the birds had taken, and then finding them, one after another, crouched close to the ground, looking almost like so many stones or sticks and permitting him to come quite near to them before again taking wing. The timber on the Michigan was burning in several places, but the rains of the past few days had for the most part extinguished the flames. Now only a few smoldering logs sent up their pillars of smoke through the still, clear air. In some places the fire had run down the mountains out onto the plain, burning the sage brush and sometimes even crossing the creek bottom, killing the willows which everywhere grew very thickly. In one place, as Jack was riding down the bluffs into the brush, a large bob-cat or bay lynx ran out from the bushes, stopped and stared at him when it saw him, but before he could draw his rifle from the scabbard it bounded back into the willows and was not seen again. They had some trouble in crossing the Michigan where it came out from the mountains. The bottom was wide and level, and was full of old beaver meadows and ditches. Everywhere it was so thickly overgrown with willows that it was with difficulty that the horses could be forced through them. At every few steps they came upon mud holes, beaver sloughs, and other evidences of old beaver ponds, and it was necessary to wind about to avoid these obstacles. There are few things more troublesome and even dangerous than to ride through an old beaver meadow, for if one's horse gets fairly mired in a beaver slough it may be very difficult to get him out again. Hugh and Jack spent more than two hours in crossing from one bank to the other, though the distance was only about half a mile. A little beyond this they went into camp, but just before passing into the little park where they were to camp, Hugh stopped his horse and said to Jack: "There's a queer looking antelope; ride on ahead, son, and see if you can't kill it." As he reached the edge of the little park, Jack stopped in the fringe of timber and looking through, saw a half a dozen antelope scattered about feeding. The head of one of the bucks that was nearest to him had an odd appearance, and even looked as if it had two sets of horns. It was a good-sized animal, and Jack slipped from his horse, and creeping out to the edge of the timber, where he had a clear, open sight, raised his rifle to shoot. The motion caught the buck's eye and he turned about and stood facing Jack, looking at him. Jack drew a careful sight and fired, and the antelope reared up straight on his hind legs and then fell over backward. Jack reloaded, and going back, mounted and rode out to the buck, which he found dead, the ball having passed lengthwise through the body. The curious appearance of the animal's head was explained as soon as he reached it, for this buck actually had four horns; the two usual ones, and, growing from the skin behind each one, at a distance of a couple of inches from the horns, were two other stout, black horns about three inches long and an inch thick. These were not attached to the skull, but were mere outgrowths from the skin and moved about with the skin when it was moved. Jack had seen nothing like this before, and he was very much surprised at it. While he was preparing the antelope to take into camp, Hugh and the animals came along and passed him, stopping at the edge of the stream not more than a hundred yards from where he was skinning the antelope. Jack stripped the hide from the beast, and, cutting off the skin of the neck low down at the breast and shoulders, placed the carcass across his saddle, and carrying the head in his hand, walked into camp. The horses were already unpacked and feeding about, dragging their ropes, and Hugh had started his fire and brought the water. It took but a short time to put up the tent, and then to picket the horses. "I want to tie up the horses for the present, son," said Hugh, "because here in the timber it's pretty easy for us to lose them. They may wander off only a short distance, but if they keep quiet in the brush or timber it may take us a long time to find them. It's different down on the open prairie, where you can see a long way." Each horse, therefore, was tied up, either made fast to a picket pin driven firmly in the ground, or to some stout tuft of sage brush. After supper Jack brought out his antelope head and asked Hugh about it. "Yes," said Hugh, "I've seen antelope like this before, but I don't know that I can explain to you why this fellow has these extra horns. I reckon they're something like the horns you'll often see on a doe antelope. Some does--maybe most of them--have no horns at all, but others will have a little knob of horn, perhaps not more than half an inch long, just sort o' capping the little bunch on each side of the head that corresponds with the big bony cores of the buck antelope's head; and others may have right long horns, maybe four or six inches long, with a little sign of a prong on the horn, but I've never seen a doe's horns that were firm on the skull and that had a bony core inside them as a buck's horns always have. The doe's horns always seem to just grow on the skin like these extra horns on this head. I have often seen buck antelope that had little, hard, black bunches looking just like the stuff the horns are made of, growing on the skin of the head somewhere near the horns, but I don't know what it means, no more than I know what it means when a rabbit has a horn or a pair of horns." "What do you mean, Hugh?" said Jack. "Do rabbits ever have horns? I never heard of anything like that." "Oh, yes," said Hugh; "sometimes they have horns, but I don't know why, nor do I know what the horns mean. I've had rabbits with horns, both jackrabbits and cottontails, shown to me a good many times." "What!" said Jack; "real horns, you mean, growing out of the head like an antelope's horns or a cow's horns?" "Well, yes, and no," said Hugh. "The horns look like real horns, that is to say, they seem to be made of horny matter, but they don't always grow on the head. Sometimes they grow on the neck, sometimes in the forehead. I've heard of cases where there were four or five growing on different parts of the animal's body. I never saw more than two on one animal, one of them grew out of the top of his head and another from the side of his neck." "Well," said Jack, "that beats me entirely." "This whole business of horns," said Hugh, "is something that, as I say, I don't understand. Now, of course, we know that a deer sheds his horns every spring or winter, and that an antelope sheds his horns every autumn, but, of course, the way an antelope sheds his horn is very different from the way a deer sheds his, just as an antelope horn is different from a deer's horn. I was talking about this with your uncle one time and he told me that the antelope was the only animal that had a bony core to the horn that regularly shed the horn, but, as I say, the antelope don't shed his whole horn, like the deer; the sheath that covers the horn core just slips off. When it slips off you find the core of the horn covered with skin and all over this skin grow long, white hairs, except at the very top, where there's a little black knob of horn. After the sheath has been shed, the skin and the white hairs covering it seem gradually to turn into the black horn, the change traveling down from the tip of the horn to the animal's head. Often at the base of the horn you can see where the hairs of the head join the horn and seem to be mixed up with it. In other words, there's a place where the horn sheath is part horn sheath and part antelope skin and hair. Your uncle once told me that hair, horns, hoofs, scales, nails, claws, and feathers were all different forms of the same thing, and it seems to me that in the antelope's horn sheath and the way it changes from the time the old sheath is shed until the new sheath is formed we can see hair changing into horn." "Of course, it's easy to see," said Jack, "that horn and nails and hoofs are the same thing; they are just the same substance put on different parts of the body. I can understand, too, how feathers are the same, because we can look at the quill of a feather and see that that isn't very different from the fingernail or the claw of a small animal, but scales seem to me a little different." "Well, I don't know," said Hugh. "You take the scales of a beaver or a muskrat tail, and in places they're all mixed up with the hair, and the hair seems gradually to change into scales. Look at a beaver's foot and you'll see the same thing going on. Anyway, I guess if your uncle said that was so, it is so, for I don't think he's the kind of a man to talk positively about things that he doesn't know of." "No, indeed, he isn't, Hugh, and he knows a whole lot, and yet, you'd never find it out unless you get talking to him and asking him questions about things." "That's so," said Hugh. "He's a mighty quiet man, but he knows a heap." CHAPTER XVII TRAPPING THE MINK The next morning it was full daylight before the camp was astir, and the sun had risen before breakfast was over. Jack had brought in the horses and put the saddles on them, and they stood tied to the brush waiting for their loads. Neither Jack nor Hugh seemed to be in a hurry, and after the packs had been pretty well made up, Hugh said, "Now, son, let us cut up this antelope and throw away the bones that we don't need and put the meat in a couple of sacks. No use to pack anything more than we have to, even if the horses are lightly loaded." Accordingly they set to work and very soon had the meat stripped from the antelope's bones, cut into pieces of convenient size, and put in the sacks. The night had been cool and the meat had become chilled all through. While they were at work, the gray jays gathered about them in considerable numbers, hopping up within a few feet of them, and sometimes flying down close over the carcass. Occasionally Hugh and Jack would cut off a little piece of waste meat and throw it to one side, when it was instantly pounced upon by a bird and carried off. The fortunate one would be followed by half a dozen of his fellows, which would try to snatch his prize from him. So fearless were the birds that Jack took great pleasure in watching them and in throwing bits of food to them. "You don't have the name of Whiskey Jack for these birds out here, do you, Hugh?" said Jack. "I have never heard it." "No," said Hugh; "I've heard the Indians away up north call them by a name that sounds something like that, but I reckon it's not the same name. The one I have heard is an Indian word--'Wis-kaysh-on.' Maybe the word you are talking of is only another way of pronouncing it. Out here we call them meat hawks and camp robbers. They're so cheeky that I always rather liked them, but they're a mean bird in winter, especially if a man is trapping marten; they will spring his traps, steal his bait, and maybe tear his pelts, but they are nowhere near as bad as the magpies, or even as the blue jays. It always amuses me to see how, after they have eaten what they want to, they will pack off all the food they can get and cache it in the trees, in the crevices in the bark, and in the moss that grows on the limbs. They are great fellows to hide things. Look at that one there," he went on, pointing, and Jack saw a jay picking up shred after shred of meat that had been thrown out, and noticed that the bird, instead of swallowing it, seemed to hold it in its throat. Presently it flew up into the branches of the pine tree, and after moving about a little, went to a bunch of the gray moss, and, after seeming to make a hole in it with its bill, deposited there the contents of its mouth and throat, and then flew back and began to gather more meat. "Well," said Jack, "what do you suppose they do that for? Do they store up food in that way and go back to it when they are hungry?" "You can't prove it by me," said Hugh. "I've an idea that they're just natural thieves and misers, and love to steal and hide things." The work of loading the animals was soon finished, and they set out up the stream. The trail which they followed was a faint one and kept on the hillside on the north bank of the stream, always through heavy pine forests. There was little underbrush. The ground under foot was soft; the air was fragrant with odors of spruce, pine, and balsam, and with the perfume of the many wild flowers that brightened the gloom of the dense woods with vivid colors of red, blue, and yellow. As they advanced, it was evident the snow had not been very long gone; the ground became more and more damp, little rills that trickled down the hillsides were full of water, and occasionally when an open spot in the timber gave them a view of the peaks toward which they were journeying they could see that they were still snowclad. Occasionally Hugh started a brown pine rabbit which hopped away from the trail far enough to avoid the horse's feet, and sat up on his haunches with his huge ears erect, watching the procession that passed before him with an air of meditation. Pine squirrels were everywhere, and their chattering was heard almost continually. Another familiar sound of the mountains was the shrill whistle of the mountain woodchuck, called from its cry, "whistler." It could not have been so very long since these animals came out from their winter homes, but they were now abroad and in full voice, and each one as he saw the train, or indeed as he saw any other unusual object, gave vent to his shrill cry. Altogether, the day's journey, while it lacked any especial incident, was one of very great pleasure to Jack. Late in the afternoon they camped in a beautiful opening surrounded by giant spruces and firs, where rich grass stood waist high, and the steep sides of the mountains rose sharply from the narrow valley. After camp had been made and supper eaten, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son. I'm going up the creek a little way to see if I can see any sign of beaver or other fur. What are you going to do?" "Well," said Jack, "I don't know; I think I'll go up this little valley through which this side creek comes and see whether I can see anything there." "All right," said Hugh; "we'll get back here, then, before dark;" and they started on their different ways. Hugh went slowly up the stream and before he had gone very far came to a place where the valley widened out and there were meadows on either side of the stream. Here was beaver work, and fresh. A dam across the stream held back the water until it was several feet deep, making a pond that was long and narrow, but not high enough to flood the meadows. Along the banks were willows on which the beaver had been working lately, and many freshly cut twigs and barked sticks were floating in the water. Hugh saw no beaver, but found abundant signs of them, and made up his mind that it would be well for them to stop here and trap for a day or two. There were mink sign along the stream, and at its head he saw fresh elk tracks, those of cows and calves. Going quietly through undergrowth he came at length to a place where the trees stood apart, and here suddenly he saw three cow elk, which a moment later saw him and crashed off through the trees, but at which he did not shoot. Jack, on his part, had followed up the still narrower valley of the side stream. The mountains rose steeply on either hand, and to walk with any comfort he was obliged to keep either in the bed of the creek or close to it. On little sand bars by the stream he saw many tracks of small animals which he thought might be mink, and in one place where there was a deep pool he came upon what he believed to be the slide of an otter. All along the stream dippers were feeding, the curious little slate-colored birds with which he had been so familiar in other parts of the mountains. Here they were as active as he had always seen them, flying up or down the stream or diving in the water or walking briskly about on the rocks, or, if for a moment they stayed in one place, making the curious bobbing or dipping movement from which, perhaps, the name dipper has been given them. They were singing now with a sweet, clear note that reminded Jack somewhat of the robin's song. From time to time Jack stopped to watch these little friends, and then went on. He moved as quietly as he could, and for the most part the babble of the stream drowned the slight noises that he made, but, as bad luck would have it, as he was rounding a point of the stream and had to make a long spring to cross the water, he caught an alder stem on the other side, and it came away in his hand with a sharp crack. Instantly there was a crash in the brush just above him on the stream, and as he turned his head he saw a good-sized bear plunge across the stream and disappear into the undergrowth. He had no time to whirl around, and still less to throw his gun to his shoulder, and yet he wanted to shoot. He ran twenty or thirty steps up the hillside as hard as he could to a little open place from which he thought he might possibly see the game, but nothing was visible save the undergrowth and the trees, and he was reluctantly obliged to come down the slope without seeing the bear. What made him feel the worse about it was that he felt that it was his own carelessness that had made the noise that had startled the bear. If he had kept on in his silent, stealthy way he might have had the shot. Very much disgusted and disappointed, he turned about and went down the valley again, reaching camp just as Hugh got there. "Well, son, what luck?" said Hugh. "Bad," replied Jack. "I got quite close to a bear, and, not expecting any game, I made a little noise and he dodged off, giving me only a glimpse, at which I didn't have time to fire." "That's bad," said Hugh. "A man always feels worse if he knows that it was through some carelessness of his own that he missed a chance." "Yes," said Jack, "that's what I was thinking only a little while ago. If I had done my best, and the wind had changed, or something had frightened the bear, I wouldn't mind it so much. What did you see, Hugh?" "Well," said Hugh, "I found some beaver, and I saw a little bunch of cow elk. I expect there are calves hidden in the valley just above us, but they don't interest us much." "No," said Jack, "we don't need any calf elk, certainly." "I think, son," said Hugh, "we'd better stop here for a day or so and set some traps. We may get a few beaver, and there are some mink here, too." "All right," said Jack; "I'll go you; but we haven't time to set the traps to-night, have we?" "No," said Hugh, "we'll have to wait until to-morrow for that, but I'll tell you what we can do. We can start in to rigging our dead-falls for mink to-night. It'll take us some little time to fix them. We ought to have at least a half a dozen of them scattered up and down the creek here." "Well," said Jack, "what do you want me to do? I'm ready for anything." "Get the ax," said Hugh, "and we'll go up on the hillside and cut down some of these small, dead pines and get them ready for work to-morrow." The two went up on the hill, and Hugh soon cut down a dozen slim, dead, young pines, not much thicker than his wrist at the butt, and trimmed the branches off. Jack taking a part of them on his shoulders and Hugh following with the rest, they carried them down to camp. Here the butts of the trees were carefully trimmed and smoothed so that they were well rounded. Half a dozen smooth, round sticks nearly as thick as the butts of the pine trees and about fifteen inches long were cut out for bed-sticks, and then a considerable number of sharp-pointed, stout sticks prepared. Then--for by this time it had become dark--Hugh explained to Jack at some length how these traps were to be set. "You see, son," he said; "as I have told you before, a mink is a pretty simple-minded creature. He hasn't much sense or keenness, and probably these mink here have never been trapped. We have got to rig the bait in these dead-falls so that a mink will come at it from the right end, and so that the log will fall on him and kill him. Now, we drive these sharp-pointed sticks into the ground, close together, in the shape of a V. The only way the mink can get in is to go through the open part of the V. Just inside of that open part we put down the bed-stick and on both arms of the V we leave out a stick or two so that the bed-stick goes through these open spaces, and it's down through these open spaces that the fall-log comes--in fact the sticks on either side of the open spaces are guides so that it falls square on the bed-log. The fall-log must be heavy enough so that it will come down hard and kill the mink at once. The bait is put on the end of a smooth spindle which supports the trigger-stick. When the animal passes in and pulls at the bait, he jerks out the spindle, the trigger-stick falls out of place and lets the fall-log down. The fall-log comes down onto the bed-log, and if the mink's there he's bound to be crushed flat. The success of the trap depends altogether on the speed with which the fall-log comes down. If it does not drop quickly the mink has time to see it coming and to get away. I reckon we'll have to use beaver medicine for bait for these traps; maybe put a little of it on some antelope meat or on some frogs if we can catch any." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I expect this is all right about the dead-falls, but I don't know as I understand just exactly how it's to be set, but I reckon if you will show me to-morrow I'll do what I can to help." "Well, it's mighty simple," said Hugh, "and just as soon as you've seen it done once, you'll know how to do it. Now, we've got to fix some spindles and some trigger-sticks to-night, and I'm going to make one of each now, and after you've seen me do it you can take hold and make some yourself." Hugh took out his jack-knife and began to whittle, and before long he had made a slender stick shaped not unlike a lead pencil and about eight inches long. It was round and smooth. Then taking a much thicker stick, one perhaps an inch in diameter, he smoothed this off, removing all bark, twigs, and inequalities, making it as nearly round as possible and pointing it bluntly at both ends. Then he took a bed-stick, put it on the ground between his feet, and laying the butt of the spindle upon it and at right angles to it, he placed upon the butt of the spindle the trigger-stick, and pressed it down on the spindle with his left hand. Then giving the spindle a little pull toward the bed-stick it slipped out from under the trigger-stick and the trigger-stick fell over. "There, son," he said, "do you see the philosophy of it now? Suppose my hand had been a heavy log and that it had fallen across the body of a mink, wouldn't it have killed him?" "Yes, that's so, Hugh," Jack replied. "I think I begin to see now how the thing will work." For an hour or two after dark Jack and Hugh whittled faithfully and by that time they had prepared a dozen spindles and as many trigger-sticks, and Hugh said that the first thing in the morning they would set a lot of mink traps along both streams. After the work was done, they sat dreamily before the fire, Hugh smoking vigorously, and Jack saying and doing nothing, but just giving himself up to the charm of his surroundings. There is a great delight in a camp among the green timber. The fragrant needles of the evergreens spread thick upon the ground form a soft, dry couch, which would woo sleep to any traveler. A great fire of resinous logs sends up spouts of flame which almost reach the tufted twigs of the great firs that overhang the camp, while clouds of black smoke, and sometimes showers of sparks wind in and out among the branches. The yellow and brown trunks of the trees flicker in the changeful glow of the red light and send queer shadows out behind them into the depths of the timber. Just at the edge of the circle of light are seen the shadowy and uncertain forms of some of the horses which have ceased feeding and have moved closer to the camp to share the cheery sociability of the fire. Soon after darkness fell in the valley it grew colder, and both Jack and Hugh drew closer to the fire, and before very long both sought the warmth of their blankets. The morning sun peeping over the snowy tops of the neighboring mountains found Jack and Hugh eating their breakfast and almost ready to start out on their trapping expedition. Soon after they had finished eating, Hugh hung his bottle of beaver medicine about his neck, filled his pockets and those of Jack with trigger-sticks and spindles, and then with half a dozen of the fall-logs under his arm and a bundle of bed-sticks on his back, he started down the stream, followed by Jack, similarly loaded. Hugh pointed out to Jack places along the stream where mink had passed, and before the morning was half gone they had set twelve falls, eight on the main stream and four on the little creek that Jack had followed up the day before. Hugh set the traps in the way he had explained the night before. He drove the sharpened sticks into the ground near the border of the creek, sometimes up above in the grass, and at others down at the very margin of the water. When his V was about a foot long he left an opening two inches wide in each arm, and then in each arm drove three or four more sticks close together. On the ground and passing through the openings in the arms he placed the bed-stick, setting it well into the soil so that its top was nearly level with the ground. Sometimes he had to dig out a place for the bed-stick and at others he could pound it down to the proper level. Now he placed the fall-log, which passed through both openings in the arms, on top of the bed-stick and then put a spindle and a trigger-stick on the ground by them. Now he tied a stone, if he could find a good one, to the thicker end of the fall-log, or if he could not find a stone, he got three or four slender tree trunks which he rested on the butt of the fall-log at right angles to it. Meantime he had sent Jack off down the creek to look for frogs, and presently Jack returned with a dozen that he had killed with a stick. Hugh now impaled one of the dead frogs on the pointed end of a spindle, which was notched so that the bait could not be pulled either way. Then with a willow twig he dropped a little of the beaver medicine on the frog, and then telling Jack to raise the fall-log, he placed the butt of the spindle on the bed-log, one end of the trigger-stick on the spindle, and then told Jack to very carefully lower the fall-log until it rested on the trigger-stick. Before this, with his knife he had smoothed away the sides of the fall-log where it passed between the upright sticks in both arms of the V, and had smoothed off the sticks between which the fall-log passed and which were to serve as the guides to the fall-log, which would meet the bed-stick with an even blow. "There," said Hugh, as he very carefully removed his hands from the spindle and trigger-stick, "that ought to catch a mink if he'll only come and give a tug at that bait." "Yes," said Jack, "I think it ought. It seems to me there's a good deal more science and pleasure in setting a trap of that kind than there is in just spreading the jaws of a beaver trap." "Maybe you're right, son," said Hugh, standing back and looking at his trap. "It does look fairly ship-shape, doesn't it?" "Yes," said Jack, "that looks to me like something that had some science and style about it." The greater part of the day was devoted to setting these traps, but toward evening Jack and Hugh put on their rubber boots and walked off up to the beaver pond, where four traps were set. After they had finished this, Hugh said, "Son, I believe we might as well go down and look at those mink traps of ours. If anything has been caught we want to take it out and reset. Just as like as not we'll find something." Jack was eager to learn the result of their morning efforts and wanted to press ahead of Hugh, but did not do so until they had almost reached the first of the dead-falls. Then he ran ahead a few steps, stopping and calling back to Hugh, "That first trap is sprung." When they got up to it they could see a pair of brown hips and a tail sticking out from under the fall-log, and lifting it, a good dark mink was found there, caught just as he should have been. The next two traps yielded nothing; the fourth another mink; the last two on the main stream were empty, but the four set on the little side creek had each a mink. They reset all of their traps and returning to camp began to skin the mink, which Hugh explained must not be skinned open, but must be cased. "Oh, yes, Hugh, I know what you mean," said Jack. "You split them between the hind legs and then turn the skins inside out. You don't split them along the belly." "That's right," said Hugh, "and then you've got to have stretchers to dry them on. Of course, what we ought to have is boards, but I guess we'll have to do with willow twigs. They don't make quite so nice looking a skin, but they'll serve our purpose, I guess. You may think, son," he went on, "that skinning mink is worse than skinning beaver. These little fellows can smell fearful bad if you're careless about skinning them and cut into these glands that lie near the tail. Be careful not to do that. If you do you won't get rid of the smell in a long time. Watch me skin this first one and then you can go ahead for yourself. You won't lose anything by watching me do it." The sun had disappeared over the mountains before they had stripped the pelts off their mink, and it was dusk by the time they had eaten supper. "Now," said Hugh, "we ought to have finished this job up before supper, but I wanted to cook by daylight. Suppose you go over to that bunch of willows there and cut me a dozen straight and pretty stiff willow shoots, then bring them back here." Jack went over as directed, and in a little while returned with the shoots. "It was pretty dark, Hugh," he said, "and I had to do it all by feeling. I don't know whether these are what you want." Hugh took the twigs in his hand and looked them over, and after discarding two or three said, "These are all right. Now let's strip the leaves and twigs off them and make them as smooth as we can. It is not necessary to take off the bark." When the twigs had been stripped off, Hugh showed Jack how to gradually bend them so that the two ends of the bent twig came together in the shape of a very long and flattened O. He took one of the mink skins--all of which were, of course, wrong side out--and slipped the middle of the doubled twig into the opening in the skin, slowly pushing it down toward the animal's head. The opening of the mouth was too small for the doubled twig to pass through, and the spring of the bent twig kept the sides of the pelt pushed out and stretched. This operation was repeated with each of the skins, and to overcome any shrinking of the pelt, Hugh cut a number of short sticks which he forced between the two ends of each twig which projected from the skin where the hind legs of the mink had been. The operations had taken but a short time, and when they were over Hugh bundled the skins together and placed them just within the tent. "There," he said, "now, to-morrow morning we'll hang those out where the air will get at them, and before night they will be dry." They were sitting by the fire, saying but little, when suddenly Hugh, who for some moments had been staring into the darkness in the direction of the horses, leaned over and held his ear near to the ground as if listening. "What is it, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Why," said Hugh, "there's some people coming. Put your ear to the ground and listen." Jack did so, and could hear faintly the tread of something on the ground. "Yes, I hear it," he said. "Are those horses coming?" "Sure," said Hugh, "I've been watching Pawnee and that black of mine for quite a little while, and I knew that they heard or smelt something. They've been looking off down the creek for some minutes. I reckon this is a party of travelers, and they'll either come here or camp just below us to-night." As they sat there, presently the tramp of horses began to be heard and occasionally a call from some man shouting at the animals, and after a little while the people could be heard talking and making remarks about the camp that they saw just ahead of them. A few moments later the horses seemed to come to a standstill, and a man rode up to the circle of the fire and said, "Good-evening." "Good-evening," said Hugh, "won't you light down and sit?" "Thank you," said the stranger; "we've got our pack train just here, and we would like to camp by you, if you have no objection." "Not the least in the world," said Hugh. "The bottom is free to anybody that wants to camp here, and we would like to have you stop. Is there anything we can do for you?" "It's a little dark to find a good camping place, but the wood and water are handy, and I guess our animals will find the grass. Good-evening"; and he rode away. After the horse's footsteps had died away, Hugh turned to Jack and said: "Englishmen, I reckon. Likely out here hunting. We'll know more about them in the morning." "Well," said Jack, "I hope they won't interfere with any of our traps." "No, I guess not," said Hugh. "The worst they could do would be to blunder into them, and I don't believe they'll do that." A little later another fire shone out in the little park and lit up another tent not far from theirs. Still later, they received another call from their new neighbors, who turned out to be an Englishman and his son, a boy about Jack's age, and a packer, a young man from one of the little towns in the mountains west of Denver. The Englishman was a very pleasant-spoken man, greatly interested in the country and all that it contained. His son sat down by Jack, and for a time the two listened to the conversation of their elders, but gradually the English boy's curiosity overcame his shyness and he began to talk to Jack, and ask him questions about the mountains and the hunting. The packer sat by the fire and said little for a time, only occasionally volunteering a remark, but at last he said to Hugh: "Partner, I'd like to have you tell me where we are. I've never been in this part of the country before, and don't claim to know anything about it, but I know east and west and north and south when the sun is shining. Mr. Clifford here hired me to pack for him, not to guide, because I told him that I wasn't a guide in a strange country. He wants to get back to the other side of the mountains, and I told him that I thought maybe if we followed up this creek we'd find a pass over onto the head of one of the streams running the other way. Can you tell me if we'll do that, because unless we do we better get back down onto the flat and hunt some other way across the mountains?" "Yes," said Hugh, "you can get across this way. This creek is called the Michigan, and if you follow it up you'll come to a pass that will take you onto the head of the Grand River. Of course, now you're on the east side of the main range, that is to say, the water you're on now flows into the Atlantic Ocean; when you get across these mountains you'll be on water flowing into the Pacific Ocean; but all the same you'll be over in Middle Park, and if you want to get back to Denver, that's the way you've got to go." "Yes," said the Englishman; "I told our friend Jones that I felt sure that if we could get across this spur of the mountains, our way back would be an easy one, and we would see something of mountain travel, which is what I wish. You see, America is wholly new to my boy and myself, and this part of America, so wild and free and independent, and so full of beautiful forms of animal life, is quite unlike anything that we have ever seen. We find it very interesting." "Why, yes," said Hugh, "I should think you would. It surely is a pleasant country, and with good weather anyone ought to have a mighty pleasant trip." The Englishman had many questions to ask Hugh about distances and about the time required for going from one point to another. Meantime, his son was questioning Jack. "I say," he said, "do you live out here?" "No," said Jack, "I'm only out here for the summer. My home is in New York." "Oh," said the English boy, "then perhaps all these things are as strange to you as they are to me." "No, not quite, I guess," said Jack; "because this is the fifth summer that I've been coming out into this western country and traveling around with Hugh--that's my friend over there. Every summer since I was a little fellow I've been coming out and we've traveled back and forth over a great deal of country." "Is it possible!" said the English boy. "Why, you are pretty nearly what they call an 'old timer' out here, aren't you? I notice that the people out here are divided into two sorts, 'pilgrims,' who don't know anything about the country, and 'old timers,' who know all about it." Jack laughed as he said, "That's about right, and I think that maybe I'm an 'old timer.'" "Where are you going now?" said the English boy. "But first tell me your name, and I'll tell you mine. I am Henry Clifford of Chester, England, and my father and I are going around the world. We're going to spend this summer in America, and then go to China and India." "My," said Jack, "that's a nice trip. I would like to make it, but, of course, what I've got to do is to get ready to go to college." "Yes," said Henry, "I've got to do that, too, but not until I get back to England." "My name is Jack Danvers," said Jack, "and Hugh and I have come down here from my uncle's ranch to spend the summer trapping here in the mountains. There is quite a lot of fur here, and we've got quite a pack of beaver already. We've got some traps set out here in the creek now, and if we have any luck you'll see us skin some beaver to-morrow morning." "How awfully interesting," said Henry. "Of course, I've read about trapping beaver, but I never expected to see it done." "Well, you'll see it to-morrow morning, unless you pull out mighty early." "I hope we won't," said Henry; "I shall ask my father to lie over here to-morrow if he feels like it. How long are you going to be here?" "Oh, well," said Jack, "of course, I don't know about that. It'll depend on what luck we have trapping. If we have any luck, we may be up here for several days, if not, we may go on. We were talking about going up to the head of the stream and perhaps hunting there for a day or two. There ought to be sheep up there." "Sheep," said Henry. "What are those?" "Why," said Jack, "don't you know the wild mountain sheep?" "Those fellows that have the big horns? You mean bighorns?" said Henry. "Yes, sometimes they are called bighorns." "I know, I know," said the English boy; "I saw some heads in Denver, but I never supposed that we could get anywhere near where they lived." "Well," said Jack, "there are plenty of them in these mountains, I guess; in fact, there is lots of game here. Only this morning Hugh ran across a little bunch of cow elk only two or three hundred yards from the camp." "Is it possible!" said Henry. "We've seen lots of antelope on the prairie, and I shot at them a good many times, but I could not seem to hit them. I don't know why." "What sort of a gun is yours?" asked Jack. "It's a Sharp's rifle," was the reply. "Why," said Jack, "that's a first-class gun. You ought to be able to hit anything with that, if you know the gun. Have you tried it at a target?" "No," said Henry, "I never shot it off, except at these antelope, and neither my father nor I were able to hit them." "Well," said Jack, "you can't expect to hit anything unless you have tried your gun and know just how to hold your sights to make your bullet go to a particular spot. That's one of the first things I was taught in rifle shooting, to fire my gun at a mark until I understood just how the sights ought to look to hit the mark at different distances. If we were going to travel together for a while, I could teach you how to shoot, I expect, just as Hugh taught me a good many years ago." "My word," said Henry. "I wish we were going to travel together. I'm going to see what my father means to do to-morrow." While the boys were talking, Mr. Clifford had been questioning Hugh, as his son had been questioning Jack, and had expressed to Hugh so much interest in what he and Jack were doing that Hugh had suggested that they lie over a day and rest their horses. After the strangers had left the camp and gone back to their own, Hugh told Jack what he had suggested to the Englishman. "You see, son," he said, "these people are regular pilgrims, and they don't know anything about the country, and they want to know a heap. That young fellow they have with them is a nice young chap, but he doesn't know any more than they know. The man is mighty pleasant spoken for an Englishman, and just as common as you and me. He don't put on any lugs at all. If they choose to lie over to-morrow and watch you and me doing our chores round camp, it won't do us any harm, and it may give them some pleasure and teach them something. If after a day or two they aren't just the kind of people we want to have 'round, we're always free to pack up and strike out. They can't follow us." "How do you mean can't follow us, Hugh?" said Jack. "Why, what I mean is," said Hugh, "if they want to stick with us, and we don't want them, it wouldn't take us half a day to lose them in this timber, and we could go off where we wanted to." "Well," said Jack, "I like that boy Henry very much. He seemed to want to know all about things, and didn't seem to be ashamed to say that he didn't know anything. He's very much interested in trapping, and wants to see us at work, and I told him if they didn't pull out too early to-morrow they would probably see us skin beaver." "Well," said Hugh, "I don't know what they're going to do, but whatever they do, it won't make much difference to us. Now, we've done a whole lot of visiting to-night, and you and I had better go to bed." CHAPTER XVIII THE ENGLISH PILGRIMS Jack felt a little reluctant to crawl out of his warm blankets next morning when he heard the snapping and crackling of the fire, but habit was too strong for sleepiness, and he got up and hurried into his shoes and clothing as rapidly as he could, and then went out to the fire. It was still dark, and even the first signs of dawn had not begun to appear in the east. "Now, son," said Hugh, "go out just as quick as you can, and get a pack horse and bring him in and put the saddle on him. We may as well walk this morning, but if we get a couple of beaver we ought to have a horse. By the time you get a saddle on him, grub will be ready, and mighty soon after that it will be light." Hugh was quite right, and by the time they had finished eating it was light enough to see, and a few moments later they were on their way to visit the traps. The English party had camped quite close to where the first trap was set, and it had not been disturbed. Hugh declared that the white tent, set back on the bank not far from the stream, had frightened the beaver away. The next trap, a little lower down, contained a beaver, and so with the other two across the pond. The beaver were loaded on the pack horse, and then a round was made of the dead-falls, from which five mink were taken. "Quite a bunch of fur for the traps we set," said Hugh, as they returned to camp. As they passed the camp of the Englishmen, the packer was seen building a fire, having apparently just gotten up, but the Englishman and his son had not yet arisen, and Jack called out to the packer, asking him to tell Henry Clifford to come over to their camp after he had finished breakfast, and a muffled call from the inside of the tent showed that the boy had heard the message. A moment later he was seen peering out of the tent door, and staring with greatest intentness at the pack horse and its load of fur-bearing animals. Hugh and Jack returned to their camp, but when they reached it, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, if we're going to stay here three or four days, we don't want to litter up this camp with a lot of carcasses. Let's go off back into the timber a little way, and do our skinning there instead of doing it in the camp." "I think so, too, Hugh," answered Jack. "It'll be a great deal more comfortable for us, and it's really no more trouble to go up there a short distance than to dump the load out here." "All right," said Hugh, "we'll go up there, and we can choose a place from which we can see camp, and then if that young Englishman comes over, you can call him up to where we are, if he wants to see what we're doing." Accordingly, they got their skinning knives and whetstones, and, going up the side of the valley, sat down on the hillside just within the pine timber. Both the camps were in sight from there. They were both hard at work, each one on his first beaver, when Jack happened to look down toward the camp and saw the English boy and his father standing in front of the tent and gazing around as if looking for the owners of the camp. "There are our friends down in camp, Hugh," said Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "call them up here if you want to, or, at all events, let them see where we are, and then they can come if they feel like it." Jack stepped out on the open hillside and whooped, and, when the strangers looked at him, waved his hat, and father and son started towards them, while Jack went back to resume his work. Presently the two Englishmen came up to where they were, panting a little from the exertion of the climb. The son had his eyes fast on the beaver and the skinning, but his father, as soon as he reached the place, turned about and looked up and down the valley and across at the opposite mountains. "An extraordinarily beautiful spot you've chosen for your work," he said to Hugh, and Hugh nodded without speaking. And, indeed, it was a lovely place. Opposite, the mountainside rose steeply, clothed with dark green timber to its crest. Away to the northeast lay the valley of the stream, with little parks and openings through which flowed the shining waters, amid groves of pale aspens, which, as the valley met the hillside, changed to dark pines. Up the valley the view was cut off by the hills, but where the company was gathered there was bright sunshine, and a lovely view. "Are those beavers?" said Mr. Clifford, pointing to the animals that lay on the ground. "My son told me that you were trapping, and we came over to see what your success had been." "Yes," said Hugh, "those are beaver, and this is a part of the work of getting them." "How very interesting," said Mr. Clifford. "But, is not the work very hard?" "Well," said Hugh, "that depends a little on how you look at it. Work that a man is used to does not seem hard to him, while a new job may seem very hard." "True, true," said Mr. Clifford. "But I think the work of skinning these animals, to say nothing of trapping them and bringing them to this place, would seem to me very difficult." "That is what Jack thought for the first two or three days that we were at work, but he's got so used to it now that he can skin a beaver pretty nearly as fast as I, and I don't think he minds the work nearly as much as he did." Henry Clifford had seated himself on the ground close to Jack, and was watching the operation of skinning with the utmost interest. "You seem to do that wonderfully well," he said, "and very fast. I wonder if I could learn how to do it?" "Of course you could," said Jack, "if you feel like it; but it's greasy work, as you can see for yourself." "Oh, I shouldn't mind that," said Henry. "I should like to try and see if I could do it." "Well," said Jack, "you have to be pretty careful not to cut the skin. If you make a hole in it, that takes away from its value, and every particle of the skin has got to be cut loose from the fat. You can not strip it off, as you can the hide of a deer." "Would you mind if I tried to help you?" said Henry. "Not a bit," said Jack, "I'd rather like to have you. If you like, I'll give you this knife that I'm using, and I'll take my jack-knife, and we can work together on this beaver. Perhaps if we do that we'll be able to beat Hugh, and get the hide off before he finishes his." Jack whetted his knife on the whetstone and gave it to Henry, showing him how to take hold of the knife, and how to cut through the fat. "You had better roll up your sleeves," he said, "before you begin, for this grease gets all over everything." Henry did so, and Jack took his jack-knife out of his pocket, and they both set to work. Of course Jack had to watch Henry, to see that he did not cut the hide and that he did not leave too much fat on it, and that made him work more slowly than he otherwise would have done, but Henry took hold very well, and seemed to remember everything that Jack told him, and before long it was only necessary for Jack to give an occasional glance at the other's work. Hugh had only just pulled the hide free from his beaver when the two boys threw aside the carcass at which they had been working. "Ah, Hugh," said Jack, "since I've got an assistant here I can work nearly as fast as you." Hugh looked around and saw that both boys had been skinning, and seemed surprised and pleased, as did also Mr. Clifford, who said, "Why, Henry, I had no idea you knew anything about skinning an animal. Where did you learn?" "I've learned all I know since we've been sitting here, father. Jack explained to me how it was done, and he and I have been working together ever since we got here." Mr. Clifford, who had been talking continuously with Hugh in a low tone of voice, seemed greatly interested in him, and finally asked him if he was willing that he and his party should stay with him and Jack so long as they were here in the valley. Hugh had replied that they would be glad to have them do so, but had said also that it was uncertain how long they would be here. They had proposed to go only up as far as the pass at the head of the stream, and then to return and to go south, into Middle Park, by way of Arapaho Pass. The English people seemed very pleasant, and very much interested in all that they saw, and were evidently anxious to learn from Hugh and Jack all that they could about the country and the ways of life in it. It was not yet the middle of the day when they had finished their skinning, and dragging the beaver carcasses off to one side, left them on a little bench of flat meadow, above which a spring trickled out of the hillside. Good-sized pine trees grew on the knolls on either side of this little meadow. As all hands started down for Hugh's camp, Hugh said to Jack, "We'll keep a lookout on those carcasses, and maybe before we go back we'll get a bear there." "Why, Hugh," said Jack, "have you seen any sign?" "Yes," said Hugh, "the day we got here I saw a little sign up the creek, and you know you started a bear yourself that same day." "That's so," said Jack. "I don't expect, though, that bears will come down in the daytime to feed right in sight of the tents." "No," said Hugh, "they won't. We've got to build a dead-fall here, and very likely we won't catch anything until we've moved." Mr. Clifford and his son, who had heard this conversation, were more or less mystified by it, and Mr. Clifford asked Hugh, "Are there really bears about here, Mr. Johnson?" "Yes," said Hugh, "there are plenty of bears, but, of course, you might travel a long time in these mountains without ever seeing one. There is no animal in all the hills that is as shy as the bear, and it's always likely to see and hear and smell you before you see it." "And what is a dead-fall?" said Mr. Clifford. "Why," said Hugh, "if you and your boy will come with us now you'll be able to see some, and can understand what it is better by looking at it than by having me explain it." They stopped at the tent, and while Hugh prepared to cook the noon meal, Jack brought some water and chopped some wood and built the fire. Their friends sat down on the ground near at hand, and talked about their trapping. "How very fortunate we are to have met you," said Mr. Clifford. "All this life and all the creatures of the mountains seem to be known to you. Then, too, your eyes are trained; you see a thousand things that we do not see, and never would see unless they were pointed out to us. I have read in books so many stories about the wonderful skill of the western mountain man in reading the signs of the prairie. I feel that we are very fortunate to have met people who can do that." So Mr. Clifford and Hugh talked over many things, and Jack was somewhat astonished to hear Hugh speak freely about matters connected with Hugh's early life of which he himself had known only within two or three years. "I should like to see a trap built to catch a bear," said Henry. "Well," said Jack, "I never saw a big dead-fall built, but it must be a lot of work to make one. You see, a bear is a powerfully strong animal, and a very heavy weight would be needed to crush it. I have seen quite a number of grizzly bears, and it seems to me that they're the most powerful animal that there is. I believe that a grizzly bear, nine times out of ten, would be able to kill a buffalo, and a buffalo is about the biggest and strongest thing that we have in this country." After the four had eaten, Hugh and Jack quickly washed up the dishes, and then Hugh said to Jack, "Son, let us go and look at those mink traps of ours. You and Henry can go ahead, if you like, and Mr. Clifford and I will follow. If you find anything in the traps, reset them, and if the bait is gone, get some more and I will bring the medicine along." Hugh got his bottle of beaver medicine and hung it around his neck, and then the two older men followed the boys, who had started off. When they passed the Cliffords' camp, their packer was seen sitting under the shade of a bush, and when the boys came in sight he walked over to meet them, and said, "Well, I'm glad to see you again. I tell you it's been a mighty lonely morning, with nothing to do and nobody to see." "Come on with us," said Jack. "We're going to look at some traps we've set along the creek." "I'd be right glad to," said the young man, and the three walked briskly along. At the first dead-fall the bait was undisturbed, but in the second a mink was found. Jack stopped and explained the principle of the dead-fall to Henry, illustrating it by what was now before their eyes. While they were talking, Hugh and Mr. Clifford came up and the lesson had to be gone over again, this time by Hugh, for the benefit of the older man. Hugh took the mink, and, slitting it across from one heel to the other under the tail, skinned away a little bit from the hams, and cutting out the two glands about which he had warned Jack when they first began to skin minks, he cut one of them open and smeared it over the bait. The odor of the cut gland was very offensive, but Hugh declared that it was the best kind of medicine for mink. A round of the traps gave them two more mink, and Hugh declared that mink must be pretty plenty, since, during the morning, three had gone into the traps. By midafternoon they had made their rounds, and on their way back to camp stopped at the Cliffords' tent, and here Mr. Clifford and Henry asked them in, showed them a number of things that they had brought with them from England, among them a huge knife nearly a foot long, which to Jack seemed to have a hundred blades and implements. Mr. Clifford gave Hugh a package of tobacco, and Henry presented Jack with a volume which contained six books of Homer's Iliad. Then the two Americans went on to their tent, having promised to come back and eat supper with the Cliffords. "That was a wonderful knife Mr. Clifford had, wasn't it, Hugh?" said Jack, as they approached their tent. "Yes," said Hugh, "it was sure a wonderful thing. It seemed to me fit to be stuck up in a museum. I wouldn't pack around a piece of hardware as big as that if one would give it to me. There are, maybe, three or four useful tools in it, and the rest of it is just so much wood and iron." "That's just what I was thinking, Hugh, that more than half of the things there were no good, and that you'd pretty nearly have to have an extra horse to carry it around with you." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's just one of those things that storekeepers get up to sell to pilgrims. The storekeepers don't know what is needed out in this country, and the pilgrims don't, either, but the storekeepers pretend they know, and the pilgrims believe them. That's mighty pleasant tobacco that Mr. Clifford gave me," he continued. "I tried some of it this morning. I don't know as I like it as well as my plug, but it was mighty kind of him to give it to me, for I reckon it costs a good lot of money." "Yes," said Jack, "that was nice, and it was nice in Henry to give me this book. I am a fool not to have brought two or three good books out with me into this country. A man has lots of time when he might read, and instead of that I always lie down and go to sleep. I'm going to try and read a lot of this book before our trip is over." That afternoon Jack read for an hour in his book, and then proposed to Hugh, who was working over one of the newly stretched beaver skins, that they should take their rifles and walk up the creek for an hour. "I don't mean to hunt," said Jack, "but just to see how the trail is." "That's good," said Hugh, "I'd like to go, and we can just as well walk as ride." They set out, following the dim trail, which soon went into the green timber. After they had gone a mile or more up the valley, they came upon abundant sign of deer and elk, and a little later, as they paused, just before stepping out into a park, Hugh touched Jack on the shoulder and pointed to the mountain side far above him, where, after looking for a moment, Jack saw half a dozen elk walking across a little opening in the timber. "I reckon," said Hugh, "there's lots of elk right here close. Of course, those that are down low are all cows and calves, but I reckon that if we get up high we will find the bulls. I expect likely these Britishers would like mighty well to kill an elk, and I expect, also, that we can take them right up to one." "My," said Jack, "I would like to do that. I would like to watch that boy when he got close to game and see what he does. But, Hugh," he went on, "he tells me that he never shot his gun at anything. He hasn't any idea where it shoots, nor how." "Well," said Hugh, "why don't you take him out and give him a lesson in shooting?" "Well," said Jack, "so I might, but, of course, I can't do it around the camp. It would scare the beaver, and we'd scare the bear, and we might scare the elk." "Well," said Hugh, "take him down the creek three or four miles to some little park there, far enough off so that the guns won't sound like much, and give him a lesson. You know very well he'll never be able to hit anything until he has learned how his gun shoots." "I believe I'll try that to-morrow, Hugh," said Jack. It was soon time for them to turn back, and immediately after reaching camp they went over to the Cliffords and supped with them. During the evening Jack proposed to Henry that on the following day, after the work was over, they should go down the stream a short distance and try their guns, and Mr. Clifford, when he heard what they were talking of, asked to be of the party, also. After some discussion, it was agreed that all hands should start as soon as possible next morning, and that the rifles of both the Cliffords should be tried, so that later, if possible, they might be able to kill some game, but the events of the next day somewhat modified this program. Jack and Hugh had reached their first beaver trap in the gray of the next morning, and after they had made the rounds they found themselves with two beaver and seven mink. The loaded pack horse was taken up to the place where they had skinned the day before, and the loads thrown down; but before Hugh began work he stepped over to where he could look down on the little meadow where the beaver carcasses had been thrown yesterday. After he had looked, he returned to where Jack had already split his beaver, and said, "Well, son, the bears have been down at our meat below, and I reckon that instead of going down the creek to teach the boy how to shoot, two or three of us will have to stay here and build that trap." "It will be quite a job, won't it, Hugh?" said Jack. "A lot of trees will have to be cut and hauled and put up. We're in better shape now to do it than we would have been before these strangers came, but still, it's going to be quite a lot of work, isn't it?" "Yes," said Hugh, "of course it will be some work, but maybe not so very much. If this young man Jones is any kind of an axman, he and I can cut the trees and build the pen in half a day. We ought to begin that right away, and if possible get the pen built to-night. Then, if we put these carcasses in it without setting it to-night, we'll have a mighty good show of catching something to-morrow night." "Well, Hugh, I don't see why we couldn't do it," said Jack. "We certainly need another bear hide or two." "Yes," said Hugh, "so we do. Of course, though, if these strangers help us to build the pen, why, the fur has got to be divided up with them." "That's so," said Jack, "but just think what fun it will be for them to help build the trap and to get the bear, if we do get one. They'll think that they're right in it, won't they; that they're real old trappers?" "Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon they will. They seem to be mightily taken with all this life out here, and we'd both be glad to show them anything that we can." "Of course we would," said Jack. "I think they're having a bully time, and it seems to me that Mr. Clifford is having about as good a time as his son." "Yes," said Hugh, "I think they both like it. I reckon before long they'll both of them be up here, and then we can talk over the bear trap matter." As Hugh had predicted, it was not long before Mr. Clifford and Henry were seen walking over, first to Hugh's camp, and then, when they found that deserted, up to the hill where Hugh and Jack were skinning. After a little talk, the subject of the bear trap was broached, and both the Englishmen were delighted with the idea of putting it up. "But how long will it take to build it?" said Mr. Clifford. "Oh," said Hugh, "I reckon we can get it in shape before night; that is to say, if we all work at it, and, in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we could finish it two or three hours before sundown. Do you know what sort of an axman Jones is?" "No," said Mr. Clifford, "I do not; but I can handle an ax myself. I have chopped down a good many trees back in the old country." "Why," said Hugh, "that's better yet. But I don't know if we've got axes enough for three people to handle; we've only one in our camp." "I think we have two," said Mr. Clifford. "Well," said Hugh, "if you have two, why don't you and Henry go down and get your man and the three axes and come up here, and then just as soon as we've finished our work we can go and cut some timber. There's lots of it here, and it's right handy to snake down. Then, while we are chopping, the boys can get the horses, and they can snake the logs out to where we'll need them." "Good enough," said Jack. "I'll bet we'll get those logs down faster than they can cut and trim them." Mr. Clifford and his son started on their errand, and not long after their return with Jones and the three axes the work of skinning the fur was over, and the beaver carcasses were ready to be used for bait. Hugh now led the way up on the hillside to where there were a number of tall, slender pines, and he and Mr. Clifford and Jones each attacked one. The trees were eight or ten inches through, and were soon brought to the ground. Then they were cut in twenty-foot lengths, and the branches trimmed from them. Meantime, Jack and Henry had gone down to the camp, saddled four of the riding horses, which were brought back to where they were chopping, and Jack, putting a lariat around one end of a log, and taking a turn of the other about his saddle horn, started off to draw the stick out to the place where the trap was to be built. Hugh showed Henry how to do the same thing, and thus the logs were gradually brought out of the timber and to the meadow. Once in a while the end of a stick would catch on a root, and it would be necessary to dismount and lift it over, but after a while a trail was worn, in which the logs slipped smoothly. Before long Hugh declared that enough sticks had been cut, and then, going to the tops of the trees which had been cut down, he cut a number of stakes about eight feet long, which he sharpened at one end, Mr. Clifford and Jones helping him in this work. Then the boys snaked bundles of these stakes down to the building ground, and waited to see Hugh make his trap. He built his pen in the shape of a narrow V, driving these sharpened sticks into the meadow and piling the logs against them so as to make a wall of logs. Shorter logs and brush were then piled on top of the V nearly to its opening. A bed-stick was laid across the opening, just as had been done with the mink dead-fall, and the fall-log was arranged to run between four tall stakes, two on either side. All this was not done without much use of the ax, much lifting of logs, and much expense of strength and perspiration; but at last, when it was done, Hugh seemed satisfied, and said, "There, I guess that will do. Now," he said, "we will lift up this fall-log and prop it so that the bears cannot pull it down. They may not feel like going in the first night, but if there should be any young, foolish ones in the family they'll go in, and when the old ones see that they are not hurt, they'll come in, too. Then the next night we'll see what will happen." The trigger and spindle for the trap were not yet prepared, but Hugh had cut two sticks from which they were to be made, and declared that he would do that work in camp. The carcasses of the beaver were now thrown into the traps so that they lay about four feet inside of the bed-stick, and were fastened there by a stout stick driven through them into the ground. "There," said Hugh, "I guess now we can quit. That job is all right, and if we get some beaver to-morrow, we're likely to have bear the next morning." They all felt better when they had returned to camp and washed off the grime of their work and were sitting around the fire. It was not yet supper time, and yet there was not time for the boys to go off on the target-shooting trip which Jack had planned. He spoke of this to Henry, and explained to him over again how hopeless it was for him to do any hunting unless he had learned just how his gun shot, and just how the trigger pulled off. Mr. Clifford, who was listening, seemed interested, and said, "I can understand, Jack, something of what you say. I have never shot a rifle until I came to America, but it is easy to understand why the muscles of the shoulders and arms and of the fingers must all work together perfectly to send a bit of lead over a great distance to a particular spot. We are learning a great deal in these last two or three days, are we not, Henry?" "Yes, indeed, we are, father," his son replied. "I think, if you will let me, Jack, I will go with you to-morrow and try my gun when Henry tries his." "Why, of course, Mr. Clifford," said Jack. "I'd be mighty glad if you would. I was talking about that with Hugh only this morning, and telling him I didn't see how it would be possible for you to have any luck hunting until you had learned these things. You see, I am now telling you only just what Hugh told me years ago, when I first came out here. These are not discoveries that I have made, but things that I've been taught, and that I suppose everybody must be taught, or must learn for himself." "Well," said Hugh, "I've always said that you took hold of this rifle shooting, almost from the start, son, better than anybody that I ever saw begin. Just as soon as you had learned something about shooting, you were always steady and a good shot." "Well," said Mr. Clifford, "why should we not all go off to-morrow to this place where Jack is going to try Henry's gun, and then both of us can take a lesson? Why will you not come, Mr. Johnson, and teach me while Jack teaches my boy?" "Why, surely, I'd like to," said Hugh. "No reason why I should stay in camp to-morrow afternoon." Hugh asked Mr. Clifford and his son and Jones to eat supper with them that night, and they did so, and after the visitors had returned to their camp, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, we are poor for meat again; you or I will have to go up in the hills and kill something, or else we'll have to eat beaver." "Well," said Jack, "let's wait and see what happens to-morrow. Perhaps we might run on something when we go down the creek." "We might," said Hugh, "but I don't think we'll go down far enough to see any antelope, and we're not likely to run on any game down here in the valley." "Well," said Jack sleepily, "we've got to have something to eat, of course," and they went to bed. Jack was pretty anxious to go up to the bear trap the first thing next morning and see what had been there, but, as usual, they went down over the trapping ground, and this morning their luck was bad. Only one beaver was found, and in the dead-falls there were but three mink. "Time for us to move, I guess, son," said Hugh. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" said Jack. "Well, never mind; we've done pretty well here, and there are lots more creeks here in the mountains." "Well, yes," said Hugh; "we can load up both horses with beaver, if we want to, but I don't believe you do." "No," replied Jack, "I don't believe I do." When they had reached the skinning ground, Jack looked down on the bear trap and could see that something had been there; in fact, it looked as if a regular trail led through the grass up to the entrance to the pen. "I declare, Hugh," he said, "it looks to me as if there had been a whole drove of bears down there by the opening of that pen. There seems to be more sign than we saw yesterday, a good deal." "I wouldn't be surprised," said Hugh, "if quite a lot of bears had come down there. Animals learn soon about good feeding places; I don't know how, but they do." "Well, now, if you will skin these three mink, I'll take this beaver, and we'll see which gets through first." They had almost finished skinning, when their friends came up. "I'll tell you, Henry," said Jack, "you've got to get up earlier in the morning if you're going to be a sure enough mountain man. I like mighty well to stay abed in the morning, but this trip Hugh has me up long before light every day, and I'm getting so I don't mind it a bit." "Well," said Hugh, "if you are trapping, you want to get to your traps just as early in the day as you can see. Many a man has saved a beaver by doing that. You see, a beaver often gets caught when it's going home just before daylight, and it takes him some little time to thresh around and twist his feet off." "Why, of course, rising in the morning is all a habit," said Mr. Clifford. "It's just as easy to get up at one hour as it is at another. In India, where, on account of the heat, we slept through the middle of the day, we used to get up before light, always." "Well, Henry," said Hugh, "Jack tells me that there are lots of bear sign down at the pen, and I reckon we better do down and see what happened there." They went down there, and even Hugh was surprised at the amount of sign they found. Not the smallest vestige of the beaver remained, and all about the stick which had been thrust through them the ground was dug up and rooted over, as if the bears had suspected that something was buried there. "Well, son," said Hugh, "I don't know but we've got more of a contract here than we reckoned on. We'll have to get a fresh bait for to-morrow night, sure. For as many bears as there are here, we ought to be able to catch two or three of them. You run down to the camp and bring up those sticks for the trigger and spindle, that I took down last night, and we'll fix them and set the trap now." Jack brought the sticks, and some little time was devoted to arranging the trap. The beaver carcass was put on the end of the spindle and firmly tied there; a stake was driven into the ground just behind the bait, to hold in place the point of the spindle. A branch an inch long, standing out from the side of this stake at right angles to it, was smoothed so that the spindle, if pulled on, might easily slip out from under it. Then the other end of the spindle was rested on the bed-stick projecting out six or eight inches toward the mouth of the pen. "Now," said Hugh, "this fall-log is heavy, and we've got to handle it pretty carefully. We don't want any of us to get caught in our own bear trap." He drove a stout stake into the ground just outside of the front one of the two stakes that were to guide the fall-log, and then, getting a long pole for a lever, the fall-log was lifted, the stake which had supported it was knocked away, and then the fall-log lowered until it was about four feet above the bait-stick. Then leaving Jones to hold the fall-log in position with the lever, Hugh went inside, and, resting one end of the trigger-stick on the portion of the spindle which projected beyond the bed-stick toward the mouth of the pen, he told Jones to lower the fall-log very slowly. Jones obeyed instructions, and after raising and lowering it several times, the fall-log and the spindle were held apart by the trigger-stick, and so delicately balanced that it looked to the boys almost as if a breath would disarrange them and bring the heavy fall-log down. "There," said Hugh. "Now let's get out of this as quick as we can. I'm hungry and want something to eat." And indeed it was time that they should eat, for in their earnestness to set the trap the noon hour had long passed. CHAPTER XIX THE FIRST BIGHORN After they had eaten, it was still the middle of the afternoon, and Jack said to Hugh, "Hugh, why shouldn't we all set off and go down the creek and help the Cliffords try their guns this afternoon? There is plenty of time to do that before dark, and then if we have any chance to hunt right soon those people will know something about where they are shooting." "No reason at all why we shouldn't do it. If you'll fetch in the saddle horses, we'll start over and get the Cliffords now." It took but a few moments to get the horses and saddle them. When the suggestion was made to Mr. Clifford and Henry, they, too, saddled up, and a few moments later the four were trotting down the trail. In an open park, a couple of miles below the camp, Jack slashed the bark from a tree trunk, making a target, and then, stepping off a hundred yards, he said to Henry, "Now let me have your gun and I will fire three or four sighting shots, so that I can find out just how to hold it, and then you can shoot, and very few shots will tell you how you ought to hold your gun to hit the mark, or, at least, to come very close to it." The shots fired by Jack showed him that, as is usually the case, Henry's gun was sighted to shoot high, but by drawing the fore sight down very fine, he put the last two shots within an inch and a half of each other at the center of the target. Then he explained to Henry what it was necessary for him to do; that he should draw the sight down, so fine that only the tip of the foresight could be seen in the notch of the rear sight; that he should not try to hold his rifle steadily for a time on the target, but should aim at the center and should pull the trigger just as the sight was about to pass over the center of the target. After three or four shots, and comments and criticisms by Hugh and Jack, Henry was able to bunch his bullets very close around the center of the mark he was shooting at, and quickly came to understand the process of handling the gun so that his bullets would go close to where he wished them to. After Henry had finished, Hugh took Mr. Clifford in hand, and he, having had the benefit of seeing what his son had done, learned still more easily what was required of him, and in a very few shots seemed to have mastered the art of short-range rifle shooting, which is so often very difficult of acquirement. The sun was yet an hour high when they finished their work and, mounting, rode back to the camp. The two boys galloped ahead, while the older men followed, also riding fast. They had almost reached the Clifford camp when Jack heard a dull sound, followed by a faint cry, a sort of squall which he did not recognize. Instantly he pulled up his horse and sat there listening, and in a moment Hugh and Mr. Clifford had overtaken the boys and stopped. Jack called back, "Did you hear that, Hugh? What was it?" "Yes," said Hugh, "I heard something, and I suspect our dead-fall is sprung, and sprung by some animal, too." "That's what it sounded like to me. That heavy noise was something falling. Let's ride up there and see what it is." They pushed on by the camps, and presently came in sight of the dead-fall and could see that the fall-log had dropped. A moment later Jack saw a little bear on the hillside, which sat up and looked for a moment, and then ran away into the timber. When they had come close to the dead-fall they saw the fall-log lay across the body of a bear, and, dismounting at a little distance, they approached it. The bear was a large female, and the dead-fall had fallen across its shoulders and apparently broken the neck. "I don't understand this, Hugh," said Jack. "The log ought to have struck her farther back. She could not reach the bait from this position. Could she have touched the bait and then jumped back while the log was falling?" "No, son," said Hugh. "This bear did not spring the trap." As he spoke, he stepped over the fall-log and entered the pen, and after looking about a moment he turned and said, "She had a cub with her, and the cub pushed in ahead and got hold of the bait and sprung the trap just in time to catch the old one." Then he pointed out to the others the tracks made by the little bear, and showed how it had grasped the bait, pulled it to one side, and then, frightened by the noise of the falling log, had bolted out of the pen. "I only see tracks of one cub," said Hugh, "but very likely there may have been two. Did you see more than the one as we came up, son?" he asked Jack. "No," answered Jack, "I saw only one." "Well," said Hugh, "let us get this bear out and skin it if we can before dark, and set the trap again. We're likely to catch another bear to-night." All hands took hold of the fall-log, lifted it off the bear, and then propped it up and hauled the bear out in front of the pen. "Now," said Hugh, "it's going to be a job to skin this bear, and unless we all take hold of it we can't get it done to-night. If we leave it here, and the bears come down to the trap again, they will eat it up, and we'll lose the hide, and very likely they won't go into the trap. What do you say, Mr. Clifford?" turning to the Englishman. "Are you willing to lend a hand to skin this bear?" "Why, yes," said Mr. Clifford, after a moment's hesitation. "I shall be glad to. We came out into this country to gain new experience, and we may as well take part in all the work that presents itself." "All right," said Hugh, "let's go at it right now. And Jack, son," he went on, "you go down to our camp and get the beaver knives and whetstones, and then go down to Mr. Clifford's camp and get Jones to come here and help." Jack turned his horse and rode off without a word. Hugh called out to him, "Bring the ax with you when you come back." Jack signed that he understood, and went on. When he returned with Jones, the bear had been slit and the three companions were hard at work at it, the Englishmen working very slowly and clumsily, and Hugh very quickly. When Jack and Jones took hold, the work proceeded much more rapidly, and just about sunset the last cuts were made, and the hide freed from the carcass. Then Hugh had everyone take hold and pull the body of the bear back into the very end of the pen beyond the bait, and then all hands went to work and reset the trap. The bear hide was rolled up and thrown across Jack's saddle, and he led the snorting Pawnee down to the camp, while Henry and Jones walked on either side, holding the hide in place. "You men had better stop and eat with me," said Hugh. "Our grub is getting pretty low; we haven't anything but bread and bacon and coffee, but to-morrow, if nothing happens, we shall have some fresh meat." The conversation that evening was much about bears, Mr. Clifford and his son asking a multitude of questions, to which Hugh replied as best he could. Mr. Clifford seemed to have an absorbing thirst for knowledge, and never grew weary of asking Hugh questions about the country and its life and the ways of its inhabitants. Before the English party went to their camp, Hugh said, "Now, I think, to-morrow, as soon as we get done with whatever work we may find, we'd better move on up the creek and see if we can get into the high mountains where there's game. We're plumb out of meat, and then, I reckon, you all would like a day or two of hunting. We can kill some meat and dry some of it, and then I expect Mr. Clifford and his folks will go on down Grand River, and we'll come back and go down toward Middle Park by way of the Rabbit Ears." Everybody seemed to think that to go hunting would be very pleasant, but Mr. Clifford made no reply to the suggestion that they would go down Grand River. The round of the traps next morning yielded only one beaver and a couple of mink. "Well, son," said Hugh, "I reckon there's not much more for us here in the way of fur, and we'll get this beaver skinned early and move on up the creek, unless we have a bear, and about that we'll know in a few moments now." They rode over to the skinning place, and from that looked down on the bear trap. It was sprung, but when they went down, there was nothing in it. The beaver which had served as bait, however, was gone, and a considerable part of the old bear was eaten. There were fresh tracks and other sign all about, showing that several bears had been in the pen during the night. "It's those durned cubs," said Hugh. "They come in here and pull at the bait and spring the trap and then get scared and run away, and later the bigger bears come down and eat the bait. I don't know that we'll do anything more with this trap, and, any way, it won't pay to set it just as we're going away. If we were going to be near enough so that we could come down here every day and look at it, it would be different; but it's quite a long ride up to the pass, and if we're going to hunt, we won't feel much like riding down here." Before they had finished skinning the beaver, the Cliffords had come up the hill, and after the work was over Hugh and Jack took them down to the bear trap and explained the situation. Then Hugh proposed that they should all pack up and start up the stream for the pass, and before noon the pack train, now more than doubled in numbers, was climbing toward the summit. It was a delightful ride through the green timber, with frequent glimpses of the brawling stream, which grew constantly smaller, steeper, and more noisy. Hugh led the way, followed by a couple of horses, and the strangers rode among the pack animals, each with one or more of the horses in front of him. Jack brought up the rear, having been told to do so by Hugh, and kept watch of the trail and of the animals ahead of him. Hugh had thought that they might reach the pass before night, but in this he was mistaken. The sun had already disappeared behind the overshadowing mountains when they reached a little level opening in the timber, and here Hugh turned aside and declared that they would camp. Just as he was about to swing himself out of the saddle, a white-tailed deer walked out from a bunch of willows along the stream and stood looking curiously at the strange visitors, and Hugh, slipping a cartridge into his gun, shot at it, and it fell. It proved to be a yearling doe, and was in good order. Before Hugh had returned with the meat and the hide, camp had been made, the tents were up, and the fires going and the horses short picketed on the grass. There were many hands, and the work went quickly. The night was cold, and all hands were early astir and clustered about the fire. There was frost on the grass, on the willows, and on the horses' manes. The ropes were frozen, and there was a skim of ice over the quiet water of the pool in front of the camp. As the sun rose, however, everything warmed up; the frost melted, the high grass and willow bushes began to drip with moisture, and the ropes to dry; and, after the sun had been shining for an hour or two, the horses were packed and the train started out again. It was interesting to Jack and to the English boy to notice in the shaded spots how the beautiful summer flowers, that they had so much admired the day before, were wilted and cut down by the frost, but in the open spaces where the sun shone on them the flowers seemed to speedily recover and once more held up their heads. As the train proceeded, the valley became more narrow and rough, and the impetuous force of the stream, which was now only a brook, increased. Sometimes it fell down in a sheer cascade for ten or fifteen feet, and at such points the trail left the stream and wound about in the timber, zig-zagging up the hill until the ascent was overcome, when it returned near to the water's edge. Some of the slopes were steep and some seemed dangerous, places where a misstep by the horse might throw the rider down forty or fifty feet into the stream below. One or two of the horses, whose packs, though light, were bulky and stood up high above the saddle, looked, as they climbed the steep places, as if they must be overbalanced by their load and fall backward. To Mr. Clifford and his son this method of traveling was absolutely novel and at first really alarming. Neither said anything, however, but watched Hugh and Jack. They saw that these two rode along unconcernedly, and from this inferred that the danger was more apparent than real. At last the valley through which they were traveling became a mere gorge, and at length, after climbing a few hundred feet up a very steep slope, they found themselves at the edge of the large timber. The view here was something to make even Jack catch his breath, accustomed as he was to mountain scenery. Before them lay a gently rising alpine meadow, intersected by ravines, in which a few stunted spruces flourished, and then above this was a wide amphitheater surrounded on all sides by rugged and towering rock summits. The floor of the amphitheater sloped smoothly down to a brook which flowed through its midst, and this brook came from a lake lying far above among the snow fields, from which, in turn, it drew its waters. Along the brook were low willows for a little distance, and then the altitude proved too much for them, and only grass grew. On the left-hand side, for several thousand feet above them, rose bare rocks streaked with vertical lines of red and yellow, while off to the south was the pass, showing as a deep sag two or three thousand feet below the general crest of the mountains, and up to this sag the amphitheater which they were entering rose with a gradual ascent. On the south and west side of the pass the mountains rose to a great height, terminating in a confused mass of rocks, from which three slender pinnacles towered toward the sky. The open meadow which they were now crossing was carpeted with soft, green grass, and with an astonishing profusion of flowers, red, yellow, blue, purple; columbines, harebells, asters, and a multitude of other flowers grew here, or higher up, close to and even among the snow banks. It was a wild-flower garden such as perhaps few people except those who have traveled in the high mountains have ever seen. As they climbed higher and approached the pass, the ascent became steeper, and presently a cool breeze swept down the mountain side, showing that they were nearing the pass. A few hundred feet more of climbing and they reached the summit, where they halted to rest and look down on the lower land before and behind them. In front, to the south and east, they could see a great part of Middle Park and of the rugged and broken mountains which surrounded it. Almost at their feet a little lake nestled in the mountains. A few hundred feet below, the north fork of Grand River takes its rise and flows down through the narrow, wooded gorge, whose length they saw as far as the plains of Middle Park. High above, to the right, in a saddle, was a huge snowdrift, whose melting waters flowed from one extremity into the stream they had been ascending, and so on into the North Platte, and into the Missouri River; while from the other end another stream leaped out to join Grand River, which after a long course joins the Green to form that mighty stream of the West, the Colorado River, and so to reach the Pacific. Looking backward the whole course of the Michigan lay before them, and away beyond it the gray sagebrush flats of North Park, with here and there a little lake gleaming in the sun like a bit of burnished silver. "Great show, isn't it, Henry?" said Jack. "Yes," said the English boy. "It is a marvelous view." They had no time for further talk, for Hugh had started his horse down the pass on the other side, and following an old game trail he rode by the little lake until he reached the first few spruces that grew on that side of the range. Here camp was made, and as there were still a few hours of daylight, Jack proposed to Henry that they should climb up on the high mountains to the north and east of camp. "I don't know how long Hugh will want to stay," he said to Henry, "but we better make the most of our time. If we can get up pretty high we may see a sheep or possibly a bull elk, and I guess you'd like a shot at either one, wouldn't you?" "Indeed, I would," said Henry. The boys started out, breasting the steep, rocky slope with courage. After climbing to a point a few hundred feet above the level of the pass, all vegetation disappeared except a gray lichen which clung to the rocks which were scattered everywhere over the ground. The mountainside was very steep. The loose rocks did not always give a firm foothold, and at that altitude the air was so rare that the boys were frequently obliged to stop and take breath. A cold wind had sprung up, but by the time they had reached the summit they were wet with perspiration. Jack quickly led the way to the lee of a huge mass of rock, and here, sheltered from the wind, the boys reclined and basked in the warm sunshine. Nearby was the edge of a tall precipice which almost overhung the camp, and going to the edge the two looked over, trying to guess how far they were above the camp. They could see a man in the camp, but could not recognize him, and the horses scattered in a little meadow seemed very small. "Well," said Jack, "this isn't hunting. Come on;" and turning to one side, he struck off along the ridge of the mountain, followed by Henry. This ridge was smooth, rounded, and undulating, though constantly ascending. To the left was a deep, wide valley, in which grew many low willows, where Jack felt sure must be ptarmigan, while to the right were far-stretching mountains, most of them pine-covered and dark green, but one or two bristling with dead timber, whose white and weather-worn trunks gleamed and shone when touched by the sun. Jack saw a lot of things that he would have been glad to point out to Henry, but if they were to hunt, they must be about it. For some distance nothing was seen except a single little bird, which walked about the rocks, and then, as it was approached, rose on wing and flew a little further on, only to rise again. Now and then, from the rocks which lay on either side of the ridge, the plaintive cry of the little chief hare was heard. At one place Jack saw some freshly shed white feathers, which showed that some ptarmigan had passed by not long before, but he merely pointed to them with his hand as he passed them. Presently, however, as the boys were crossing a little saddle, Jack noticed in some loose sand the tracks of two mountain sheep. He followed them carefully, going very slowly as he came to each ridge, but for some time saw nothing of the animals. Then, presently, on raising his head slightly over a ridge, he saw, almost on the crest of the next ridge, a ewe walking along, and a moment later a good ram came in sight following her. As he saw them he crouched down lower and lower, motioning with his hand to his companion to imitate his actions. The sheep stopped on the crest of the ridge, and looked about them and then passed on, unfrightened. As they disappeared, Jack slowly arose, first to his knees and then to his feet, and whispered to Henry, "Come on, now, here's a chance for a shot." They ran as hard as they could across the little hollow and up the slope where the sheep had just passed. As they approached the ridge, Jack slackened his pace a little, and falling back beside Henry, said, "You'll probably get a shot from this ridge. Go slowly now; get control of your wind, if you can; remember to shoot low down and just behind the foreshoulder. Low down, I tell you, and don't forget how to look through your sights. Now go carefully. I'll go ahead and take the look, and you load your gun and follow. Do just what you see me do." Jack approached the crest with extreme caution, for he was anxious that Henry should get a shot. It was well that he did so, for the sheep had paused in the little hollow beyond and were only now climbing the next hill, and scarcely seventy yards away. Jack threw himself flat on the ground and motioned Henry up beside him, and then whispered, "Take the ram, the one with the big horns. You have plenty of time; don't make any sudden motions, and wait a moment. They may stop." Lying full length on the ground, resting his elbows on it, Henry leveled his rifle, and a moment later the ram, which was behind, turned aside to nibble some bit of vegetation and gave a broadside shot. "Now," said Jack. "Remember, low down, and let him have it." A moment later the gun cracked, the ram plunged forward, and both sheep ran quickly over the ridge. "By Jove, I believe you got him. I know he was hit, and I think hit right," and they raced along. "Oh," said Henry, as they pantingly staggered up the slope, "I'm afraid I didn't hit him. My gun kept moving around so; but when I pulled the trigger, I thought it was moving toward the right spot, and I knew I never could hold it still." As they topped the ridge, Jack saw lying among the rocks below them something brown and curved, which he was sure was one of the ram's horns. "Hurrah!" he yelled, and they plunged down among the broken stones, leaping from one to another like a pair of young goats. Jack was much more active among the rocks than Henry, and reached the ram first. It was quite dead, for the bullet had gone just to the right spot, and through the great beast's heart. When Henry came up, Jack shook his hands in cordial congratulation, and then, drawing his butcher knife, prepared to bleed the ram. "My," he said, "but we've got a job now. You and I can never carry this animal into camp. We'll have to take what we can, and come up here to-morrow with help. Possibly we can get a pack horse up here, though I doubt it. I know we can't get one up the way we came, but there may be some other road. Well, come on," he continued, "we've got no time to fool; it will be dark in a couple of hours, and we must hurry." As they were at work removing the animal's entrails, Jack said, "Now, what shall we try to carry back?" "Oh, Jack," said Henry, "whatever we leave here, let us take the head with us. I would not lose that for anything. Just think, it's the first sheep I ever saw, the first I ever shot at, and the first I ever killed. I do want to take that in and show it to my governor. My, won't he be delighted!" "Well," said Jack, "if we carry the head we can't carry anything else. That head as it is, without any of the neck, will weigh not less than forty or fifty pounds, and we've got quite a way to go. Moreover, it's such an unhandy thing that we can't both of us carry it. We've got to spell each other." "Let's try to take it, anyhow, Jack," said Henry. "All right," said Jack, "we'll try," and cutting the skin of the neck low down to breast and shoulders, the boys quickly skinned away the hide from the flesh, cutting the head off at the first joint. "Now," said Jack, "we must start back." He took a red silk handkerchief out of his pocket, and putting it on the top of a high rock close to the sheep, placed a stone on the corner in such a way that when the breeze blew the handkerchief would flutter almost over the sheep's carcass. "That may keep away the eagles and the magpies," he said. Then he gave both rifles to Henry, handed him the sheep's liver to carry in his other hand, and, hoisting the sheep's head on his back, set out on the return to camp. Half a dozen times on the return journey the two boys changed loads, but at last they reached the end of the ridge and could look down on the camp. By a little search they found an easier place to go down than that by which they had ascended, and Jack thought that still further to the right he saw a still easier way, one up which a pack horse could perhaps be led. The sun had already hidden itself behind the western mountains when the two tired boys reached camp. Jack, who had the ram's head on his shoulders, dropped it to the ground with a groan of relief, and said, "Well, Henry, I don't know who else I would have done this for." The story of their success was soon told, and Mr. Clifford was delighted with the trophy, while Hugh praised Henry's shot and prophesied that he would become a good hunter. Henry told the story of his shot, of the hopes and fears connected with it, and of his final despair as the ram rushed off, and then of the rebound of his spirits at Jack's declaration that he believed the ram had been hit. Altogether it was a very pleasant evening. After the talk had a little quieted down, and supper was being cooked for the boys, Jack asked Hugh, "Where does this meat come from, Hugh?" "Why," said Hugh, "Mr. Clifford and I went out and took a little walk, and he killed a good fat bull elk. We're going out to get the meat in the morning." "Well," said Jack, "this seems to be a great day for the Clifford family," a remark which both Mr. Clifford and his son seemed to find very amusing, for they shouted with laughter at it. The next morning Hugh and Mr. Clifford, with one of the pack horses, went off to bring in the bull, while Jack, Henry, and Jones, with another animal, climbed the ridge to get the ram. On their way back the two boys were fortunate enough to come upon a little brood of ptarmigan, the young now almost full grown and the mother beginning to be touched with white on various parts of her body. The little birds were quite tame, and permitted a near approach, but at length one after another they flew away, pitching down the mountainside with the high-pitched cackle that this bird always utters. That afternoon the boys were too tired to go out and hunt, and Mr. Clifford seemed satisfied with his success of the day before. The next day, however, Jack and Henry climbed the mountains on the other side of the pass. They soon found themselves among peaks much higher and more rugged and difficult than they had yet seen. They found some sheep and were endeavoring to stalk them when, without any warning, a blanket of white fog settled down over the mountain top, hiding the sheep and everything else, except things very close at hand. They tried to get a little closer to the sheep, but the fog was so dense and so confusing that Jack put a veto on their moving, and they sat there waiting for the fog to lift. Curious sounds were constantly coming to them from the mountainside. Rattling of rocks, calls of birds and of small mammals, and other sounds which they could not recognize. Once the fog lifted for a little, and Jack thought he saw standing at a distance three rams. He stared to see whether they actually were rams or only small rifts in the fog, and then before he could determine, the mist shut down again and blotted them out. As the boys sat there, there was a whirl of wings in the air, and presently all about them alighted curious little birds with gray crowns, brown bodies, and rosy breasts, active, noisy, and constantly searching for food among the rocks, while they constantly uttered a shrill, musical whistle. After a while Henry seemed to tire of this inaction, and said to Jack, "What are we going to do, Jack? Can't we go on?" "Why, yes," said Jack, "we can go on, but where do you want to go?" "Why," said Henry, "let's keep on hunting, or if we can't hunt, let's go to camp." "Well," said Jack, "where do you want to hunt, and what are you going to hunt when you can't see much more than arm's length ahead of you? Anything you might come near would be certain to see you before you saw it, and one jump would take it out of sight. A man's got to have the use of his eyes if he's going to hunt, and in this fog we haven't the use of ours. Moreover, we can't go back to camp, because we don't know where camp is, at least I don't. I think it's in one direction, but I'm not sure. Where do you think it is?" he said. "It's over there," said Henry, pointing. "Well," said Jack, "I think it's over there," and he pointed almost exactly in the opposite direction. But he went on, "Even if we knew just where it is, I don't want to stir around much on the side of this mountain while the fog is as thick as it is. It would be easy enough for a fellow to tumble over the edge of a cliff and break some of his bones, and if he did that the other people in his party wouldn't have a very good time, would they?" "No," said Henry, "I don't think they would; but is there any danger?" "I don't know that there's any real danger," said Jack, "but I don't think it's worth while to run any risks unless there's something to be gained by doing it." "No," said Henry, "I suppose not, but I hate to sit here doing nothing." "So do I," agreed Jack; "I hate it just as badly as you do, I guess; but I think it's better to do that than to do something that might make a whole lot of trouble for all of us. Hugh has been preaching patience to me for the last five years, and though I haven't learned very fast, I've got it partly learned, I think; and I know it's best for us to sit here until this fog lifts, or until we get some idea of where we'd better go." They sat there for quite a long time, and then gradually the fog grew brighter, and presently slowly rolled away from them and up the cliffs toward the peak, and the sun shone over the mountainside. Jack crawled out from the shelter of the rock and scanned the peaks above him for sheep, but could see nothing, and as it was well on toward the middle of the afternoon, he told Henry that they had better go to camp. Hugh and Mr. Clifford had also been out climbing for sheep, and had also been overtaken by the fog, but as they had not been so high up as the boys, it did not stop them so long. No game had been killed. Jones had been busy all day long drying the flesh of the elk, which Hugh had shown him how to cut into thin flakes and hang out in the sun and wind. That afternoon Hugh took Jack apart and told him that they would do well to return down the Michigan and continue their journey toward Middle Park, and Jack assented. "I like these English folks," said Hugh, "and if they were going our way, we'd be well pleased to have them travel with us, but we certainly are not going their way, and can't follow them. If they feel like turning 'round and coming back with us, I'll say 'come.'" Later in the afternoon, as they were sitting around the campfire, Hugh said, "Well, Mr. Clifford, son and I calculated to start back to-morrow. We want to go on down into Middle Park, and maybe get a little more fur, and if, as I understand, you're going down this creek here and going to Middle Park that way, why, we've got to separate." For a moment after Hugh had spoken there was silence, and then Mr. Clifford spoke rather slowly and hesitatingly, and said, "Mr. Johnson, we have greatly enjoyed the few days that we have been with you and your young friend, and in that short time both my son and myself have seen more and learned more about this western country than we ever could have done in any other way. We would take it as a great favor if you would permit us to turn around and travel back with you. We value your company very highly, and if we might go with you, it would be a great favor to us, and one for which I should be willing to pay well. Of course, I understand that if we were with you, you would not be so free as if you were alone; that we would take up some of your time; that we might interfere with your trapping arrangements, and taking all that into consideration, I should be glad to pay any reasonable sum per day for the privilege of camping with you." For a moment or two Hugh said nothing, and then he spoke and said, "Mr. Clifford, son here and I like you all very much, and it's a pleasure to us to have you around. If you feel like turning back with us, we'll be glad to have you. We are not out here traveling around in the mountains altogether as a matter of business. It's partly for pleasure, although, of course, we have been trapping and we expect to sell the fur that we may get. If you feel like turning around and coming back with us, we'd be glad to have you do so. I don't reckon there need be any question of paying for anybody's time. We like to have you about, and as long as we keep on feeling that way, you better come. If we should disagree about anything, why, then we could stop and separate any time." "We are very much obliged to you," said Mr. Clifford. "You have done us a great favor. If at any time you should feel that you and your young friend prefer to be alone, tell me and we will leave you at once." Bright and early the next morning the little train was packed, and by afternoon it had reached the old camp where the bear trap stood. The train was stopped, and all four men rode up to look at the trap. Bears had been there in numbers, and of the old carcass that had been left in the pen, nothing was left except a few gnawed bones. "If we had time to fool with them," said Hugh, "we could get another bear or two here, but I don't reckon it's worth while. Let's go on and get down the creek as far as we can to-night." They hurried on, crossed the broad beaver meadow of the Michigan before dark, and camped on the other side. CHAPTER XX DANGER FROM THE UTES From the Michigan they went on south, following the road which led to the Owl Creek Mines. The way over the rolling plateau of North Park passed at a considerable distance from the mountains, and no large game except antelope was seen. There were many coyotes, and Jack took pleasure in telling Henry some of the curious facts about these cunning animals. At the crossing of Owl Creek they met a prospector who was driving a couple of little jacks loaded with provisions and tools, and with him Hugh gossiped about the washings along the stream. The prospector said that some of the placer diggings here paid good wages, but that as yet no one had struck anything that was rich. "I am about sick of this country," said the prospector. "The mines don't pay, and sometime I reckon we're going to have trouble with these Indians. They come around and look at us, and if we say anything to them, they talk back mighty sassy. I expect they don't much like to have white folks coming into the country and driving off the game." "No," said Hugh, "I reckon maybe they don't, but then, the Utes have always been mighty friendly, except when they broke out and killed their agent, and then had that fight with Thornburgh." After the prospector had passed on, Mr. Clifford asked Hugh whether he supposed that there was any danger from the Indians. "No," said Hugh, "I don't think there is. I used to know some of these people, and always found them mighty good people if they were treated right, but on the other hand, they have always been a race of mountain hunters, and I can understand that it might make them pretty mad to see the whites coming in here and killing and driving off what they have always regarded as their food." The road led them over a timbered spur, and then after crossing another creek, headed almost directly toward Arapaho Peak. The weather was cold and blustering, with occasional snow flurries, some of them so severe that it was impossible to see any distance. Just after one of these had ceased, Hugh, who had reached the top of a ridge, stopped his horse and waved those behind up to his side. Looking over the ridge, Jack saw, a long way off, a black object, which he at once recognized as a buffalo, and when Hugh told Mr. Clifford and Henry what the animal was, they were wild to kill it, for neither had ever before seen a wild buffalo. Hugh and Jack looked the country over, and after a little study it appeared that by going back and taking a ravine it would be possible to get close to the buffalo, and it was decided that Jack should take the Cliffords and go back and around, and should try to take them up near enough to the bull to kill it. The stalk was successfully made, and at last a point was reached where a shot could be had at the animal at about a hundred yards distant, but just as the Cliffords were about to shoot, the wind changed, and their scent must have reached the bull, for with astonishing activity he wheeled about and plunged into a fringe of quaking aspens near which he stood. Both the Cliffords shot after him, but without effect, and Jack, who followed the track for some little distance, could see no evidence that it had been hit. The three then returned to the pack train, which had started on as soon as the buffalo had been alarmed. The two Cliffords were very much depressed by their lack of success, but Mr. Clifford was a little cheered by a good shot made at an antelope before the pack train was joined. A band of twenty antelope ran up and stood on the bluff about three hundred yards off, and Jack suggested that Mr. Clifford should fire at one of the bucks which stood a little apart. The distance was great, and Mr. Clifford asked Jack how he should hold. "If I were you," said Jack, "I would not raise my sights, but would aim at the tips of the antelope's horns and then move my sight over his shoulders and fire." After long and careful aiming, the rifle sounded, and the ball seemed to strike the bluff just beyond the buck. "That was a close call for that fellow, Mr. Clifford," said Jack, "and I thought I heard the ball strike, but it must have been just striking the earth." The band of antelope rushed up the hillside and presently disappeared, but before that the buck that had been shot at turned about and dashed back again almost to the place where he had been standing when the shot was fired, and fell. The ball had pierced both shoulders. They camped that night on Buffalo Creek, and not far from them was an Indian camp of the year before, where many bones and great piles of hair showed that much meat had been brought in and many hides tanned. The next day they crossed through the Arapaho Pass and camped near Whiteley's Peak on Muddy Creek in Middle Park. After camp had been made, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, get out your fishing rod if you like, and try for the trout in this little stream." Jack did so, and to his great satisfaction took fifteen trout, all of them small ones, but all greatly enjoyed by people who had been for months living on flesh. The next day they started for the Hermitage Ranch, the home of Old Jack Rand, long a resident of these mountains. The march had but just begun when Hugh saw ahead of him a rider coming at good speed. As the man approached, he began to make signs to Hugh, who halted, and when the rider came up, he was seen to have been riding hard and far. "You better turn around, partners," he said. "There is trouble down below. The Utes have gone to war again, and swear they're going to clean out the settlements. We have sent a courier to ask for help from Denver, and I'm riding up to Laramie to try to get some troops to come in from there. I reckon we're going to have another Meeker massacre, but I hope not another Thornburgh killing. They say the Utes are mad, and are going to clean out all the settlers. You'd better turn 'round, and get out of this, unless you are looking for trouble." "Well," said Hugh, "we're not looking for trouble, and I don't want any Indian fighting, without it's thrust upon me. What do you know yourself about these people? Have you seen any of the Indians?" "No," said the man, "I haven't. I heard that a lot of gamblers went up to the Ute reservation and took two or three race horses with them. First they ran their slow horses against the Utes', and the Utes beat them all; but finally they brought out a part thoroughbred that was swift, and that they thought would beat the Utes' ponies, but they got fooled on that. The Utes brought out a new pony that got away with their fast horse, and then the gamblers would not pay what they bet, and started in to try to take away the horses that the Utes had won. That made the Utes mad, and they threatened to kill the gamblers. They say some shots were fired, and some say some white men were killed, and some say some Utes were killed. Anyhow, there's going to be trouble, and you ought to know it before you go on." "Well," said Hugh, "we're mightily obliged to you for giving us this warning. I'll talk to my party here, and we'll decide what to do." "Well, so long," said the rider; and he spurred up his horse and disappeared on the road toward Laramie. Hugh spoke to the members of the party, all of whom had gathered around the stranger, and said, "This is bad news, and I reckon we better turn around and make tracks for the railroad. Of course, if we had any quarrel with the Utes and wanted to fight them, why, we could keep on, but I reckon there's nobody here wants to get into trouble. Certainly I don't, and I don't want Jack to, and you men who are out traveling for pleasure don't want to, either. As for you, Jones, the Indians, if they do make any trouble, will be between here and the place you want to go to, and you don't want to risk your animals and your life down there if there's going to be any fight." "No," said Jones, "I certainly do not." "Well, but, Mr. Johnson, all our things are in Denver, and we must get back there," said Mr. Clifford. "You can do that by way of the railroad," answered Hugh, "if you want to. That's better than riding down through the parks and running into a fight, as you might do if you kept on." "Yes," said Mr. Clifford, "I think it is. I certainly don't want to get into trouble of any sort." "Well," said Hugh, "whatever you others decide, Jack and I will go back. I would not take the responsibility of getting him into any Indian fighting. He and I can take care of ourselves well enough if we have to, but we are not looking for trouble." Hugh turned about and rode back the way that they had come, and the others followed him without further discussion. The day's march was a long one, and they camped on Buffalo Creek in North Park. That evening, after supper, Hugh said: "Now, I want you all to understand how I feel about this report that we've had to-day. Likely enough the message that that rider gave us was just a simple scare story that hasn't any foundation in fact; but then again, it may be true. My position is just this: I've brought son here out for a summer's trip, and it's understood that I shall use my best judgment to make him have a good time, and to make him learn things, but it is also understood that I shall not let him get into any danger if I can help it. I propose to have any mistakes that I may make, made on the safe side; so I would rather run away from a rumor than go ahead and investigate that rumor and then find that it was true and that we had met some danger. "Jack knows how to take care of himself a good deal better than most young men. He has been in danger a good many times, but I do not want to have him get into danger if he can avoid it. Now, I propose to get started before day to-morrow morning, and make a long, hard ride. If the Indians break out, we are likely to see them any time while we're here in North Park, but after we have passed Pinkham's, I don't think there is any danger. They won't go as far north as that." It was long before light next morning when breakfast was cooked, and before the first dawn, the train was in motion. While they were packing, Hugh spoke to Jack and said, "Son, there's no use to talk much about it, but you and I are the only men in this outfit that know much of anything about the prairie, and we must do the best we can to keep the others out of trouble. I don't much expect that we will have any trouble, but we must both be on the lookout for it all the time. Now, I want you to ride behind, and to keep the packs up close, and I want you also to watch the back trail closely, and if you see anybody following us, or in fact coming from any direction behind, let me know as soon as you can. It may be that there are little camps of Utes scattered out all through the mountains. You and I haven't seen any signs of them, but that doesn't mean that they are not there. If this trouble is serious and came up suddenly, the Indians will send out runners to all these little camps, the men will get back as fast as they can to where the trouble is, and the women and children will go through the mountains keeping themselves hidden. So you see it's possible that at any time a little bunch of Indians may jump out of the mountains close to us, and if there are wild young men among them, they may come down and try to take what we've got. I don't reckon they care much for our scalps, but they'd like our horses and guns, and this fur, too, if they knew we had it. "Now, as I say, you and I have got to be the eyes of this outfit, and if by any chance it should come to fighting, we've got to do the fighting, too. Those Englishmen and that ranchman that they've hired won't be of any use at all." When they set out, Hugh traveled more rapidly than he had at any time on the trip, and Jack, who, as directed, brought up the rear, kept the last horses well up with the bunch. By noon they had covered a good distance and had crossed the Michigan. Two or three hours later, Jack began to think that if they kept on they would certainly reach Pinkham's that night. All during the day he had been particularly alert, watching the back trail and the prairie on either side. He had just been looking back and was turning his eyes to the front again, when off to the west he saw some black dots appear from behind a hill two or three miles away. A moment later he could see that there were fifteen or twenty of these dots, which he at once made out to be riders coming directly toward them. Jack gave a whoop, and waved his hand to the left as Hugh looked back, and a moment later Hugh called to the others to keep the horses up close, and started ahead on a good lope. Jack kept watching the group of pursuers, and it was not long before he could see that they were Indians. It was not, perhaps, so much any one thing about them, for they were much too distant for him to see how they were clad, or how they were armed, but there was something in the way they rode, in the swing of their bodies, which made him sure that they were Indians; of course, Utes, and since they were pursuing them, presumably hostile. He looked ahead to see what Hugh was doing, and where he was going, and presently saw him direct his course toward an isolated group of cottonwood trees which stood near the stream in a wide meadow. The Indians were still a couple of miles behind them, and there was plenty of time for the train to take refuge among the trees before the enemy--if enemies they were--could come within rifle shot. A little later, Hugh rode in among the trees and almost through them to the other side, and then suddenly pulling up his horse, he sprang to the ground and began to catch up the pack animals, and to tie them to trees in the center of the little grove, where they would in some degree be protected from bullets if any shooting took place. The Englishmen and Jones were quick to assist him as soon as they saw what he was trying to do, and by the time Jack had come up, all the horses had been secured. Hugh called out to Jack, "Now, son, I want you all to scatter out and to see that none of these Indians get close to this timber. I don't know yet what they mean, but if they mean fight, we can stand them off here. They probably know that troops have been sent for, and they won't stay here long. They will hurry back to their main outfit. We're about as safe here as we would be in a house, but, of course, we've all got to keep our eyes open. You look after these other men, and see that each one keeps a good lookout on his side, and that each one keeps far enough back so that he won't get shot if there is any shooting. Remember, these Utes are good shots. On the other hand, their guns won't carry very far, and they're likely to be poor off for ammunition. Watch out now." All this time the Indians had been drawing closer, and were now within about five hundred yards of the trees, but it seemed to Jack they were going a little slower all the time. He saw them from the other side of the grove, where he was posting the Cliffords and Jones. As they came up, half a dozen men rode ahead from either flank and passed part way around the group of cottonwood trees, stopping at intervals, until finally the grove was surrounded by a thin line of men, who had every part of it under observation. No one could leave the grove without being seen. "Well," said Jack to himself, "what sort of fools do these people think we are? They don't imagine that we are going to leave a good safe place like this and start off over the prairie, do they?" A moment later he saw Hugh step out of the timber on the open meadow, in plain sight, and make signs to the Indians, and then saw the group that was still advancing from that side stop. By this time Jack had posted his men and advised them what to do, and he quickly slipped back to the edge of the timber near where Hugh stood. When Hugh made his signs, the first of which Jack recognized as the sign for "friends" and then the sign to "stop" or "keep off," the Indians stopped, consulted together, and presently one of them rode out alone, and coming a hundred yards nearer the timber, began to make signs. A moment later Hugh called to Jack and said, "Son, this man says he wants to talk, and I think I'll go out and meet him. It isn't likely that he'll try to play any trick on me. I shall take my gun with me, and let him take his, but you must keep a sharp lookout. If anything should happen to me, you must try to slip away to-night and get beyond Pinkhams, then you'll be safe. Of course nothing will happen to me; but a person might be struck by lightning." Hugh mounted his horse and rode out toward the Indian, and the two met midway between the group of Indians and the trees. As Hugh approached the Ute, Jack, who was watching carefully, seemed to see a change in the attitude of the two men, and saw that they rode up close to one another and shook hands, Hugh giving his left hand to the Indian, who shook it with his right, while Hugh held his rifle in his right hand. After a few minutes' talk, the Indian turned and galloped back to his people, while Hugh sat and watched him for a moment, and then wheeling, rode swiftly back toward the trees. He had almost reached them, when suddenly a shot rang out in the trees not far behind Jack, and he saw Hugh throw himself forward on his saddle, while the group of Indians, dropping down out of sight behind their horses, scattered and rode away. An instant later Hugh rode by him into the shelter of the trees, and pulling up his horse, sprang to the ground with the question, "Who fired that shot?" "I don t know," replied Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "you stop here and watch, and if those Indians come up on this side, call out to me." He then threw down his reins and disappeared among the tree trunks. The first person he saw was Henry, looking very much disturbed, and on the ground not far before him, Hugh noticed a green cottonwood twig, freshly broken from a branch, to which the unfaded leaves still clung. The Indians that had been distributed about the clump of trees had disappeared, and it was evident that at the shot they had quickly gotten under cover. "Did you fire that shot, my boy?" asked Hugh, though he hardly needed the answer. "Yes," said Henry, "my gun went off by accident. I saw the Indians all about us, and loaded my gun, and then began to cock it, so as to be ready if anything happened, when the hammer slipped from my thumb, and the gun went off." "Well," said Hugh, "that's a pity. Let me look at your gun." Henry handed it over to him, and Hugh opened the breech and took from it the newly fired cartridge shell in which some of the smoke still hung. He put the shell in his pocket, and then asked, "Which way was your gun pointed?" "Why," said Henry, "it was pointed nearly straight up in the air, I think. Anyhow, I know that the branch of a tree fell down in front of me just after the gun was discharged." "Well," said Hugh, "I don't think there's going to be any fighting, and if I were you I would not load my gun again until either Jack or I tell you to. Just stand where you are, and keep a good lookout. Where is your father?" "He is over there to the left somewhere. Jack placed us, and told us to stay where we were, and to keep watch until he came to us again." "All right," answered Hugh, "just wait here, and I'll go over and speak to your father; and then I've got to speak to these Indians again." Mr. Clifford was found in the place where Jack had put him. He seemed glad to see Hugh, and very anxious to know what the shot had meant. Hugh reassured him, telling him of the accident, but without commenting on it. Then Hugh returned to Jack and told him what had happened. "I don't know whether we'll be able to talk to those Indians again, son," he said. "That shot will make them all mighty suspicious. I was a little uneasy when they first got around us, but as soon as I saw who those men were that I talked to I knew it was all right. I know some of them right well, and the one who met me is Man Above. He used to be a friend of mine. Man Above said that the Indians don't want to fight the white people, but they don't want them coming in here to kill their game, and they are going to tell everybody to get out; and then if they won't get out, the Indians will fight them. He told me that he had just heard about the trouble down below, and doesn't know what it's about, but that they are going back soon to find out. "I told him that we were just on our way home, and didn't expect to hunt here any more, but that if they wanted to fight us, we were ready for them, and they could start in any time. I said that the Utes knew me, and that I had with me three men that had good guns and could shoot as well as I, and that if we had any fighting, it would be real fighting and not play. I said it would make me feel bad to fight the Utes, because I had always liked them and felt friendly toward them; that it would be bad for them to fight the white people, because there were too many whites for them to fight. If they killed a few, more would come, and at last they would whip the Utes. He said that he knew me, and I knew him, and he did not want to fight me; that our guns were good, and that many of his young men had only bows. He said that he was glad we were going away, and that now, after what I had told him, they would go away in the opposite direction, so that there would be no danger of trouble. But you see that shot has spoiled everything. Now I've got to see if I can get them to talk again. You see how a little thing like that boy's carelessness might start a trouble that would cost half a dozen men their lives." "Yes," said Jack, "it was pretty stupid. I suppose it might have happened to me, perhaps, just as well as to Henry, but I am mighty glad it wasn't me." "No," said Hugh, "I should hate to believe that you could do such a fool thing as that." Hugh mounted his horse and again rode out into the open, stopping a couple of hundred yards from the trees, and here he made the peace sign again. One of the distant Indians--which one Jack could not see because of the distance, rode out toward Hugh. Then Hugh dismounted, and, after holding his gun above his head for a moment, placed it on the ground, and then remounted and rode toward the Indian. A little later the Indian dismounted and put his gun on the ground, and presently he and Hugh met. Hugh explained to Man Above--for it was he--what the shot had meant, and asked him, if he felt like it, to ride into the timber and see for himself what had happened. If he did not feel like it, Hugh asked him if he would gather up his men and go away as he had before said he intended to do. "I think," said Hugh, "if you will ask your men, you will find that no one of them was shot at. The boy just let his gun go off in the air, but it happened at a bad time." "I will get my men together," said Man Above; "and if no one of them says that he was shot at, we will go away as I promised. I believe that your words are true, and that the shot was fired by accident. Now I will go and send someone to call up the young men who are about these trees." "That is good," said Hugh. "I should be sorry to fight you, my friend. It would do good to neither of us, and it might lead to much fighting." "You speak well," said Man Above; and after shaking hands the two parted and rode in opposite directions, each one picking up his gun when he came to it. A little later two Indians were seen to ride in opposite directions around the clump of trees, but a long way from it, and not long after the surrounding Indians were seen riding toward the group of their fellows, assembled on the prairie south of the cottonwoods. Hugh watched them with the glasses, and at last announced to Jack that they had all come together; and a little later the whole band of Indians turned their faces southward, and trotted off in the direction from which they had come. As they started, Hugh shook his head and said, "Good Lord, what a terrible thing it is to be mixed up with pilgrims. That lad out there has no more idea of the danger he brought on us all than a chicken just out of the shell, and I reckon his father hasn't, either. If I hadn't happened to know some of that bunch of Indians, we never would have gotten off as easy as we did." "I guess not," replied Jack; "and I can tell you I'm mighty glad to see those Indians go. I don't know whether it's just plain prudence, or whether I've got some feeling of responsibility about these English people, but I'm sure I don't want to fight these Utes a bit. Two or three years ago I would have felt differently. Do you remember, Hugh, how crazy I was to go off on a war party with Joe and Bull Calf and some of that outfit, one summer up with the Piegans?" "Yes," answered Hugh, "I remember it. You thought I treated you pretty badly, I guess, that time." "Yes," said Jack, "I did. But I've been mighty glad a good many times since. Now we can watch these Utes and see them a long way off. If they pass over that farthest hill, we can start from here before dark, and they can't catch us before we get out of the Park." "That's right," said Hugh. "Now let's unload and give these horses a chance to feed and rest, and then about sundown we'll start, and ride all night if we have to." The horses were speedily stripped and picketed out on the meadow where the grazing was good, and then Jack and Hugh returned to the edge of the grove, and sat there watching the retreating group of Indians, whose figures grew smaller and smaller as the distance increased. They were doing just what they had agreed to do, and an hour and a half later the band were passing over the most distant crest, and Hugh, counting them through the field glasses, declared that the number was just what it had been when he talked to them. Now the animals were brought in, loaded, and the train swiftly set in motion. They rode all night, and the next morning at daylight camped on the Laramie River, well out of reach of any trouble with the Utes. Two days later they were at Laramie, and there Hugh and Jack regretfully parted with their English friends, who returned to Denver by rail, shipping their horses also on the railroad. Jack and Hugh turned their faces westward, and a little more than a week later were showing their catch of fur to Mr. Sturgis at the ranch. "But, son," said Hugh, "we didn't half trap. We ought to have loaded at least two horses with beaver." THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES -Plain print and punctuation errors fixed. -In several chapter header the word "chapter" is missing in original book; it has been added for consistency and for better building of Table of Contents by ePubMaker. 
32045	----	The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp By Thornton W. Burgess Author of "The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp", "The Boy Scouts on Swift River", "The Boy Scouts on Lost Trail" Illustrated by F. A. Anderson The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia COPYRIGHT 1915 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY To W. H. T., A lover of the open, and his three boys, this book is affectionately dedicated [Illustration: HE SAW SOMETHING MOVE] Introduction To those who have read the preceding volumes in this series, "The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp," "The Boy Scouts on Swift River," and "The Boy Scouts on Lost Trail," some of the characters in the present volume will be familiar. To me they are old friends in whose struggles and adventures I have taken the keenest personal interest. In this, the fourth and concluding volume, I have endeavored to portray in some small measure the life of the trapper who in solitude and loneliness pits his skill against the cunning of the fur-bearers, and his courage and fortitude against the forces of Nature in her harshest and most relentless mood; to bring to my young readers a sense of the mystery of the great life eternal that broods over the wilderness to an even greater degree when its waters are fettered in ice, and its waste places wrapped in snow than when it rejoices in its summer verdure; to show that the standards a man or a boy sets for himself are as binding upon him in remote places where none may see as in the midst of his fellow men; and lastly to demonstrate what a powerful factor in the development of character and true manhood are the oath and law of the Boy Scouts of America when subscribed to in sincerity and conscientiously observed. Man or boy is never so true to himself as when in intimate contact with nature. Adventures such as herein described may not fall to your lot, oh, boy reader, but be assured that whenever you heed the call of the Red Gods and hit the long trail you will find adventure of a degree awaiting you, and you will return stronger physically and mentally for having come in closer contact with the elemental forces which we term nature. THE AUTHOR. Contents I. AN INTERRUPTED DREAM II. PAT SEES WHITE MAGIC III. THE BLUE TORTOISE PATROL IV. "HELP!" V. OFF FOR WOODCRAFT VI. SNOW-SHOES AND FISH VII. ON THE TRAIL VIII. ALEC HINTS AT DARK THINGS IX. SNOWBOUND X. LIFE ON THE FUR TRAILS XI. CHRISTMAS IN SMUGGLERS' HOLLOW XII. A DEER YARD XIII. POACHERS XIV. THE SILVER FOX XV. SPARRER'S TEMPTATION XVI. THE CONFERENCE XVII. THE CAMP OF THE POACHERS XVIII. SMOKING OUT THE INDIAN XIX. SPARRER SAVES THE SKIN XX. THE BLACK FOX IS SOLD ILLUSTRATIONS HE SAW SOMETHING MOVE HE JOTTED DOWN THE NUMBER ONCE MORE THEY BUCKLED DOWN TO THE TASK NOT TEN FEET AWAY WAS A BIG BUCK FOR A FEW SECONDS HE STOOD MOTIONLESS The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp CHAPTER I AN INTERRUPTED DREAM Walter Upton pushed aside books and papers, yawned, stretched, yawned again, then settled back in his chair comfortably, his hands clasped behind his head. "I'm glad that vacation is only one week off," he murmured. "School is all right, and I know I'm going to be mighty sorry when school-days end for good. Just the same, this infernal grind to get a scholarship does get a fellow's goat sometimes. If I don't win it I don't see how I can go to college next year unless I can find some way to earn the money. Poor old Dad! That slump in stocks pretty nearly bowled him over. Lucky I thought of this scholarship when he tried to tell me that unless business picked up he couldn't send me to college next year. It sure did me good to see the shine in his eyes when I told him about this and that I was going to win it. He's a great old scout, and I'm going to get it now if for nothing more than to see that shine in his eyes again. My, but it's a tough old grind! Wonder how it would seem to go to a prep school like Hal Harrison and not have to think about money and where it is going to come from. I guess scholarships don't bother Hal any. Wonder if he is coming home for the Christmas winter vacation." Idly Walter allowed his eyes to wander over the walls of his den. It was a snug little room, simply furnished with a spring cot, which was a bed by night and a couch by day, a desk, a deep-cushioned Morris chair, a revolving desk chair, a foot-rest and two well filled bookcases. The walls were covered with photographs. Nearly all of them were of outdoor scenes, most of them of his own taking, for he was an expert with the camera. A number were enlargements neatly framed. Among these was the famous flashlight made during his first summer at Woodcraft Camp which had furnished the evidence to put Red Pete, the outlaw and poacher, behind the bars. There, too, were the splendid portraits (they were nothing less) of the bull moose of Swift River, a lasting tribute to the nerve of Plympton, the tenderfoot comrade of that memorable cruise. There were studies of deer and other wild animals, views of Woodcraft Camp, of scenes along Swift River, and of the various camps and points of interest on Lost Trail, the relocating of which by Walter and his four fellow Scouts of the Lone Wolf Patrol had won for them the distinction of a special letter of commendation from national headquarters of the Boy Scouts of America. Above the door hung a hard-used set of boxing gloves. Crossed above one window were a pair of snow-shoes, while above the other window were a pair of fencing foils. In one corner, each in its case, were two fishing-rods, a rifle and a tennis racquet. In the opposite corner leaned a Scout staff and a couple of canoe paddles. A great horned owl stared unblinkingly down from the top of one of the plain oak bookcases. On the wall just back and above it was fastened a small banner having the head of a wolf worked in black against a white background, and bearing the one word "Persistence." It was the Lone Wolf banner which had been carried on that never-to-be-forgotten search for Lost Trail. By unanimous vote of the patrol, it had been presented to Upton at the conclusion of the trip in recognition of successful leadership. Several small silver cups on the bookcases and half a dozen medals pinned to a little square of black velvet on one wall attested to well-won victories in various lines of sport. The books on the shelves were what one might expect in such surroundings, well selected stories of adventure and exploration, treatises on hunting, fishing and outdoor sports, a very complete nature library, handbooks on woodcraft, camping, first aid, forestry and surveying, a well-thumbed Scout manual and other books which attested to the owner's love of the great outdoor world. But these were not all. A whole shelf was devoted to history, and another to selections from standard American and English authors, including several of our best loved poets. Altogether, it was a room such as a keen, red-blooded, broad-minded boy might well delight in. Upton did delight in it. Everything in it held some special significance or sentiment for him, and now as his eyes idly roved from one object to another one memory after another was stirred within him. At last his eyes rested on the snow-shoes and remained there. "Wonder if I'll get a chance to use those things this winter," he muttered. "Little old New York doesn't know much about that kind of foot-gear. I suppose Pat has worn out two or three pairs since he gave me those, and here I haven't had 'em on but once in three years, and then there was hardly snow enough for an excuse. I guess I'd be some tenderfoot all right, all right, on those things up in the woods. Good old Pat! Wonder what he's doing. It's a long time since I've heard from him. Well, I ought not to kick over a little extra grind! He's trying to get an education and support himself and help his folks at the same time. Wish he could come down here for the vacation. What fun it would be to show him around and listen to his remarks on the big city. It would be almost as much fun as going into the big woods in the winter. Fact is, I envy him right now, and I'll bet he doesn't envy me a penny's worth." Swiftly his thoughts reverted to his first meeting with Pat Malone, chore boy and bully of a sawmill village in the North Woods, and of the thrashing he had given the young woodsman in spite of the latter's advantage in weight and strength. "It was all in the know how. Imagine me trying to do it now," he chuckled. "Why, Pat could take me across his knee just as he did the youngster who mistook him for a deer and put a bullet through his hat last fall. I've never seen anybody take to an idea as Pat did to scouting. He just soaked it up. It was the principle of the thing that got him right from the start, and not just the fun that goes with it. And just see what it's done for him! I don't know of any one it's done so much for, unless----" Almost unconsciously Walter turned to stare through the gathering dusk at a photograph on the nearer of the two bookcases. A pair of frank eyes, kindly but keen, looked down at him from a face good to see, the face of a boy of about his own age. It was a handsome face and the beauty lay, not in regularity of features, but in the strength of character and purpose written in every line. It was the face of Hal Harrison, son of a multi-millionaire, and comrade and fellow Scout in the fun and adventures of the last three summers. It was the sudden remembrance of Hal that had caused the abrupt break in the trend of his thought. Not even for the poor, rough, tough young bully of the woods had scouting done more than it had for this other lad, brought up in the lap of luxury, his every whim gratified, toadied to, petted, spoiled. From opposite extremes of the social strata it had brought these two together on the common ground of true brotherhood--the brotherhood of democracy. It had discovered to the young savage, for Pat was little more than that, his own manhood. It had stripped from Hal, the cad, the veneer of false social rank based on wealth and found there also a man. And now these two--the one whom he had fought and the one whom he had despised--Upton regarded not only as comrades and brother Scouts, but almost as chums. Some such thoughts as these were floating through his mind as he sat there in the soft dusk of winter twilight. It was just the hour for dreaming the dreams which every boy loves to dream, half thought, half idle fancy. He tried to picture what the future might hold for himself and for these two comrades. Hal would be a captain of industry. It could hardly be otherwise. He would inherit vast wealth. He would in time take charge of the great enterprises which his father had built up. Would he apply to their management the principles of which as a Scout he was now so earnest a champion? Pat dared to dream of some day becoming a naturalist. Would he succeed? Remembering what Pat had been and what he now was Walter somehow felt that he would. As for himself he could not see his own career with a like clearness. He would like-- Ting-aling-ling! It was the telephone in the hall. With a start Walter came back to earth and the present. He went to answer the call. Picking up the receiver he called, "Hello." For a moment there was no response, but he caught a sound as of voices and something that sounded like a laugh. Then over the wire came a rich brogue that caused Walter to nearly drop the 'phone. "Hello, Misther Leader. I have to reporrt the discovery av the city av Noo Yor-r-k and the losing av mesilf entoirely." "Pat! You big red headed son of Erin! Are you really in New York? When did you get in? Where are you? Are you----" "Aisy, aisy now. Have ye not learned thot ye can make but wan bull's-eye at a shot? Shure I be in Noo Yor-r-k, an' 'tis proud the city ought to be av the honor I be doin' ut." "Quit your kidding, Pat, and tell me where you are and when you came and all about it," interrupted Walter. "Shure, wasn't I afther telling ye thot I be in Noo Yor-r-k?" protested Pat in a grieved tone. "'Tis at the illigant home av an illigant gintleman thot I be, but begorra I forgot entoirely to blaze the trail and I don't know how I got here at all, at all." There was a sound of a scuffle and a smothered laugh, then another voice broke in: "Hello, old Scout!" There was no mistaking that voice, and Upton grinned more broadly than before as he replied: "Hello, Hal. It sure does me good to hear your voice. I might have known whose illigant home Pat is honoring. Where did you find him, and why didn't you tell me? Didn't expect you home until the end of next week. Funny thing, but I was thinking of you two fellows when the 'phone rang. Same old Pat, isn't he? Gee, but it's good to hear the voices of you two fellows! Now when do I see you and where?" "Right after dinner. We'll drive around and pick you up and then give Pat a glimpse of the Great White Way," replied Hal, answering the last questions first. "I've had this all planned for a month by way of a surprise. I have a week more vacation than you do, and I got in just in time to meet Pat's train. Had hard work to persuade him to come, but I got him at last. Say, got any plans made for your vacation?" "Nary a plan. Been waiting to hear from you," replied Walter. "Good! I've got the greatest little stunt you ever heard of to tell you about to-night. Pat suggested it, and I had to promise to try to put it through before he would agree to come down here. We've got to go clean up for dinner now, but we'll be around about eight o'clock. So long until then." "So long," replied Walter, and hanging up the receiver he whooped joyously and proceeded to execute a war dance that ended with a crash as a rug slipped under his feet and he came down in a heap. It happened that at that very instant his father, just home from the office, opened the hall door briskly and a second later landed on Walter with a force that brought a grunt from each. He had tripped over one of the boy's sprawling legs. As quickly as he could disentangle himself Walter scrambled to his feet. Concern was written in every line of his face as he extended a helping hand to Mr. Upton. "Oh, Dad, are you hurt?" he cried anxiously. Mr. Upton's eyes twinkled good-humoredly as he replied: "Only in my dignity. But tell me, son, why all this hilarity that led to the utter downfall of the house of Upton? I heard you break loose, and was hurrying to share in it." "It's a shame," declared Walter contritely as he brushed off his father's coat. "I ought to know better than to be acting like a wild Indian in the house. Fact is, I had just got some mighty good news over the 'phone. Guess what." "Hal is coming home for the vacation," hazarded Mr. Upton promptly, for these two, father and son, were chums, and he knew just how eagerly Walter had hoped for Hal's homecoming. "Right and wrong, both!" whooped Walter. "You're a good little guesser, Dad, but you didn't guess enough this time. He's home already, and Pat's with him!" "Pat! Pat who?" A puzzled frown wrinkled Mr. Upton's forehead. "Pat Malone, of course! As if there was more than one Pat! They got in half an hour ago, and they're coming around here after dinner to get me." Mr. Upton's face lighted with a smile of pleasure. "That's splendid," he declared. "It's news worth getting upset for. How ever did Hal lure that young giant out of his beloved woods?" "I don't know," replied Walter. "All I know is that he is here, and the rest we'll find out when they get here. Hope he's going to stay through vacation. It'll be no end of fun showing Pat around. Wish you could be with us." "I wish I could," replied Mr. Upton, smiling. "Suppose we eat dinner now so that you will be ready for them when they arrive." Promptly at eight o'clock a big touring car drew up in front of the house, and Walter was down the steps before the two figures in the tonneau could disentangle themselves from the robes. Three voices mingled in a joyous shout, there was a swift clasping of hands in the Scout grip, and then the three boys started up the steps to the open door, where Mr. Upton stood waiting with outstretched hand. "Welcome to our city, Pat!" he cried heartily. "Thank you, sir. If everybody receives such a welcome as I have had it is no wonder that we cannot keep people in the woods." Walter actually gaped open mouthed at Pat. There was not a trace of accent. Pat caught the look and his blue eyes twinkled. Suddenly he whirled and hit Upton a resounding whack between the shoulders with his open palm. "Did I not tell ye thot whin I got the leaves out av me hair and the Irish out av me shpach I would come? And here I be. Tell me now, do ye want to foight? 'Twas the reception I was afther giving ye whin ye first came to the woods, and 'tis no more than roight thot ye should trate me the same whin I land in Noo Yor-r-k." Walter ran a calculating eye over the brawny young woodsman, six feet in his stockings and broad in proportion, and backed away. "I waive the privilege--out of politeness," said he with a low bow. "'Tis loike Noo Yor-r-k to be gentle with the helpless. Shure 'tis a foine settlemint and foine people in ut," retorted Pat. "I am interested to learn how Hal induced you to come here, Pat," said Mr. Upton as he ushered them into the library. Hal chuckled. "I trapped him," said he. "I set a trap and baited it and he walked right into it. Don't you think I'm some little trapper?" "You certainly are," declared Mr. Upton, while Pat grinned. "Let's hear all about it." "Well, first I made sure that I could get passes from Dad. You know he controls the railroad to Upper Chain. Dad was tickled to death with the idea. Even offered to send up his private car. You know he's a great admirer of Pat. Then for a bait I arranged through a friend to get an introduction for Pat to some of the head people out at Bronx Park and at the American Museum of Natural History. I knew that he just couldn't pass that chance up, but to make sure I wrote to Doctor Merriam at Woodcraft Camp, and of course he joined the conspiracy right away. For a clincher I promised Pat that Walt and I would spend Walt's vacation with him up in the woods." Walter came out of his chair with a bound. "What's that?" he cried. "Say it again!" "I said that to get Pat down here I promised him that we--you and I--would spend a week in the woods with him this winter. Is that perfectly clear?" Hal spoke slowly and with emphasis. "It sounds clear, but it isn't," replied Walter, glancing at his father with a rueful smile. He was thinking of the expense and that as things then were he could not afford the trip. Hal intercepted the glance and understood. "Oh, yes, it is," said he. "It is perfectly clear. We leave here next week Friday night and you and Pat are my guests until we reach Upper Chain the next morning. Then the three of us become the guests of Doctor Merriam at Woodcraft Camp for a day or two, and after that you and I will be the guests of--guess who?" Walter shook his head. He was a trifle dazed by the way in which Hal took everything for granted. "Pat and his partner!" cried Hal, while Pat grinned broadly. "Pat's trapping this winter instead of lumbering, and we're going to spend a week in a real trapper's camp, and snow-shoe and have no end of fun. Won't it be great? Walt may go, mayn't he, Mr. Upton?" Mr. Upton laughed aloud. "I wouldn't dare say no in the face of such completely organized plans," he confessed. "Of course he may go. It's a splendid idea, and I suspect that when he comes back for the next term of the school year he will be feeling so fine that nothing can stop him from winning that scholarship he has set his heart on, and has been working so hard for." "Then it's all settled!" cried Hal. "Pat is going to stay and go back with us, and while he is here it is up to us to show him what New York is like. We'll begin by showing him the Great White Way to-night. Get your coat and hat, Walt. The car is waiting. Won't you go with us, Mr. Upton?" "Not this time, thank you, Hal," replied Mr. Upton. "I have an engagement for this evening, though I would much rather join you youngsters than keep it. I feel that I am to lose something really worth while--a rare pleasure." "And the loss is equally ours, sir," said Pat as they rose to don their coats. Once more Walter eyed Pat quizzically. It was clear that the young Irishman had been pursuing his studies under Doctor Merriam to good advantage. Without the rich brogue it was a new and wholly different Pat. But he forbore to make any comment, and in a few minutes they were off to show Pat one of the most wonderful scenes in the world, New York's famous Broadway by night. CHAPTER II PAT SEES WHITE MAGIC Mindful of the lasting effect of first impressions Hal had contrived to give Pat no opportunity to get more than a fleeting glimpse of crowded streets and glaring lights. He had met Pat at the train, which had not arrived until the early winter evening had set in, hurried him to a big touring car with curtains drawn and then whirled him away to the palatial Harrison home on Riverside Drive without giving him a chance to sense more than a glare of lights and that confusion of sounds which constitutes the voice of a great city. The same car had brought them to Walter's modest home. While they had been making their brief call there the chauffeur, under Hal's orders, had put back the top of the machine, so that as they descended the steps Pat did not recognize the car at all. In fact, until that day Pat had never so much as seen a motor car, a buck-board being the most stylish equipage of which Upper Chain could boast. "Arrah, 'tis black magic!" exclaimed Pat as he settled himself comfortably between Hal and Walter in the tonneau, convinced at last that he was really in the same car which had brought him there. "And we're going to show you some white magic," cried Hal, as he leaned forward to give orders to the chauffeur. A quick run through side streets, comparatively deserted at this hour, brought them to Broadway at the junction with Sixth Avenue. Turning north the dazzling splendor of the "Great White Way" burst upon the startled eyes of the young woodsman. His companions heard him catch his breath with a little gasp. Then he closed his eyes for the space of a few seconds, opening them slowly as if he suspected them of playing him tricks. An instant later he seized a leg of each of his companions just above the knee with a grip that brought both half-way to their feet with a little yell of surprised protest. "'Tis true, then, and no drame," said he as he settled back with a little sigh of relief. "Sure and had I pinched mesilf I would not have believed me own sinse av feeling. White magic, did yez call ut? Sure 'tis the city av enchantment." It was a rare bit of thoughtfulness on Hal's part to give Pat such an introduction to America's greatest city. Whatever the disillusionment in the garish light of day he would always think of New York as he saw it for the first time--a fairy city of twinkling lights, the street crowded with pleasure seekers, the great buildings towering into the sky with all harsh and rigid lines softened by the protecting shadows, and above all the moving pictures in many colored lights of the advertising signs. These were indeed a revelation to the young woodsman, and he was soon oblivious to all else. The usual ready tongue was silent. Only once did he speak after the first outbreak and this was when the car was stalled for a few minutes where he had a full view of the famous chariot race from Ben Hur. As he saw that wonderful picture leap out of the darkness between two flaming torches, the driver leaning from his chariot and shaking the lines above the four galloping horses, Pat leaned forward with tense, eager face. Then the picture disappeared and he dropped back with a little sigh. "I knew ut was not true," he murmured half to himself, staring at the blank space between the lighted pillars. A second later the picture again flashed out of the darkness and the young Irishman relapsed into a silence that was not broken until, having gone up one side and down the other of the Great White Way, Hal proposed they spend the remainder of the evening at a theater. But this Pat vetoed and he did it so tactfully as to remove all possible sense of disappointment which Hal might have felt. "Ye may fill a cup no more than full," said he, "and one drap more would be making the cup av me joy run over. 'Tis poor shcoutcraft to be wasteful even av pleasure, and by the same token the Scout thot tries to see everything at wance remimbers nothing. I have seen the white magic, and thot be enough for wan noight. Tis just the two faces av yez I would be seein' now, and hearing the voices av yez to remoind me thot I be still Pat Malone av the North Woods." "We'll go back to my house and spend the rest of the time in my den with the pictures and other things to help make us think we are back in the woods," declared Walter. "I'm crazy to know about this scheme you fellows have cooked up for the vacation, and all the news from the woods. What do you say?" "Suits me to a dot," replied Hal promptly. "I'd rather have a good old gabfest than see the best show in the city, and if Pat feels that way too it's all settled." Fifteen minutes later the three boys were lounging comfortably in Upton's den and Pat was undergoing a regular bombardment of questions. "How's Doctor Merriam?" demanded Walter. "The Big Chief is just as fine and a little finer than ever," replied Pat, dropping his brogue. "He's one grand man. There's none grander blesses the earth with the touch of his feet. I've been living with him at Woodcraft ever since you fellows left, except for a week or two at a time on the trap line, and if ever I amount to anything it will be because of Doctor Merriam. 'Tis he that has taken the Irish from my tongue, though not from the heart of me. Shure I be as good an Irishman as iver, and the Saints defind me if I iver be anything else," he added, with a twinkle at this lapse into his mother tongue. "You're a wonder, Pat!" broke in Walter. "I wouldn't have believed that even Doctor Merriam could have taken that burr off your tongue. What did he do it with--a file? Gives me a funny feeling, as if you were not you at all, every time I hear you speak without it. Feel sort of--well, you know--like an old friend had disappeared. And--and--I don't think I quite like it." Pat's face suddenly sobered and rising to his feet he strode over to where Upton sat tilted back in his chair, his feet on the desk, and swung a big fist, hard as nails, perilously close to Upton's nose. "Take ut back, ye little spalpeen," he commanded. "Take ut back and tell me ye loike me betther for what I am than for what I was!" Walter ducked in mock fear. The sudden move threw him off balance, and with a crash he and the chair went over backward. One of Pat's big hands clutched him by the collar and lifted him to his feet. An exaggerated sigh from the young giant followed. "I don't know but that ye be roight afther all," he said mournfully. "The first toime we met ye gave me the best thrashing av me loife and I loved ye for ut. Now I have but to shake me fist to put ye down for the count. Shure 'tis not I that was, and yet if I be not I that was, who be I that I be?" The humorous blue eyes grew tense and earnest. There was a new note in the deep vibrant voice as he continued. "I am still Pat Malone, and proud of it. If I am not the old Pat I am proud of that too. And what I am to-day is due to Walt Upton, Doctor Merriam and the Boy Scouts of America. It was Walt who first blazed the trail for me. It is Doctor Merriam who is teaching me how to follow it, and it is the principles of the Boy Scouts which have brought out whatever of good there is in me. I tell you, fellows, if there is any one thing that I am proud of it is that I am a Scout." "Same here," interrupted Hal. "Scouting hasn't done any more for you than it has for me." "You fellows are surprised because I can speak the King's English without wholly murdering it, as I used to, and as I have a sneaking idea you liked to hear me," continued Pat. "Let me tell you it has cost me something. I've talked to the trees all day long when I've been alone on the trap line--just practicing, and even now it's easier to slip into the old way than to stick to the new. Don't for a minute think that I am ashamed of the old. I love it, and I always will. But I've begun to understand what education means, and this is the first step. It isn't easy. Don't think it. I have to keep guard on this slippery tongue every minute. I believe it's harder than it would be to learn a foreign language. It's up to you fellows to help me while I am here. I've used the old brogue to-night because I knew you liked to hear it, but I'm not going to any more unless it slips out when I am excited or my feelings get the best of me. Now this is enough about myself. What are the plans for the rest of my stay here?" "Hold on," protested Upton. "You haven't told us a thing about the woods or what luck you've had trapping, or what has become of Alec Smith, or what we are going to do if we go up there, or who your partner is. Now fire away and we'll make plans afterward. What are the woods like now?" "Two feet of snow and ten below zero when I left, and the beauty of them is not for the tongue to tell, but for eyes to see. It's even whiter magic than you have shown me this night, and I am not going to spoil it by trying to tell what it is like," replied Pat. "And the trapping?" "Fair to good." "Who's your partner? You haven't said a word about him." "An old woodsman and trapper I scraped acquaintance with. He's a little rough, but when you get to know him I think you'll like him." There was a twinkle in Pat's eyes which neither Hal nor Walter caught. "Now tell us about Alec Smith, and we'll let you off. How is that broken leg, and what is he doing? Say, he must have felt good when Black Charley confessed to having knifed The Mick! Looked pretty bad for Alec for a while, didn't it? Is he living up to all those good resolutions he made?" "You bet he is!" Pat answered the last question first. "After Big Jim and I got him out to Woodcraft Camp he stayed there doing odd jobs around the camp until that leg was strong enough for him to go into a lumber camp as cook. He was there a month and then quit for the trap line. The last I heard of him he was somewhere up in the Smugglers' Hollow country, and I guess probably he's there yet. You remember he had some traps cached up there. Leg's as good as it ever was, and he swears, and believes it too, that Walt here is the greatest little doctor that ever came into the woods. He'll talk any one who will listen deaf, dumb and blind on the Boy Scouts, and I believe he'd cut his right hand off any time for Doctor Merriam. Alec's all right." "And Big Jim! What's Jim doing and how is he?" "He's the same old Jim. He's the boss of the Atwater lumber camp this winter, with two crews under him and out to make a record cut. If the weather holds good he'll come pretty near to doing it. Jim's the best logging boss, as well as the best guide, in the North Woods. Now what are you fellows going to do with me in Noo Yor-r-k?" "That's mostly up to Hal, I'm afraid," replied Upton ruefully. "You see I have to go to school next week. To-morrow is Saturday, and a holiday of course, so I've got that free. No, I haven't either, come to think! I promised to take my patrol out for a hike to-morrow afternoon, and I don't quite see how I can avoid it now because there is no way of getting word to the fellows unless----" He paused and scowled thoughtfully. "I have it!" he exclaimed. "Scout McNulty has a 'phone in his house, and I'll send him around to notify the others to-morrow morning that the hike is off." He jumped to his feet to go to the 'phone, but Pat stopped him. "What's the matter with us going on that hike?" he demanded. Instantly Walter's face lighted with pleasure. "Will you? Are you sure you want to?" he cried. "The boys have heard so much about you that they will be tickled silly to have a real, live, sure enough guide from the woods with them. We were planning to go out to Bronx Park and try a little winter woodcraft and----" "That settles it. If it's Bronx Park I'm right with you, my son, unless Hal has something else planned," interrupted Pat. "In that case, why, I be in the hands av me frind, of course." "Suits me," declared Hal promptly. "We'll take Pat down-town in the morning and show him the sights and take him into Scout headquarters. Then we'll go out to the park and show him that your Blue Tortoises are not so slow as he may think from the name. We'll frame up something else for the evening. That's a bully scheme. I'll bet that Pat will be jealous of that patrol of yours, Walt, before we get through. Just you put 'em on their mettle and give him something to tell that patrol of his at Upper Chain about. I suppose you're still leader of the Bull Moose, Pat?" Pat shook his head. "Yes and no," said he. "You see I've been away so much that I had to resign. A patrol to be what it should be needs a leader on the job every minute, and so one of the boys at the sawmill is leader now, and he's a good one, too. He's a Scout of the first class and is working for merit badges now. He's got five already--personal health, physical development, taxidermy, signaling and stalking--and has won a medal for saving life. When I happen to be at home I just give them my valuable advice." Pat grinned. "Oh, we've got some little patrol up there in the woods, and I'm just waiting to be shown what your city Scouts have got on us," he concluded. "That takes care of to-morrow, then," said Hal. "We'll plan doings next week so that Walt can be with us out of school hours. Then Friday night we'll head for the good old woods. My, but that does sound good to me! Ten days up among the big trees, where there's snow enough to make a footprint without having to photograph it in order to prove it isn't a fake; where the foxes and the other critters with nice fur coats are sitting 'round waiting to put their little footsies in our traps; where "The Red Gods dwell Neath a mystic spell; The red flame glows, And the red blood flows, And a man's a man For a little span." A sofa pillow full in the face cut short this poetic outbreak, followed by an inquiry from Pat as to Hal's experience on snow-shoes. "Never had 'em on in my life, but I'm crazy to," replied that exuberant youth. "Bought a pair yesterday purpose for the trip. Don't look to me as if it can be much of a trick to walk on 'em." "Did you buy any liniment to go with them?" asked Pat. Hal looked puzzled. "Liniment? What for?" he demanded. "Oh, just to be prepared. You know a good Scout always is prepared," replied Pat evasively, at the same time tipping Walter a wink. "Meaning what?" persisted Hal. "It's a long, long way to Tipperary, especially on snow-shoes," was Pat's enigmatic reply. "I'd lay in a good supply of that liniment if I were you." Hal made a wry face at Pat. "Quit your kidding," said he. "We'll take a gallon of liniment if you say so. Now tell us what else we'll need. Do we take guns?" Pat shook his head. Then seeing a look of disappointment in both faces he hastened to say that the closed season was now on for all game excepting rabbits and hares, and if they wanted to hunt these they might take their 22 caliber rifles. In fact he wasn't sure but this would be a good idea, as bunnies were plentiful and hunting them on snow-shoes might afford some excellent sport. "What about fish? Will there be a chance to do some fishing through the ice?" asked Hal. Pat smiled at Hal's eagerness. "There are just as big pickerel under the ice as ever swam," he averred, "and if you are willing to do some real work and chop out holes I think I can promise you some whales without the trouble of swimming for them." There was a general laugh at this thrust at Hal, whose adventure with a big pickerel, during which he and Plympton had been capsized from a raft, was one of the never-to-be-forgotten incidents of the search for Lost Trail. "But you haven't told us yet just where we are going, where your camp is, you know," Walter broke in. Just then the honk, honk of an automobile sounded from the front of the house. "There's the car!" cried Hal. "We'll have to be getting a move on, or Pat will lose his beauty sleep and be in no shape for to-morrow. We'll be round at 9:30 sharp in the morning, Walter. I don't want to get Pat up too early." "Early!" Pat fairly snorted. "Arrah now! Do yez play all night and slape all day in Noo Yor-r-k?" he demanded. CHAPTER III THE BLUE TORTOISE PATROL Sparrer, otherwise Edward Muldoon, smallest Scout in the Blue Tortoise Patrol, darted back from the corner to the group waiting about the up-town entrance to the subway. "He's coming!" he shrilled. "An' two guys wid him, de one wid de dough an' de biggest rube yer ever put yer peepers on!" The announcement was electrifying and there was an immediate rush to look down the street. "It's Walt and Harrison all right, but who in the dickens is that with them, and where did they find him?" exclaimed Ned Patterson. "Gee, look at the size of him! He's a rube, all right, by the looks of him, but I'd hate to tell him so," muttered Chick Parsons. "Red headed and Irish at that! Say, fellers, we'll have some fun with him," chortled Jack Norwood. "Quit your kidding and fall in for a salute!" snapped Assistant Leader McNulty. Instantly the patrol lined up and as Walter approached, Hal on one side and Pat on the other, seven hands were raised as one in the Scout salute. It was returned by the three older lads. "Somebody's wised him to de game, all right," whispered the irrepressible Sparrer to his neighbor as his sharp eyes took note of the fact that Pat had saluted quite as if accustomed to it. "Mebbe he belongs to some rube patrol." There was a nudging of elbows and here and there a half smothered giggle as the youngsters sized Pat up and noticed the awkward fit and rough material of his "store suit," the celluloid collar and the flaming red four-in-hand clumsily tied. In the eyes of his young critics he was branded by these things quite as much as if he had worn a placard "Just from the Country." "Green goods right from the farm," whispered Chick to Sparrer. "I dare you to ask him how the caows are." Whether or not Sparrer would have taken the dare will never be known, for at that instant Upton introduced the big stranger, and the effect was magical to say the least. "I want you fellows to shake hands with some one you already know all about, Corporal Malone of the Lone Wolf Patrol, which had the honor of finding Lost Trail last fall, and one of the best guides in the North Woods," said he. "He and Harrison, whom you all know, are going with us on the hike this afternoon, and if you chaps feel as I do about it you know that we are the luckiest patrol in New York City. Pat, shake hands with Assistant Leader McNulty." Then in turn the others were presented, ending with Sparrer. Pat's blue eyes twinkled as his big hand closed over the little one put out to him. "'Tis Irish ye be," said he, "and 'tis the same blood flows in me own veins. Pwhat iver would the wor-rld do widout the Irish? The Blue Tortoise Patrol should be proud thot it has a son av St. Patrick." "It is," laughed Upton. "Now, fellows, the Blue Tortoise yell for the best Scout I know--Pat Malone!" The yell was given with a will and caused many a head to turn in the hurrying throng, and many a smile, for the trim uniformed youngsters, faces alight with eagerness for their afternoon outing, were good to see. Laughing and joking the patrol squeezed into the crowded subway express and they were off for Bronx Park, the wonderful great playground where for a five cent fare one is lifted as by magic from the heart of the city to the heart of the country. As the train roared through the great tunnel Pat scanned the individual members of the patrol with manifest approval. They were a clean-cut, sturdy looking lot of boys ranging in age from thirteen to sixteen, McNulty, the assistant leader, being the only one of that age. And they were a representative lot. Two were the sons of well-to-do merchants, one was the son of a broker, another was from the modest home of a patrolman on the police force, a fifth was the son of a subway guard, and the remaining two were Bernstein, whose features unmistakably stamped him as a Hebrew of the upper class, and Sparrer Muldoon, newsboy and street gamin. Pat's interest promptly centered in the latter, and he took the first opportunity to ask about him and how he happened to be associated with others seemingly so far above him in the social scale. Upton smiled. "There isn't any social scale among Scouts, you know," said he. Pat nodded. "I ought to know," he agreed. "If there were Pat Malone wouldn't be this very minute the guest of the son of a millionaire. But I wasn't one of a regular patrol of fellows better off. Tell me something about this imp you call Sparrer, and how you dared take him into this bunch. He seems to fit all right, so far as I can see." "Sure he fits," replied Walter. "I put it up to the fellows themselves and they invited him to join. First time I ran into Sparrer made me think of the first time I met you. He had just trimmed the life out of a bully half a head taller than himself for stealing the papers of a little Jew." Pat's eyes began to dance appreciatively. "Go on," he commanded. "He had a black eye and a bloody nose and he was as dirty a little heathen as ever you laid eyes on. But he sure packed a healthy punch in each fist and knew where to put 'em, to judge by the looks of the bully, who was sneaking away with a whole crowd of newsies jeering at him. Sparrer didn't pay any attention to the rest of 'em, but went over to the little Jew and gave him half of his own stock of papers to make up for the ones the bully had taken, and which had been destroyed in the scrap. When the youngster tried to thank him Sparrer swore at him, and he could swear in those days, believe me! That was the Irish in him, trying to cover up a good deed." "A bye afther me own heart," murmured Pat. "The whole affair, or rather the motive underneath it, struck me as so Scout-like that I thought I'd try to get acquainted," continued Upton. "'Good boy,' says I. "'Wot's it to you?' says he. 'Oi'll smash yer the same way fer a nickel, yer big dude!' That tickled the bunch, and they began to egg him on and guy me until I saw that if I didn't want to be mixed up in a common street scrap I'd better retreat, which I did ingloriously. Later I managed to scrape acquaintance with him, and by making some inquiries I found out that his mother is a widow and he was helping support the family, that he had a reputation as a scrapper and that though he swore like a pirate, smoked and chewed tobacco, as most of these street gamins do, he was strictly honest and was a terror to the bullies of his neighborhood. Also that he'd rather fight than eat. Just by chance I discovered that his ambition was to become a soldier, but he was worried for fear he never would be big enough. He's small for his age, stunted for lack of good food when he was a kid, I guess. Next to going into the army he wanted to be a prize-fighter. I talked scouting to him a little, but he didn't seem interested until one day I happened along in full uniform. That got him. I suppose it looked next best to being a soldier. Then I told him all about my patrol and what we were doing and what scouting stands for, and he gulped it all down like a hard run buck trying to drink a lake dry. "'Gee, Oi'd like dat, but it ain't for poor blokes the loikes of me,' said he. That gave me an idea. There was a vacancy in the patrol, and at the next meeting I put it right straight to the fellows. I told them all about Sparrer and got 'em interested, and then I just kind of hinted at the brotherhood and democracy idea of scouting and what a mighty good turn it would be if Sparrer could be given a chance to get into the game, and then dropped the subject. The hint worked all right. They're a pretty good bunch, these fellows. They talked it all over and then they came around and asked me if I supposed Sparrer would like to join the Blue Tortoise Patrol. I told them that I was sure he wouldn't if he suspected that the invitation was charity on their part. They chewed this over for a while and then came around and said that they really would like to take him in, and there wasn't any charity about it. I took the invitation to Sparrer and he went up in the air like a rocket, just as I knew he would. "'Say, yer can't put no stuff loike dat over on me,' said he. 'Wot do yer tink Oi am to fall fer a steer loike dat? Dat bunch of high-brows ain't wantin' me trainin' in dere camp. Youse has been on de level wid me, now hand it ter me straight--wot's de game?' "I did my best to make him see that the invitation was sincere and explained all over again how there is no social distinction between Scouts, and how money and that sort of thing doesn't count, but I couldn't break through his pride. I'd about given up when I had a happy thought. 'Sparrer,' said I, 'I thought you were a dead game sport, but I guess you've got a streak of yellow in you after all. Some of these fellows are from fine homes and some are not, but they're white right through, and they've got more sand than you have. They dare to take you in on the same footing that they are on, and you haven't got the nerve to show 'em that you are just as good as they are.' "That got him. The long and short of it was he agreed to come around to my house the next night and meet the bunch, and he did. The fellows were good Scouts, all right, and treated him on the level just as if he were one of 'em. When he saw those photos of mine and the snow-shoes and paddles and the rest of the junk, and heard about the good times the bunch was having, he was eager to be a Scout, but he wouldn't say that he would join the patrol. It wasn't until about three weeks later when he came around in full uniform and said that he would like to be a Blue Tortoise that I tumbled to what the trouble had been. He wouldn't join until he could at least look as well as the rest, and he'd been working over time and saving every penny to get that uniform. I guess he was right, at that. The fellows wouldn't have cared, but he cared, and being dressed like the rest made him feel more as if he belonged with the crowd." Again Pat nodded his full understanding of the youngster's feelings. "Sparrer took to scouting like a duck to water," Upton continued. "He cut out tobacco and swearing, and being naturally quick from his life in the streets he learned quickly and passed the tenderfoot and second class tests quicker than anybody else in the patrol. He's a first class Scout now, and a mighty good one. He is so full of life and fun that it wasn't any time at all before he was one of the most popular fellows in the patrol, and when he's on hand he keeps things moving. The hardest thing he has to overcome is slang. You know he was brought up in the streets. It's his mother tongue. I'm afraid the boys don't help him much. They like to hear him. But he's doing his best, and now he's going to night school. Of course I've told him all about you and the fight you've made and I rather fancy he's made something of a model and hero of you." "The saints forbid!" exclaimed Pat. Nevertheless he looked pleased. "Bronx Park! All out!" sang out the guards. Once out of the car the patrol fell into line and with Upton in the lead headed for the park. Once inside the turnstiles he called a conference, "You fellows know what we planned to do to-day," he began, "but that was before we knew that we were to have the honor of Corporal Malone as our guest. You know he is something of a naturalist, and there are a lot of animals and birds and snakes and things here that I expect he is anxious to see. I propose that we show him around instead of doing the field work we had planned." "Mr. Leader!" Pat saluted as he spoke. "The beasties and the bur-rds will not know what they are missing if they have no chance to inspect green goods to-day." Chick started violently, remembering his remark to Sparrer, and the latter maliciously punched him in the ribs and ducked to hide a grin. "But I know what I shall miss if you do not carry out your plans, and I have no mind to be handed that kind of a lemon. I have all next week to look at the beasties and only this afternoon to see how little a city patrol knows of scouting. Arrah now, 'tis mesilf belaves ye be afraid to be showing me how much betther the Scouts av Upper Chain be than the Scouts av the great city av Noo Yor-r-k!" "That settles it!" cried Upton when the general laugh had subsided. "We'll show him that the Blue Tortoise Patrol isn't afraid to take a dare from any one, and we'll show him a few stunts to make his Bull Moose up there in the woods turn green with envy. You're on your mettle now, fellows. We'll go over to the wildest and most lonesome part of the park and divide into two companies. Pat can take one and be the enemy which has made a successful raid and made its get-away. Hal can go with him because he knows the country as well as any of us. We'll give them ten minutes' start and then go in pursuit. There's enough snow in patches to make snowballs. Any one hit on the arms or legs is wounded. A hit on the throwing arm puts that man out of the fighting, but he is still at liberty. A hit on either leg puts a man out of action, but he may hide if he can within a radius of a hundred feet of the place where he was hit. A hit on the head or any part of the body puts a man wholly out of action and he becomes a first aid man to take care of the wounded. You fellows have played the game before, and I presume each of you has a Red Cross arm band to pin on when you are hit so that you will be recognized as a non-combatant." There was a general assent and Upton continued: "Our camp will be at the point we start from. If the enemy can elude us and get back and capture the camp they win. If we run them down and defeat them or defeat them in a battle at the camp we win. Any man taken prisoner becomes a member of the other side. Scouts sent out by either side will make full reports not only of signs of the enemy but of the country and its conspicuous characteristics and animals and birds which are seen. Pat, you can pick your side. You get three besides Hal." Pat's first choice was Sparrer, to the youngster's secret delight. He then chose McNulty and Bernstein, and the two companies, Pat at the head of one and Upton at the head of the other, started at the Scout pace for the scene of action. Arrived there a camp was marked off and Pat and his company at once started off to make the most of the ten minutes allotted them. Meanwhile Upton laid out his plan of campaign. The camp had been chosen with a view to defense. On two sides were dense thickets of bushes from which it would be practically impossible to throw a snowball. Moreover, to reach these thickets it would be necessary for the enemy to cross a bare hilltop, which meant that surprise from that quarter was virtually out of the question. On the third side was an outcropping ledge of rock behind which the defenders could take shelter. The fourth side was open, but could not be approached without the enemy being in sight for some time. Moreover, in the flat open country beyond there was no snow, hence the enemy attacking from that direction would not be able to replenish their ammunition. Upton decided that two men were ample for defense, and at once set all hands to work making a supply of snowballs from the patches of snow still lingering in the thickets. Promptly at the end of ten minutes Chick Parsons was sent out as scout to try to pick up the enemy's trail at the point where they had disappeared from view with instructions to signal what he should discover. Norwood was sent in the opposite direction to look for signs on the chance that the enemy had circled as soon as they were out of sight. Patterson and Chambers were left to guard camp and Upton climbed to the top of the little hill which flanked the camp and from which point he could get signals from both Scouts. The game was on. CHAPTER IV "HELP!" Every member of the Blue Tortoise Patrol was on edge, eager to show Pat that though they were city born and bred they still knew something of practical woodcraft and the art of tracking; also of the even more difficult art of covering up tracks. But it was ordained that things should be otherwise that day and that the big woodsman should witness a real and not an artificial test of Scout resources and pluck. Chick, studying what struck him as a suspiciously broad trail leading west from the point where the enemy had last been seen, and suspecting a ruse, was startled by the faint sound of a whistle to the north. It was the patrol signal for help and was used only in case of an emergency or when, as in the present game, a Scout was in danger of capture by the opposite side and wanted to summon aid. His first thought was that one of his own side had run onto the enemy and was summoning help. Then he remembered that he was the only one who had gone out on that side of camp and so it was manifestly impossible that this could be. "Wonder if that's a trick to lead us into an ambuscade," he muttered, listening with growing suspicion. Again he heard the signal, and there was something in the sound of it that banished all idea of trickery. "Something's happened to one of the fellows!" he exclaimed, and scrambled up a knoll to his left where he could get a fairly clear view. Far in the distance toward the outer boundary of the park he saw a figure which the instant he came in sight began to signal with a whistle in the Morse code. "M-o-t-o-r s-m-a-s-h o-n r-o-a-d h-e-l-p c-o-p-s," he spelled out. Raising his own whistle he signaled O. K. and saw the distant figure turn and race away at top speed. "Phew!" he gasped. "Must be bad if they need the cops. That must mean they need an ambulance." He whirled toward camp, and caught sight, of a figure on the hill just back of it. It was Upton watching for signals, and Chick knew that he must have heard him whistle the O. K. Once more raising the whistle he repeated the message, adding the location of the accident as nearly as he could judge. He heard Upton whistle for Norwood and then saw him bound down into the hollow where the camp lay. A minute later Patterson, the best runner in the patrol, sprang into view headed for the park administration buildings at top speed. Satisfied that help would come in the shortest possible time Chick picked up his staff and started swiftly for the point where he had seen Sparrer disappear, for it was he who had first signaled. Meanwhile Pat, Hal and the three members of the Blue Tortoise Patrol who had started out with them were working with might and main at the scene of the accident and in their hearts praying that help would reach them speedily. It was one of those disasters which in these days have become so common that often they receive no more than a paragraph or two in the daily papers. Two automobiles had come together on a turn in a road at this time of year little frequented, and the smaller of the two had turned turtle. The other, a powerful roadster, had escaped with but trifling damage and the driver of it had not even paused to ascertain the results of the collision, but had thrown on full power and left the scene at racing speed. The accident had occurred at a point about one hundred yards from where Pat and Sparrer were about to emerge from a thicket of bushes lining the drive and at the sound of the crash they sprang out. An instant later a big roadster tore past and they caught a fleeting glimpse of a strained white face behind the big steering wheel and beyond, partly raised and half turned to look back, a fur-coated figure, evidently that of a young man. For just a second his face turned toward them, then hastily turned away. But that brief glimpse was enough to show them that it bore the stamp of guilty fear. Pat confessed later that the whole thing was so sudden and so wholly foreign to anything within his experience that he was too confused to think or act quickly. Not so Sparrer. His life in the streets of New York had made him no stranger to accidents of a more or less tragic nature, and he had seen too many violators of the law seeking to escape the consequences of their own acts not to grasp the situation instantly. "They are trying to make a get-away!" he snapped. "Get de number!" This was Greek to Pat, whose acquaintance with automobiles was too recent for him to appreciate the importance of a license number at a time like this. But Sparrer had not practiced taking automobile numbers in the rush hours at Madison Square for nothing. It had been only fun there, by way of training his eyes to quick and sure observation. Now as a result eye and brain worked in unison and almost automatically and despite the speed of the car he got the number as surely as if it had been at a standstill. [Illustration: HE JOTTED DOWN THE NUMBER] "Jersey car! Dey'll beat it fer across de river," said he as he jotted down the number in his note-book. "Did yer pipe dere monikers? Oi'd know dem in a tousand! Now let's see wot happened to de others." They started on a run for the overturned car and as they drew near the sound of moaning from the wreck gave wings to their feet. A small touring car was bottom up at the side of the road, a rear wheel off at one side. Half among the bushes and half in the road lay the body of a young woman, whether dead or simply unconscious they did not take time to find out. If dead there was nothing for them to do. If unconscious she could receive attention later. The moans from beneath the wrecked car told them that there was where aid was needed first. The driver, a middle-aged man, was pinned under the steering post, which was bent and rested across his chest in such a way that while the full weight of the car did not fall on it, still it was crushing in the ribs on one side. One leg was doubled under him in a way that denoted a bad break. His face was badly cut by the glass of the wind-shield and what was worse, the crimson stream gushing in little spurts from a jagged gash on one arm, fortunately thrust beyond the edge of the car, proclaimed a severed artery. That must be stopped immediately at all costs, before any attempt was made to get the man out, or he would bleed to death. Both boys saw this on the instant, and without a word Pat stooped and gripped the arm above the cut, bringing to bear all the strength of his powerful fingers. The effect was immediately apparent. The wound still bled, but no longer in those fateful jets. Sparrer meanwhile had snatched off his neckerchief and was preparing a tourniquet. From a shrub by the roadside he cut a stout stick a foot long, then hastily made search for a smooth pebble. Finding none he started to feel in his pockets for some small object that would serve his purpose when his alert glance fell on Pat's mackinaw. Whipping out his knife once more he cut one of the big smooth buttons from the mackinaw. Tying the handkerchief loosely around the injured arm just above where Pat was gripping it he slipped the button in so that it rested directly on the artery. Then putting the stick under the handkerchief on the outer side he rapidly twisted it until the pressure of the button on the artery was sufficient to stop the flow of blood and Pat could release his grip. The stick was then tied so that it could not untwist, and they were ready for the next move. By this time Harrison, McNulty and Bernstein had come up. They had not been so far away but that they had heard the crash. Then, too, Sparrer had whistled for help as soon as he had seen the extent of the disaster. The quick wits of the newsboy, trained to acute sharpness in the school of the streets, peculiarly fitted him to take command of the situation. Also familiarity with suffering and with scenes of violence made him less susceptible to the shock of the grim spectacle before them than was the case with his comrades, and he now assumed leadership by right of fitness. Indeed, he did it quite unconsciously and his comrades quite as unconsciously accepted the situation and turned to him for directions. "We got to git de cops and an amb'lance. Youse guys git de man out from under de car and Oi'll chase fer de cops!" Without waiting another second he plunged through the bushes and started in the direction of the camp, which lay in almost a direct line with the park administration buildings, the nearest point at which he could be sure of getting help. He knew the lay of the land perfectly, and he reasoned that by this time one or more of the other party would be out on the trail and that if he could signal them and they in turn signal those behind valuable time would be saved. So on the first high ground he stopped to blow the help signal with the result already noted. To gain time he made his message as brief as possible. "Motor smash" told the nature of the accident. "Help--cops" told the urgency of the case and the need of police aid. He counted on Upton's knowledge of the way things are handled in a big city to make the message as clear as if he took precious time to spell out the full story, and when he heard Chick's O. K. he turned back confident that help would reach them in the shortest time possible. Nor was his confidence misplaced. As soon as Upton got the message from Chick he understood the situation exactly. Getting down into the hollow where the camp was he issued orders. The others had heard Chick's message and knew where the accident had occurred. "Get over to the administration building as fast as you can run," he ordered Patterson. "Tell 'em to notify the police and put in an ambulance call. If you meet a mounted cop on the way tell him. It may be life or death, so run for a record." Patterson was off before the last words were out of Upton's mouth. Upton, with the other two boys at his heels, at once started for the scene of the accident, running at top speed. Half-way to his goal Patterson caught sight of a mounted policeman, hailed him with a shrill yell, and brought him at a gallop. Briefly he told his story, and the officer was away to put in a call for an ambulance and get help. Meanwhile the boys at the wreck had been working with might and main. Pat's great strength had stood them in good stead, and they had managed to raise the car sufficiently to free the victim and draw him out. The cushions and robes were pulled out of the wreck and on these the still unconscious woman and the man were laid. By the time Upton and his comrades, panting for breath, reached the scene both victims had been made as comfortable as possible. The first aid kits had been opened and temporary bandages were being applied where most needed. In this work the newcomers at once took a hand. Seeing that his assistance was not needed Sparrer had busied himself elsewhere. He went along the road for some little distance in each direction, studying the ground carefully. The top surface of the ground had softened a little in the sun and in places the wheel marks were visible. This was especially true of the wrecked car, as this had been fitted with chains. It was comparatively easy to trace the course of this car, and Sparrer was soon satisfied in regard to it. On the wheel marks of the other car he spent more time, and he had just completed his examination as two mounted police dashed up. Swinging down from their horses they made hasty examination of the victims. "Good work, boys," said one of them. "You've done all that can be done, so far as I can see, until the ambulance gets here. Now then, which of you is the leader?" Upton stepped forward. "Tell us what you know about the accident," commanded the officer. "I know nothing about it," replied Upton curtly. "Everything was practically as you see it now when I reached here. Pat, did any of your party see the thing happen?" Pat shook his head. "None of us saw it, but two of us were right handy when it happened, and were on the spot in less than two minutes," said he, addressing the policemen. "We heard the crash and saw a car which seemed to be trying to get away, and then we saw this car overturned. When we got here the young woman was lying by the side of the road half in the bushes, and out of her senses, just as she is now. The man was pinned under the car and bleeding like a buck that has just felt the knife. We stopped that as soon as we could, and then got him out. Muldoon there can tell you more than I can, because he saw more than I did. He proved himself a better Scout." Sparrer flushed with pleasure. Praise from this source meant more to him than it would have from any one else, and at a sign from one of the officers he stepped forward to tell what he knew. "We was in de bushes," said he, "about a hundred yards up de road, when we heard de smash an' jumped out just in time to lamp a big gray roadster wid two guys in it making dere get-away, and dey was beatin' it fer fair." "Don't suppose you thought to get the number," interrupted one of the officers. Sparrer grinned as he fished out his note-book. "Sure Oi got it," said he. "Jersey car, and dey was beatin' it fer de ferry loike New York was bad fer de health. No cops around, same as usual." Sparrer winked at the other boys. "Prob'ly dey think dey made dere get-away and dey would have, if some real Scouts hadn't happened to be around." One of the officers had reached for the note-book and hastily glanced at the number. "I'll 'phone this number in and see if we can't head off that car while you take care of things here," said he, as he vaulted into the saddle, and a second later was off at full gallop. "Go on with your story," commanded the other. "Dey ain't no more 'cept while de others was getting the man out from under de car Oi signaled to de fellows over across de park to get word to youse, and dey done it," replied Sparrer, quite as if his quick-witted handling of the matter was as commonplace as his grammar was bad. "The man didn't come to, and make any statement?" The boys shook their heads. "He's been just as you see him now," said Pat, with a pitying glance at the injured man. The officer shook his head. "Too bad," said he, "that there wasn't a witness. If we nab those fellows they'll swear that it was this fellow's fault. Their running away will make it look bad for them, but they'll frame up some sort of cock and bull story about being so frightened that they didn't realize what they were doing and without evidence their word will be as good as the other man's. If the latter doesn't recover sufficiently to make a statement, and the young lady doesn't either, the case will fall through. Was that car right where it is now when you first saw it?" "Say," drawled Sparrer scornfully, "do 'youse tink we had nothing to do but to pick up a ton or two of scrap and lug it 'round?" The policeman grinned. "You chaps seem to be equal to about anything," said he. "I didn't know but that you had moved the car in getting that fellow out. Unless he was knocked over here by the collision it appears that he was on the right side of the road." "Sure thing," retorted Sparrer. "He was on de right side of de road and driving easy. De other blokes was burning up de road and tried to make de turn wide. Dey skidded and side-swiped de little car, and it turned turtle. Dat's all dey is to it." He spoke with such an air of finality that the officer looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you said none of you saw this happen," said he. "None of us did, but even a cop orter be able ter see what _has_ happened," retorted Sparrer. He walked back up the road a short distance. "Here's de marks of de chains," he called, "an' dey's all on de right side of de road. Here's a place where de ground is pretty soft, but de tracks are clean-cut. If de car had been beatin' it de mud would have been trown more. Now lamp de tracks comin' de other way." He led the way around the curve in the opposite direction, pointing out soft spots where the tracks of a heavy car without chains were clearly visible. Little globules of mud had been thrown some distance on both sides, conclusive evidence that the car was being driven at high speed. The curve was rather sharp, and the tracks showed that the car had started to take it wide, but at the scene of the accident had been pulled sharply to the right and had skidded, striking the smaller machine and causing it to turn turtle. For those with eyes to see the whole story was written out on the road surface, and yet the tracks were comparatively faint, because the surface had softened only where the sun had lain longest, and might easily have been overlooked by those not trained to close observation. The officer looked at Sparrer curiously. "Hurry up and grow, sonny," said he; "we need you on the force." Sparrer's retort was interrupted by the clang of a gong as an ambulance dashed up. The young surgeon made a hasty examination of the two victims and then as they were lifted into the ambulance he turned to the group of boys and spoke crisply. "You fellows have done just the things to be done and all that could be done here. If this man lives he'll owe his life to you. If you hadn't known enough to get a tourniquet on that arm at once he would have bled to death by this time. Officer, I hope you will report the good work of these Scouts. If there was nothing more to scouting than the teaching of first aid to the injured it would be a great thing." He swung up on the rear of the ambulance, and as it dashed away raised his hand in the Scout salute, which was promptly returned by the patrol. Meanwhile the officer was taking down the names and addresses of the boys, as they would in all probability be needed later as witnesses in court. When he had finished Upton ordered the patrol to fall in. "I guess, fellows," said he, "that none of us feels much like continuing our game after what's happened. What do you say if we spend the rest of the afternoon showing Pat around the park? Those in favor say aye." The vote was unanimous. As soon as it had been taken Pat stepped forward. "Mr. Leader," said he, "I want to say just a few words." "Speech! Speech!" shouted half a dozen together. Pat's face lighted with a grin, and his eyes began to dance. "Arrah now, yez be looking for a bear in the wrong tree," said he, "for there be no silver on me tongue and me thoughts be too bashful to be dressed in wor-rds. So 'tis no spache yez will be getting from me this day." Then abruptly he dropped the brogue. "Mr. Leader, you started out this day to show me what city Scouts can do, and you have shown me in a way that none of us dreamed of. I take off my hat to the Blue Tortoise Patrol. That was as good scouting as ever I have seen, and we've got some Scouts up where I come from. They can do stunts in the woods that probably would make you fellows green with envy if you could see them. If you were to come up there in the woods I expect that they would laugh at you behind your backs, just as you would laugh at them if they should come down here. As nearly as I can make out that seems to be the way with the world--to laugh at others who happen to be different in speech or ways or dress. You city boys call a country boy a rube and green just because his ways are different from your ways and he isn't wise to the things that you are. He thinks just the same way of you when you visit him in the country. What I have seen to-day has taught me a lesson. Out in the woods I know just what to do, how to do it and when to do it, no matter what happens. When I started out with you to-day I smiled down inside at the idea of you being able to show me anything in the way of scouting. I wished I had the Bull Moose Patrol here to show you what real scouting is like. "Then that accident happened, and found me as helpless as a new-born babe. But Sparrer here was right on the job from the jump. He had the number of that car before I had it through my head what had happened, and he knew just what to do next. I expect that it would have been the same with any of the rest of you in his place. Anyway, I've been shown the very finest kind of scoutcraft, and that little smile I started with has turned to pride. I'm proud to be out with the Blue Tortoise Patrol, as fine a bunch of real Scouts as I know of. And I am particularly proud of my friend Sparrer Muldoon. I might be able to give him some points on tracking a deer or a moose or even a man in the woods, but when it comes to tracking a crazy motorcar Sparrer has got my number. I would like to propose, Mr. Leader, three cheers for Scout Muldoon." The cheers were given with a will and with a rousing tiger at the end, to the confusion of Sparrer. Then Upton called for the patrol yell for Pat Malone, and in that Sparrer found vent for his own feelings. These preliminaries out of the way the patrol fell in to escort Pat about the park and show him the hardier animals which winter out-of-doors. Nor was their courtesy without gain to themselves, for the young naturalist's comments as they visited one enclosure after another revealed an intimate knowledge of the characteristics and habits, not only of those species with which he was familiar in their native wilds, but of many which he was now seeing for the first time, which was a revelation to his young admirers. Chick wasn't far wrong when he whispered to Norwood: "We ain't showing him anything; he's showing us." It was an afternoon never to be forgotten by the Blue Tortoise Patrol, and it was an equally memorable one for Pat. And when they parted that night there was a mutual respect and liking which found expression in the hearty grip of Scout brotherhood. CHAPTER V OFF FOR WOODCRAFT Edward Muldoon, otherwise Sparrer, surreptitiously pinched himself to make sure that he was not dreaming. He, newsboy from the lower East Side of New York, who had never been farther from it than Coney Island, riding in a brilliantly lighted Pullman coach on his way into the great woods of which he had dreamed so much since he became a Scout, and of which he had only the vaguest idea! It couldn't be. And yet it was. The roar of the wheels told him that it was. The very feel of the luxurious seat in which he was sitting told him that it was. And to clinch the fact and at the same time make it harder to believe there were his three companions, Upton, his patrol leader, Harrison and Pat Malone, whom he had secretly made his hero. Yes, it was all true, and yet he couldn't get rid of the idea that sooner or later he would wake up and find it all a beautiful dream. The fact is, this trip was in the nature of a Christmas present. From their first meeting Pat had taken a great fancy to the street gamin. He recognized a kindred spirit. Instinctively he realized that the difference between Sparrer and himself at the same age was mainly one of environment. The youngster's sturdy independence and self-reliance, his quick wit, even his impudence, struck responsive chords in the young woodsman. Sparrer was what he himself would have been had his nursery been a New York East Side tenement instead of the log cabin of a mill settlement in the lumber district of the North Woods. The night after the motor accident the three older boys had been discussing Sparrer and his prompt resourcefulness. Pat dropped a remark that he wished with all his heart that he could have the youngster in the woods with him for a couple of weeks. "Let's take him with us! It would be no end of fun," cried Hal on the spur of an inspiration. Upton shook his head. "It would be bully if we could, but I'm afraid we can't," said he. "Why not?" demanded Hal. "I can get a pass for him, and between us I guess we can take care of him. It won't cost him a cent." "That's just it," declared Upton. "There is nothing on two legs in New York more independent than Eddie Muldoon. He'll scrap for his rights as long as he can swing a fist, but the minute you try to hand him anything for nothing he'll turn you down hard and cold. Sparrer pays his way, or he don't go, and wild horses couldn't drag him. He would stand for the pass, all right, because he would be on the same footing as the rest of us, but if we tried to give him anything in the way of an outfit, and it goes without saying that he hasn't anything suitable for the weather we are likely to have up there, he would kick like Barnum's trick mule. That's one thing I like about the little beggar. And when you come right down to it, independence is one of the fundamental principles of scouting." Once more Hal was inspired. "I have it, fellows!" he cried. "We'll make him a Christmas present of the trip. He can't refuse a Christmas gift, if it is put to him right. I'll get the passes and chip in toward whatever he needs in the way of outfit. You two can make up the rest. He'll be Pat's guest when he gets there, the same as Walt and myself, so he can't kick on that. You're all my guests on the train anyway, so I don't see how Sparrer's independence is going to be hurt a little bit." "That will be great, if we can put it across," declared Upton, "and I for my part would like nothing better than to have the youngster along. It would be the event of a lifetime for him." So it was decided that Upton should use all his diplomatic powers to persuade Sparrer that he was needed for the largest success of the party. His success was the result of a great deal of argument, helped out by the boy's own longing to know what the woods life of which he so often dreamed really was like. So now here they were actually on their way, four as happy boys as ever set forth in quest of pleasure. The week had been a busy one. Pat had spent a good part of it at Bronx Park and the American Museum of Natural History, where his letters of introduction and his own ready wit and evident thirst for knowledge had made him a welcome visitor. During the rest of the time there had been something doing every minute. Hal had seen to that. Upton had dug at his books as if that scholarship hung on that one week's work. As for Sparrer, he had worked early and late that he might leave a few extra coins to make Christmas for the brother and two sisters at home. "Did you telephone the hospital before we left?" asked Hal, turning to Upton as they waited for their berths to be made up. Walter nodded. "Did it the last thing before I left the house," he replied. "The young lady is practically all right now, and has gone home. Her father is getting along nicely and it is only a matter of time when he will be right as ever. By the way, their story is exactly as Sparrer had it. Looks like a sure case against the owner of that other car. I understand that they are going to bring suit for damages. I suppose that means that we'll have to go on the witness stand when the thing comes off." "Lucky they caught those fellows at the ferry." "Do you suppose there's any truth in that claim by the owner of the car that it was a joy ride by unknown parties who had taken the car without his consent or knowledge?" Hal asked. "Looks pretty fishy to me," replied Upton. "Still, he may get away with it. Understand that neither of the victims can identify the men in the other car. You remember that curve is pretty sharp, and they were hit almost before they saw the other car, let alone who was in it. Sparrer and Pat seem to be the only ones who even had a glimpse of the scoundrels, and that a mighty brief one. If there is any identifying done I guess it is up to you two fellows. Think you can do it?" "Not I!" declared Pat with emphasis. "I could shwear to the number of points on a jumping buck in the brush, but nary a thing could I shwear to about that ingine av destruction." "How about you, Sparrer?" demanded Hal. "If Oi was one of them artist guys Oi could draw you a picture of both of them. Let me put my peepers on them and Oi'll shwear to them in a tousand," replied the newsboy with such an air of finality that there was no doubt in the minds of his companions that he could do just what he said he could. "Well, you're likely to have a chance if that case goes to court," Upton remarked. "For my part, I hope you can do it. I'd like to see those fellows get what's coming to 'em. I move we turn in now, for we've got to get up at an unearthly hour. It's bad enough to turn out before daylight in the summer, but it makes me shiver to think what it will be at this time of year. Br-r-r-r." Pat laughed. "If you're going out on the trap line you may as well get broken in to early rising at once. We often have some miles behind us by the time the sun is up," said he. "However, I guess you're right about turning in. I'm ready, for one." It seemed to Sparrer that he had hardly closed his eyes when some one shook him, and he tumbled out of his berth to find the others in the dressing room hurriedly getting into their clothes. They had no more than time to dress and gather up their baggage and various parcels before the train stopped. They had reached Upper Chain. As they stepped down into the night, for day had not yet begun to break, Upton recalled his first arrival there, a rather lonely youngster, uncertain that this was the right place. It had been summer then, but everything had been shrouded in a heavy night mist and the chill of the high altitude had struck clear to the marrow in his bones. He had been a tenderfoot then, his only knowledge of woodcraft what little he had gleaned from books. He remembered how the mystery of the great woods had swept over him and engulfed him even as did the night mist, and how insignificant he had felt. Even now, after three years of experience in camp and on the trail he felt something of that same spirit of awe, and he knew that it would always be thus. It was the tribute exacted by nature from the true devotee entering her temples. He glanced curiously at Sparrer, wondering what responsive chords might be struck in the soul of this waif of the great city, but it was too dark to see his features clearly, and he could only dimly surmise something of the younger lad's feeling from Sparrer's quick intake of breath as the dark, heavy coaches of the train rumbled off into the night, leaving them standing between two walls of white. Overhead a myriad of stars burned like jewels. Never had they seemed so near, so brilliant, so alive. The snow thrown high on either side of the tracks, for there was a siding at this point, was above their heads. The stillness was almost oppressive now that the train was beyond hearing. Pat stretched his arms and drew a long breath of the cold, rarified air, then expelled it in an audible sigh of supreme content. "Arrah now, 'tis me foist breath av real air in a week, and the two lungs av me aching for ut," said he. "Shure 'twill make the likes av ye grow to a man's size in a week, me bantam, and thot's more than Noo Yor-r-k will be doing for ye in a loifetoime," giving Sparrer a hearty slap on the back. "Hal, I thought those passes read to Upper Chain, and here we be dropped in a snow-bank. I'll be after making complaint to the management for inconveniencing four gentlemen and reducing them to the ranks of common laborers." The others laughed as they followed Pat's example and shouldered their duffle to tramp the hundred yards up to the station, for they had been in the rear car. In a few minutes they were in the bare little waiting room, in the middle of which a big stove was radiating welcome heat, and exchanging greetings with the night operator, who having wired the arrival and departure of the train was preparing to go home, for there would be no more traffic for many hours. He shook hands warmly with Walter and Hal, whom he recognized at once as Woodcraft Camp boys, was introduced to Sparrer, and jollied Pat on what he was pleased to term his "New York airs." "I reckon your mother is waiting for you, Pat," said he. "I saw a light over at the house when I came along. You're welcome to stay here until daylight, but I expect she's looking for you over there." "I wrote her we'd be there to breakfast, but not to get up any earlier on that account," replied Pat. His eyes danced. "Shure the ould lady thinks her son has been in the hands av the inimy and cannot rest aisy 'til she sees for herself that not a hair av his red head has been left in Noo'Yor-r-k. God bless her. We'll go over there and relieve her mind." In speaking of his mother as the "ould lady" there was nothing disrespectful on the part of Pat. In reality it was a term of endearment. The stars were beginning to pale as the boys made their way in single file along a narrow path through the snow toward the yellow gleam of a light set in the window of one of the rough frame houses that made up the village. Pat led straight for this. "Hello!" exclaimed Upton in surprise. "Have you deserted the old cabin?" "Sure," replied Pat, and there was just a suggestion of pride in his voice. "The mother was a long time between log walls, but now, the saints be praised, she do be living in one of the illigant mansions of Upper Chain, and by that token is a member of the aristocracy. Moved in last fall." By this time they had reached the house and at the sound of voices the door was thrown open and Mrs. Malone stood in the doorway looking out eagerly. It was a warm Irish greeting that the boys received and Hal, who never had met her before, understood where Pat got his humor and ready tongue. He at once dropped into his old brogue entirely and while Mrs. Malone bustled about putting a hot breakfast on the table Pat told her of his adventures in the great city as only he could. From time to time she interrupted with comments so like Pat's own ready repartee that between the two the boys were kept in a gale of laughter. "Eating breakfast by lamplight is a new experience to me," declared Hal as they sat down to bacon, corn bread just from the oven, flapjacks with thick maple syrup, and coffee. "'Tis pwhat yez will be doing every day for the next week, and lucky if yez get the breakfast, as good a wan as this, anyway," declared Pat. They had just finished the meal when Pat's younger brother and two little sisters shyly joined them. They were neatly dressed, and Walter was immensely tickled with Pat's manifest pride in them. It had been decided to spend the day there to prepare for the trip into the woods, and also to give Pat a day at home. They would take the train the next morning over to Lower Chain, a twenty minute run, and from there they would have to depend on their own good legs to take them the twelve miles on the lake to Woodcraft Camp. One of Pat's first inquiries had been as to whether there had been any snow during his absence, and great was his satisfaction to learn that there had not. He explained that that meant clear ice on the lake, for the heavy snows had come early this year, before the lake froze, and they would be able to make practically the whole distance on skates. While Pat was attending to affairs at home the three visitors went out to do the village. The sun was well up and as they stepped out into the clear still air both Hal and Walter paused with a little gasp of surprise and pleasure. This was not the ugly sawmill village of their acquaintance. But for the tall stack of the mill and the whine and scream of the saws there was nothing familiar. It was as if a good fairy had touched the scene with a magic wand and all the sordid ugliness had been transformed to beauty. Over everything lay the white mantle of snow. It half buried the smaller cabins. It hid completely the stumps of the clearings. It had buried the litter of the mill yard. It glittered and sparkled in the rays of the sun. Beyond the clearing the evergreens rose in great pyramids of white. No, Upper Chain was no longer a blot on the landscape. It was beautiful. As for Sparrer, he was dumb. While he could not appreciate the wonder of the transformation he could and did appreciate the wonder of the scene, and for the time being his tongue was tied. From the mill office they called up Woodcraft Camp to tell Doctor Merriam of their arrival and that they would be with him on the following day. "Gee, didn't it seem good to hear the Big Chief's voice again?" said Hal as they went out into the mill to show Sparrer how logs are transformed into boards, timbers and shingles. "Sparrer, to-morrow you are going to meet one of the finest men in the whole world, bar none. He's a great old Scout." Mrs. Malone was naturally disappointed that Pat was not to be home for Christmas, but she said little and busied herself in helping the boys prepare for their holiday. Her motherly Irish soul warmed at once to Sparrer, and she fussed over his outfit and comfort in a way that was new to the youngster, for his own mother, working from daylight to dark and often late into the night, had had little time for mothering. The boys had brought some gifts for the children, and these their mother hid against the arrival of good St. Nick. A part of Sparrer's outfit as a Christmas gift from his comrades had been a warm mackinaw, and to this Mrs. Malone insisted on adding a pair of thick woolen stockings of her own knitting. Pat's contribution was a pair of snow-shoes, which he brought out at the last moment as they were starting for the train, and as he took them a lump rose in the younger lad's throat and cut off speech. But the shine in his eyes expressed more than his tongue could have. Such kindness was a new experience in his life, and he hardly knew how to meet it. The short run by train to Lower Chain was quickly made, and the boys piled out, eager to be on their way. Pat had provided a stout toboggan which showed the effects of long use, and on this he deftly loaded their duffle and supplies, lashing them securely into place. Sparrer watched him with troubled face. Ever since the mention of skates the day before he had worried over that twelve mile trip down the lake. He knew that Upton and Harrison had brought skates, but he had none, and if he had had he couldn't have used them. He had never been on a pair in his life. Skating is not an accomplishment of the lower East Side of New York. So Sparrer had worried. If it had been merely a matter of a twelve mile hike he would have been on edge to show the others that he could keep up, but he knew that with the others on skates for him to try to keep up was as absurd as for a truck to try to keep pace with a racing car, and it hurt his pride to feel that he would be a drag on the others. Hal and Walter already had their skates on and were cutting circles, figure eights and grape-vine twists on the smooth ice. With the fastening of the last lash Pat put on his own skates. "Now, me bantam, get up on that load," he ordered. Sparrer demurred, but the young giant picked him up bodily and plumped him down on a roll of blankets, wrapped him up in a blanket left out for the purpose, ordered him to sit still, with dire threats of what would happen to him if he did not, called to the others to get on to their jobs, and they were off, Hal and Walter with the rope of the toboggan between them pulling, and Pat pushing behind with his hands on Sparrer's shoulders. Before them stretched the gray-white expanse of the lake, and on either side the glistening white shores, now receding as they passed a deep bay, again creeping out in a long point. There was no sound save the sharp ring of the skates and the soft grate of the smoothly slipping toboggan. Past two big summer hotels with blank staring windows, past shuttered and deserted summer camps they sped until all sign of man's handiwork disappeared. The keen air was like wine in their veins and it was hard to believe that the thermometer had registered eighteen below zero that morning, for the air was dry and did not penetrate as would the moisture laden air at home at a temperature many degrees above the zero mark. "I just can't believe that thermometer was on its job," protested Hal, as they stopped for a breathing spell half-way down the lake. "Why, I'm so warm I wish I was rid of this mackinaw." "Me too," added Walter. Pat suddenly whirled Hal around and looked keenly at his left ear. The rim was a dead white. "If you can't believe the thermometer perhaps you can believe this," said he drily as he touched the ear. "What did I tell you about keeping your cap down over your ears? Shure, 'tis a tenderfoot and not a first class Scout at all, at all, thot ye be." "What do you mean?" demanded Hal as he slipped a glove off to feel of the ear. At the look of blank astonishment that swept across his face as he discovered that the edge of his ear was stiff and wholly without feeling the others roared with laughter. "I mean that you're frost-bitten already," replied Pat, "and I hope that this will be a lesson to the whole bunch of you. You may not feel him, but old Jack Frost is right on the job just the same, and it don't do up here to needlessly expose yourself. It is because the air is so dry that you don't feel the frost, but you freeze just the same. We'll run over to that point and thaw you out, and then I guess you'll keep your cap down where it belongs." At the point Pat rubbed the frosted ear vigorously with a handful of snow until the frost was out and for a few minutes Hal danced with the ache of it, while the others grinned. "That's one on me, all right, and you're welcome to laugh, but little Hal Harrison has learned his lesson. No more frost-bites for me, thank you," he growled. "I don't wish you fellows any hard luck, but I hope you'll get a taste of it yourselves just to know what it feels like." Walter and Sparrer took warning from Hal's experience and saw to it that their ears were well covered before they started on. As they drew near the end of the lake Old Baldy and Mount Seward loomed up with a grandeur and forbidding austerity that was almost menacing, and which was yet grandly heroic. The long pier of Woodcraft Camp jutting out into the lake was now clearly visible and on the end of it were two figures waving greetings. "It's the Big Chief and Mother Merriam! Let's give them the old yell!" cried Upton. They stopped and with Upton to lead sent the old Woodcraft yell ringing down the lake--"Whoop-yi-yi-yi! Whoop-yi-yi-yi! Whoop-yi-yi-yi! Woodcraft!" And even as the echoes flung it back from Old Baldy it was returned to them in the mingled voices of a man and a woman. The doctor and Mrs. Merriam were sending them welcome. A few minutes later they reached the pier and were exchanging warm greetings. Sparrer had felt a natural diffidence at the thought of meeting the man of whom he had heard so much, but it vanished in the first hand-clasp and by the time he had reached the snug cabin he felt as if he had always known this great-hearted, kindly man and the sweet-faced woman whom the others called "Mother." In a dim way he understood the loyalty and affection of his comrades for these two who were devoting their lives to the making of strong men from weak boys. CHAPTER VI SNOW-SHOES AND FISH Around the great log fire that night Pat told Doctor Merriam about his trip and his impressions of city life, winding up with the emphatically expressed conviction that while it might be a good place to do business it was no place in which to live, and that he would rather have a cabin in the shadow of Old Baldy than a palace on Riverside Drive. "So you don't envy Hal?" laughed the doctor. "I do not!" roared Pat. "I wouldn't give the poorest muskrat pelt I ever took to change places with him." "Oh, you young savage!" cried the doctor. "Still, I share in a measure your feeling. I have lived in many cities, but you see here I am buried in the woods, and some of my friends wonder why. I'll tell you. It is because here I can live simply, unaffectedly, true to myself and to God. Here," he swept a hand toward the book-lined walls, "are my friends ready to give me of inspiration, comfort, advice, knowledge, whatever I demand or may need. They are not dead things, these books. They are living personalities, which have enriched and are enriching the world. When you boys listen to me you are not listening just to an audible voice. You are listening to an expression of that invisible something that we call the spirit--the true personality. And so it is that the writer of a great or good book never dies. His spiritual expression is there on the printed page just as much as if he were giving expression to it in audible speech. So with all these great and wonderful men and women constantly about me how can I ever be lonely? And then when I step out-of-doors it is directly into the temple of God. His nearness and presence are manifest in every phase of nature. The trees are alive, some of them sleeping, but alive nevertheless, and others not even sleeping. Sometimes I wonder if the very rocks are not alive. The elements seemingly war with one another, but there is nothing mean or petty or base in the mighty struggle, as there invariably is in the conflict of human passions. The Indian sees the Great Spirit in the lightning, and hears him in the rushing wind and the thunder, and is not afraid, but bows in reverence. He has a sense of nearness to the creator and loses it when he is confined in the man-made world of brick and stone and steel and is eager to get back. It is elemental in him. In nature he sees God made manifest. We call him a savage, but I sometimes wonder if he is not more nearly a true child of the Father of all than many so-called civilized men who win the plaudits of the world and seem to forget whence they came and whither they will go. "But I didn't mean to preach a sermon, but just to give you an idea of why Pat and I prefer to be savages, if you please, and spend our lives with nature. Now, Pat, what are your plans? When do you start in for camp? Haven't heard a word since you left from"--he paused at a warning wink from Pat, and then finished--"your partner. Big Jim was down from the lumber camp this week and reported seeing a silver gray. If you could catch a couple of those fellows that problem of going away to school would pretty nearly settle itself." "What's a silver gray?" asked Hal, whose knowledge of fur bearers was rather limited. "A color phase of the common red fox," replied the doctor, "and if not worth its weight in gold it is worth so much that a single skin is often worth twice over the whole of a season's catch of other furs. Why it should be called silver I don't know, for the only silver about it is the tip of the tail. The color is black, and single skins have sold as high as $2,500 and more and $800 to $1,500 is not at all unusual. So valuable are the skins that black fox farming has become an established industry and a pair of black foxes for breeding purposes are worth from $1,000 up. So you see, Jim saw considerable money running loose when he saw that fox." "Phew!" exclaimed Hal with a low whistle of astonishment. "I didn't suppose there was anything on four legs except blooded live stock worth so much money. Wouldn't it be great if Pat could catch three or four this winter!" Pat threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Make it a dozen while you're about it, son," said he. "Don't be so modest. I've lived in these woods some years, but I never yet have seen a live black fox, and I've known of only two being caught. If Jim says he saw one he did. There's nothing the matter with Jim's eyesight. I guess I'll have to have a look around the neighborhood where he saw it. As for our plans, Doctor, we are going to spend to-morrow with you and give these tenderfeet a few lessons on snow-shoes. We'll hit the trail for camp bright and early the next morning." The next day dawned clear and cold and after a hearty breakfast the snow-shoes were brought forth. First Pat explained the tie in common use and showed just how to adjust the rawhide thongs to give free play to the ankles and yet prevent the toes from creeping forward to the crossbars. With the thongs properly adjusted the shoes could be easily kicked off or put on again without untying the knots. "The chief thing to remember," said he, "is to take a long stride with the toes pointed straight ahead. If you take a short step you will be almost certain to step on the tail of one shoe with the toe of the other and over you go. Now I'll show you how, and you fellows can practice a while out here in front where the snow has been cleared away until you get the hang of the thing. Then we'll make a little trip out into the woods and visit some of the old places, so you can see how different they are from what they were last summer." "I have a suggestion to make," said the doctor. "While Mother puts up a lunch, you get these youngsters so that they can keep right side up. Then we'll all take a short hike and show Muldoon how real woodmen can have a hot meal when there is three feet of snow in the woods." "Hurrah!" shouted Hal. "That will be bully! Come on, Walt, and let's see your paces." For the next fifteen minutes the three boys tramped back and forth in front of the cabin, the shoes clacking merrily amid a running fire of chaff and comment from Pat. Once Sparrer stepped on one of Upton's shoes and sent him headlong, to the huge delight of the others. Again Hal did just what Pat had warned them against, took a short step and tripped himself up. But at the end of a quarter of an hour they had pretty well "got the hang of the thing," as Pat expressed it, and were eager to try it on deep snow. "There's nothing to it," declared Hal. "I thought there were something to learn, like skating, but this is a cinch. I could keep it up all day," and by way of emphasizing his remarks once more tripped himself up, and sat down abruptly. "Sure, it's no trick at all," chaffed Walter. "When you can't keep up sit down, and when you're down stay down. There's nothing to it." For Hal, forgetting the width of his present underpinning, had no sooner scrambled to his feet than he had gone down again, because of the overlapping webs. The doctor and Mrs. Merriam now joined them, for the latter was an expert on shoes and had no mind to miss the outing. Pat and the doctor swung to their backs the packs wherein were the supplies and dishes, and they were off, the doctor in the lead, Mrs. Merriam next, then Sparrer, Hal, Upton and Pat in the rear to keep the tenderfeet from straggling and to pull them out of the snow, he explained. For a short distance a broken trail was followed. Then the doctor abruptly swung off among the trees where the snow lay deep and unbroken. The three novices soon found that progress here was a very different matter from walking on the comparatively hard surface of the packed trail. The shoes sank in perhaps a couple of inches and it was necessary to lift the feet more, to step high, which put more of a strain on the muscles. Also there was a tendency to step higher than was at all in good form, and to shorten the stride by so doing, losing the smooth easy forward roll from the hips. Still, all things considered, the three novices were doing themselves proud until in an unguarded moment Hal stepped on the stub of a broken branch of a fallen tree buried in the snow. It caught in the tail of the shoe just enough to break his stride. He took a short step to catch his balance, stumbled and took a beautiful header. At Pat's roar of laughter the others turned to see two big webs wildly waving above the snow and nothing more of the unfortunate Hal. Now being plunged head first into deep snow with a pair of snow-shoes on your feet is a good deal like being thrown into the water with a life preserver fast to your feet--you can't get them down. For a few moments the others howled with glee as they watched the frantically kicking legs and listened to the smothered appeals for help from the luckless victim. Then Pat reached out and loosened the shoes, gripped Hal by the ankles and drew him forth, red in the face from his exertions and spitting out snow. He looked so wholly bewildered and withal so chagrined and foolish that he was greeted with a fresh peal of laughter, to which he responded with a sheepish grin as he tried to get the snow out of his neck and from up his sleeves. "There's nothing to it, nothing at all!" jeered Walter. "I didn't know but you thought you heard that black fox down there and were trying to get him," said Pat. At that instant Upton involuntarily stepped back, a thing for which snow-shoes were never designed, and a second later had measured his length in the snow. Falling at full length he did not disappear as Hal had done, but he was hardly less helpless. Every effort to help himself by putting his hands down was futile. He simply buried his arms to the shoulders in the yielding snow without finding anything on which to get a purchase. Hal was jubilant. "When you're down stay down!" he yelped. "Laugh at me, will you?" Walter had by this time managed to kick his shoes off and once free of these was soon on his feet and was enjoying the joke as much as any one. Both he and Hal were up to their hips in the snow, for here among the evergreens it had not packed and flounder as they would they could not get out. The doctor's eyes twinkled as he picked up Hal's shoes and handed them to him. "Well, boys," said he, "it's high time we were hitting the trail again. Suppose you put your shoes on, and we'll make up for lost time." Hal took the shoes and then looked helplessly across at Walter, who had just secured his, and it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the doctor's remark was not so guileless as it seemed. "How in thunder are we going to?" he demanded, vainly trying to force a shoe down to meet an upraised foot half-way, in the doing of which he once more lost his balance. "I thought I showed you fellows just how to put your shoes on this morning. A good Scout ought not to have to be shown twice how to do a simple thing like that," said Pat, without cracking a smile. "What kind of Scouts are you, anyway, crying for help the first time you tumble in a little bit of snow?" "Who's crying for help?" demanded Upton, vainly striving to get a shoe down where he could get his foot into the fastening. "I wouldn't take any help now if I thought I'd got to stay here all day. Take that and that!" He began to dig furiously with the shoe, throwing the snow with malice aforethought full in Pat's face. Hal instantly took the cue and there was a hasty retreat on the part of their tormentors, in the midst of which Sparrer came to grief and had his turn at the snow-shoer's baptism. In a few minutes Walter had dug away enough snow to get his shoes under him and walked forth in triumph, followed by Hal. Sparrer, anxious to prove himself a good sport, refused all aid. Being small and light he had not sunk in as the others had and managed to get one shoe under him. With this for a support he soon had the other fastened. It was the work of a moment to adjust the first one and he was ready to take his place in line. There were no more mishaps and as they tramped on through the great still woodland the wonder and the beauty of it silenced them, for it seemed like a vast cathedral in which the human voice would be a profanation of the solemn hush. Upton knew every foot within a radius of two miles of Woodcraft Camp, and for five miles in the direction in which they were heading, and yet not even to Sparrer did the surroundings seem more strange, such is the alchemy of the snow king to make the familiar unfamiliar, the commonplace beautiful. So it was that when at the end of three miles they emerged on the shore of a frozen sheet of water Walter at first failed utterly to recognize it, and it was not until Pat made some reference to the huge pickerel Walter had caught during his first summer at Woodcraft that it dawned on him that this was the very setback where he had discovered Pat's secret fishing grounds and on the shore of which he had given Pat his first lesson in boxing and in the meaning of the word honor. "I've come over here because Mother insists that a dinner in the woods is no more complete without a fish course than it would be in a New York hotel, and because to tell the truth I have a hankering for a taste of fresh fish myself. Pat, I hope that spring is still open where you put the minnows last fall. Suppose you take this net and pail and see what you can find." He opened a small folding net as he was speaking. "I take it for granted that you youngsters have your belt axes with you, as good Scouts in the woods should. One of you can run over to that alder thicket and cut a dozen straight sticks about three feet long and as thick as my forefinger. The other two can chop holes in the ice. They don't need to be very big, you know, not over a foot across. I suggest that you scatter them pretty well. It adds to the fun to have them some distance apart, and it multiplies the chances of a good catch. While you are doing that I will start a fire and get things started for lunch." Sparrer, having no axe, but a stout Scout knife, volunteered to cut the alder saplings while Hal and Walter attended to the holes in the ice. Hal was radiant. This was one of the things he had counted on, and he had brought from New York a dozen type, as the modern tip-ups for fishing through the ice are called. But when they had started out that morning he had not dreamed that he would have a chance to use them on a snow-shoe trip, and so they were neatly rolled in his duffle bag at the camp. "Wonder what kind of a rig the Big Chief has got, and how he's going to use those sticks," said he to Upton as he came up to where Walter was making the ice fly in glittering chips. "Don't know, but whatever it is you can bet your last dollar it is all right," replied Walter. "How many holes have you cut?" "Five; I'm going to chop one more over there toward the north shore. How many have you?" replied Hal. "Six. That ought to be a good place over there, and that will make the dozen. Here come Sparrer and the Big Chief, and I guess we'll soon see what the idea is. Pat must have found the spring open, for Sparrer has the pail." The guess was a good one, for when he peeped in the pail Walter found that it contained a couple of dozen minnows. Together the three walked over to where Hal was just finishing the last hole. The doctor took from under his arm a bundle of short pieces of lath, each about eighteen inches long, tapering toward one end, to which was fastened a bit of red flannel. Two inches from the other end was a hole big enough for one of the alder sticks to pass through freely. Fastened close to the end, and neatly wound around it, was a short length of stout line on the end of which was a hook with wire snell. Unwinding one of these lines the doctor passed one of the alder sticks through the hole in the lath, baited the hook with a lively minnow and dropped it through the hole in the ice. The alder stick was placed across this so that the lath came in the middle and lay on the ice at right angles. A pull on the line would drag the end of the lath down, making it stand upright with its little red signal on the end, and that was all there was to it. It was simple in the extreme, but quite as effective as Hal's more elaborate type could have been, as was presently demonstrated. They were just preparing to set the last tip-up when Hal, glancing over to the first one set, saw the red signal and with a wild yell of "We've got one! We've got one!" started for it at top speed. The others paused to see what the result would be, and saw him yank out a flapping prize. "It's a beaut!" he panted as he rejoined them, holding out a handsome pickerel. "Bet it weighs five pounds if it weighs an ounce. Say, this is great!" The fish was already stiff, but much to their surprise the doctor told them it was not dead, frozen fish often retaining life for some time after being taken from the water. He now left the tip-ups to the care of the three boys, warning them to make frequent rounds of the holes to break the ice as it formed and keep the lines free. The fish he took with him to where Mother Merriam was busy beside the fire, for which Pat was chopping wood. Pickerel were numerous and hungry, to judge by the way they bit. It was novel and exciting sport to the three city boys. There would be a yell of "There's one!" and then a wild race to see who could reach it first. At first they almost invariably forgot in their excitement to take along the bait pail, which meant a second trip for one of them to rebait the hook. Sometimes the signal would drop before they reached it and they knew that the fish was off. Several times there were two signals waving at once and one time there were five. By the time the doctor's welcome hail of "Din-ner!" came ringing across the ice the bait pail was empty and they had fourteen fish, none under three pounds, and from that up to six. With the first one caught they had a total of fifteen. The doctor smiled as he scanned the eager faces of the young fishermen and then looked at the long row of fish laid out on the snow. "Enough is plenty," said he, "and I guess this will do for to-day. We want to leave some for the boys next summer. We'll take the lines up after dinner." How good that dinner did smell to the hungry boys with appetites whetted by exercise in the keen air! The snow had been shoveled away nearly to the ground for the bed logs for the fire and ample space cleared in front and spread with balsam boughs on which to sit. There was a steaming kettle of pea soup and a pot of hot chocolate. The pickerel had been split and, broiled in halves pinned to pieces of hemlock bark, stood before the fire and basted with bacon drippings. There was a venison steak done to a turn, for the doctor had hung a deer in his ice house at the end of the open season. There were potatoes boiled in their jackets. There was a brown johnny-cake baked in a reflector oven, and to cap all a plate of the doughnuts for which Mother Merriam was famous. "And you call this a lunch!" cried Walter when he had eaten until he had to let out his belt. "No wonder it required two packs to bring it here. Well, is there anything to beat this in New York?" "Not in a tousand years. Oi'm going to run away and live here," declared Sparrer, and while the others laughed he stared with dreamy eyes into the leaping flames of the huge fire Pat had built, and who shall say but that in them he saw the symbols of new hopes and ambitions springing from the colorless, sordid drudgery which until this time had been his life. After the meal was finished and the dishes washed there was an hour of story-telling by the doctor, ending with the singing of America under the towering snow-laden spruces and then the homeward trip. Thanks to their experiences on the outward trip and the watchfulness resulting therefrom there were no further mishaps, and when they reached camp and kicked off the big webs once more the boys were ready to vote their first day in winter woods all that they had dreamed it would be and more. Also they were quite willing to second and carry by unanimous vote the motion that they seek their beds early in preparation for an early start the next day. CHAPTER VII ON THE TRAIL Day was just breaking when the boys bade farewell to Doctor and Mother Merriam, and with a hot breakfast under their belts started for the trapping camp. As yet Pat had given no hint as to where it was located, and Walter and Hal, respecting his reticence, forbore to ask questions. Walter did venture to ask if they would reach there before dark. "No," replied Pat. "We'll have to make a camp to-night," and advanced no further information. All their duffle and the supplies which Pat was taking in were loaded on the toboggan, and to this Pat had rigged a sort of harness so that two walking single file could drag it. This relieved them of packs. Walter and Hal each carried his rifle on the chance of picking up a rabbit on the way. The snow-shoes were slung over their backs, Pat explaining that for a time they would follow a broken out lumber trail and it would be easier walking without the shoes than on them. It was when they turned into this trail that the first suspicion of where they were bound for flashed through Upton's mind, but he held his peace and settled to the task of doing his share of the pulling. And this proved to be no easy matter. The trail was but roughly broken out by the passage of lumber sleds, and it soon became necessary for one to steady the load to keep it from capsizing. It was slow, toilsome work, and when at the end of ten miles Pat called a halt for a rest while he made four cups of hot pea soup by the simple process of melting snow and crumbling into it a roll of erbswurst the others were ready to declare that they had come twenty miles. As he drank his soup and munched a cracker Walter scanned his surroundings closely. Presently he discovered what he sought, a partially obliterated blaze on a big tree just beyond and to the right of where they were squatting. "I've got you now, old Mr. Foxy!" he cried. "This mysterious camp of yours is the cabin in Smugglers' Hollow, and we're going to camp to-night at Little Goose Pond. More than that, your partner is Alec Smith. Why didn't I guess it before? Own up now, old Crafty!" Quite unabashed, Pat bestowed a grin on Upton. "Three bull's-eyes," he commented. "I've been wondering how long it would take you fellows to catch the scent. Began to think I'd have to rub your noses in it." "Hurrah!" interrupted Hal, who had been an eager listener. "I never thought of the Hollow, and yet there is no place I should like to go to so much as that. Say, Walt, these heads of ours sure are thick. Don't you remember that Pat told us that first night in New York that Alec was trapping, and the last he heard of him he was over in the Hollow? Well, we'd make good detectives, we would. I've done a lot of wondering about Pat's partner and what sort of a fellow he would prove to be and whether or not we'd like him. And to think it's Alec! If you weren't such a young and tender innocent I'd throw you in the snow and give you a shampoo. What do you say, Walt, to doing it anyway?" "Come on!" cried Pat, "the two of you, or all three!" Upton shook his head mournfully. "I'd like to, but it wouldn't be right. He isn't as big as the two of us, and so it wouldn't do at all. It would be the same as a big fellow picking on a little one. You know I thrashed him once for doing that very thing, and now if we should turn around and do it I'm afraid the force of my beautiful example would be wholly destroyed. I tell you what, you do it alone, Hal." "He's too small," declared Hal. "That's why I wanted you to help. Then my conscience would be only half guilty. I'm going to let him off this time with just a snowball." Suiting his action to the word he landed a big soft snowball full on the side of Pat's head. Pat made a rush for him, but Walter thrust out a foot and sent him headlong into the snow, and before he could regain his feet Hal was on him endeavoring to wash his face with snow. In a second there was the liveliest kind of a snow fight, Upton and Sparrer yelling encouragement with absolute impartiality. It ended with Hal's smothered cry of "enough" and Pat's allowing him up just in time to see Walter and then Sparrer unceremoniously pitched into the snow, by way of showing that all Scouts are equal, Pat explained, as he rubbed their faces. Panting and glowing from the frolic they put out the fire built to heat their soup and were ready to hit the trail again. From this point on the snow-shoes were an absolute necessity, for they left the lumber trail for another ten miles through the woods. This time they were not dependent on the blazed trees as they had been when they went that way in the fall, for some one had been over the trail since the last snowfall, evidently coming out from Little Goose. Pat studied the tracks for a few minutes. Then his face cleared. "It was Big Jim," said he. "I wonder now if he took a look in the Hollow to see how Alec was getting on. He may have been over to the Gillicuddy camp, the trail from which comes in at the pond, you remember, but I have an idea he swung around to see Alec. I wonder now where he saw that fox. I just took it for granted that it was around where he is cutting and didn't ask any questions for fear of letting the coon out of the hole about where we were going. Then when I was alone with the doctor we both forgot all about Jim, there were so many other things to talk about. It may be that he saw that silver gray somewhere along this trail. We'll keep our eyes peeled for signs." "How do you know that Big Jim made these tracks?" asked Walter, who had been studying them closely, hoping to find out for himself the clue which made Pat so sure of his man, but unable to see anything distinctive save that they were of odd shape, being nearly round. "By a combination of two things--the shape of the tracks and the length of the stride," replied Pat. "Jim always uses bear's-paw shoes, and I don't believe there are more than half a dozen other pairs in this neck of woods. Then look at the length of the stride. It's a good three inches longer than mine, and there's nothing dainty about mine. There isn't a man in the woods who could take that stride and hold it but Jim Everly. So I'm as sure it was Big Jim as I am that if we don't get a hustle on we'll have to camp in the snow, and it'll be a lot more comfortable at the pond. We've got another long hike to-morrow, and we want to be in shape to do it." For some miles the going was fairly level, and once they had got into the swing of the thing the boys found it comparatively easy. There were two or three mishaps, but these were counted part of the sport. About two miles from their destination they came to a spur of a mountain over which the trail led. In fact, it was the very spur on the other side of which Spud Ely had overrun the trail and got lost the fall previous. Pat called a halt. "It's going to be no small job to get this load up there," said he. "We can go around the spur, but to do that will add a good three miles, and in the valley it will be dark before we can reach camp. What do you think? Are you game to try the hill?" "The hill! The hill! Follow me, comrades, up yonder heights, and drive the enemy from their guns!" shouted Hal, striking a heroic attitude and pretending to flourish an imaginary sword. "Where lives the Scout, by difficulties pressed, Who will admit a chicken heart possessed? Who will not rather bravely face the wust And do and dare and conquer or go bust!" "Bravo!" cried Walter. "When dares our comrade coin and use a word like wust We'll take his dare and see who'll scale yon hillside fust! Lead on, Mr. Malone. We'll make it or die in the attempt." "All right, me brave Scouts," replied Pat. "Up we go! 'Tis a chance to see the kind of stuff that's in the likes of you, for 'twill be no child's play getting this load up there. And when we get up there where you see the bare rock watch your footing. That rock is slippery, and a fall there would be serious." The next half hour was one of panting, sweating toil. In the first place, as soon as the grade began to rise sharply the boys found that the only way they could progress was by digging their toes into the snow through the toe holes in the shoes, which brought an added strain on the already weary muscles of the calves. It would have been bad enough in view of their inexperience if they had had nothing else to consider, but there was that heavy load, and it grew heavier every minute. As they got higher where the wind had had full sweep there was comparatively little snow, and in some places the bare rock was exposed. Here they found it easier going without the snow-shoes than with them. Hauling and pushing they worked the toboggan up until at last the spur was crossed. "Gee whiz!" exclaimed Hal. "I'm sweating like a butcher. That's what I call work." "And we're doing it for fun," added Upton. "Funny what a difference the view-point makes. I suppose it's all in the way you look at it whether work is fun or fun is work. I can tell you one thing, and that is that I for one am mighty glad that there isn't another one of those things to cross to-day. I'm afraid I'd lie down and holler quits. What are you rubbing your legs for, Sparrer?" "Just feeling of 'em to get wise if dey's all dere," replied Sparrer. The remainder of the trail to Little Goose was comparatively easy and they reached the familiar lean-to just as dusk was settling down, and there was more than one sigh of thankfulness as the shoes were kicked off for the last time. "I'm tired enough to drop right down and go to sleep in the snow, but my little tummy won't let me," confessed Hal. "Ring for the waiter, please, and have him bring me a planked steak with half a chicken on the side, grapefruit salad, and a pot of coffee with real cream. Wake me up when it comes." "Nothing doing," declared Pat. "This isn't the Waldorf Astoria, but Hotel de Shivers; heat and food supplied only to those who pay in labor, all bills payable in advance." "That's me!" Hal seated himself on the pile of stuff and gave vent to an exaggerated sigh of contentment. "Haven't I labored all day? Tell the bellhop to take my stuff to my room. I think I'll have my dinner served there." He ended with a grunt, the result of a sharp poke in the pit of his stomach from an axe handle. "To turn on the heat with," explained Pat sweetly, thrusting the axe into Hal's hands, and pointing to a pile of birch logs. Hal got to his feet with a groan and a grimace and followed Upton who, with another axe, had already started for the wood-pile. "You're a slave driver! That's what you are, a flint-hearted slave driver," he grumbled, albeit with a twinkle that belied his words. "My tummy, oh, my tummy! It gives me such a pain! I wonder will it ever Feel really full again!" "That depends on how soon you get that wood split," grinned Pat. "If you don't get a move on it will be so dark you can't see what you are doing, and I give you fair warning--no wood, no dinner." "Let it never be said I am ever a shirk When a dinner depends on the way that I work," retorted Hal, and forthwith fell to his task with a vim that put Upton on his mettle to break even with him, for Hal was no mean axeman, as Pat well knew. The handling of an axe was one of the things which Hal had learned, and learned well during his three summers in the woods. To the thorough woodsman an axe is a complete tool-chest. With it he can do almost anything that needs to be done from the cutting of fire-wood to the building of a log cabin. Sparrer was put to work pulling down the hemlock boughs which had been piled in front of the lean-to to keep out the snow, while Pat unpacked things, started the fire and made preparations for the evening meal. This was Sparrer's first experience in a lean-to, and when the boughs were out of the way he examined it with interest. The back and two ends were of logs, the front being open its whole width. The roof was of big sheets of hemlock bark laid overlapping and with a sharp pitch to the back. On the ground about seven feet from the rear wall two six-foot logs about eight inches through had been staked end to end so that they reached from one side wall to the other. Midway a similar log had been laid across to the rear wall, making two pens, as it were. These had been filled with small balsam boughs thrust at an angle, butts down, so that they "shingled," and packed closely. The result was two beds fifteen inches thick and so springy and comfortable that it made one sleepy just to look at them. It was perhaps three feet from the beds to the open front. In this space at one end was a table two feet square made by driving four stakes into the ground and nailing on a top made of a flattened sheet of cedar bark. A little snow had sifted in through the protecting boughs and this Sparrer swept out with a fir bough for a broom. Pat, meanwhile, had a kettle of snow melting for water for soup and was mixing up a johnny-cake. The reflector oven was set before the fire to get heated and while Sparrer helped bring in the wood which the two choppers had split Pat sliced bacon and put it on to parboil in the frying-pan, having melted snow to make water enough to cover it. "Wot youse doing that for?" asked Sparrer. "Oi thought youse always fried bacon." "To get some of the salt out of it, son," replied Pat. "I'll fry it all right when the time comes. Just you lay out the plates and cups where they will keep warm." Sparrer ranged the four agate-ware plates, which were really shallow pans so that soup could be served in them as well as dry food, against a stick where they would get warm but not too hot to handle. The erbswurst was crumbled into the now boiling water, a handful of julienne, or evaporated vegetables cut in thin strips, was added, the pan of johnny-cake was put in the oven and the four boys gathered around to watch and wait with many a hungry sniff. The soup was soon ready, and Pat announced the first course. How good it did taste as they sat on their blanket rolls near enough to the fire to enjoy its warmth, each with a pan of the hot soup on his knees. Before this was finished Pat poured off the water from the bacon and that was soon sizzling and throwing off that most delicious of all odors to a hungry woodsman. "Course number two!" called Pat as he apportioned the brown slices among the four plates and then drew forth the johnny-cake, baked to a turn, a rich even brown all over with a heart of gold, the very sight of which brought forth gasps of delighted anticipation. "What's course number three, Mr. Chef?" asked Walter as he prepared to sink his teeth into his quarter of the corn bread. "Something worth saving your appetite for," replied Pat, re-greasing the pan and pouring in the remainder of his batter for another cake. He poured off all but a little of the bacon fat from the big frying-pan, and then dropped into it a slice of meat which he had kept hidden under a towel. "Venison, by all that's great!" shouted Hal as the meat began to sizzle on the hot iron. "Why didn't you tell us you had venison, so that the thought of it would have helped us up that pesky hill?" "Tis the docthor's contribution to the joy av living," responded Pat, deftly flipping the steak over to sear the other side. "But I mistrust yez have eaten so much already thot 'tis not the loikes av yez will be wanting more than maybe a wee bite. But never ye moind. 'Tis meself will do justice to the docthor and his gift." "Don't you believe it!" roared the three in unison. The steak and the second johnny-cake were done together and were finished together to the last scrap and crumb, and along with them went hot chocolate. There was a general loosening of belts, and then Hal broke the silence of contentment which had fallen on the little group. "My tummy, oh, my tummy! It has now another pain! I wish that it were empty That it might be filled again," said he, gazing mournfully into his empty plate. "Them's my sentiments too," said Walter, when the laugh that followed had subsided. "But any fellow who springs a thing like that has to pay for it. I move that Hal wash the dishes. All in favor say aye." Three ayes made the woods ring. "All opposed say no!" Hal's "No!" was shouted at the top of his lungs. "'Tis a vote," declared Walter. "Mr. Harrison will now attend to his duties and carry out the action of this assembly." After the dishes were out of the way Pat built a huge fire with three great backlogs one above another and slanting back to keep them from rolling down. They were held in place by braces at the back. In front of these smaller logs were piled, the backlogs reflecting the heat forward into the lean-to. Then the blankets were spread on the rough beds, and with all their clothing on, including moccasins, four weary young woodsmen turned in for the night. Pat was asleep almost as soon as he touched the bed, and Hal and Upton were not far behind him. But to Sparrer, tired as he was, the novelty of his surroundings was too great for immediate sleep, and for a long time he lay staring out at the flickering flames and above them at the brilliant stars, his active imagination keyed to a high pitch. It was like fairy-land to him. Nothing seemed real. He had read and heard of these things, but that he, Eddie Muldoon, could actually be experiencing them, sleeping in a real hunter's camp in the dead of winter, tramping on snow-shoes through great lonely forests, eating such meals as he had never known before in all his short life--meals cooked over open fires in the great wonderful out-of-doors, couldn't be. And yet here he was. The fire died down until only a deep glow, a warm ruddy glow which grew less and less, lighted the rough interior, and before it had quite vanished Eddie had slipped from the real which seemed unreal to the unreal which so often seems real in the realm of dreams. Three times during the night Pat crawled out of his blankets to put wood on the fire, but the other sleepers knew nothing of it. They slept the deep heavy sleep of healthy, tired boys and it mattered not to them that the temperature dropped until the very trees cracked and split with the cold. They were as warm and comfortable as if in their own beds at home. Overhead the stars shone down on a great white world wherein the fire made but a flickering point of yellow light, and wherein was no sound save the heavy breathing of the sleepers, the sputter of hot coals snapping off into the snow, the occasional crack of a frost-riven tree, and the soft stamp of a snow-shoe rabbit gazing wonder-eyed at the dying embers. CHAPTER VIII ALEC HINTS AT DARK THINGS Hal was willing to swear that he had not been asleep more than ten minutes when he was awakened by the beating of a pan with a stick and Pat's roar of "Breakfast! All hands out for breakfast!" He rolled over sleepily so as to look out. Pat was laughing at him. Beyond the firelight and from the tiny strip of sky above the dark tree tops he could see a few pale stars blinking at him weakly. "Aw, Pat, that's no joke. You may think it's funny, but it isn't," he growled, and there was a note of real anger this time. "What?" demanded Pat with a deep throaty chuckle. "You know what--waking a feller up when he's just got to sleep and is dead tired and got a hard day coming!" flared Hal. "Aisy, aisy, son! Do ye think I would be frying bacon in the middle of the night for a joke? 'Tis meself has been up this good hour and 'tis six o'clock this very minute. 'Twill be daylight by the toime we be ready to start," returned Pat good-humoredly. Hal had it on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn't believe it, but by this time he was sufficiently awake to smell the bacon and hear it sizzle and sputter in the pan. Moreover, his companions were already kicking off their blankets, and he had the good sense to realize that Pat meant just what he said. Still, it was hard to believe, and it was not until he had reached for his watch that he was convinced that it really was time to prepare for another day's tramp. Then he hastily crawled from his blankets, his good humor fully restored, for Hal was a good sport, and there was nothing of the shirk about him. "I beg pardon, Pat," said he, as he joined the two shivering figures crowding as close to the fire as they could comfortably get while they watched Pat stir up the pancake batter. "I honestly thought you were up to one of your old tricks and putting something across on us. Doesn't seem as if I'd more than closed my eyes. Phew! but it's cold!" It was. It was the hour just before the break of day when, perhaps because the blood has not yet begun to circulate freely, the cold seems to have reached its maximum of strength. Beyond the narrow radius of the glow from the fire it seemed to fairly bite to the bone. "Get busy with the axe and you'll forget it," advised Pat, adding, "It is the courtesy of the woods to leave a little wood ready for the next fellow who may hit camp late, as we did yesterday. You'll have just about time enough to get warmed up before these flapjacks are ready." "Good idea!" cried Walter, seizing an axe. "Come on, you fellows! Sparrer can lug it in as we split it." At the end of ten minutes Pat called them to eat, and by that time they had forgotten the cold, for they were in a warm glow from exercise. "I'll bet it was cold in the night," said Upton as they sat down to bacon, flapjacks and hot chocolate. "Right you are, my boy," replied Pat. "When I got up the second time it was cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey." "When you got up the second time! What in the dickens were you up for?" exclaimed Hal. "To kape yez from freezing to death," grinned Pat. "Did yez think the fire would feed itself?" "I didn't think anything about it," confessed Hal. "Gee, it must have been cold when you crawled out to start things this morning! Makes me shiver to think of it. I guess the rest of us are the lucky little boys to have everything started for us and a ripping good fire going before we turned out. Do you always get up before daylight in the woods, Pat?" "Sure," replied Pat. "It's nothing when you're used to it. Most trappers are on the trail by break of day. The days are all too short in winter, anyway, especially when you've got a long trap line to work over. I expect Alec is on the line now. He'll be trying to get through early to-day so as to have things ready for us when we reach the cabin. It's going to be a stiff pull to-day for you fellows, and the sooner we get started the better." As soon as breakfast was finished the toboggan was packed, the brush piled once more in front of the lean-to and the fire put out by the simple process of throwing snow on it. The cold light of the stars had given way to the colder gray of the dawn as they once more slipped on the shoes and hit the trail around Little Goose Pond. It was then that the three novices realized that they were indeed tenderfeet. They had not gone half a mile before it seemed as if every muscle from their thighs down was making individual and vigorous protest. But they were game, and if Pat guessed their feelings it was not from any word which they let drop. Gradually the stiffness wore off, and at the end of a couple of hours they were traveling with some degree of comfort. Pat purposely set an easy pace for the first few miles and he kept a watchful eye on Sparrer, for whom he felt personally responsible. As a matter of fact the youngster was standing it even better than the other two. For one thing, he was considerably lighter, and his shoes bore him up better than was the case with his companions. In places where the snow was packed he did not sink in at all, whereas the others broke through slightly, and on soft snow he did not begin to sink as far as they did. Of course this meant far less strain on his muscles, and greater ease in walking. As they rounded the end of the pond Pat pointed out the place where he had been mistaken for a deer by two city boys and got a bullet through his hat. A little beyond this point they saw the first sign of life since they had entered the woods, the tracks of a hare or snow-shoe rabbit, and with them other tracks which at first glance all but Pat mistook for those of another rabbit. "You fellows wait here a minute," said he and followed the trail into a thicket of young hemlocks. A few minutes later he called to them to join him. They found him at the farther side of the thicket. At his feet the snow had been considerably disturbed, and there were some blood-stains and torn scraps of white fur. Beyond a single trail led to the foot of a tree and there ended. "Marten," explained Pat briefly in response to the looks of inquiry. "He ran Mr. Longlegs down here, ate his dinner and took to the trees. I've had a hunch that there were marten in this neck of woods, but haven't had a chance to trap them yet." Later they put up a flock of spruce grouse, but it was out of season and the boys had too much respect for the spirit as well as the letter of the law to be even tempted to shoot. After the noon lunch Pat quickened the pace somewhat. The temperature had moderated rapidly and the sky was overcast. "It's a weather breeder, and we're in for more snow," said Pat as he scanned the sky with some appearance of anxiety. "I don't like the looks of it. We want to reach the cabin before the storm breaks, and we've got to hit it up faster in order to do it. How are your legs?" "Still doing business," replied Hal. "The stiffness is out, but I guess I won't object to reaching that little old cabin. How about you, Walt?" "Same here," replied Upton. "I'm game for the rest of the distance, but the cabin will look good to me, all right, all right. Hope Alec will have dinner ready. I've no sooner eaten than I'm hungry again." "My tummy, oh, my tummy!" began Hal, but Pat cut him short with the order to fall in, and started off at a pace which left Hal no breath to waste on doggerel. They now buckled down to the trail in earnest. Pat's fears proved well grounded, for they were still some three miles from the cabin when the first needle-like particles began to hiss through trees and sting their faces. By the time they entered the pass to Smugglers' Hollow the tracks of Big Jim had been entirely obliterated and Pat was holding the trail by the blazed trees, a feat by no means easy because of the difficulty of looking ahead in the face of the storm. In the narrow pass they stopped for a few minutes for a breathing spell. There the force of the storm was broken, but when they emerged into the Hollow they found that they must force their way into the very teeth of it. The wind had risen, and it drove the fine icy particles with a force that almost cut the exposed skin. The blinding cloud swirled about them and completely hid their surroundings. Pat, in the lead, partly broke the force of the storm for those behind. It seemed to them as if he must be going by blind instinct, but if he was he had a dogged confidence that was at least reassuring. At last when it seemed to the three city lads that they simply could not push on another foot Pat stopped and raised a warning hand. "Listen!" said he. With straining ears they listened, but for a couple of minutes heard nothing. Then seemingly out of the heart of the storm there came a faint "Hello-o!" "Alec," said Pat briefly. "He's getting worried." Together they gave an answering shout, but the wind seemed to snatch the sound from their lips and whirl it behind them. "No use," said Pat. "Wind's the wrong way, and we better save our breath. We'll need it. It isn't far now, and he'll keep yelling to guide us." Once more they buckled down to the task in hand. The few minutes' respite had eased the weary muscles, and the sound of Alec's voice was wonderfully stimulating. Fifteen minutes later, panting and gasping, powdered with snow from head to feet, they stumbled up to the cabin just as Alec Smith threw open the door to renew his signals. For a second he stared, then a look of intense relief swept across his rugged features. [Illustration: ONCE MORE THEY BUCKLED DOWN TO THE TASK] "Glory be!" he cried, springing forward and unceremoniously shoving the exhausted boys into the cabin. "I was feared that ye would be having to spend the night in a snowdrift. Did ye no hear me shouting?" Pat nodded as he sank on to a stool, panting for breath. "We heard you all right, Alec, but we couldn't make you hear us because the wind was the wrong way. Besides, we didn't have any breath to spare." But Alec wasn't listening. He was delightedly shaking hands with Walter and Hal and helping them to strip off their mackinaws, not forgetting Sparrer, whose presence was a surprise, Pat having sent no warning of this addition to the party. "My, but ye be a sight for sore eyes!" he declared as he bustled about preparing hot chocolate and in other ways striving to make his guests comfortable. "Saving Big Jim, who spent one night here, I haven't laid eyes on a living soul since Pat left, and that was three weeks gone, though I mistrust that there be others no so very far away." Pat looked up quickly. "What's that?" he demanded sharply. Alec's face clouded. "I've seen signs which I dinna like. I'll be telling ye more aboot it after dinner," said he briefly. "And the catch since I've been away?" asked Pat. "Is no what it should be. There's na doot aboot that; it's no what it should be." The face of the young Scotchman darkened still more. Pat flashed him a look of understanding. "We'll talk that over by and by," said he. "Just now we're half famished. My, but that stew smells good. I'll unpack while you are getting the stuff ready. With that toboggan in here there isn't room to turn around." The toboggan had been dragged in when they first arrived and it occupied most of the available room. Walter helped him unload, piling the stuff on one of the bunks for the time being. Presently Alec called for their eating outfit, confessing that his establishment didn't possess dishes enough for so many. At length he announced dinner ready and bade the four draw up to the little rough deal table spread with a piece of white oilcloth. For seats there were two five-foot benches made by splitting a log, smoothing the flat sides and inserting four stout birch legs in the convex side of each. These were drawn up on either side of the table, and at one end Alec drew up an empty box for his seat. Alec had, as Walter expressed it, laid himself out on that dinner. There was venison stew with dumplings, and a rich thick gravy. There were baking-powder biscuits as light as feathers. There were baked potatoes and canned string beans. And last but not least there was a great brown loaf of hot gingerbread. "How's your tummy now?" asked Walter as Hal at last was forced to refuse a third helping of stew. "It's too small," Hal complained. "I want more. I want a lot more, and I can't eat another mouthful." Pat insisted on helping Alec do up the dishes and flatly refused to allow any one else take a hand, so the others spent the time in stowing away their duffle and inspecting the interior of the cabin. To Sparrer it was, of course, all new and strange. As for that, it was hardly less so to Harrison and Upton. When they had last seen it it had been windowless, doorless and the roof at the rear had been but temporarily patched. Now there was a stout door. Four small windows had been fitted into the openings left for this purpose. The temporary repairs which Pat had made on the roof at the rear end had been replaced with a permanent roof. In fact, the whole roof had been put in first class shape. The side walls had been repacked with moss between the logs, the four side bunks repaired and a new one built at the back, and all filled with freshly cut balsam. The floor had been repaired. So also had the fireplace and chimney. A small cupboard and shelves had been added. On the floor were two big deerskins. But the thing which caught and held the attention of the boys most was a big bearskin which had been thrown on one of the upper bunks. "When and where did you get him?" asked Upton eagerly. "Shot him within less than half a mile of the cabin just before real cold weather set in," replied Alec. "He was just gettin' ready to den up for the winter. I misdoot he was the same one that give that young feller you called Sister the scare the day he was alone here last fall. Tracked him in a light snow and was lucky enough to see him first. Regular old he feller, and he sure took some killing. First shot got him right back of the shoulder and made him squall a plenty, but it didna stop him. Knew by that that I had hit him and hit him hard, but the way he beat it you never'd have guessed he was hurt at all. When I see the blood on the trail I kenned he was hard hit and would no travel far if left alone, so I sat down and smoked a pipe. Then I took up the trail and sure enough he had laid down behind a windfall about a quarter of a mile from where I first see him. The old fox heard me coming and sneaked away again, but he was getting weak and didna go far before he laid down again. This time I got another shot and broke his backbone, but at that it took two more shots to finish him. You ain't never killed a bar till he's dead. What do you think that feller Ely will say when he gits that skin?" "Spud? Is that for Spud? Do you mean to say that you are going to send that skin to Spud Ely?" cried Walter. Alec nodded. "I promised him a barskin when he left, and I reckon that that's hisn. Hope he'll like it." "Like it! Alec, he'll be tickled silly. He wrote me that you had promised him one," cried Walter. "It's perfectly bully! Good old Spud! I wish he could be here with us now to make a little sunshine. Not that we need it," he hastened to add, "but he sure would enjoy this. I bet he's green with envy if he knows that we fellows are up here now." "He knows, all right," Hal broke in. "Wrote him when I first thought of this trip, but he couldn't get away." "I wanted to get that skin to him for Christmas, but didn't have a chance to pack it out," explained Alec. "Guess I'll send it out when you fellers go. A little old barskin don't begin to pay what I owe that boy. If it hadn't been for him I'd probably died up there in that hide-out where he found me. And if it hadn't been for the little doctor here I'd likely have died anyway. Anyhow I'd have lost my leg. There's a barskin coming to you too, some day." Walter flushed. It made him uncomfortable to be called the little doctor, as Alec persisted in calling him, yet at the same time he was conscious of a warm glow of pride which he tried hard to stifle. "Pooh, Alec, that was no more than any of the other fellows would have done if I hadn't been here. You know all Scouts know what to do for first aid to the injured," said he. "Just the same I don't believe there was one of us would have had the nerve to tackle that broken leg of Alec's. I wouldn't for one," declared Hal. To relieve Walter's embarrassment Pat abruptly changed the subject. "What was that you hinted at when we first got here about signs of some one else in these diggings?" he asked, turning to Alec. The Scotchman's face darkened. He threw a couple of big logs on the fire and then as the others made themselves comfortable he told his story briefly. For the last two weeks there had been little fur in the traps, especially on the forty mile line to the north. He had made the round of this line twice in this time with only one marten, a fox and a few rats to show for it, but he had found signs which led him to believe that some of the traps had been robbed. He was morally certain that some one had been systematically making the rounds of the traps, timing the visits so that there would be no danger of running into him and so cunningly following his trail that it was only by the closest study of the tracks that he had made sure that a stranger had been on the line. At one unsprung marten trap he had found a couple of drops of blood which indicated that there had been something in the trap. At another there had been the faint imprint of the body of an animal laid in the snow off at one side. In one trap he had found the foot of a muskrat, nothing unusual in itself, but it had been cut off with a knife and not twisted or gnawed off. These things he had discovered on his trip two weeks ago, and on his return trip he had thrust tiny twigs into the snow of the trail in such a way that they would not be noticed. On his second round from which he had returned only the day before, he had found some of these crushed into the snow, sure evidence that they had been stepped on. He had kept a sharp watch for a strange trail joining his own, but had discovered none, doubtless due to the fact that the thief or thieves had come across the bare ice of one of the lakes near the farther end of the line and then it had been an easy matter to step into his trail where it skirted the edge of the lake. On this last trip he had found an empty rifle shell which apparently had been dropped unnoticed. Pat's face had hardened as he listened to the recital. "Any signs of the bloody minded thaves in the Holler or on the short lines?" he asked. Alec shook his head. "They've kept away from here. The catch on the short lines has been fair, and on the long line it ought to have been better." Pat stood up and shook himself. "Arrah now, 'tis time I was back on me job," he growled. "Wance I lay the two hands av me on the thafe 'tis the last time he will be wantin' to look wid the eyes av envy on fur thot don't belong to him. A thafe who would shtale another man's fur would rob his own grandmother. This storm will cover up all tracks, but 'tis like there will be a chance for some real scouting after it is over. 'Tis thaves we'll be trappin' and not fur for a while. Did Big Jim say anything about a silver fox when he was here?" "No," replied Alec, his face lighting. "Why?" "He told Doctor Merriam that he saw one on his way out, and we've been wondering if it was over this way," Hal broke in eagerly. "Likely he saw it on his way out of the Hollow," replied Alec. "There's one here. I've seen him twice, but didn't get a shot. I've got traps set for him, but he's been too smart for me so far. He's a big feller, and his skin will grade No. 1 prime. If we can get him the thieves are welcome to all the rest of our furs." "No, they're not!" retorted Pat. "They're going to fork over every pelt they've taken, to the smallest rat, or Pat Malone will know the reason why." He shook a big fist by way of emphasis. "Now, let's turn in and forget our troubles," he ended with a mildness that brought a general laugh. CHAPTER IX SNOWBOUND All that night the storm raged and in the morning the snow was still falling. Pat and Alec from force of habit were up early, but seeing that there would be nothing doing outside they forbore to waken the three visitors and were not averse to returning to their blankets for a couple of hours of extra sleep. How long the three boys would have slept is a question had not Alec dropped a pan which clattered noisily. Upton poked a sleepy face out from his bunk. "What you fellers doing?" he demanded. Pat grinned. "Getting dinner. Will you have some or will you wait for supper?" Walter felt for his watch and looked at it. Then he tumbled out in a hurry. "Hey, you fellows!" he yelled. "Are you going to sleep all day? It's eleven o'clock and Alec is cooking dinner. We've missed breakfast and----" "My tummy, oh, my tummy!" murmured a sleepy voice from the opposite bunk. "What you giving us? It isn't morning yet." Hal thrust out a tousled head and blinked stupidly. "It isn't to-morrow morning, but it will be this afternoon in about an hour," laughed Pat. "'Tis the way they do in Noo Yor-r-k, turn day into night," he explained to Alec. "No such thing!" protested Hal indignantly. "It isn't more'n daylight now." There was some foundation in fact for Hal's statement, for the little cabin, but dimly lighted at best, was even at this late hour in a semi twilight, due to the snow that partly covered the windows; the effect was very much that of daybreak. The odor of frying bacon, however, was a potent inducement to get up, and by the time dinner was ready the boys were ready for it. There was considerable good-natured joshing over their ability to sleep and Pat warned them that if they repeated the performance they would be taken out and dropped in a snow-bank. It had been a good thing for them, however, just what they needed after their strenuous experience of the previous day, and beyond some stiffness they confessed that they never had felt better in their lives. "What are we going to do this afternoon--start scouting for those thieves?" Hal asked as he wiped the dishes. Pat laughed. "Not so that you'd notice it, me bye. We're going to stay right here. The storm's not over yet, and if it keeps on I'm thinking we'll be buried completely. However, it looks to me as if it will break away shortly, and then you'll have a chance to show what good little diggers they raise in Noo Yor-r-k." "And in the meantime?" "We'll enjoy all the comforts av home." Pat yawned and stretched. "Which means, I suppose, that we'll sit around and play Simon says thumbs up, or something like that, all the afternoon," laughed Hal. "Perhaps ye'd like to sleep some more," suggested Alec slyly. "And perhaps you've got another guess coming," retorted Hal. "What's that thing you're whittling on?" "A stretching board for marten," replied Alec. "What's a stretching board, and how do you use it?" Hal was all interest. "To stretch skins on. Dinna ye know that all skins have to be stretched?" Alec tossed the board one side and reached for another. "Don't know a thing about trapping or furs except that Dad has promised me a new fur coat when I get back," retorted Hal. "I'm painfully and sublimely ignorant, but willing to learn, and I have a hunch that there are others. Suppose you elucidate the facts by way of killing time." "Here, here! That will do for you, Hal!" cried Upton. "Your alleged poetry is bad enough without springing anything like that. What have you been doing at that prep school--confabulating with the profs or flirting with the dictionary? Elucidate! I move, fellows, that if he springs anything more like that we throw him in the snow. I would suggest doing it anyway if his idea wasn't so good. Go to it, Alec, and tell us about fur." "I dinna ken where to begin," protested Alec as he carefully rounded the smaller of his board to a point so that it looked much like one of the shingle boats every boy knows. "Begin with that thing you're making--stretching board, I believe you called it," said Hal. "That would be holding the gun by the wrong end," protested Pat. "The story all happens before one of these things is needed." Pat was himself at work on a stretching board. "Begin with the kinds of fur, and the ways in which it is trapped, and the life of a trapper and all that sort of stuff," suggested Upton. "Just tell us what youse do every day and how youse live all alone and de scraps youse gets inter wid de bears 'n' things, and how youse has t' foight for life, an' pass it out hot--right off de fire." "That's the stuff, Sparrer! That's what we want," cried Hal, as everybody laughed. "Give us the story of trapping right off the griddle." "Ye dinna find anything very hot aboot a trapper's life." Alec paused in his work to gaze reflectively into the fire. "It's mostly cold and lonesomeness and hard work. There's no fighting with the beasties worth mentioning; it's mostly fighting with storms and sometimes hunger, and a struggle with nature. I've sometimes wondered if some of the grand ladies and men, too, would be so proud and take so much pleasure in their fine furs if they knew what it has cost in suffering to man and beastie to get them. And yet I am no complaining, laddies. Ye ken that. It's a hard life, and yet there is something aboot it that gets down into a man and calls him, and he has to hit the trails and is no happy until he does. "The fur that we get in this country is muskrat, mink, otter, marten, fox, lynx and once in a while fisher. Sometimes we get a few skunks, but not many so far in as this. We used to get beaver, but it is against the law to take the beasties at any time now." "Which is the most valuable?" Hal interrupted. "Black or silver fox. They're worth so much they don't count. I've trapped ever since I was knee high to a speckled fawn and haven't taken one yet. I dinna ken what they're worth, but I've heard that more'n $2,500 has been paid for an extra prime skin." "What makes 'em worth so much? Is it because the fur is so extra fine?" asked Upton. "Fine nothing!" Pat broke in. "If there is any poorer wearing fur than fox I wish you'd show me. A large prime red fox will bring only four dollars to perhaps six or seven in a year when fur is scarce and high, and the fur of a black fox isn't any different or better. All that difference in price is because once in a blue moon Nature gets tired of red and tries black for a change, and people with more money than brains pay the price because it is rare and they can wear something that mighty few others can have. It's fox, just the same, and it will wear out just as quickly as if it were common every-day red. It's a fad. But the saints defind us from any more brains till afther we have the hide av the black gintleman thot Jim and Alec have seen here in the Hollow!" "Money does talk, doesn't it, Pat?" chuckled Hal. "Here's hoping you get both the fox and the long price. By the way, what's a cross fox?" "The prettiest baste in the woods," returned Pat promptly. "He has black legs and underparts, black tail with white tip, and gray head and body with a dark cross on the shoulders. But he's just a sport of the red fox, a variation in between the red and black. A perfect specimen is worth a lot of money, but nowhere near what a black will bring. Between the red and all black there are a lot of variations of the cross, and the price varies accordingly. But let's get back to regular fur instead of freaks. Have you looked over that price list I brought in, Alec?" Alec nodded. "I see otter and fisher are quoted just the same, $15 for No. 1 prime. I think the two otter and the fisher we've got will grade that all right. Up here," he continued, turning to the boys, "marten pay us best because they bring us from $6 for No. 2 to $12 for large No. 1 prime and some years more than that. Lynx pay pretty nearly as well, when we can get 'em. The trouble is we don't get enough of 'em. We get some foxes and some mink. The latter are rather down now, but some years they are high and pay right well. Last and least, but like the pennies that make the dollars, are the muskrats. They're bringing only thirty cents now, but I have seen 'em as high as a dollar. "In other parts of the country are other furs. Coon disna get up as far as this, and Arctic and blue fox dinna get as far south. We get some weasel which when pure white is quite worth the trouble of skinning, little as the critters are. Ye ken it is the ermine of royalty." "How about bearskins? I suppose they are worth considerable," said Walter, glancing over at Spud's prize. "Less than ye will be thinking," replied Alec. "Yon skin is prime--and will grade as large. What now would ye be thinking it would be bringing me from a fur buyer this minute?" "Fifty dollars," ventured Hal. Alec and Pat smiled. "What do you say, little doctor?" Alec turned to Upton. Walter did some quick thinking. He had set in his own mind the same figure Hal had given, but he had caught that smile of the two trappers and he suspected that Hal was rather wide of the mark. It didn't seem possible to him that such a beautiful great skin could be worth less, but at a venture he cut it in halves. "Twenty-five," said he. "Knock ten off of that, and ye will be aboot right," said Alec. "What? Only fifteen dollars for that big skin?" Hal fairly shouted. Pat laughed outright. "That's all this year. And they never are worth a great deal. You see, for his size even a rat is worth considerable more, and is therefore not to be despised. And when you consider the labor of skinning a big brute like that and then packing out his hide the rats are more to my liking if there be enough of them." "Don't you trap for bears at all?" asked Hal. "I had figured on seeing a bear trap and perhaps finding old bruin in one." Pat smiled as he noted the look of disappointment on Hal's face. "We don't trap them this time of year, son, because there are none to trap; they're denned up for the winter," he explained. "But you shall have a chance to see a deadfall before you go back. Alec built a couple, but it was rather too late in the season. They'll be ready for early spring when bears begin to move again. Then I suspect Alec will build one or two more, eh, Alec?" "A couple, I guess. I've marked some likely places," was the reply. "What about steel traps?" asked Upton. "I had an idea that most trappers used those almost altogether these days." By way of reply Alec dragged out from under one of the bunks a clanging mass of steel. "Heft it," said he briefly, passing it to Walter. "My, but that's heavy!" he exclaimed. "What does it weigh?" "Nineteen pounds," replied Alec. "Tell me, how would ye like to pack three or four of those in addition to a lot of smaller traps for ten or fifteen miles?" "Not for me!" declared Upton. "I begin to see the why of the deadfalls. It's easier to build a few of those than to lug these heavy things around. I didn't suppose they were as heavy as this. Are all of 'em like this?" "No, there are some that weigh only a little over eleven pounds, but those are for small bars. I don't no ways favor 'em myself because, ye ken, I never yet have found a way of being certain what size bar would be stepping in one, leastways not until he was caught. A big feller will sometimes get out of the smaller trap, but a little feller never gets out of the big trap. So I sets only the big ones. This is a No. 5, and big enough for any bars around these parts. There's a bigger one made for grizzly bar and lions and tigers and such like critters, but that weighs forty-two pounds. We've got two of these No. 5's to set in the spring. If I was in good bar country, where the critters are plenty, I'd use more of these, but as long as they ain't plenty and I'm after other fur I'd rather use the deadfall. In the first place it kills the critter, and if he's caught you know right where to find him. He's right there. But if he gets caught in one of these things he may be a couple of hundred yards away and he may be in the next county, which is mighty inconvenient, 'specially if ye've got a lot of traps to tend to." "How's that? I thought you fastened the traps." Hal was plainly puzzled. "Sure we fasten 'em," returned Alec, "but do ye no see that if it was to anything solid like a tree the critter would be breaking the trap or the chain, maybe, or tearing himsel' loose? So we cut a log small enough at one end for the ring on the end of the chain to just barely slip over it and down to the middle where it is fastened with a spike. The clog is six or seven feet long and of hard wood. Then when Mr. Bar gets caught he has nothing solid to pull against to tear himself free. He marches off with nineteen pounds of trap and the clog dragging from his foot. The clog catches in the brush and between trees and usually he disna get very far, because the heavy drag tires him. Besides that, every time he's pulled up short it must hurt like the mischief and take the heart out of him. Sometimes we find where he has stopped to fight the clog. Once in a while a swivel breaks or something else gives way and he gets rid of the clog, but still has the trap fast to his foot. Then he's likely to dig out for parts unknown. I've known a trapper to camp two or three nights on the trail of a bar that had gone off with a trap before he could catch up with the critter. Mostly they will go a ways and then make a bed, lie down a while, get uneasy and move on to do the same thing all over again. Sometimes they won't lie in the bed after they've made it, but move on and try again." Sparrer's eyes were bulging. "Do youse mean dey really make a bed same as us?" he asked. "Surest thing you know," replied Pat. "When a bear dens up for the winter he makes himself comfortable. Does it when he's traveling, too. Don't know how he got wise to the danger of rheumatiz from sleeping on the bare ground, but he seems to be on all right. Breaks a lot of brush and makes a regular bough bed. Sometimes he uses rotted wood when it is handy and brush isn't. Oh, he's a wise proposition, is Mr. Bear. If he once gets nipped in a trap and gets away it is a smart trapper who can get him in another." Meanwhile Hal had been examining the trap and trying to force down the springs. "I'm blessed if I see how you set one of the things," said he at last. "I'll show ye, only when it's set ye want to keep away from it. It's more dangerous than a bar himsel'." He brought forth two screw clamps and adjusted them to the double springs of the traps. By turning thumb-screws the springs were compressed and held so that the jaws of the trap could be opened and the pan set to hold them. The boys noticed that in doing this he worked from underneath, sure sign of the careful and experienced trapper. In the event of the clamps slipping there would be no chance of his hand or arm being caught in the jaws. "How does the bear get caught?" asked Sparrer, to whom traps were an unknown quantity. "By stepping on that pan," explained Pat. "I'll show you." He removed the clamps and then with a long stick touched the pan. Instantly the jaws flew up and closed with a vicious snap, biting into the soft wood so that pull as they would the boys were unable to get the stick out. "Huh!" exclaimed Hal, "I'd hate to have that thing get me by the leg! I should think it would break the bone." "It very likely would unless your leg was pretty well protected. A bear's bones are not so brittle and do not break easily, but once that thing has got a grip it's there to stay," said Pat. "I suppose you cover the trap up so that the bear won't see it," ventured Upton. "Right, son. That is just what we do," replied Pat. "We cover it with leaves or moss, according to where the set is made." "Where does the bait go?" inquired Hal. "Do you put it right on the trap or hang it over it?" "Neither," laughed Pat. "We build a bait pen of brush or old logs, roofing it over, and set the trap just at the entrance in such a way that Mr. Bear must step in it in order to get into the pen or cubby where the bait is staked at the rear. Sometimes we lay a stick across the entrance close to the trap and six or eight inches from the ground so that the bear will try to step over it and in doing so he will be sure to put one foot in the trap. An old bear who has lost a toe or two in a trap and so has learned his lesson will sometimes tear the bait pen down from the rear and so get the bait. A deadfall is about the only way of catching one of that kind." "I should think other animals would spring the trap," ventured Hal. "They do sometimes, especially your friend Prickly Porky the porcupine," replied Pat. "But when we are after bear we try to set the trap so that nothing less than a bear will spring it. Show 'em the trick, Alec." Good-naturedly Alec once more set the trap. Then he took a small springy stick and fastened it upright in a crack in the floor. Then he bent it over until the other end was hooked under the pan of the trap. The spring of it held the pan in place even when considerable weight was placed directly on the pan. "That would allow small animals to pass over it freely, ye see," he explained, "but the weight of a bar would spring it. We do the same thing with other traps, using smaller sticks according to what we are after." At this point Pat went to investigate conditions outside. "Hi, you fellows!" he called. "Storm's over, and it's time to get busy and dig out. It's been raining, but it's clearing off cold, and by morning there'll be a crust that'll hold a horse. Walt, you and Hal know where the spring is, so you fellows make a path down to it. The rest of us will shovel out the wood-pile and the storehouse." "What's the storehouse? There wasn't anything of that kind last fall." Hal was all eagerness. "Just a bit of a log shack we put up to keep the meat and supplies in. You'll see it when you get outside. Now, everybody to wor-r-rk!" Pat flung the door open. A wall of snow faced them. Alec produced a home-made wooden shovel and an old iron one. With these he and Pat soon cleared a space in front of the cabin. Then the others, armed with snow-shoes and an old slab, went to work with a will and soon Smugglers' Hollow rang with the laughter and shouts of the merry crew. It was not far to the spring, and the task of digging out and trampling down a path was not difficult. When they finished Walter and Hal turned for their first good look at the surroundings. It was a wilderness of white broken only by the thin column of smoke from the cabin chimney, and the figures of their comrades busy at the wood-pile and storehouse. The cabin itself was nearly buried in snow, which was more than half-way to the low eaves. It had drifted quite over the little shack where Pat and Alec were at work. All tracks had been obliterated and for a few minutes it was difficult for them to get their bearings, so changed was the landscape. Then one by one they picked out the landmarks they had learned to know so well in the fall, but which now were so changed as to be hardly recognized. They stood in silence, something very like awe stealing over them as the grim beauty, combined with pitiless strength, of the majestic scene impressed itself upon them. "Just think of a man living here all alone for weeks at a time. That's what I call nerve. I believe I'd go dippy in a week," murmured Hal hardly above a whisper as if he were afraid to trust his voice in the great solitude. "And yet there is something fascinating about it. I can feel the call of it myself," replied Upton. "I suppose when one gets used to it it isn't so bad. It's--it's--well, I suppose it's what you would call elemental, and there is something heroic about this battling with the very hills and elements to wrest a living from them. Hello! Pat's calling us." They hurried back to the cabin, where Pat promptly shoved a pail into the hands of each and ordered them back to the spring for water. When they returned Alec had begun preparations for supper. "This evening," announced Pat, "Alec will finish his yarn about trapping and then we'll plan for to-morrow. Will you fellows have baking-powder biscuit or corn bread for supper?" "Corn bread!" was the unanimous shout. "Corn bread it is then," declared Pat. "And how will yez have the murphies?" "French fried!" cried Hal. "Yez be hearing the orders av the gintle-min--corn bread and French fried praties, Misther Cook," said Pat, turning to Alec. "I'll be mixing the corn bread whoile ye cut the spuds. The rest av yez can bring in wood and set the table, an' the wan who loafs most gets the least to eat." At once there was a grand scramble to see who could do the most, in view of such a dire threat. CHAPTER X LIFE ON THE FUR TRAILS Supper out of the way the boys made themselves comfortable and gave Alec the word to take up his yarn. "To begin with," said Alec, throwing a log on the fire, "when a trapper is thinking of going into new country he generally prospects it first, same as a prospector for gold, only he looks it over for signs of fur instead of for minerals. Sometimes he does this in summer or early fall, and sometimes he does it in winter, planning for the next winter. Friend o' mine went up into Brunswick last winter, and looked over some country which never has been trapped to amount to anything and this year he's up there with a line over one hundred miles long." "Jerusalem! where did he stay nights when he was looking it over?" asked Hal. "Wherever he happened to be," replied Alec. "Didn't he have no tent nor nothin'?" Sparrer was round eyed with wonder. Alec shook his head. "Nothin' but a week's supply of grub, his axe, rifle and blanket. That's all any good woodsman needs." "But was it as cold as it is now?" asked Hal. "Colder, because that part of Brunswick is consid'rable farther north. When night came he would just dig away the snow, build a fire and when the ground was het up move his fire back, lay some boughs down where the fire had been, make a little bough shelter over it, build a good big fire to reflect the heat, and turn in. Sometimes when there's a big rock handy or an upturned tree we warm up a place a little way in front of that and then move the fire over against it and turn in without any shelter at all. More'n once I've slept in just a hole in the snow. Tisn't so bad when you're used to it. Have to get up a few times in the night to put wood on the fire, but that ain't nothin', is it, Pat?" "Tis no more than a reminder av how good it is to shlape," returned Pat. "When a man's prospectin' for fur he not only looks for signs of the beasties but he looks the lay of the land over and gets the landmarks fixed in his mind," continued Alec. "He picks out a place for his main camp, locating it where he can get his supplies and stuff in and his furs out at the end o' the season without too much difficulty. If it is in lumbered country he picks out a place that can be reached by some old trail with a little clearing out so that a team can get in. More often, though, he locates on a river where he can get his stuff in by canoe, and can get out again the same way in the spring. "At the same time he tries to choose a location that will be to his best advantage in working his trap lines. If he's got a long line laid out he also picks out likely places for temporary camps, places handy to springs and fire-wood. Early in the fall he gets his stuff together and goes in to build his camps. Trappers mostly work in pairs, but sometimes one goes it alone like my friend up in Brunswick. He took his traps an' stuff in in September, so's to get his camps built and be ready for bus'ness as soon as fur got prime." "Can one man build a log cabin without any help?" asked Walter. "Sure," replied Pat, "if he's reasonably husky, and most woodsmen are. A smart axeman can roll one up in four days, but of course it's easier and quicker if there are two." "The main camp is made stout and comfortable as possible, same as 'tis here, only usually 'tis no so big." Alec resumed the thread of his story. "The other camps are just big enough for a bunk an' to cache some supplies, and are one to two days' journey apart, accordin' to the country. In good weather a feller disna mind sleeping oot one night between camps if he must, though he disna aim to if he can help it. A few supplies are left in each camp, and fire-wood cut and left handy. When this work is done it's usually 'bout time to be gettin' after the critters. "A long line is usually planned on a sort of loop when the country will permit, so that the trapper may go out one way and return another. When two are trapping together, pardners like Pat and me, one works the line one way and one the other. Of course two can work a longer line than one can, and cover it the way it ought to be covered. I've put in more'n one winter alone, but ye ken it's michty satisfying to hae speech wi' some one once in a while. When I'm alone it gets so that I talk to the varmints just to hear a human voice, even though it be my own." "I shouldn't think it would be safe for a man to be all alone for so long," Upton interrupted. "Tisn't altogether safe," replied Alec. "There was old Bill Bently. Never was a better woodsman than old Bill. He used to trap way up north of here. Used to go it alone mostly, but one winter he took a pardner. Lucky thing for Bill he did. They had a long line that year and Bill covered it one way and his pardner, Big Frank, covered it the other. They would meet at the upper end and then again at the main camp. Well, one time Big Frank was a day late getting to the upper camp. A big bar had busted a swivel on a trap and gone off with the trap. Took Frank a whole day to catch up with him. When he got to the camp he expected to find Bill waiting for him, but nary a sign of Bill could he find. "This wasn't su'prisin' considerin' his own luck, but somehow it made Big Frank uneasy. He hit the trail 'fore daylight the next morning and didna stop to look at traps, but just made tracks watching out for some sign of Bill. Long about noon he found him by a deadfall alongside of a bar. Of course the critter was dead, and Bill would have been if he had to lay there much longer. Seems in resetting the deadfall the lever with which he was raising the 'fall' log broke, and somehow Bill got one leg under it and there he was caught in his own trap and with a broken leg to boot. Lucky for Bill it was early in the season, or he would have frozen to death long 'fore Frank got there. As it was he was in pretty bad shape. If he'd been trapping alone it would have been the end of him. "But I'm getting off my story of how we catch fur. Of course we have to have a number of sizes of traps. For muskrats we use No. 1; for mink No. 1 or No. 1-1/2. This is also big enough to hold fox, coon and fisher, but No. 2 is better. For marten we use mostly No. 1, but if there are signs of fisher or lynx we use No. 1-1/2 so if one happens to get into a trap it will hold him. These critters are so strong that they would pull out of the smaller trap." "It's marten that you are after mostly, isn't it? I understood you to say that," Upton interposed. "We're after anything we can get, but most of our sets are for marten," returned Alec. "In the fall we took a good many rats and will again in the spring, but at this time o' the year when everything is frozen 'tis only around spring holes that we can get a rat now and then since the law will no let us trap them at their houses. I dinna ken what these lawmakers want to meddle with a poor man's business for. So long as the rat is killed I dinna see what difference it makes where he's killed or how. We used to get good fur when it was no against the law to trap at the houses." "Walt, here's a subject for a little missionary work. Alec is still an uncivilized savage in some things, especially when what he calls his rights to hunt and trap are concerned," Pat broke in. Upton looked a bit puzzled. "I don't quite get the point about the house trapping," said he. "You've seen muskrat houses a-plenty, haven't you?" asked Pat. Walter nodded. "Well," continued Pat, "before this law was made trappers used to chop a hole in the side of a house and set a trap on the bed inside. Of course this drove the rats out, but they would soon be back, because there was nowhere else to go. By visiting the traps night and morning it was no trick at all to get all the rats. Now the law forbids this kind of trapping. Alec here doesn't approve of the law. He thinks that there are rats enough and to spare and he can't see that that kind of work is cutting his own nose off and killing the goose that lays the golden egg. Says you can clean all the rats out of a place and in time more will come to take their places, and I can't make him see it any different." "How about beaver?" asked Walter, turning to the Scotchman. "Nowhere near as plentiful as they used to be, are they?" The trapper shook his head. "Been trapped pretty near out of this country. I'm for protecting the beaver, all right, but rats is different. Ye couldn't trap out all the rats in a million years. There's rats enough and there always will be." "Ever hear of the passenger pigeon?" asked Upton. Alec signified that he never had. "Guess they dinna live in this country," he added. "I guess they don't," replied Upton drily. "Fact is they don't live in any country any more. What is supposed to be the very last specimen died in captivity in Cincinnati last year. A reward of several thousand dollars for proof of a single pair nesting anywhere in America has stood for several years. But the bird is believed to be absolutely extinct. And yet seventy-five years ago they were numbered by millions and extended over America from the Atlantic to the Rocky Mountains. Probably billions would be nearer the truth. The ornithologist Wilson once watched a flock which he estimated to be a mile wide, moving at the rate of a mile a minute, and it took four hours to pass. Allowing three birds to each square yard there must have been more than two billion birds in that one flock. In 1869 one town in Michigan shipped to market in forty days almost twelve million birds. They were so plentiful that they sold as low as twelve cents a dozen and netters made money at that. When the first efforts to protect them were made they were fruitless because people said that the numbers were so great that it would be impossible ever to reduce them to a serious extent. And to-day there is not one living. It doesn't seem possible, but it is a cold, hard fact. And man alone is to blame. "The same thing is happening right now with a lot of animals and birds. Just as sure as that fire is burning fifty years will see a lot off them extinct unless they are better protected. The hunters of the pigeon didn't believe it any more than you believe it about the rats. On the level, Alec, do you think it a square deal to take a rat in the only place he's got to stay in the winter?" "Oh, I'm not taking them that way," Alec protested with some haste. "I believe in respecting the law, even if it is a fool law." "But is it a fool law? I don't think so," said Walter quietly. "In a boxing match it is a foul to hit a man when he's down." "'Tisn't in a lumberman's fight," Alec broke in. "If a man's down so much the better. Then you've got him. That's the thing to do--get him down and then do him good." "Aw say, youse don't mean that!" Sparrer's eyes were round with indignation, for even a street gamin has better ethics than this. "It's the way they fight up here, Sparrer, I'm sorry to say," said Pat. "In a rough and tumble fight here they kick, bite and gouge, and you may well pity the under man. But they're learning better." "Would you hit a man who was bound and helpless?" asked Walter quickly. "Certainly not!" cried Alec indignantly. "That's different." "Not so very different from your rats in their houses," protested Upton. "They come pretty near to being helpless. Besides, they have no reason to suspect harm there, and they don't. Put it up to any Scout and he'd say right off the reel that it is unfair, and that is something that no Scout will stand for. But this is nothing to do with marten. You were saying, Alec, that you trap for marten, mostly." "Aye," replied Alec, rather glad to have the subject changed, if the truth were known. "And it's the prettiest and most comfortable kind of trapping in the winter. Ye see the beasties are found in heavy timber and broken country, and that gives the trapper more protection from cold and storms. Then the beasties are no so hard to trap as some others. When ye find marten sign ye may be pretty sure that the critter will be along there again. They live on mice, rabbits, birds and squirrels. Fish makes good bait. When the snows are not too heavy I build a little cubby, a pen, ye ken, of sticks, at the foot of a big tree, the tree forming the back, and roof it over with evergreen branches to keep out the snow. On a little bed of boughs I set the trap just inside the opening of the cubby and cover it lightly with tips of evergreen. The bait is placed on a stick at the back of the cubby. I hang a couple of boughs partly over the opening so that if Whiskey Jack happens along he won't see the bait and steal it." Here Pat interrupted to explain for Sparrer's benefit that a Whiskey Jack is the common name in the north for the Canada Jay. "I shouldn't think the marten could get his peepers on the bait, then," said Sparrer. "He disna need to, laddie," replied Alec. "His nose finds it for him. Another set which I like and use a good deal is this. I cut a small spruce of about four inches through so as to leave a stump about two feet above the snow. In the top of this I cut a V or crotch, and after trimming off the lower limbs of the tree I rest it in this crotch so that the butt end projects some distance and is three or four feet above the snow. About a foot from the butt end I flatten off a place for the trap and tie it in place with a bit of string and loop the chain around the trunk of the tree. Then I make a split in the end of the butt and in this fasten the bait. Mr. Marten runs up the tree to get the bait, steps in the trap and falls off and hangs there. He can't twist a foot off or pull free in any way. Once he steps in the trap he's a goner. "Deadfalls work pretty well with marten. Ye'll have a chance to see some, as I've got some right handy here, in some draws off the Hollow. Ye'll understand them better by seeing than by me trying to tell you about them." "How about otter?" asked Hal. "Steel traps for them, and we have to be some pertic'lar how we set 'em. There's nary a critter that I know of more suspicious of man," replied Alec. "In the fall and spring we get 'em with water sets. I got one this fall up at one of the beaver dams. I cut a hole in the middle of the dam so that the run-off from the pond was all through this but not enough to lower the pond and bring the beavers to stop up the hole. I made the passage only eight or nine inches wide and set the trap in the water at the upper end. The first otter to come along tried to go through that opening and I had him. Sometimes when we find a point of land running out into a lake or big stream we'll find an otter trail across it where the critter has taken a short cut. Then we set a trap in the water at one end. Water sets are best, because there is no human scent. In the winter we set under the ice, and I'll show you a couple of sets of that kind before you go back." "And foxes?" prompted Upton. Alec grinned. "They're worse than otter," he confessed. "Ye think ye ken all about the critters, and then ye meet up with one that just gives ye the laugh, like the silver that's hanging around here. I've tried every set I know of for that feller, but he's still grinning at me. And this crust ain't going to help matters any. It's bad enough in dry snow, but with a crust there won't be anything doing. In the fall I use water sets where I can. One of the best is at a shallow spring, four or five feet across. About a foot and a half from the shore put a moss-covered stone, or a sod, so that it will come just above the level of the water. Half-way between this and the shore set the trap, covering the jaws, springs and chain with mud or wet leaves from the bottom. The pan should be just under water and on this place a little piece of moss or sod so that it will come an inch above the water. On the outer stone or sod put a small piece of bait and a little scent. Mr. Fox comes along, smells the bait and promptly investigates. He disna like to wet his feet, and the bit of covering on the pan of the trap looks like a good stepping-place. Then you have him. "Ye must take care to leave everything in a perfectly natural state. I wade up the outlet and take care not to touch the banks. Some trappers boil the traps in hemlock boughs to kill the scent. Others just leave them over night in running water. I wear clean gloves to handle the traps. There are a lot of dry sets, some with bait and some without, the latter being used in frequented runways. A very good set is to find an old moss-covered log or stump and set the trap on the highest point, covering it so that the whole thing looks just as it did before. Then toss a big bait like a muskrat or rabbit eight or ten feet from it. Mr. Fox is always suspicious, and before he goes too near anything like that he will go to the highest point to look the ground over. That's when ye get him. Of course, there mustn't be any other high point for him to get on." "You spoke of scents, Alec. I've read about them. What are they, anyhow?" asked Upton. For answer, Alec got up and went to a corner of the cabin and brought forth an old fruit jar. Pat grinned. "Here's some," said Alec simply as he unscrewed the cover while the boys crowded around. They took one whiff and then fairly tumbled over each other to get away. "Cover it up! Take it away!" howled Hal, holding his nose. "I won't be able to eat a square meal for a week." "Me too!" yelped Sparrer. "Dey has some awful smells in New York, but dis is de limit." "Jumping crickets! I should think that stuff would drive things away and not attract 'em!" exclaimed Upton. "What is it, anyhow?" "Skunk fat and mice cut up and put in the jar and hung in the sun until thoroughly rotted, and then some skunk and muskrat scent added. Sorry you don't like it," replied Pat. "A drop or two judiciously used seems to be a great attraction for foxes and some other critters. Alec has got another brand if you would like to sample it--fish oil made by cutting up fish and letting them rot in the same way. It's a mighty good scent." "No, thanks!" cried Hal hastily. "We'll take your word for it. What about those stretching boards?" "I'm coming to that," replied Alec. "Raw furs are handled in two ways, 'cased' and 'open.' Mink, marten, fox, fisher, weasel, muskrat, skunk and bob cat are 'cased.' That is what these boards are for. We skin 'em by cutting loose around the feet and then cutting down the back of the hindlegs to and around the vent and then skin the hindlegs carefully, and also the tail. Then the skin is turned back and stripped off the body wrong side out to the ears, taking as little fat as possible. The ears are cut off close to the head, and the skin is cut loose around the eyes and nose. The easiest way is to hang the critter up by the hindlegs after skinning out these and the tail. "These small boards Pat and I are making are for muskrats in the spring. For marten, mink, otter, fisher and such like we use longer, narrower boards; that is, they are narrower in proportion to their length. I'll show you some presently. The best boards are those with a narrow strip ripped out of the middle for the whole length. This makes a wedge or tongue. Of course it should be tapered. This makes it possible to use the board for various size animals and to stretch the skin to its fullest extent. It also makes it easy to remove a skin from the board, as taking out the wedge at once loosens the whole board. "The skins are put on the stretchers fur side in. Then with a blunt knife they are fleshed. That is, they are scraped clean of every particle of fat and flesh. Then they are stretched to their fullest extent and put to dry or cure in a cool, airy place. As soon as dry enough to prevent shrinking or wrinkling they are taken from the boards. Lynx and fox are then turned fur side out, but the others are left as they are. "Beaver, coon, bear, wolf and badger are skinned 'open.' That means that a cut is made from the point of the jaw straight down the belly to the vent. A cut is made down the inside of the forelegs across the breast to the point of the brisket and another down the back of the hindlegs. Big animals like bars, wolves and wolverines should be skinned out to the ends of their toes and have the feet left on. These skins are stretched flat, a coon nearly square, a beaver round, and others to their natural shape. The best way is by lacing them with twine in a frame. Many trappers lose money by careless handling of the furs. All dirt, blood and lumps should be carefully removed. Lots of skins, prime when caught, grade way down because of careless handling. Now I guess you chaps have got your fill of furs. What about to-morrow? It's Christmas, ye ken." "That's so, and it will be the queerest Christmas I ever have spent," said Hal thoughtfully. "We ought to celebrate, somehow. What's the program, Pat?" "How about a rabbit hunt in the morning, a big dinner and a shooting-match in the afternoon?" replied Pat. "Bully!" cried all three together. "What's the matter with a Christmas tree in the evening?" added Upton. "We ought to do something Christmasy." "I was going to suggest that very thing," retorted Hal. "We'll make it the greatest Christmas this old Hollow ever saw. Now, let's turn in. I want to be out for those rabbits right early. By the way, Alec, I hope there's some of that venison left for the big feast." "Dinna ye worry, laddie. I hae saved a roast special," replied Alec as he prepared things for the night. CHAPTER XI CHRISTMAS IN SMUGGLERS' HOLLOW "Merry Christmas!" At the sound of Pat's roar the three guests hastily tumbled out of their bunks with answering greetings. A cheerful fire blazed up the chimney and added its flickering light to that of a couple of candles, for the sun was not yet up. Alec was cutting bacon and Pat was mixing flapjack batter. "Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, and the one who isn't ready goes hungry," he announced. "It won't be yours truly," declared Hal, reaching for his clothes. "My tummy, oh, my tummy! It gives me such a pain! I wonder will it ever---- "Say, who swiped one of my socks? I can't find but one, and I left 'em together." He began to toss things left and right in search of the missing article. Meanwhile Upton was down on his knees fumbling under his bunk. At Hal's complaint he looked up suspiciously. "I can't find one of mine," he sputtered. "Somebody's been putting up a job on us. Hi! What the----" He finished by pointing toward the fireplace. Hal looked. There hung his missing sock. Also one of Upton's and one of Sparrer's, all three misshapen and bulging. "Ut would not be Christmas an' we did not hang the childer's stockings," announced Pat gravely. With a whoop the three boys fell on the stockings. Entering into the spirit of the occasion they seated themselves on the floor in front of the fire and pulled out the contents as gleefully as ever they had emptied Christmas stockings at home in their younger days. The gifts were trifling in themselves, but the better for that very fact. There were little packages of spruce-gum, a carved paper-knife, a tiny birch-bark canoe, whistles made from buck's horn, a rabbit's foot charm, and other knickknacks of the woods. Pat's voice broke into the midst of the babel produced by the discovery of the socks and their contents. "Five minutes for those who want breakfast," he announced. Instantly there was a mad scramble to finish dressing and when time was up it was evident that no one proposed to go hungry that Christmas morning. During the meal it was decided that Alec should remain at camp to prepare for the grand feast while the others went in search of rabbits. Walter and Hal, knowing the surrounding country, were to go each on his own hook while Pat would take Sparrer with him. Just before starting the two former held a whispered conference. They had brought in with them a few gifts for Pat and his partner and also some small packages which the home folks had pledged them not to open until Christmas day. At Hal's suggestion it was decided to say nothing about these until night and spring them as a surprise at the Christmas tree on which Hal had set his heart. As Pat had foreseen, there was a crust on which the shoes made no impression. Hal elected to go down the north side of the brook while Upton took the opposite side. Pat and Sparrer were to visit a certain swamp not far distant. All were to be back at the cabin by eleven o'clock. To Upton the tramp in that wonderful wilderness of glistening white meant far more than the hunt. As a matter of fact the very thought of killing anything amid such pure surroundings was repugnant to him. To this feeling a big white hare which foolishly sat up to stare at him within fifteen minutes after he had left the cabin undoubtedly owed its life. Slowly the rifle had been raised until the sights rested squarely between the two innocent staring eyes. Then it had been as slowly lowered. "I can't do it, puss. The others will get all we need to eat, I guess, so suppose you remove your pretty self from the range of temptation," said he, taking a sudden forward step. Thereupon puss promptly acted upon his advice, and so precipitately that Upton laughed aloud. "Merry Christmas!" he shouted as the bounding white form disappeared. That decided him. His heart was not in hunting that morning. What he did want to do was just to tramp and drink in the beauty of the wonderful scene. His rifle was a nuisance. He wished that he had not brought it at all. Why not cache it and pick it up on his way back? A hasty survey of his surroundings discovered a fire blackened hollow stub split its full length on one side. It was the very thing he was looking for. It was a landmark he could not very well miss on his return. He put his rifle in it, tightened his belt, and then deliberately turned his back on the valley and headed for the top of the ridge. He was in quest of views, and not of game. Climbing a ridge on a snow crust is no child's play, as Walter soon found out. It sometimes seemed as if he slipped back two feet for every one he gained. He tried taking off the shoes, only to find that in sheltered places he broke through and was worse off than on the slipping shoes. But he was grimly resolved that he would get to the top of the ridge, cost him what it might. It was characteristic of the boy that what he set out to do he did. So he ground his teeth and kept at it, slipping, scrambling, pulling himself up by brush and trees. After a little he discovered that by zigzagging back and forth along the face of the slope and taking advantage of every little inequality he could make fairly good progress. Still it took an hour and a half of strenuous work to gain the coveted top of the ridge, and he was thoroughly winded and weary, to say nothing of sundry bruises and scratches from frequent falls. Panting and perspiring he turned to look back. Below him lay Smugglers' Hollow, but how different from the Hollow into which he had gazed for the first time in September! It was not less lonely or less wild. In fact if anything these features were accentuated. The mountains which seemed to enclose it on all sides were no less heroically grand and rugged, but they had been robbed in a measure of their forbidding, somber gloom by the transforming mantle of snow. The heavy stand of spruce on the opposite mountain no longer cloaked it with the shadows of night like a perpetual threat of evil. Each tree was a pyramid of myriad gems flashing in the sun. He could trace the course of the frozen brook through the heart of the Hollow, a ribbon of white, smooth and unbroken, between the fringe of alders on either side. He could see the cabin, or rather the roof and eaves, for the cabin itself was nearly buried in a drift. From the chimney a thin pencil of blue smoke rose straight up in the still air. It was the one thing needed. It in no way marred the grandeur of the scene, but it saved it from utter desolation. Something of this sort flitted vaguely through Upton's mind. Then he heard the faint crack of a rifle on the opposite side of the Hollow, followed by two more cracks. The smoke and the sound of the rifle removed the last vestige of temporary depression which the grandeur of the scene and the utter silence of the vast solitude had tended to produce. "Hal's got into a bunch of 'em or else his shooting eye is off," he chuckled and turned to scan the ridge he was on to the west. It presented a broken line of low peaks. One slightly higher than the rest marked the place where the pass to the Hollow entered. It was the hill from which the Lost Trail party had first looked into Smugglers' Hollow, and the view from the summit was more complete than from the point Walter now occupied. "I'd like to get up there," he thought, "but it's a little too much of an undertaking on this crust. Besides, it would make me late for dinner. Hello! Wonder what that is." He had caught a sudden flash on the highest point of the peak. As he watched he saw it again. His first thought had been that it was the sun reflected from a bit of ice, but an instant's thought convinced him that this couldn't be. It would of necessity be fixed and steady. The flashes he had seen were made by something moving. With this knowledge came the sudden conviction that the flashes were caused by the sun striking on polished metal. Hastily feeling in his rucksack he drew out a pair of opera-glasses which he always carried with him for use in studying birds and animals. They were not very strong, but sufficiently so to bring the peak perceptibly nearer. At first he could make out nothing unusual. Then through the glasses he caught that flash again and focussed them as nearly as possible on the spot from which it had come. For some minutes he saw nothing suspicious. He was almost ready to give up and conclude that it was in his imagination when he was positive that he saw something move back of a stunted little spruce growing from a cleft in the rocks at the point where he had located the flashes. Instantly every instinct of the true scout was aroused. There was something alive back of that little spruce. It might be an animal and then again it might be a man. At once there flashed into his mind Alec's account of the robbed traps. Could it be that one of the thieves was reconnoitering the Hollow? His heart gave a queer jump at the thought. Anyway it was clearly up to him to find out what he could. Rapidly he reviewed the situation. It was clear that from his present location he would gain no further information if his suspicions were true. If an enemy was watching from behind that spruce he was undoubtedly aware of Walter's presence, for he was standing in the open. Beyond question he had been watched from the time he left the cabin. To make a false move now would be to give warning. He regretted that he had gazed so long at the suspected point. That in itself would be sufficient to arouse suspicion in the mind of any one hiding there. The first thing then was to allay any such suspicion. Deliberately he turned his glasses across the Hollow and studied the opposite mountain for a greater length of time than he had watched the point where he had seen the flash. Then he squatted down and leisurely turned his glasses from point to point in the Hollow in the manner of one having no interest in anything but the view. Not once did he glance back along the ridge, although he was burning with curiosity and desire to do so. He ignored it as if it held no further interest for him whatever. For perhaps ten minutes he continued to act the part of a mere sightseer. Then putting his glasses back in his rucksack he stretched lazily and in a leisurely manner began to pick his way down into a little draw which cut back into the ridge in the opposite direction from the pass. Once down in this he would be out of sight of a possible watcher at the spruce lookout. As soon as he was sure that he was beyond observation Upton hurried. The draw led back into a thick stand of young growth, and he hoped by working up through this to be able to cross the ridge unobserved and work back to a point which he had carefully noted and from which, owing to the change of angle, he felt sure he would be able to see back of the little spruce tree which had previously cut off his view. Getting up to the top of the ridge was stiff work for an inexperienced snow-shoer in a hurry and was productive of many tumbles, but it was accomplished at last. After this it was comparatively easy to work along just below the top on the back side to the point he had selected. There he cautiously crept into a thicket of young spruce and, his heart beating like a trip-hammer with excitement, carefully parted the branches until he could get a clear view. His hands trembled as he drew out the glasses. Would he discover anything, or had he been wrought up to such a pitch over nothing? The little spruce leaped out clear and distinct as he got the focus. "Ha!" The exclamation was wholly involuntary and he experienced an absurd impulse to look around to make sure that he had not been overheard, although he knew that he was absolutely alone. The cause was the figure of a man squatting behind the spruce and peering intently into the valley. He wore a fur cup pulled low to shade his eyes, and this, together with the distance, made it impossible for Upton to see his features clearly, but somehow he received an unshakable conviction that it was an Indian or a half-breed. A rifle leaned against the tree and doubtless it was the glint of the sun on its polished surface that had produced the mysterious flashes that had first caught his attention. "He's watching to see if I go back to the cabin," thought Walter. "If he doesn't see me by the time the others return he'll smell a rat. There's nothing more to be gained by staying here. I've proved that we are being watched, and that's all I can do. It's up to me to get back and tell the others." Cautiously the boy retreated through the thicket until he was below the cap of the ridge. Then he hurried, running when he could and finding it less difficult than he had imagined. He crossed above the head of the draw and went on until he had reached a point which he judged must be about opposite to where he had left his rifle in the hollow tree. His first impulse had been to keep on until he could come out directly in the rear of the cabin, but on second thought he had decided that it would be wiser to return by the same way that he had left and get his rifle. If he had been seen leaving the cabin with his rifle it would look odd, to say the least, if he should be seen returning without it. In climbing the ridge he had zigzagged back and forth, picking the easiest grade, but now he was too impatient for so slow a method of descent and plunged straight down, slipping, sliding, checking himself by catching at trees and brush, getting a fall now and then as the web of his shoes caught in a stick, but on the whole doing very well. One thing he had not considered as he should have--the possibility of slipping over an unseen ledge. It was brought home to him when he brought a rather long slide to an abrupt end by catching a tree on the very edge of a sheer drop of perhaps eight feet. "Phew!" he gasped. "A little more and I'd have gone over that and had a nasty tumble. Been the same way if it had been a fifty foot ledge. I see where little Walter will be turning up missing one of these days if he doesn't look out. It's a poor scout who takes needless chances in territory he isn't familiar with. I'll be more careful hereafter." He peered over the edge of the ledge. Below the snow had drifted deep and it was clear. The ledge ran east and west for some distance, and to make a detour would take time. His first thought was to kick off his shoes, toss them down and then jump. But if he did this he would be sure to break through the crust and he had no means of knowing the depth of that drift or what might be underneath it. He had no desire to find out. He must either jump on his shoes or go around, and the temptation was to jump. "May as well learn to jump now as another time," he muttered, for the time being forgetting that in the event of a mishap, such as a twisted ankle, he would be helpless in a temperature far below zero. He walked back a bit, took three or four long quick strides and leaped. As he left the edge of the little bluff he felt the tails of his shoes drop until the big webs hung from his feet at an angle but slightly off the perpendicular. A momentary doubt of a successful landing flashed through his mind. He had a vision of an ignominious plunge through the crust and perhaps broken shoes. Then automatically he set himself for the landing, arms spread, body thrust forward and knees bent. It seemed as if those hanging shoes certainly must trip him. A second later he struck the crust in a half crouch. The crust cracked and gave a little, just enough to prevent the shoes from sliding. With a quick step he regained his balance and with a sense of exhilaration realized that he had made successfully his first jump on snow-shoes. From this point he had little difficulty in reaching the hollow stub, where he secured his rifle and then turned toward the cabin. Hal was just coming in. From one hand dangled a snow-shoe rabbit. "Is that all you've got for all that shooting I've heard?" chaffed Walter. Hal grinned. "Couldn't hit a balloon if it was big as a mountain and tied down in front of me," he confessed. "Don't know what the trouble was, but I just couldn't shoot. Wouldn't have got this fellow if he hadn't sat up and begged to be shot. Missed him a mile the first time at ten yards. Bullet didn't go near enough to scare him. Second shot was no better. Got him on the third shot, but I believe at that he jumped in front of the bullet. You don't seem to have had even that much luck. What was the trouble? Haven't heard your rifle this morning." "Didn't feel like hunting. Went up on the ridge to get the view instead," returned Walter carelessly. "Wonder how Sparrer made out." They entered the cabin to find Pat and Sparrer already there, the latter so excited that he gave vent to a joyful whoop when he caught sight of them and rushed precipitately to the back of the room to drag forth two pairs of rabbits. "Plugged 'em all meself!" he declared proudly. The rabbits were duly examined and Sparrer was praised for his marksmanship until his cheeks burned, Pat leading in piling it on thick. Two of the rabbits had been neatly drilled through the heads, a third had "got it in the neck," as Pat put it, and the fourth had been shot through the body. Pat forestalled any criticism by explaining that this was the first rabbit they had found and he had told Sparrer to "shoot at thot little lump av snow just by way av gettin' yer hand in." Quite innocently Sparrer had done so, and had nearly dropped the rifle in surprise when the lump of snow had resolved itself into a rabbit which gave a few spasmodic kicks and then lay still. Of course Hal was chaffed unmercifully over his one lone contribution to the larder, especially when he admitted that he had shot at no less than five. But he took it good-naturedly, confessing that he was utterly at loss to account for his bad form. Meanwhile Upton had said nothing about his discovery on the ridge. His first impulse had been to blurt out the news, but on second thought he had decided not to. At the first opportunity he drew Pat aside and told him. The big fellow's face darkened. "Say nothing about it," he counseled. "There's no use in spoiling a merry day, and the knowledge that we are being watched will do them no good. There's nothing we can do about it to-day. 'Tis not likely they mean us any harm. It's the fur they are after, and they've just taken advantage of the crust which leaves no trail to look us over and find out how many are in our party." So Walter held his peace, and threw himself into the preparations for dinner as if he had nothing of more importance on his mind. That Christmas feast will never be forgotten by the three city lads. There was the promised roast of venison, a rabbit stew, potatoes baked in the ashes, canned peas, biscuit, a jar of jam, and, to top off with, a hot apple pie made from evaporated apples. But the real surprise was a steak done to a turn over the hot coals. "Bear!" shouted Hal as he set his teeth in the first mouthful. Alec smiled. "I see ye have tasted it before," said he. "Once," replied Hal. "Louis Woodhull got one on that Swift River trip a year ago last fall. But when did you get this fellow, and why have you kept so mum about it?" Alec nodded toward the skin which was to be Spud Ely's. "It's the same one," said he. "I've kept part of him ripening out in the storehouse against this day," he explained. When they could eat no more there was a general loosening of belts and sighs of complete satisfaction into which Pat rudely broke with a demand for dishwashers and wipers. "Oh, can it!" grunted Hal. "When a fellow's in the seventh heaven what do you try to bring him down to earth again for?" But Pat was obdurate, and with many an exaggerated grunt and groan the remains of the feast were cleared away, the dishes washed and the cabin set to rights. Then followed a lazy hour before the rifle match. It was agreed that Pat and Alec, both of whom were expert shots, should count as a clean miss any shot not striking in the black, while the others should be credited with whatever their actual scores were. Each was to be allowed ten shots. The bull's-eye counted ten, the first ring outside counted nine, the next ring eight, and so on. Each was allowed three trial shots to get the range. Hal was the first to take his trial shots. At the crack of the rifle Upton ran forward to examine the target. "Never touched it! Didn't even hit the board! Some shooter you are, Hal!" he yelled. Hal flushed, but said nothing. For his second shot he took plenty of time and was as careful as he knew how to be. The result was the same. For his third shot he used a rest, which was contrary to the rules, but was allowed, as this was only a trial shot. This time he nicked a splinter from one edge of the board on which the target was fastened. "Here, let me see that rifle," cried Pat, striding forward and snatching the gun out of Hal's hands. He sighted it, then handed it back with a grin. "Will ye tell me how iver ye got thot wan rabbit wid a gun the loikes av thot?" he demanded. "Why, what's the matter with the gun?" demanded Hal, reaching for it, a puzzled scowl furrowing his brows. Alec forestalled him and took the rifle from Pat's hands. He in turn sighted along the barrel. "Laddie," said he, the soberness of his face belied by the twinkle in his eyes, "do ye no ken that a gun is like a fine lady? It must be treated wi' respect." Hal took the gun with a puzzled look. "I don't quite get you fellows yet," said he. Pat laughed outright. "Look at your forward sight, man. You've hit the end of your barrel against something and knocked that sight a wee bit out of alignment. It must have been pure luck that you got that rabbit this morning." "Use my rifle," interrupted Walter. "Thanks," replied Hal. "I believe I will. Even if I got the sights adjusted on my gun I shouldn't be able to shoot. Every time I made a poor shot I'd have the feeling that it was the gun's fault. My, but it is a relief to know that I haven't gone back in my shooting quite so badly as all that." All having made their trial shots the match was on. Walter shot first, getting five tens, four nines and an eight, a total of ninety-four. Alec was next, and his first shot was a nine, followed by nine bull's-eyes, a total of ninety under his handicap. Hal started off with a seven, went into the black six times in succession, then got two eights and wound up with a nine, total ninety-two. Sparrer gave them a surprise with eighty-seven and Pat slapped him on the back. The coaching he had received that morning during the rabbit hunt had not been in vain. Pat was the last man up, and shot rapidly and with seeming carelessness, but the succession of bull's-eyes was proof that this was more apparent than real. His last shot, however, barely touched the edge of the black, and he insisted that it be counted a miss, tying him with Alec and giving Walter the match. After this Pat and Alec shot a friendly match. While this was going on Hal slipped back to the cabin. He had marked a small spruce of perfect shape not far from the rear of the cabin, and this he now cut and dragged in. By the time the shooting was over he had it set up at the rear of the room and had stretched a blanket across so as to screen it. When his comrades came trooping in they were warned not to peep behind it under threat of dire penalties. He made one exception. He needed Upton's help and also the gifts that Walter had brought from home. By the time they had finished it was quite dark in the cabin. They piled logs on the fire and when the blaze was leaping merrily up the chimney and casting a warm ruddy light over the room Hal suggested that they draw up to the fire for a Christmas story. He chose the German legend of the origin of the Christmas tree. He possessed no mean skill as a story-teller and he threw himself into the telling of this so that his listeners sat in rapt attention. Just before the conclusion he gave Walter a signal and the latter arose and slipped back of the blanket. As the story ended the blanket was pulled down and there was the little tree glittering with lights and tinsel and hung with the gifts which the boys had brought. There was a delighted gasp from Pat, Alec and Sparrer and then a silence that was a tribute in itself as they watched the colored candles gradually shorten. The truth is it was the first Christmas tree within the experience of any one of the three, and they were as delighted as any children could have been. When the candles had burned down to the danger point Hal blew them out and then distributed the gifts, which were opened amid much hilarity and fun making. "This makes up for the stockings this morning," he laughed as the others showered him with fulsome praise. "It more than makes up," declared Pat. "'Tis a Christmas I'll never forget." Then as he lovingly fingered a long desired book sent in by Doctor Merriam he added: "But when did you think of the tree idea? Was it in New York?" Hal nodded. "The idea came to me the very day we left. Saw a window full of tree fixings and on the impulse ran in and got the candles and tinsel. Glad you like it." An hour of story-telling followed ere they turned in and silence like a Christmas benediction settled over the cabin. CHAPTER XII A DEER YARD "Would you fellows like to visit a deer yard?" Pat asked at breakfast the next morning when the subject of the day's program had been brought up. "Would we!" Upton fairly shouted it. "Say, Pat, do you mean that there is a really, truly sure enough deer yard anywhere near here? I've read about 'em, and I'd give all my old shoes to see one." "Right O, my fine bucko! You shall see one, and it won't cost you so much as a shoestring," replied Pat. "It's not over a mile from camp, and on the ridge just above it is one of those deadfalls for bear that Alec built last fall. We'll take that in and kill two birds with one stone if you say so. There are some marten traps on that same ridge that I want to have a look at. What do you say, Alec?" "Verra good," replied Alec. "You show the laddies the yard and look over that line, and I'll take the short line east. We'll get back here by noon and this afternoon we can show them some other sets." To this plan the others agreed with enthusiasm and preparations for an immediate start were begun. "Shall we take rifles?" asked Hal eagerly. "For what?" demanded Pat. "We be going to visit a deer yard, and 'twould be tempting fate and flying in the face of Providence to let such a bloodthirsty young gintleman in among the poor cratures with a gun in his hands." Hal joined in the laugh at his expense and then added rather lamely: "We might run across that silver fox." "And we might jump over the moon. The one is as likely as the other," retorted Pat. So the guns were left at the cabin. Pat led the way straight to the ridge on which Spud Ely had missed his first chance to get a buck in the fall, but instead of climbing the ridge worked along the foot of it, skirting a swamp. They followed the edge of this for some distance and then abruptly turned into it. The growth was dense in places, with thickets of young hemlocks which afforded both warmth and shelter in severe weather. Almost at once they came to a deeply trodden path which led them presently to a maze of paths running in all directions. "Here we are," said Pat. Sparrer's face was a study. "Where's de yard?" he asked. "All around here," replied Pat with a comprehensive sweep of his arm, "wherever you see these paths." Then, a sudden light breaking over him, he added, "Did you expect to find a fence around it, son?" Sparrer grinned, not at all embarrassed by the general laugh and perfectly willing to confess his ignorance. "All de yards ever Oi seen had fences round 'em. Oi thought a fence was what made a yard," he confessed. "Not a deer yard," replied Pat. "A deer yard is a place where the deer tramp out paths in the snow and spend the winter. It is made where they get both shelter and food. When the first deep snow comes they collect in such a place and start the paths while browsing for food. Then as the snow gets deeper they follow the same paths because it is easier going, and make new paths only when they have to to reach new food supplies. By continually using these paths they keep them open and manage to pick up a living browsing on twigs and pawing down to the ground moss. By the time the heaviest snows come they can't very well get out if they want to, especially when there is a crust like this. You see some of those paths are two to three feet deep. The more plentiful the feed and the smaller the herd the smaller the yard. Before there were any laws to protect deer and moose they used to be slaughtered in the yards by trappers and lumber jacks because it is no trick at all for a man on snow-shoes to run them down. Once get them frightened so that they break out of the yard and they can be run down in no time. There's a deal of poaching goes on now when a yard is discovered near a lumber camp. It's just plain murder and nothing less. I've known a whole family of moose, bull, cow, yearling and calf, to be wiped out in one day by a bloody-minded game-hog. Didn't even waste a shot on the calf, but ran it down and cut its throat. Red Pete, the brute Walt helped to put in the pen the first year he came up here, used to make a business of locating deer yards and keeping lumber camps supplied with fresh meat all winter. The poor critters haven't even a running chance for their lives." "Oi hope we'll be able to lamp some. Oi wud loike to put me peepers on a real live wild deer before we go home," said Sparrer, his eyes shining with suppressed excitement. "I guess I can promise you that, my son," replied Pat. "We'll separate here. Sparrer and I will work off to leeward, Hal will keep straight ahead and Walt will swing to windward. If you two start any they will work over to us and give Sparrer a chance to see em. Yell if you start any. I reckon you'll find 'em pretty tame. They haven't been bothered here and they know as well as we do that the law protects 'em now. Watch for fresh sign and follow it up." They separated as suggested, Hal and Walter moving slowly so as to give Pat and Sparrer time to gain a good position. Walter swung well to the windward side. Of course this meant that his chances of getting a close view of any deer which might be on his side of the yard were comparatively slim. They would wind him and at once move on. He was in effect a driver for the others. But he didn't mind this. Wild deer were no new sight to him, and he was only too anxious to give Sparrer the pleasure which he knew a glimpse of Peaked-toes in the freedom of his native woods would be. He chose what appeared to be one of the most used paths and followed this as quietly as he could. He soon found that still hunting on snow-shoes and with moccasined feet on bare ground were two very different matters. He was not yet sufficiently adept on the big webs to keep them from clacking as the rim of one shoe passed over the rim of the other. The harder he tried not to the more noise he made, it seemed. Clack, clack, clack. It was most annoying. He stopped to consider. Then on the impulse of a sudden idea he slipped his shoes off and dropped down into the path he had been following. Here he could walk without noise. The droppings of the deer, known as "sign" by all hunters, were numerous, and the brush within reach from the path showed indications of having been browsed on recently, and he found several places where sharp hoofs had pawed away the snow since the last storm. The path twisted and turned and doubled on itself, showing that it had been made originally by aimless wandering in quest of food. Other paths crossed it, but Walter avoided these, judging that the one he was on was as likely as another to lead him to the quarry. At length after an abrupt turn it led straight into a thicket of hemlocks, young growth. As he approached this there was a sharp sound like the sudden release of compressed air, repeated a second later from a point a trifle to the right. It was the alarm warning of deer. Above the snow just to the right of and beyond the thicket he caught a glimpse of the heads and necks of two does moving rapidly. The effect was most peculiar. It was as if they possessed no bodies until one of them made a high jump for just an instant, bringing the back and rump, with its snowy white flag stiffly erect, into view. "From the way they go I should think it was the hunting season. I had an idea that they wouldn't be particularly timid, but those two lit out in a regular panic. Act like they'd been hunted until their nerves were all on edge," thought the boy as he hurriedly forced his way through the thicket. He had no expectation of finding more there, but was eager to see where the two had been lying and then to follow them up as rapidly as possible. So he burst through the screen of hemlocks in rather precipitate fashion, an unusual proceeding for Upton, whose natural caution had been supplemented by a very thorough training in woodcraft during the three summers he had spent at Woodcraft Camp. The instant he was through the barrier he realized the folly of his action. Facing him, not ten feet away, was a big buck with a splendid pair of antlers. [Illustration: NOT TEN FEET AWAY WAS A BIG BUCK] If the does were panic stricken their lord was not. On the contrary he was the embodiment of vicious anger. The hair on his neck was raised, his eyes blazed with rage; and he was pawing the snow with impatience. These details were registered on Walter's mind to be recalled later, but at the time he was conscious of but one thing--that he had stumbled into a predicament which might easily cost him his life. No sooner was he clearly in view than the buck charged. Telling of it at the cabin that night Upton declared that in that fleeting instant it seemed to him that he was staring at a whole forest of horns pointed straight for him. Intuition is subconscious direction without the aid of conscious thought and is usually the result of wisely directed thinking in the past. As a Scout Upton had tried to train himself to meet emergencies, to be prepared, and it was the result of this training that governed him now. Dropping his snow-shoes he leaped aside. Fortunately the snow had been trampled down for a sufficient space at this point to allow of this. As it was the buck swept past so close as to almost graze his clothing. Indeed so narrow had been the margin that the shoes, released as he jumped, fell directly in front of the infuriated animal and the brow antlers pierced the meshes of one of them. It was this lucky circumstance which was Upton's salvation. For a few minutes the buck's attention was wholly engaged with this new adversary which banged against his nose, obscured his vision and clung to him in such inexplicable fashion. He tried to back away from it, but in vain. Then he plunged forward and sought to grind it into the snow, with the result that he only fixed it more firmly on his antlers. In vain he struck at it with his feet. The dangling tail offered nothing on which to get a purchase. Fear now began to replace rage. Here was an enemy that would neither fight nor run away. Nor could he in turn run away from it. Meanwhile Walter had made the most of his opportunity. But a few feet distant was a young hemlock tree. Floundering through the snow he reached this and scrambled up. It was a small tree, and his perch was none too secure, and anything but comfortable for an extended stay. But it meant safety for the time being, and just then this was everything. With a sigh of thankfulness he turned his attention to the scene below, and his sense of humor for the moment overcame everything else. The buck was plainly being worsted in his battle with the snow-shoe, and was working himself into a panic. His great eyes were wide with fright as he backed and plunged and vainly reared in an effort to strike with his forefeet. With every toss of his head the tail of the shoe rapped him sharply across his nose, adding injury to insult. It was so funny that Walter fairly shouted with laughter, and the sound of his voice added to the terror of the frantic animal. With a desperate leap sidewise in an effort to get clear of his tormentor he landed in the deep snow, his sharp hoofs cutting through the crust. Then followed a succession of floundering plunges which took him still further into trouble until at last, panting from fright and the result of his efforts, he was forced to cease his struggles from sheer weariness. It was then that Upton thought seriously of his own plight. The buck was not much more helpless than he himself without his shoes. One lay below him in the snow, somewhat the worse for the trampling of the buck during his wild plunging. This he could retrieve without trouble or danger. But the other was still fast on those uncomfortably sharp horns, and he was of no mind to make a closer acquaintance with them unaided. It was then that he remembered that in the subsequent excitement he had failed to give the view hallo when he had started the does and thus warn the others that game was afoot. A yell now would mean to the others merely that they were to be on the watch for deer headed their way unless they were near enough to distinguish words, which he much doubted. Then he remembered the whistle which he always carried and the emergency call for help of the Blue Tortoise Patrol. Both Hal and Sparrer would recognize and understand that. Somehow it seemed less a compromise of dignity than yelling for help. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew the signal, waited five seconds and blew again. A minute later he heard a reply from a lesser distance than he had expected, followed almost at once by another which was rendered fainter by distance. "Reached both of 'em," he muttered complacently. "Hal isn't so far away as I was afraid he might be. Guess I better tell them what the trouble is." With the whistle he spelled out in the Morse code "T-r-e-e-d b-y a b-u-c-k w-a-t-c-h o-u-t." Back came the double reply "O. K.," followed by Hal's voice in a long drawn "Hello-o-o." Shouting occasionally to give the others the direction Upton climbed down from his perch, recovered the one shoe and then waited with such patience as he could. Hal was soon within easy shouting distance and the anxiety in his voice as he inquired if Upton was all right was very evident. Set at rest on this point he whooped joyously and Upton grinned ruefully. "This will be nuts for Hal. He'll never let me hear the end of it. I'm glad he didn't see me up the tree," he thought. Aloud he warned Hal not to come too near, but to wait until the others came up. While he felt that the buck was so bedded in the snow as to be practically harmless he wanted no chances taken. A few minutes later Pat and Sparrer came up, panting with the exertion of their long run, and the circumstances were briefly explained. Pat took in the situation at a glance and his eyes danced with enjoyment, and all three began to chaff Walter unmercifully. But there was little time for this just then. The coming up of the others had further alarmed the buck, who had recovered wind and strength to some degree, and was now renewing his efforts to escape. Pat ordered Hal to circle around and head off the animal, while he himself came up from behind and endeavored to free the shoe. Sparrer was to stand by in case of need and render any assistance he could. Upton was to stay where he was. Indeed there was nothing else for him to do, as once in the deep snow he would be more helpless than the deer. The latter was still floundering forward and there were stains of red on the crust where it had cut the slender legs. As Hal appeared in front of him, whooping excitedly, the buck ceased his struggling and stood shoulder deep in the snow, his sides heaving and his steaming nostrils quivering as he labored for breath. "Poor thing! He hasn't got another kick in him," Hal exclaimed, drawing so near that he could reach out and touch the slender muzzle. "Don't be too sure of that, me bye. Betther shtand back a bit," warned Pat coming up from the animal's rear and leaning forward to get hold of the shoe. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the buck flung his head up and back. The tail of the shoe flew up, striking Hal a sharp blow on the side of his head. Instinctively he jumped back, forgetting that he was on snow-shoes. The result was immediate and decisive. With a wild yell he pitched backward and disappeared in the snow. At the same instant Pat grabbed the buck's horns, one with each hand, and straddling his back called for Sparrer to free the shoe. This Sparrer succeeded in doing after a few minutes' struggle and then turned his attention to Hal, whose muffled cries of "Help! Take him away!" bore evidence to the fact that he was under the impression that the buck had knocked him down and was trying to trample him. In fact it was hard work to convince him that this was not the case until with Sparrer's help he regained his feet and got the snow out of his eyes sufficiently to see Pat struggling with the deer. As soon as Hal and Sparrer were at a safe distance Pat let go and joined the others, breathing heavily from his exertions. The deer, freed of the hateful thing which had clung to his head and been the cause of all his troubles, turned and with awkward jumps plunged back through the way he had broken in leaving the yard. Pat warned Walter to keep out of sight so as not to turn the animal into new difficulties, and presently they saw him reach the trodden paths of the yard and with a shake of his beautifully crowned head bound lightly away. Then while they took stock of damages Upton told his story. "An innocent babe in the woods," murmured Pat when Walter told how he had removed his shoes and taken to the deer paths. "If that had been a bull moose now instead of a buck 'tis loike yer frinds wud be weeping instead av laughing at ye this very minut." "That's true, Pat," replied Walter promptly. "It was a foolish thing to do, and I know it now. As it is you've got the laugh on me--and Hal," he added slyly. "How about it, Hal?" "Oh, it's on me too, all right," returned that young gentleman, rubbing the lump on his head. "I sure thought that brute was right on top of me." Pat meanwhile had brought out some stout twine and was making temporary repairs on the damaged shoes. Beyond some damage to the webbing where the horns had pierced it the one which had been the cause of the buck's discomfiture was as good as ever, but the frame of the other had been badly split by the sharp hoofs of the plunging animal. Bringing the broken parts together Pat wound them with the twine, and when he had finished pronounced the shoe fit for the trip back to the cabin, where he would undertake a more permanent job. "We won't visit those traps now," said he in spite of Walter's protest that he could go back while the others went on, and led the way homeward. CHAPTER XIII POACHERS The behavior of the deer in the yard had puzzled Upton not a little. He could evolve no theory to account for it. Why at this season of the year should those two does have appeared so terror stricken at his approach, and why should the buck have been in such an ugly mood? From all accounts he had read, and from what Pat had said, he had had good grounds for expecting the animals to be fairly tame. He put the matter up to Pat as they tramped homeward, but his reply was evasive and unsatisfactory. In fact, the big fellow was not inclined to talk. He appeared to have something on his mind, and strode along with a black scowl darkening his usually good-humored face. Once Walter thought he detected a slight shake of his head at Sparrer as the latter started to say something. He was sure of it when the latter abruptly changed the subject. Pat set a stiff pace. He seemed in a hurry to get back to the cabin. As he opened the cabin door and looked in a flash of what looked to Upton very much like relief crossed his face as he saw that it was empty, it being too early for Alec to have returned. This puzzled Walter more than ever, but he held his tongue and forbore to ask questions. He felt sure that in his own good time Pat would unburden himself. The latter at once went to work on the broken shoe, replacing the twine with a rawhide thong made pliable by soaking in water. This would contract in drying and the broken frame would be stronger than ever. He had just finished the job when Alec came in with two marten. "Any signs of our friends, the enemy?" asked Pat whimsically. Alec shook his head. "No one has been near the traps," he replied. "I dinna think they will dare come so near the cabin." "You've got another guess coming, Alec," retorted Pat. "The murthering thaves killed two deer within a mile of here yesterday." "What!" exclaimed Walter and Hal in unison, while Alec suspended his skinning knife in mid air and shot a keen glance at Pat. "It's a fact," Pat went on. "Sparrer will tell you so." Sparrer nodded in confirmation of Pat's surprising statement. "But we didn't hear any guns," protested Hal. "No," replied Pat, "for the very good reason that no guns were fired. They were not hunting; they were butchering." Then he graphically described for Alec's benefit Upton's experience with the buck that morning, and the story lost nothing in the telling. "Walt," he continued, "knows enough about deer to realize that the deer he saw did not behave as he expected they would, and he's been puzzling over it ever since. I'll tell you the reason. They've been hunted and harried in that yard till their nerves are on the jump so that they will run from their own shadows, all but the buck, and I guess now after his scrap with the snow-shoe he will be as bad as the does. As it was he was simply fighting mad, knowing their helplessness outside the yard. Ordinarily he would have simply trotted off quietly with the does. But they were hunted yesterday to a point where the old fellow was desperate, and the proof of it is what Sparrer and I found." "What was it?" demanded Walter eagerly. "We found where a fawn and a doe had been driven into the deep snow and butchered with a knife," replied Pat. "The story was plain enough for any one who can read signs. It was no trick at all for those bloody poachers on snow-shoes to run them down and drive them into the snow. After that no gun was needed. Besides, a gun is too noisy for thieves and lawbreakers. Walt didn't tell you what he saw yesterday. Fire away, Walt, and tell 'em." Upton told briefly what he had seen on the peak by the pass and his reasons for telling only Pat. Alec's face hardened as he listened and a steely glint crept into his eyes. When Walter had finished Pat continued. "You fellows wondered why I was so keen on getting back to the cabin. It was because I don't believe it is safe to leave it unguarded. As long as the snow was soft those thieves kept away from the Hollow, but with this crust to leave no tracks they've come down here, and they've been watching us. They know how many of us are here and are watching our movements. They'd raid the cabin in a minute if they saw the chance. But as long as anybody is here they'll keep out of sight. Hereafter we'll leave a guard when we go out. To-morrow Alec and I will start before daybreak to look for those fellows and leave you youngsters to amuse yourselves. I have an idea that their camp isn't so far away as Alec thought it was. Now we'll have dinner, and this afternoon Alec and I will look over a couple of the short lines, one of you can keep guard here and the other two can go with us or do anything else you please." Upton insisted that he should keep guard, Hal decided to go with Alec, and Sparrer with a little hesitancy confessed that he would like to hunt rabbits. The experience of Christmas morning had whetted his taste for hunting and following a trap line seemed tame sport in comparison. He was eager to try his luck alone, and when Walter offered the loan of his rifle his happiness was complete. When the others had departed he shouldered the rifle and at Upton's suggestion started to follow the course of the brook up to the beaver ponds so as to see the houses and dams and then go on to the swamp at the head of the ponds where Spud Ely had found the rabbit tracks which had ultimately led to his finding of Alec Smith the fall before. It did not take him long to reach the first or big dam. It was difficult for this boy of the city to believe that this could be the work of animals and not men, and had he not seen some of the beaver cuttings in the Bronx Park at home he would have been inclined to think that Upton had been stuffing him when he told him about the dam. There was little opportunity to examine the construction, because it was covered with snow and was in effect a long solid wall of glistening white. Beyond stretched the smooth even surface of the big pond, with nothing to break the dead level of it but three white mounds over toward the north shore. These he knew must be the houses of which Upton had told him, and he at once decided to go over and investigate them. As he approached them he discovered several small mounds around two of the houses, but thought nothing of this until he noticed that the snow around them had been recently disturbed, and that the mounds themselves were not crusted. Instantly every sense which his Scout training had developed was aroused. Here was something peculiar, and to be investigated. Could this be the work of the beavers? He would find out. Rapidly he dug into one of the mounds and presently disclosed evergreen boughs over which the snow had been heaped. Could this be some work of the strange little animals of which he had never heard? He lifted one of the boughs and looked at the butt. It had been _broken_ off and not cut by teeth. Moreover, it was freshly broken. He examined another with the same result. Underneath was a larger one, and this had been cut with an axe. Sparrer straightened and looked keenly in all directions. A sudden suspicion was rapidly crystallizing into conviction in his mind. This was the work of man. What did it mean? So far as he could see there was not another living thing in all that great white waste. The vast silence was oppressive. Involuntarily he shivered. For the first time the loneliness of complete solitude gripped him, the more so that hitherto in all his life he had never known what it was to be absolutely alone. From babyhood he had been surrounded night and day by human beings, many of them evil, but human nevertheless. Even since he had entered the woods he had not been out of speaking distance of one or more of his companions until now. An overwhelming sense of littleness and insignificance swept over him. There was something sinister and threatening in the towering hills. He had the feeling that unseen eyes were watching him and it made his flesh creep. He knew it was, must be, only a feeling, yet he could not rid himself of it. It is a feeling which every one who is alone for the first time in the wilderness experiences. Then he shook himself. "Youse is sure losing yer goat, Sparrer," he muttered. "Buck up!" With this he resumed his investigations. When the last of the boughs had been removed he found a hole in the ice about a foot and a half wide and a trifle longer. Along one end and both sides small dead sticks had been driven into the mud and close to the edges of the hole. These were about four inches apart and formed a little pen with one end open. Close to one side and projecting beyond the pen through the open end was a long freshly cut green poplar stick fastened about two inches above the bottom. The water was shallow and presently he made out a steel trap dimly outlined well inside the pen quite close to the poplar stick, the chain fastened to one of the pen stakes. It was all perfectly clear now to even such a novice as Sparrer. It was a set for beaver. He knew enough about the animals to know that their favorite food is poplar bark. The green poplar stick was bait. It seemed queer to think of a stick of wood as bait, but this is what it was, and nothing else. He saw that it was securely fastened at the butt end in a corner of the pen and was staked down near the opening so that there could be no cross movement. It could not be pulled out. The only way for a hungry beaver to get it would be to enter the pen and cut it off and in doing this he could hardly fail of stepping in the trap. Then he would drown miserably under the ice. The part left sticking out beyond the pen was by way of a teaser. It would be the first part touched by the animal and would undoubtedly be cut off close to the pen. Having had a taste of the fresh green bark and no harm having come from it the animal would unsuspectingly enter the pen to secure the remainder, whereas with the bait wholly within the pen in the first place the animal would be suspicious and wary of entering. It was all very simple, clever and diabolical. Sparrer's first impulse was to spring the trap, but on second thought he decided to leave it alone. It might well be that his discovery were better unknown. His life in New York streets had taught him that it is possible to know too much; that some things are better forgotten as soon as learned. He recalled what had been said about the illegality of trapping beaver. If Pat and Alec were doing a little quiet poaching it was none of his business. They would not thank him for interfering. Of course the trap must be theirs. There was no one else trapping in the Hollow. The poachers there had been so much talk about were working miles beyond the Hollow, on the long line. He remembered now that neither Pat nor Alec had once suggested a trip up this way. Good reason. They wanted to avoid any embarrassing questions about those queer little mounds, for he knew now that each one covered a trap-pan. The boughs and the snow were to keep the holes from freezing over. He counted the mounds. There were three at one house and four at the other. "Youse better cover this up and make yer get-away while the going's good," he muttered as he replaced the boughs and packed the snow over them until the mound was as nearly as he had found it as it was possible to make it. Then he made a hasty examination of the houses. The snow was melted on the tops of the two around which the traps were set, sure sign that they were inhabited. This was caused by the warm air from the interior escaping through the air holes which are always left in the top of a beaver house. The third was solidly crusted over, a reasonably sure indication that it was abandoned. Having satisfied his curiosity Sparrer started back to the dam and followed it to the woods on the farther shore. He had intended to go straight across the pond to the second dam, but his discovery of the traps had aroused his sense of caution and he decided that it would be better to keep to the woods. On the broad white expanse of the pond he would be altogether too conspicuous should it happen that curious eyes were watching. As he skirted the shore of the pond through the brush his thoughts were so busy with his discovery that for the time being he quite forgot to keep an eye out for rabbit signs. The illegality of this attempt to catch beaver in a closed season did not impress him at first. He had had nothing to do with game and game laws. They were entirely outside his range of experience. In fact, he failed utterly to grasp the purpose back of the laws and like a great many others he regarded them as a restriction of individual liberty, and a violation as of no very great moment. They were to him very much as the "keep off the grass" signs in the city park. So it was no shock to the boy to think that his new idol, Pat, should be breaking a law for which he could see no reason. But what did give him a shock was the method employed. This outraged his strong sense of fair play. "It's hitting 'em below de belt. Dey ain't got a chance in de world," he kept saying over and over to himself. "Dey finds de food right by dere houses under de ice where dey ain't looking for no foul blow, and dey helps demselves and gits a knockout widout a show." He could overlook the breaking of the law because it held no meaning for him, but it was hard to reconcile this flagrant outrage on fairness with what he knew of Pat. "Maybe Alec's doing it on de side and Pat don't know nothin' about it," he thought, and with this comforting reflection he felt better. As he tramped on his thoughts grew clearer. He recalled Alec's strong assertion that he was for protecting beaver. If Alec had been sincere this eliminated him, and Pat had not been away from the cabin unattended since they arrived. Moreover the traps had been set since the last snow, and that fact effectually disposed of both Pat and Alec. As he realized this Sparrer gave vent to a low whistle. "It's some other mugs, as sure as shootin'!" he exclaimed. "Bet it's de same guys dat killed de deer, and Pat an' Alec don't know nothin' about it." He paused, undecided whether to go back or keep on, but a moment's reflection decided him. Pat and Alec were out on the trap lines, and would not be back until dark. He would keep on and have his hunt. The news would keep until he got back. But this new-born certainty that there were others in the Hollow gave him an uncomfortable feeling and he decided that he would keep as much away from the open as possible. For this reason as he approached the second dam he was content to look at it from the screen of brush. It was similar to the first, but smaller, and there were no houses in the pond above. The third dam was but a short distance above and this was the smallest of the three. Beyond this lay the swamp where he hoped to find the rabbits. That his nerves were jumpy he realized by the way he started at every unexpected sound. The grinding of one tree against another, even an unusually loud clack of his own snow-shoes, made his heart jump. Once he could have sworn that he heard a stick snap behind him, and for a full two minutes he stood listening. But he heard nothing further and nothing moved within his range of vision. Charging it up to an overwrought imagination and chiding himself for a silly chump he moved on. Presently he discovered fresh rabbit sign, and this drove everything else out of his head. Slowly he moved forward, his rifle cocked and ready. Profiting by his experience with Pat the day before he scanned every little irregularity in the surface of the snow with suspicious eyes. Presently he discovered a little mound ahead of him and a bit to one side of the path he was following. It seemed to Sparrer that it was if anything a trifle whiter than the surrounding snow. Study it as he would, to his untrained eyes it bore no resemblance to an animal. But presently he noticed two dark spots, and it flashed over him that they were eyes, intently watching him. Slowly he started to raise his rifle, but at the first movement the white mound dissolved into a long legged animal which bounded behind a stump and was gone before he could get his gun to his shoulder. Disappointed, but resolved that the next one should not get the jump on him Sparrer kept on. Sign was plentiful everywhere, and his hopes ran high. So fearful was he of another rabbit's repeating the surprise of the first one that as he stole forward he kept his gun at his shoulder, until at last he was forced to lower it from sheer weariness. But in spite of his care and watchfulness he saw no more game and at last sat down on an old log to rest. He was tired and if the truth be known somewhat discouraged. He was too new at the hunting game to realize that his was no more than the usual experience of the hunter and that his chances of success, if no better, were no worse than in the beginning. CHAPTER XIV THE SILVER FOX The log on which Sparrer was seated was near the edge of the swamp and commanded a view of the small upper pond, while he himself was more or less screened from observation from that direction by a fringe of young birch and alders. He had sat there perhaps ten minutes, and was just beginning to realize that he would have to move on in order to keep warm when his eyes, idly scanning the farther shore, detected something moving among the trees beyond the farther end of the little dam. Instantly he was all attention, his eyes glued to the spot. He forgot that he was beginning to feel chilled. A warm glow of excitement rushed over him. There was an animal of some kind over there, but what he could not tell at that distance. But one thing was certain, it was no rabbit, for it was dark in color, and it was too big. He could catch but tantalizing glimpses of it in the young growth along the edge of the pond, and presently it disappeared altogether behind a tangle of fallen brush. Unconsciously he held his breath as he waited for it to reappear. Slowly the minutes slipped away. He began to think that his eyes must have been playing him tricks. He was once more becoming conscious of the cold and had almost decided to cross over and investigate the brush pile into which he thought the animal had vanished when a black form leaped lightly out on the farther end of the dam and paused with one fore foot uplifted and head thrown up to test the wind. Sparrer needed but one look at the great plume of a tail to know that it was a fox, but such a fox as he had never dreamed existed. It was bigger than any fox he had ever seen, the great size being apparent even at that distance. And instead of the red coat of the foxes with which the boy was familiar at the Bronx Zoo this fellow was robed in the blackness of night, and this was intensified by contrast with the pure white of his surroundings. "It's him, de silver fox!" gasped Sparrer under his breath, and with the realization that here before his very eyes was the king of the North American fur bearers, whose skin was worth a fabulous sum, according to what he had heard, he began to shake as with the ague. What if he could get him? A cold sweat broke out at the mere thought. There on the dam was what to him was nothing less than a fortune, and here was he shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind. The distance was too great for a shot at present, but perhaps the fox would come nearer, and then a true eye and steady nerves for just a matter of a few seconds and the prize might be his. With a quick intake of breath he tried to get a grip on himself. He thought of the battles he had fought with bullies older and bigger than himself, and had won because he had kept his head in the heat of contest and had coolly taken advantage of every opening. But that was different. Then he was in action and it was easier to keep cool. Then, too, if he missed one blow there was a chance for another. It was this sitting still with the knowledge that there would be but one chance, and that this must be taken at just the right moment or be lost forever that upset him so. Then curiously enough the motto of the Boy Scouts flashed into his head--"Be prepared." It was like a tonic to his shaking nerves. Was not a Scout supposed to be prepared for all emergencies, and what was this but a form of emergency? He stopped shaking. He lifted his rifle ever so little and found that it remained steady and motionless in his hands. "It ain't no fox. It's just a rabbit and youse can't miss it," he whispered over and over to himself, and experienced an odd sense of confidence. He was himself once more, the Sparrer of the streets, able to take care of himself and keep his head in any emergency; the Sparrer of the Blue Tortoise Patrol, noting the number of the fleeing machine at the time of the accident. Meanwhile the fox was leisurely crossing the dam, stopping now and then to sniff at the snow or to test the wind. Fortunately what little there was of the latter was blowing toward the hidden watcher, a fact which Sparrer did not appreciate at the time. Had the wind been the other way the fox would have caught the hated man smell and vanished like a shadow. As it was his every move denoted complete lack of suspicion so far as a fox ever does lack this characteristic trait. Sparrer was at complete loss as to what he should do. The temptation to crawl forward so as to get within easy range of the end of the dam was almost irresistible, but he realized that the first move on his part would be likely to attract the keen eyes of his quarry, and arouse his suspicions. Had the fringe of brush through which he was watching been leaved out it might have been possible to successfully make this move, but as it was his dark body against the white background could hardly fail of detection despite the screen of brush. He knew enough of animals to know that so long as he was motionless he would appear to be no more than a part of the log on which he sat, and wisely concluded to sit tight and await developments. If the fox continued clear across the dam there was one point at which he would afford a clear shot through a little opening in the brush. It would be at long range, but the 22 was high powered, and if he could judge the distance aright and hold true there was a chance that he might kill. So far as he could see this appeared to be his only chance, and he prepared to take advantage of it. Inch by inch he wormed himself around on the log so as to face this opening. Then estimating the distance as best he could, a difficult matter across the snow, he set his sights accordingly, cocked the rifle and held it in readiness. All the time he kept whispering to himself, "Nothin' but a rabbit. Nothin' to git excited about. Youse has got a dead cinch. Youse can't miss." Somehow this trying to think of the fox as a rabbit helped wonderfully. Anybody could hit a rabbit. The fox was trotting now with his nose to the snow. Sparrer was conscious of a hope so great that it was almost a prayer that the animal would stop when he reached the critical spot. It would be a hard enough shot at a motionless mark, but to hit a mark moving as swiftly as the fox was now going was more than he dared even dream of doing. The trot broke into a lope. Sparrer raised the rifle and sighted through the opening. It seemed to him that that swiftly moving form crossed the opening in one leap, a blur of black across his sights. Slowly he lowered his rifle. His chance was gone. In the reaction that followed he realized how high his hopes had been. It seemed as if Fortune had but played with him, had put the prize almost within his grasp and then as he reached for it had snatched it away to tease and mock him. He could have cried with vexation and disappointment had he been of the weeping kind. As it was he swallowed a lump in his throat and leaned forward to peer through the brush for one last glimpse of the royal animal. At the end of the dam the fox stopped. Sparrer could just make him out through the tangled screen of brush. For a moment he stood motionless. It seemed to the boy like adding insult to injury. Then with a long graceful leap he landed on the snow of the swamp. A sudden hope caused Sparrer to instinctively tighten his grip on the rifle and catch his breath. Perhaps the fox would come his way! If he should, well, he would at least find a true Scout--he would be prepared. But the fox did not turn in his direction. Instead he kept straight on into the swamp as if he intended to cross it to the high land which made up to the hills beyond. Sparrer caught occasional glimpses of him through the trees. He crossed the trail by which Sparrer had come in, sniffed at it, looked up in Sparrer's direction suspiciously, it seemed to him, sniffed again and then trotted on as if the matter were of no present interest. The dry snow had not held the scent sufficiently to cause alarm. Instead of continuing in a direct course for the hills the fox now began to quarter the ground very much as a bird dog does in quest of quail. In short runs from side to side he advanced deeper into the swamp, investigating every bush and clump of trees in his course, pausing now and then with head raised and ears cocked forward to listen, then running on again. Gradually it dawned on Sparrer that Reynard had crossed the dam with a definite purpose. He had come over to the swamp with the same object in view that had brought Sparrer there--to hunt rabbits. The sharp contrast between the snow and the black coat of the fox made it possible for Sparrer to follow the animal's movements at a distance which under ordinary conditions would have been impossible. He had turned and was working up wind, continually stopping to carefully test the light air in the hope of scenting a hare. His course was now directly away from Sparrer toward the lower end of the swamp. The boy could get only an occasional glimpse of him and presently lost him altogether. Once more bitter disappointment rankled in his heart. What should he do now? Should he remain where he was, or should he move on? How he wished that he knew more about hunting and the ways of animals, black foxes in particular. What would Pat do were he in his place? Would he give up? Somehow he couldn't picture Pat as giving up without further effort to capture so great a prize. "He'd do somethin', but what?" Sparrer scowled in labored thought. The fox was somewhere between him and the cabin. Should he turn back on the chance that he would jump the animal somewhere on the way and get a running shot? "No chance," he decided, remembering the clack of his shoes in walking. "He'd hear me a mile." He slipped his shoes off and rose to his feet. The crust bore him, for he was a light weight. Then he took a comprehensive survey of his surroundings. There was one other chance. The fox might return. He would soon reach the lower edge of the swamp and failing to make a kill might decide to try his luck down wind in the main body of the swamp. The more Sparrer thought of this the more likely it seemed. Perhaps unconsciously he was allowing hope to father the idea. Anyway it raised his spirits wonderfully. In such an event he must be ready. Once more he looked the ground over carefully. His present position was on the outer edge of the swamp. He quickly appreciated that if he were farther in his chances would be doubled in case the fox returned. If he remained where he was the fox might pass so far toward the other side that he would not even see him, to say nothing of getting a shot, whereas if he could find a place farther in which would command a fairly open view in all directions the chances of the animal passing unseen would be greatly reduced. Slightly back of his present position and a good rifle shot in to the swamp he noted a small mound crowned by a clump of young birches. He decided to take his stand there and await developments. Silently but vigorously he swung his arms to restore circulation, then picking up his rifle and shoes he made his way quickly toward the new stand, taking the utmost care not to snap a twig or make the least noise. As he entered the clump of birches a white form leaped out from the lower side, ran ten or twelve yards and sat up, looking back with eyes in which fear and curiosity were strangely blended. It was a hare, or so-called snow-shoe rabbit, and a big one. Slowly and carefully Sparrer put down his shoes and then straightened up and raised his rifle. Silently he brought the sights to bear on the motionless white form. His finger was already on the trigger when he remembered the fox. A shot now would effectually put an end to any possibility of getting the prince of fur bearers that day, and what was a rabbit compared with the latter? Oddly enough the old adage "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" popped into his head, but this time the one in the bush was of so much greater value that he promptly decided to let the one in hand go. At that distance he couldn't miss, for he had readjusted the sights and he had but to press the trigger to put an end to bunny. A little sigh escaped him as he lowered the rifle. The lowering of that rifle was the hardest thing he had done for a long time. It required considerable power of self-restraint. The fox might not come back, and if he did might not offer a shot, or he might miss him. Then the chances were that he would have to return to the cabin empty handed. With the lowering of the rifle the rabbit dropped to a crouch, thumped the snow smartly, and then slowly hopped away to a point twenty yards distant in the direction in which the fox had gone, and there crouched under a bush, an inconspicuous lump of white. Sparrer noted with satisfaction that she was still within good range, and made up his mind that if there were no signs of the fox within fifteen or twenty minutes and the rabbit still remained where she was he would shoot. Now be it known that the thump of a rabbit can be heard a long distance. It was so unexpected and so loud that it fairly startled Sparrer, who was wholly unfamiliar with this method of rabbit signaling. The ground is an excellent transmitter of sound and the heavy snow crust was hardly less effective. Other ears than Sparrer's heard, and for them that signal was pregnant with meaning and possibilities. Not two minutes later Sparrer caught sight of a black spot moving swiftly in his direction. It was the fox. As he drew nearer he moved more slowly and with characteristic cunning and caution. Every few steps he paused to listen and to look sharply under every tree and bush. He no longer tested the air as when Sparrer had last seen him, for now he was working down wind and must trust to eyes and ears rather than to his nose. But he was no less thorough in the way in which he covered the ground. Back and forth across Sparrer's field of vision he wove, investigating every likely hiding-place, approaching each with infinite care, tense, alert, the picture of eagerness, prepared to spring at the first move of his quarry. As he approached Sparrer could read in every move and attitude of the black hunter expectancy and confidence. That he knew to a reasonable certainty the approximate location from which that signal thump had sounded was clearly evident. That he also knew that the rabbit might have, and very likely had, moved since thumping was also clear and he was taking no chance of over-running his game. If he kept on as he was coming he would be within shooting distance within a few minutes. Inch by inch Sparrer raised the rifle and then, hardly daring to breathe, tense, as motionless as the trees among which he stood, he waited. The fox was now within thirty yards, and still coming. It was plain that he was unsuspicious of danger and intent wholly on the hunt. At this point he turned obliquely to the left to investigate an old log. Sparrer was tempted to shoot, but a clump of alders was in the way and he well knew that even a small twig would be almost sure to deflect the bullet. He would wait. Finding nothing at the log the fox turned and quartered to the right, which brought him into the open between the rabbit and the hunter and but a few yards from the former. The angle at which he was approaching was such as to offer the smallest mark possible and make the shot uncertain for such a novice as Sparrer. By a great effort the latter overcame the almost overwhelming temptation to shoot and waited, hoping that the animal would turn broadside. Suddenly he whirled like a flash. The boy's first thought was that he had been discovered, but the next move of the fox explained his action. Crouching so that he appeared to move on his belly he began to creep toward the rabbit, which still sat motionless. The fox had caught the scent of the latter at the instant he turned and he had but to follow his nose straight to his victim. Meanwhile he presented no better mark than before, as he was now moving straight away, and Sparrer held his fire. By this time he was so interested in the tragedy that was being enacted before him that he almost forgot his own immediate purpose. Inch by inch the black hunter crept forward, hugging the snow. Then Sparrer saw him gather his muscular hindlegs under him. There was a swift leap and at the same instant the rabbit left her form in a long jump. Before she could make another the fox was upon her. There was a shrill scream, a crunching of teeth and it was over. For an instant the fox stood with one foot on the still white form, a black statue of triumph. Then he picked the rabbit up by the middle and the limp form hung transversely in his jaws, the long legs hanging on one side and the drooping head with ridiculously long ears on the other. It was clear that Reynard did not intend to enjoy his feast on the spot. In executing this last move he had turned broadside. It was now or never for Sparrer. With infinite care he lined his sights just back of the shoulder and pulled the trigger. Simultaneously with the sharp crack of the rifle the fox made a convulsive spring and then crumpled in a black heap on the snow. Shaking so that he could hardly manipulate the lever Sparrer ejected the empty shell and threw another cartridge into place. Then with the rifle at his shoulder, covering the pathetic black heap as best he could, he slowly advanced. Somewhere he had read or heard that it was an old fox trick to simulate death, and he was taking no chances. But his precautions were needless. The bullet had severed the spinal column. The silver fox of Smugglers' Hollow had stalked his last rabbit and made his last kill. In the revulsion of feeling from the reaction following the long nervous strain Sparrer hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. As he stretched the black form out on the snow and ran his hands through the wonderful soft black fur and admired the great tail with its tip of snowy white he had for the moment almost a feeling of regret that he had been the means of destroying so beautiful a creature. Then the true significance of his achievement, luck he called it, swept over him and his eyes shone as he pictured his reception at the cabin. In the midst of his triumphant thoughts a guttural voice broke in: "White boy heap good shot." Sparrer whirled to find himself staring into a dark coppery countenance with beady eyes, low brow and high cheek bones. It was an Indian. CHAPTER XV SPARRER'S TEMPTATION "White boy heap good shot," repeated the Indian with what was intended to be a friendly grin. He was standing some twenty paces away, and where he had come from Sparrer hadn't the least idea. If he had sprung out of the snow at his feet the boy would have been no more startled and surprised. He was short, thick-set, and was dressed in a nondescript pair of trousers much the worse for wear, a faded mackinaw spotted with grease and dirt and was, of course, on snow-shoes. The swarthy evil face was crowned with a cap of unplucked muskrat fur. Save for a light axe carried in one hand and a knife in his belt he apparently was unarmed, a fact which Sparrer noted at once with a feeling of relief. "Black fox no good. Kill rabbits and birds. Good to kill fox. What white boy do with him?" continued his unwelcome visitor. "Take his skin," replied Sparrer for want of anything better to say. "Skin no good. Red fox skin good. Black fox no good--bad fur. No can sell. White boy take rabbit and give Indian fox." This astounding proposal was accompanied with what was intended for an ingratiating smile, but which served only to make the face still more ugly. "He's wised me fer a tenderfoot, an' thinks Oi'm easy," thought Sparrer. Aloud he said, "What do youse want of it, if it's no good and youse can't sell it?" Once more the dark face broke into a grin. "No sell. Make cap to wear." He touched his head to make clearer his meaning. "Indian like black cap," he added guilelessly. Sparrer laughed aloud at the childish simplicity of the idea. Then he shook his head. "Nothin' doing," he replied. "Oi want the fox meself." A look of cunning swept across the dark visage. "Indian buy fox. Give two dollar," was the next bland proposal. Again Sparrer grinned and shook his head. He was beginning to enjoy the situation. This was a method of barter he was accustomed to, the method of the lower East Side. He began to feel at home. "Five dollar!" The Indian pulled off a mitten and held up the hand with the fingers spread. Once more Sparrer shook his head. "Youse can't buy it," said he decidedly as if to end the parley. "An' youse can't put nothin' across on me," he added. "It's worth a lot of dough an' Oi'm wise to it. Youse better run along." He shifted his rifle to a handier position by way of a hint. The Indian, who had gradually advanced, stopped. His face changed completely. There was no longer any attempt to hide the greed in the beady eyes. He was no fool, and he saw the uselessness of trying to dissemble further. He meant to have that skin by fair means or foul, by fair means if possible, for he was keen enough to realize that thus he would avoid possible unpleasant consequences in the future. This youngster knew more than he had supposed he did, but he might not be proof against the temptation of ready money. Pulling off his other mitten he held up both hands, closed his fingers, opened them again, closed them and then opened those of one hand. "Twenty-five dollar!" he exclaimed. That was a larger sum than Sparrer had ever possessed at one time in all his life and to have that in hand at once was a temptation. There was no denying the fact. The skin might be worth all that he had heard and then again it might not. He was too wise in the ways of the world to be ignorant of the fact that fabulous tales are built around comparatively modest facts. Undoubtedly the skin was valuable. The fact that the Indian was so eager to get it was proof of this. But as for its being worth any such sum as two thousand, or even one thousand, that seemed absurd. He glanced down at the black form at his feet and his imagination couldn't conceive of any one paying even a hundred dollars for such a little bit of fur. Why, even when stretched it would be but a fraction of the size of the great bearskin back at the cabin and that was worth only fifteen dollars, and for his part he would much rather have the latter. He looked up to find the black beady eyes of the Indian fixed upon him as if they read his very thoughts. The man had been quick to perceive his hesitation and now began to speak again. "White boy staying at trappers' camp. Fox no belong to white boy. Him belong to trappers. Trappers sell and get money. White boy get nothing. White boy sell to Indian. No tell trappers. Indian go away and no tell. White boy have all the money--twenty-five dollar." Once more he held up his hands to indicate the amount. Sparrer gulped. The plan was simplicity itself. Twenty-five dollars meant a great deal to him, and no one would ever know. A vision of the toil-worn face of his mother when he should place twenty-five dollars in her hands flashed before him. And wasn't the fox his? Hadn't it been free and wild, belonging to nobody, and hadn't he waited and watched and with steady hands and a true eye made a clean kill? He knew nothing of the ethics of a trapper's camp. What the Indian had said might be true, and he would get no share in the prize he had won. It wasn't fair. It was an aspect of the matter of which he had not thought. Indeed, in the excitement of the hunt he had had no opportunity to think of anything but getting the shot. What he should do with the fox if he got it had not entered his head. And after the kill the appearance of the Indian had put everything else out of his head. In swift review there passed through his mind all that he had heard about the silver fox of Smugglers' Hollow. He thought of the traps which Alec had set especially for the wily king and how he and Pat had openly planned for his capture. This was their trapping territory by right of preëmption. He, Sparrer, was their guest, and but for Pat he would never have had this wonderful outing. It was even a borrowed rifle with which he had made the fatal shot. It was luck, mere luck, the luck of a novice, that had given him the opportunity. But was that any reason why he should not profit by it? If he had not killed it the animal would still be running at large and Pat and Alec might never have gotten it. It was his, his, _his_ and no one else had any claim on it. Why should he not do as he pleased with it? Meanwhile the Indian had been watching with an intense fixed stare that noted every change of expression in the boy's face. A less close observer than he would have realized that the boy was tempted. He was cunning enough to know that now was the time to play his trump card and catch the lad before he had fully regained possession of himself and spurned the temptation. With a single swift step forward he exclaimed, "Fifty dollar!" There was a note of finality in his voice which Sparrer recognized. It was his last bid. He would go no higher. There would be no more bartering. If twenty-five dollars had seemed big the doubling of the amount meant little less than a fortune in the boy's eyes. "Youse hasn't got fifty dollars," he said weakly. "Youse is bluffin'." In truth he had every reason for thinking so from the Indian's appearance. One does not expect to find so large a sum on a man presenting so rough an appearance as this fellow, particularly in the woods. Imagine Sparrer's surprise therefore when the Indian felt inside his shirt and brought out a worn buckskin bag which apparently had been suspended by a thong around his neck and from it drew forth a wad of greasy bills. Squatting on his heels he unfolded these and began to count them out before him on the snow. They were in small denominations and as he slowly spread them out, counting aloud as he did so, the effect was most impressive. He meant that it should be. He counted on the influence that the sight of so much currency would have. It was a cunning move. Had he shown the money in a pile, or had the bills been in large denominations the effect would not have been nearly so impressive. As it was the snow around him was literally carpeted with bills. In spite of himself Sparrer gave vent to a little gasp. The Indian heard. Stuffing the two bills which remained after he had counted out fifty back in the little bag he rose to his feet and with a dramatic sweep of one hand above the green carpet exclaimed: "All white boy's for fox! White boy count--fifty dollar! White boy buy much things. Have good time." He smiled meaningly. "Indian take fox and leave much money. White boy hide um--so." He thrust a hand into his shirt. "Nobody know. Indian go way--far." He swept a hand toward the mountains. Then he pointed at the bills at his feet. "Much money. Very much money. White boy count." Sparrer looked down in a fascinated stare and unconsciously he did count. He had but to say the word and all those bills would be his, his to hide away in his bosom and gloat over in secret until he should reach home. And then? A vision of the things they would buy passed before him--things his boyish heart had coveted; things which his mother and brothers and sisters needed; things which would for a time make life brighter and better. And it would not be stealing. The fox was his. He had shot it and he had a right to do what he pleased with it "It would not be stealing," he repeated to himself almost fiercely. But would it be honorable? Could he go back to his companions and tell them freely and openly what he had done? No. He must keep his deed a secret, locked in his heart, to be boasted of only among his companions of the street gang. Once he would have had no qualms whatever. His conscience would not have been troubled in the least. But that was when he was Sparrer Muldoon, street gamin and champion scrapper of the gang; with no higher ethics than the right of might. Now he was Edward Muldoon Boy Scout, sworn "to keep physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight;" to obey the Scout law of which the first commandment is to be trustworthy and the second to be loyal. Would he be either mentally awake or morally strong if he yielded to this temptation? Could he regard himself in the future us trustworthy or as loyal to his friends? Two selves were battling in one boy. "It ain't nothin' wrong," insisted Sparrer Muldoon. "A Scout's honor is to be trusted," whispered Edward Muldoon. "You bet it is!" Unconsciously the boy spoke aloud. The battle was won. His face cleared. In that moment he understood many things. He knew now exactly what he would do. He would take the fox to the cabin and turn it over to Pat and Alec. He knew that that was what he had intended to do all along before the Indian had appeared. He knew, too, who this low-browed, ugly-faced redskin was. He was one of the thieves who had been stealing fur and who had butchered the deer the day before. It came over him all in a flash that it was he who had set those traps at the beaver houses, that he himself had been seen there and followed. Doubtless the Indian had been in hiding close by all the time and the killing of the fox had brought him forth because he could not let so rich a prize slip through his fingers. Yes, everything was clear to Sparrer now. In his first surprise, his own problem following hard on the heels of it, he had no chance to think or even to wonder how the man had happened to appear there at that moment. Now he understood and his face flushed with anger. The money was no longer a temptation. He scowled down at it and he wondered if it had been come by honestly. He could not know that the man was an outlaw and had been forced to leave a lumber camp between suns with no chance to spend his accumulated wages. So he regarded the money with growing suspicion and his anger grew at the thought of how near he had come to selling his honor, perhaps for tainted money at that. "Here, youse, take yer money an' git!" he growled. He motioned with the barrel of his rifle by way of emphasis. "An' youse better take up dem traps," he added significantly. The Indian's expression changed as he squatted once more and picked up the bills. He was too shrewd a sign reader not to know when it was useless to follow a trail further. The fox couldn't be bought, therefore it must be obtained in some other way, by craft or violence. If he could get near enough to the boy to disarm him the rest would be easy. If not--well, there was another way. He would avoid it if possible, for the boy's friends were too near. They would be on his trail inside of twenty-four hours. It would mean a long, hurried flight across the border with two of the best woodsmen in the whole section behind him, and every warden and lumber camp on both sides of the line watching for him. It would mean a battle if ever they came up with him, a battle to the death. But a thousand, perhaps two thousand dollars! One would dare much for such a sum. He had friends across the border. Through them the skin could be disposed of while he remained in hiding. Once across the line with the booty he had no fear, that is if he could obtain it without committing the blood crime. He would strike north and then market the pelt in the spring. It would be difficult to prove that it was not of his own killing. There were no witnesses. It would be only the word of this boy against him even should he be traced. Given a reasonable start he had little fear of this. He looked over at the black fox and the lust of greed glittered in his eyes. The animal was of unusual size, and the fur was extra prime. Assuredly it would bring a great sum. After all, it was but a boy with whom he had to deal and by the looks of him a novice in the woods. He stuffed the money bag back in his shirt and rose, his axe in hand. Then without warning he leaped forward, axe upraised, his face contorted with rage like that of a demon. "Stop!" There was something menacing and sinister in the sound of the word, but more menacing and sinister was the muzzle of the little rifle into which he was staring. It brought him up short in the middle of a stride. He had seen the boy shoot and now the rifle was held as steadily as when it had been pointed at the fox. There was something in the sound of the boy's voice that warned him that he would not hesitate to shoot again, and at that distance he could not miss. The Indian froze into a statue. "Turn around and git!" commanded Sparrer. He was not afraid. He knew that the rifle gave him the whip hand. A boy of his age from higher walks in life might have been intimidated. Not so Sparrer. Young in years, he was old in experience. He had seen too many drunken brawls, too many "bad men" in his street life, and knew too much of human nature to feel fear with that gun at his shoulder. Instead a white hot consuming rage welled up within him as when he had rushed to the defense of some weakling against the attack of a cowardly bully. He saw red. "Youse git!" he repeated and there was a threat in the very way in which he said it. For a brief second the Indian hesitated. Then with an ugly snarl like that of a trapped beast he slowly turned. Baffled rage distorted his face until it was more like that of some savage animal than of a human being. It was humiliating to be balked by a slip of a boy. It was worse to have a fortune almost within his reach and be forced to leave it. There was murder, black murder, in his heart as he slowly shuffled forward a few steps. Suddenly he turned like a flash and with a peculiar swing threw the axe. Sparrer knew nothing of the art of axe throwing at which many woodsmen are expert and are deadly in their quickness and precision. He was wholly unprepared for the move and it caught him off guard. He caught a glimpse of glinting steel and instinctively ducked as he had learned to do in fighting. At the same time he threw up his rifle. The axe struck the barrel of the latter just enough to be slightly deflected from its course and the end of the handle instead of the keen blade struck the boy a crashing blow on the side of the head. Without a sound he dropped in his tracks. A slow grin overspread the face of his assailant as he strode over and looked down at the white still face of his victim. After all it was better so. He had not killed him and there was less to fear from the long arm of the law. Contemptuously he touched the still form with the toe of a shoe. Then gloatingly he picked up the fox, hesitated and picked up the rabbit. Without another glance at the huddled form on the snow he turned and vanished among the trees. CHAPTER XVI THE CONFERENCE Sparrer's eyelids fluttered, then slowly lifted. Dully and uncomprehendingly he stared up at a fretwork of bare brown branches against a background of blue. Where was he? What had happened? Then a throb of pain in his head cleared his senses and memory returned all too vividly. His brows contracted in a black scowl, and slowly and painfully he rolled over and got to his feet, staring about for his assailant. But of the outlaw there was no sign save the broken crust where the axe had plunged through. Nor was there any trace of the black fox save a little spot of crimson and two or three black hairs where the animal had lain. How long he had been unconscious he had no means of knowing, but it could not have been long, or he would have been frost-bitten. As it was he was merely chilled and numb from the cold. His head ached badly, and passing a mittened hand over it he found a big lump where the axe had hit him. Moreover, he felt sick to his stomach, dizzy and weak. But for his physical ailments he had no thought. Wrath, black, boiling rage, surged over him. He had been robbed! He had been treacherously outwitted! For the moment it was the latter fact rather than the former that was the cause of his hot resentment. He, Sparrer Muldoon, who had lived by his wits ever since he could remember, had been caught napping! "An' me wid de drop on him!" he exclaimed bitterly. "He put me down fer de count, but it was a foul, an' Oi wasn't lookin' fer no foul. Serves me right." He smiled bitterly. "Oi ought t'known better than t' give him an openin'. Serves me right fer listenin' t' his spiel. If ever Oi get de drop on him again he'll wish he'd never set eyes on Sparrer Muldoon." This was idle boasting, and Sparrer knew it. The chances that he would ever again set eyes on the wily redskin were exceedingly slim. Still, it was possible that Pat and Alec might be able to pick up his trail, and the sooner they were put wise to the affair the better. He would get back to camp as soon as possible. He picked up his rifle, and even as he did so a new thought flashed across his mind. Why tell of his experience at all? Why mention the black fox? He could explain the bump on his head by saying that he had slipped and fallen, striking his head against a log. Pat and Alec need never know that he had lost the rare pelt for them for all time, nor that he had been such a tenderfoot as to be outwitted by an Indian on whom he already had the drop. Why say a word about it? To tell would be likely to win for himself nothing but contempt--contempt for his weakness in parleying with the outlaw, and for his stupidity in being outwitted. But there was a hope, a faint one, to be sure, but still a hope, that by some special favor of Providence Pat and Alec might be able to trace his assailant and recover the skin. Not to tell would be to surrender without a fight, and this was directly contrary to the boy's nature. A double motive urged him to leave no stone unturned that might lead to the capture of the Indian--the desire to recover the rich prize and the spirit of revenge. He could tell of the robbery without in any way committing himself in the matter of the temptation which had led to the parley with the outlaw. This is what he would do. He didn't want his companions to think worse of him than was absolutely necessary. So with his mind made up to this course he headed for camp. "Click-clack, coward! Click-clack, coward!" His very shoes mocked him. He tried to shut out the sound, but he could not. Had Edward Muldoon, Boy Scout, won over Sparrer Muldoon, street gamin, only to lose in the end? Where the trail led close to the end of the big beaver dam he stopped abruptly and a last brief battle was fought between Scout and gamin. When it was over he pushed on with an eagerness he had not felt before, for the Scout had triumphed, and this time he knew that the victory was final. He would tell the _whole_ story from beginning to end and spare himself nothing. "Youse ain't no quitter!" he muttered to himself fiercely. "Youse is goin' ter tell de truth, de whole truth and nothing but de truth." His progress was slow and his snow-shoes seemed strangely heavy. The fierce conflict within, not less than the effects of the blow he had suffered, had left him physically weak. He felt light-headed. His nervous system had received a shock from which he was now feeling the effects. He was possessed of a desire to sit down and rest every few minutes. But he set his jaws grimly and plodded on. Upton was outside the cabin splitting wood as he approached. He looked up as the click-clack of snow-shoes caught his attention and seeing that it was Sparrer called cheerily, "What luck?" A shadow of his old-time impudent grin flashed across Sparrer's face as he replied, "What luck wud ye be expecting with a tenderfoot loike me?" "The greatest luck in the world. It's always that way in stories," retorted Upton. Then he noticed the pale face of the younger lad, and dropping his axe he sprang forward, "Say, boy, what's happened?" he demanded anxiously. "You're white as a sheet. Are you hurt or have you had a fright? Spit it out!" "A little of both, Oi guess," confessed Sparrer, sitting down wearily on a handy log. "Are de others back yet?" "Not yet, but they're coming now," replied Upton as a faint yell reached them. "That's Hal, and by the sound of his voice they've had luck of some kind. But what happened to you?" "It's a long story, and Oi'll tell it when de others get here," replied Sparrer. "Oi think Oi'll go in and get a d-d-rink of somethin' h-hot." His teeth chattered. It was the result of nervous reaction quite as much as cold. Upton, with real concern in his face, sprang forward and put an arm around the shaking youngster and led him into the cabin, then hastened to make him a cup of hot soup. With this in his stomach Sparrer rapidly recovered and by the time Pat, Alec and Hal arrived, the latter whooping joyously, he was quite himself. They brought with them three marten and a fisher. When these had been duly admired Upton demanded that Sparrer tell his story, and this he did, sparing himself nothing. At the first mention of the black fox there was an eager leaning forward on the part of all his listeners, and when he told of the successful shot Hal whooped with joy. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Oi don't know," replied Sparrer, and could not restrain a rather pathetic grin at the blank look of astonishment that swept over the four eager faces. Then he hurried on, blurting out a full confession of his temptation and winding up with the incident of the axe throwing and his final recovery of consciousness. "De skunk didn't even leave me de rabbit," he concluded. The faces of Pat and Alec had changed rapidly from interest and astonishment to seriousness, anger and determination. Both knew that murder and nothing less had been back of the throwing of that axe, and that it was merely the accident of good fortune that Sparrer was with them now instead of lying a corpse out there in the beaver swamp. Pat reached forward and pulled Sparrer's cap from his head, disclosing an ugly lump where the blow had fallen. Till that moment no one had noticed that the boy had kept his cap on. "You may thank the good God that it was the handle and not the blade that struck you, son. 'Twas He alone that saved you this time," exclaimed the big fellow, a note of reverence in his voice. "'Tis an ugly bump," he added, passing his fingers lightly over the swelling. "'Tis a wonder it didn't break your skull, as it was. The cap saved you, I guess. Why didn't you tell us you had that nasty lump, you young spalpeen? It ought to have been treated long ago." "It ain't nothing," replied Sparrer sheepishly, for he hated to have a fuss made over him. Upton was already heating water and preparing a bandage. As soon as the water was hot he added a little tincture of arnica, and despite Sparrer's protests a hot bandage was soon applied, and he was forced to admit that it brought almost immediate relief. This attention having been given the victim Pat called a conference. "It's plain enough," said he, "that this is the work of one of the black-hearted crooks who have been stealing our furs, for 'tis my belief that there is probably more than one and likely not over two." Alec nodded concurrence with this belief. "That they'll stop at nothing Sparrer's experience proves. I've known murder to be committed for less than the price of a prime black fox pelt. Now that they've got it 'tis like that they will pull camp at once rather than take the chance of being discovered. On the other hand they may think that their camp is so well hidden that they can just lie low. If, as I suspect, they have been run out of one of the Canadian lumber camps, this may be what they will do. They know that Sparrer here is a tenderfoot and that there is only his word against theirs. Besides, they can hide the pelt and deny all knowledge of it. Sparrer hasn't a shred of proof but the lump on his head, and it would take more than that to convince a court of law in these parts that he had killed a genuine black fox. "It's my opinion that their camp is a whole lot nearer than Alec has supposed. There are plenty of draws back in these hills where a camp could be hidden and discovered only by chance, unless some one was making special search for it. The fact that that bloody-minded Injun was hanging around the beaver pond so late in the day is evidence enough for me that his camp isn't many miles away. I'll bet it's within five miles of us this blessed minute. They probably located our trap lines, then built their camp in a place we were not likely to visit and then by working back up through the hills kept their trail hidden, and crossed on the ice to work our long lines, as Alec suspects. They left our short lines alone, partly because they could not get at them without leaving a trail in the soft snow and partly so as not to arouse suspicion. "With the crust they could go where they pleased, and the Injun took the chance to do a little poaching on the beaver pond, knowing that we would leave it alone. He probably saw Sparrer when he uncovered that trap and followed him through the woods either with the idea of finding out if the youngster suspected anything and then frightening him into holding his tongue or else just to keep track of his movements. He saw the killing of the fox and decided that the fortune in that pelt was worth any risk. "What he told Sparrer about the skin belonging to Alec and me isn't true. This is a free country, and the free creatures belong to whoever can get them. If the critter had been in one of our traps it would have been a different matter. Then it would have been our property. But the critter belonged to nobody until it was killed, and when Sparrer knocked it over every hair on that black hide belonged to him and to no one else. The cunning redskin made up that yarn to tempt Sparrer, and there wasn't a particle of truth in it. Now the question is, what are we going to do to get back Sparrer's property? If it was just an ordinary red fox or even a marten the case would be different, though even then I'd be for getting it back, and running those thieving poachers out of the country. As it is, we owe it to Sparrer to try to get that skin. What's your idea, Alec?" Alec leaned forward and poked the fire. "Ye ken that the moon's full the night," said he slowly. "I am thinking that you and me might take a bit of a look around. If we could find the camp it would be time enough to decide what to do next. I dinna think that with that prize they will be staying in these pairts long, and what is done has got to be done quickly. I have no suspicioned that the camp was handy till now. I am no saying that I think so now," he hastened to add with characteristic Scotch caution, "but I will admit that it is possible. Ye ken there is no nook or hollow of these hills that I dinna ken every foot of. I hid out here once myself. We can leave the laddies to get a wee bit of sleep while we have a look in the most likely places." "No, you don't!" protested Hal. "If there's any game like that afoot you can count us in, can't they, fellows?" Upton and Sparrer voiced eager assent, but Pat shook his head. "Nothing doing," he declared. "Alec and I are responsible for the safety of you fellows and you'll stay right here and keep this little old cabin from running away. Besides," he added, noting the disappointment in the three faces, "this is no play-scouting; it is men's work and only for those who know the country. Two are all that are needed and more would double the chances of giving alarm. If Alec and I can locate the camp we may need your help to-morrow in rounding up the thieves. So you will be good little boys and stay right here until you're needed. I was thinking of the moon before Alec spoke. When it is up 'twill be almost as light as day. 'Twill do no harm for us to have a look around. Alec says true that he knows every foot of these hills and hollows. I know them pretty well myself, and if those birds of ill omen, bad cess to the likes of them, do not fly too soon we'll come pretty close to locating 'em inside the next twenty-four hours. There's no use in starting before the moon is well up. Meanwhile we'll have supper. I have no mind to travel on an empty stomach, and I've the appetite of a lumber-horse this very minute. Any of that bear-steak left, Alec?" Alec promptly produced the desired meat and it was soon sizzling over the fire. While they ate they discussed what should be done in case the camp of the outlaws was discovered. "Do you suppose they will fight?" asked Hal eagerly. "Look at Sparrer there and ask sensible questions," returned Pat sarcastically. "Is a man who would attempt cold-blooded murder likely to come at a whistle like a good doggie? We've got to take them by surprise, or somebody is likely to get hurt. That is why I want you boys to keep out of it. This isn't your business; it's Alec's and mine." "How about me? Youse said a while ago that that skin is mine," piped up Sparrer. "So it is, me bantam, but your own skin is worth more to you than all the silver foxes that ever lived, and if you cannot keep it whole yourself it's up to us to keep it whole for you," retorted Pat. "It isn't just the matter of that fox skin," he continued. "I'm guessing that Alec and I have a good sized stake in the skins cached in that camp right now. We had a little unpleasantness with those sneaking robbers of honest men to settle as soon as you left and this has simply forced it a little sooner. It's our job, and you fellows are to stay out. That's final." They knew by the tone of his voice that no amount of begging or argument would avail them in the least. They knew, too, that Pat was right in his stand. They were his guests and as such entailed upon him a certain responsibility for their safety and welfare. "But, Pat, can't we be in at the finish?" pleaded Hal. "Gee! Think of a real scrap going on under our very noses and we not seeing it!" "Depends on what the finish is," replied Pat. "I'll promise you this much, that if there is anything to see, or if you can help without the risk of stopping a bullet or a knife, you shall have a chance. At present it looks like a dangerous game, but we'll know more when we've found that camp. The greatest help you can give us now is to stay right here. We'll be back before daylight and by that time we will know enough, I hope, to plan some action. Alec, it'll be a couple of hours yet before we can start. Suppose we turn in for a bit of rest. It's little enough we're likely to get for the next twenty-four hours. We'll leave the lads to put the camp in order." This the boys were only too glad to do while the two trappers stretched out in their bunks and rested. Two hours later Pat arose and peeped out. The moon flooded the hollow with light and he grunted his satisfaction. A few minutes later he and Alec slipped out, and almost at once were lost in the heavy shadows of the evergreens. Each carried his rifle, and the two faces were set and grim. There was something sinister in this silent departure, and as they vanished into the vast brooding wilderness the three boys instinctively drew nearer together. Hal shrugged his shoulders and laughed, but somehow his laugh sounded oddly forced. "Somebody kick me and tell me if I'm awake," said he, throwing another log on the fire. "You read about such things and think it's a bully story, but somehow the story seems more real than the reality. Of course nothing's going to happen to Pat and Alec, yet just the same they are out with rifles hunting sure enough bad men, and if there's any shooting somebody's likely to be hurt. If it wasn't for Sparrer's bandaged head there I'd think I was dreaming. How's the old nut feel anyway, Sparrer?" "Better, but sore enough t' let me know dis ain't no dream," returned the younger lad. "Say!" he exploded abruptly. "What will de fellers say when we get back an' tell 'em we been fightin' outlaws an' that Oi gets a knockout from a sure-enough Injun? Bet dey'll wish dey was in my shoes." Upton laughed. He was still boy enough to appreciate Sparrer's feelings. "As long as you had to get it I'm glad it was a real redskin who put it across," said he. "As for fighting, it doesn't look to me as if we were going to see any of it. Pat isn't going to take any chances on one of us getting hurt. It makes me sick every time I think of the close call Sparrer had. If Pat and Alec find the camp of those brutes they won't do anything rash. They'll try to trap 'em some way. They're right about us, but just the same I wish we could be in it somehow. I'd like to see the finish." "Perhaps we shall yet," Hal spoke hopefully. "Shall we turn in?" "What's the use?" returned Upton. "I couldn't sleep a wink until Pat and Alec get back. We ought to keep the fire going and have something hot ready for them when they get in." "Suits me," declared Hal. "I couldn't sleep either." Sparrer was of the same opinion, so they sat before the fire and speculated on what was happening out there in the forest. Sparrer was plied with questions about his adventure and told the story over so graphically that the thrill of it sent little shivers down the backs of his listeners. At times they sat in silence wondering if they might hear distant rifle shots. And so the night wore on, the most exciting night in their experience, and yet a night in which so far as they were concerned nothing happened. CHAPTER XVII THE CAMP OF THE POACHERS Upton had just glanced at his watch and noted that the hour was 3 A. M. Hal and Sparrer were both asleep, the long vigil having proved too much for them despite their assertions early in the evening that they couldn't sleep a wink. A slight sound outside the door caught Walter's attention. A second later the door swung open and Pat and Alec entered. It was clear that they had expected to find all the boys asleep, and were endeavoring to make as little noise as possible. Walter flashed a keen look at the two faces and read there the success of the trip. "Hey, you sleepy-heads, they've found the camp!" he shouted, thumping Hal on the back. "Wha-wha-what?" stammered Hal, rubbing his eyes and staring about him wildly, while Sparrer blinked stupidly. Then fully recovering his senses Hal sprang to his feet. "Did you really find the camp?" he asked eagerly. Pat nodded. "Hurrah!" cried the impetuous boy. "Say, who hit me? I was right in the middle of a dream. I had three outlaws lined up against a cabin wall and covered with a rifle when I felt that thump, and for a minute I thought it was another one of 'em who had stolen up behind me and got me foul, I'm certainly glad it was only a dream." Everybody laughed. Upton meanwhile had hung a kettle of soup over the fire and was setting a couple of places at the table for the two trappers, knowing that they must be hungry after their long tramp. "Now tell us about it," he commanded when they had had a chance to dispose of the soup and a big slab of corn bread. "There isn't much to tell," began Pat. "We found their camp and watched it for a while and then came back." "So simple," murmured Hal. "'We found their camp.' I suppose you shut your eyes and let a good fairy take you by the hands and lead you straight to it! It's a wonder you haven't been over to make a friendly call before, seeing it is so handy and easily found." There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Hal's voice, and Pat laughed aloud. "'Twas no fairy led us to ut, me bye, but just common woods sense and me partner's knowledge av the counthry." Then dropping his brogue he continued: "You know enough about camping to know that one of the first and most important things to look out for in locating a camp is a good water supply. Alec knows every good spring for twenty miles around. Having made up our minds that the camp was within five miles Alec just ran over in his mind the likely springs within that distance and the lay of the land. The fact that those bloody-minded thieves have been working our long trap lines was a pretty good indication that their camp lay somewhere handy to these. That narrowed it down to two springs, the first of which is at the head of a little draw which makes in to the north about four miles west of here just before our line swings north. The second is in a draw which makes in to the south of a pond about a mile farther on and somewhat off our trap line. We made straight for the first one and found nothing there. Then we cut across to the second and as soon as we were in the draw we knew that we were on the right track." "How?" interrupted Hal eagerly. "The smell of wood-smoke," replied Pat. "We worked around to the spring, mighty careful to keep under cover and make no noise, expecting to find the camp right there, but there wasn't a thing to be seen. Then we followed our noses up wind over a little rise and there in the middle of a clump of spruce was the cabin, pretty near buried in snow. We watched it for a while and then as there was nothing doing we came back, and that's the whole of the story." "What's the next move?" Upton asked the question with an eagerness he could not conceal. "A little daylight surprise party," replied Pat with a grin. "Are we in on it?" demanded the three boys in chorus. "That depends," replied Pat. "Alec and I have been talking it over, and if you'll agree to obey orders and keep under cover maybe we'll take you along. Witnesses may come in handy. But you've got to agree to do just as you're told." "We will!" chorused the three joyously. "Our plan is to surround the cabin before daylight. The fact that those fellows haven't pulled out already indicates that they are planning to lie low. But they'll be up and out early to spy on us. We've got to be in hiding before they are up, and that means that we must start in half an hour. You fellows are to remain in hiding and leave Alec and me to handle those chaps, and you're not to show yourselves unless we signal you to." "How many of them are there?" asked Upton. "Two, we think," replied Pat. "The cabin isn't big enough for more. Now get busy and stow away a good meal, because there is no knowing when you'll get another." A hasty meal of bacon and cold corn bread, with hot chocolate, was speedily disposed of, and they were ready to start. At Pat's suggestion the boys had put on extra clothing to protect them should they be compelled to remain inactive for some time. With the exception of Sparrer each carried a rifle. In single file, Alec in the lead and Pat in the rear, they threaded their way through the forest. Never will the three city boys forget the uncanny strangeness of that tramp through the moonlit wilderness. The silence of the great frozen waste, oppressive even in the light of day, was doubly so now. Their errand and the thought of what might happen at the end of their journey combined to stimulate already overexcited imaginations to a point where nothing seemed real. They felt as if moving in a dream. It was as if by enchantment they had been translated from their commonplace selves into the heroes of one of their favorite books of adventure. They had the feeling that at any moment they might return to normal conditions and find it all a figment of the imagination. Down the Hollow past the trail by which they had entered it Alec led the way, and out at the western end. Then for a couple of miles he bore slightly north along the old trapper's trail that Upton remembered the sheriff had taken in his search for Alec the previous fall. From this point they bore south, and presently came to the edge of a small pond glistening white and spotless in the moonlight. At that hour it was seemingly safe to cross, but Alec was taking no chances and kept to the cover around the edge. At the entrance to the draw of which Pat had told them they paused for a whispered conference. The boys were cautioned to watch every step and to guard against the slightest sound. Pat was to place them in hiding to the rear of the camp where they would be out of all possible danger should there be any shooting and he once more impressed upon them the fact that they were Scouts under orders and under no circumstances were they to move unless signaled. Alec would hide near the spring, while Pat would secrete himself where he could cover the cabin-door. Making a detour Pat led the boys to a point slightly up the hill and back of the clump of hemlocks in which he said the cabin was hidden. Upton and Sparrer he placed together in a thicket directly to the rear of the camp, and Hal he stationed a hundred yards to the right. Then once more charging them to make no sound he left them and vanished as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed him. The moon still rode high, but already the gray of approaching dawn appeared in the east and dulled its silver radiance. They had arrived none too soon. Upton strained his eyes to make out the cabin, but in the uncertain shadows it was impossible. He found himself actually wondering if Pat and Alec were not mistaken. He found it hard to believe that there could be any other human beings within miles of them. It was bitter cold, and despite the extra clothing the boys felt the chill of it. It seemed to creep into the very marrow of their bones and the excitement which had exhilarated them at the start subsided in direct ratio to their increasing discomfort. The gray in the east crept higher and the moon waxed pale. The shadows grew less dense and objects more distinct. Little by little something took shape down there among the firs. At first it was little more than a mound of white, but presently Upton made out that what he had at first taken to be a little blacker shadow than the rest was nothing less than the smoke-blackened top of a short chimney into which he could look from his position on the hill above. This gave him a clue to the cabin's situation. Evidently it backed up against the hill and at the rear was almost drifted over with snow. In fact the snow was banked to the eaves on both sides, the front only having been cleared. This was screened from view by a thicket of young firs in such a way that one might pass in front within thirty yards and not see the cabin unless looking especially for it. It reminded Walter of nothing so much as the cunningly hidden home of a fox. The gray in the east had given way to a touch of rose color when Sparrer sniffed softly and silently pointed to the chimney. A thin column of smoke was beginning to rise. It was evident that the inmates were astir. The situation was rapidly approaching a climax. Muffled sounds from within the cabin reached the boys. With hearts thumping painfully the watchers waited. Presently there was the creak of a door. From their position Upton and Sparrer could not see what Hal from his location farther to the right had a clear view of, a dark, roughly clad man who stooped to pass out of the low doorway. But a moment later they saw him as he entered the thicket, a pail in one hand. He was going to the spring for water. He passed from sight over the little rise that separated the slight hollow where the cabin was located from the deeper hollow where the spring was. As he reached the bottom he came into view again. They saw him stop abruptly in his tracks as if frozen, then drop his pail and half turn as if to run, only to stop again and throw his arms above his head. Then Alec appeared, his rifle covering the man before him. There was evidently a parley of some kind, but the distance was too great for the sound of their voices to carry. Undoubtedly Alec had warned the other not to raise his voice. With bated breath the boys watched the strange pantomime below. It was plain that Alec was giving orders to which the other objected, for he violently shook his head. The former, who had partly lowered his rifle, raised it again menacingly, whereat his captive appeared to capitulate. Lowering one arm he fumbled at his belt and presently drew forth a wicked looking knife which with evident reluctance he tossed at Alec's feet. The latter then permitted his victim to lower the other arm and evidently issued an order, for the man turned and with Alec behind him disappeared in the woods. "He's taking him around to where Pat is," whispered Upton. "That wasn't the fellow that got you, was it?" Sparrer shook his head. His eyes were blazing with excitement. "Dat wasn't no Injun," he whispered. "Dat feller was easy. Wonder if de other gink will be as easy." Once more they settled down to patient waiting. The smell of frying bacon mingled with that of wood-smoke and tantalized their nostrils. It seemed an age before the door creaked again. Hal only of the three boys could see the dark face that peered out in the direction of the spring. It was the darker for an ugly scowl which contracted the low brows. For a long minute the man stared in the direction of the spring and Hal could see his lips moving as if he muttered to himself. Then he vanished inside and the door closed. It was not long, however, before it opened again and once more the scowling face appeared, staring toward the spring. It was clear that his companion's continued absence was beginning to puzzle him. Taking a step forward he imitated to perfection the hoarse croak of a raven. So true to life was it that Hal instinctively looked up expecting to see the black bird of ill omen. Then it flashed over him that this was a signal call to the man who had gone for the water. Twice it was repeated. The third call was answered from beyond the thicket in front of the cabin. Hal guessed rightly that it was Pat endeavoring to entice the Indian, for the man at the cabin was Sparrer's assailant, to come out. He hoped that by replying he would lead the Indian to think that the answer was from the latter's partner and that the redman would assume that something important had been discovered to keep his partner so long and would seek to join him to find out what it was. If once the Indian could be led away from the cabin his capture would be easy. But Pat's hopes in this respect were doomed to be dashed. The instant the Indian heard the answering croak from in front of the cabin instead of from the direction of the spring suspicion flashed into his face. For a few seconds he stood motionless, his beady eyes boring into the thicket before him. But Pat was well hidden and Alec and his prisoner were out of the line of vision. Pat essayed another croak, but it served only to still further arouse the Indian's suspicions that all was not right. [Illustration: FOR A FEW SECONDS HE STOOD MOTIONLESS] Taking a step forward he darted his keen gaze in all directions, at the same time listening intently. Then abruptly he turned to reënter the cabin. "Stop! Hands up, or I'll shoot!" Pat was taking the one chance open to him. If he allowed the man to get back inside the cabin there was no telling when he would show himself again. It was clear that he suspected something. It was better to take the chance that he would obey orders, knowing that some one had the drop on him, rather than be obliged to lay siege to the cabin. The Indian froze in his tracks, both hands up. "Now walk straight back five steps and stop," commanded Pat. The Indian took one step back. Then in a flash he dove head first through the partly open door, throwing himself flat. The wily fellow counted on the suddenness of the move and the abrupt change of angle of fire to escape. Pat's rifle cracked, followed instantly by the bang of the door. He had missed his man. He afterward confessed that he had made no real effort to score a hit. The idea of taking a fellow being's life was repugnant to him even though the fellow was a would-be murderer. He had shot because the situation had required it. It was necessary that the fellow should know that he had to deal with those who could shoot and were not afraid to. Half the battle was won. One man was captured and the other driven to cover. Knowing that the latter would make no attempt to get away for the present and that in any event Hal was posted where he could give the alarm should an attempt be made Pat and Alec turned their attention to their captive. His hands were securely bound behind him with a piece of rope which Pat had had the foresight to bring, and he was then subjected to a grueling examination, but sullenly refused to commit himself on any point. He was a French Canadian of the lower type and Alec recognized him as Big Pierre, a notorious character in the lumber camps of the region. There was an ugly glint in his black eyes that boded ill for his captors should he once gain the upper hand of them. He refused to admit that he had been robbing the trap lines or that he had even been watching the camp in Smugglers' Hollow. Only once, and that when Alex charged him with having a hand in the theft of the black fox, did his face betray anything but sullen rage. For just a fleeting instant a mingled look of surprise, interest, cupidity and anger swept across his face. Pat caught it and signed for Alec to cease his questioning. Then he drew Alec to one side out of ear-shot of their captive. "As sure as you're standing here he doesn't know a thing about that fox," he whispered. "He's been double-crossed by the Injun. Perhaps we can use him to get the redskin out of his hole. It's worth trying, anyway." CHAPTER XVIII SMOKING OUT THE INDIAN Pat and Alec returned to their captive. Alec acted as spokesman, speaking the patois of the Canuck or French Canadian fluently, while the Frenchman spoke English but little, and that very brokenly. Alec repeated his previously made charges of theft from the traps, and also of illegal poaching in the deer yard, to all of which Pierre shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Then speaking slowly, that every word might sink in, Alec charged him with being an accomplice to attempted murder and the theft of the black fox. This roused the Frenchman to vehement denial. He swore by the name of his patron saint that he knew nothing of the black fox and had had no part in the theft. He declared that he didn't even know that a black fox had been seen in the Hollow, and as for the assault on Sparrer, he was as innocent as a new-born babe. Then Alec told him the story of the killing of the fox and the murderous attack by the Indian, concluding by stating his belief that the latter had hidden the skin and intended to desert his companion at the first opportunity and thus avoid having to share his ill-gotten gains. Pierre's face grew black with ill suppressed rage, not, as his captors well knew, at the dastardly crime, but at the evident intention of his partner to "double-cross" him. Alec artfully pointed out the serious situation in which he, Pierre, was; if turned over to the officers of the law he would undoubtedly have to face the charge of being accessory to the Indian's crime. He wound up with the suggestion that if Pierre would endeavor to help them recover the skin they would in return be content to allow him to get out of the country. If he refused they would hold him and turn him over to the authorities. It did not take Pierre long to make up his mind. He saw clearly that he had nothing to gain by refusing, and everything to lose. Moreover the spirit of revenge was strong within him. After a few minutes of hesitation he sullenly agreed to do whatever was required of him. "Tell him," said Pat, "that he is to go out there and demand of that skulking redskin that he come out and surrender. Tell him to make it clear that the camp is surrounded and the jig is up; that we're going to get him anyway, dead or alive, and we don't much care which. Tell him that he is not to go nearer than ten yards to the cabin, that we've got him covered, and if he makes any break it will be his last one." Alec translated this and Pierre nodded. Then he walked forward through the thicket into the open, at Alec's command coming to a halt some thirty feet from the cabin door, where he hailed the Indian in the latter's own tongue. There was a muffled reply and after some delay the cabin door was opened a crack and a rifle barrel thrust through. Then followed a heated parley in the Indian tongue, of which Alec understood enough to gather the substance. "He's laying it on thick," he chuckled. "Says that the sheriff and deputies are here and have got the camp surrounded, and that unless he comes out they'll shoot him on sight. The Injun has passed him the lie. He's mockin' Pierre for being caught by a couple of make-believe trappers--ye ken that's you and me, Pat--and a lot of infants. He says he hasn't got the black fox and disna know anything about it. Pierre is giving him a beautiful tongue-lashing and calling him everything bad this side of purgatory. 'Tis a shame ye dinna understand a little of the lingo, Pat. Ha! The red says he'll shoot on sight and is warning Pierre to get back before he takes a pot shot at him, and by the saints I believe he means it!" As a matter of fact at this point they saw the rifle barrel raised. Pierre abruptly turned and without once looking back rejoined the two men in the thicket. He was in a towering rage and spat out French invectives at a rate to defy description. He reported the result of his mission, stating his opinion that the Indian could hold out indefinitely, as there was a plentiful supply of grub in the cabin and enough fire-wood to keep him from freezing for longer than his besiegers would care to stay. "Will he shoot, do you think, if we rush the cabin?" asked Pat meditatively. As if in reply the rifle at the cabin door spat fire and a bullet whistled through the thicket so close to Pat that instinctively he ducked. He had carelessly exposed himself to the view of the outlaw. Almost instantly Alec's rifle replied and a splinter flew from the door-frame. "That will teach him that 'tis no make-believe shooter out here!" he growled. The door still remained open a crack, evidently to allow the inmate to observe what was going on in front, the only vulnerable point of attack, there being no windows in the cabin. Pat worked around to a point where he could put a bullet through this crack by way of warning and his shot was followed by the closing of the door. "Ut remoinds me," said he with a comical grimace as he slipped into the brogue, "av the first skunk I iver caught. 'Twas in a box trap, and having got the little baste in the trap I didn't know how in the mischief to get him out." Meanwhile the three boys had obediently remained at their posts. They had witnessed the parley and the shooting, but just what it all meant and what the results were they could only guess. They were a-shake with excitement, and fairly ached with curiosity. Shortly after the last shot Pat joined them and briefly explained what had happened, and the present situation. "There's only one thing we can do now," said he, "and that is to smoke the old fox out. This is where you fellows, or one of you, anyway, will have a chance to take a hand. The snow is banked clear to the roof here at the back and it will be no trick at all for one of you to steal down there to the chimney. He's got a fire there now, but the minute he suspects what is up he'll put that out. We've got to give him something he can't put out. I've got on an old sweater that's about worn out. A couple of you can slip around down where we passed those cedars and strip off enough bark and that hanging moss to stuff it out so that you can make a ball of it, and stuff it down the chimney with a pole so that it will stick half-way. On top of that you can drop some rolls of lighted birch bark and have ready the thickest fir boughs you can find to clap on top of the chimney. Walt, you better tend to putting the stuff down the chimney, and mind you work fast. And don't lean over it. When he finds what is up he's likely to try a pot shot up the chimney in the hope of blowing the stuff out. If you have good heavy boughs on top he can't do it. Alec and I will watch the front to get him when he comes out. Have plenty of bark and get it going well before you toss the rolls in. As long as you don't get over the chimney and keep off the roof there will be no danger. The roof is of bark, and he may take a chance shot up through it, so work from the drift on this end." Hal and Sparrer went after the moss, while Upton made a trip over to a clump of birches and stripped off the bark. Then with his belt axe he cut a number of fir boughs. By the time the others returned he had the bark and boughs ready and had prepared a stick with which to push down the moss-filled sweater. If he should push this too far it would drop down into the fireplace. On the other hand he wanted to get it far enough down so that the flames from the bark would not immediately fire the fir boughs on top. Breaking through the snow-crust he mixed snow with the moss and also rolled the sweater in snow. The boys had brought more moss than was needed for stuffing the sweater and this Upton also mixed with snow and placed in a loose mass at the foot of the chimney. When all was ready he had Hal and Sparrer each light a couple of the birch rolls ready to hand to him. As soon as these were going he stuffed the sweater down the chimney, pushing it down with the stick as far as he dared. Then seizing the burning bark rolls he tossed them down on top, crammed the loose moss in, and clapped the fir boughs over all. On top of the latter he tossed some snow. Meanwhile Pat had created a diversion in front of the cabin by shouting threats of what they would do to the redskin if he didn't come out and surrender. Upton had worked quickly and was through before the outlaw fully sensed what was up. At first he evidently thought that they had merely covered the top of the chimney to smoke him out with his own fire, and a hissing sound which came up to them through the chimney proclaimed the quenching of this with water. Then discovering that the smoke was increasing instead of decreasing he did exactly what Pat had foreseen--attempted to blow the chimney clear by firing his rifle up it. However he only succeeded in setting fire to the sweater from underneath and this, because of its nature, merely smouldered. It was now merely a question of whether the sweater and moss would burn and drop before the smoke in the cabin became too dense for a human being to live in it. Birch bark, as every Boy Scout knows, is one of the most inflammable of materials. It burns like fat, and also like fat it throws off a thick smoke. This was working up now in little puffs through the fir boughs, but the great bulk of it must be pouring into the cabin, for Upton had taken care in stuffing the sweater down not to wholly block the passage. Now and then a little tongue of flame licked up through the fir boughs and was promptly extinguished with a handful of snow. The snow-damp moss shoved down on top of the bark was adding to the smoke, and from the sounds in the cabin it was clear that the occupant was in difficulties. Presently Sparrer called attention to smoke pouring up at the front end of the cabin. The door had been set ajar to let out the smoke. Almost immediately there was a shot from the thicket where Pat was hiding, followed by a second shot, and then the bang of the door as it was once more shut. But it did not remain closed long. No human being could long survive in such an atmosphere as now prevailed in the little cabin. This time the door was flung wide open and in the midst of the cloud of smoke that poured out the Indian staggered forth, gasping and choking. Pat at once stepped from hiding, covering the outlaw with his rifle. But for this there was no real need. Until he should get some pure air into his lungs he was quite helpless. He threw himself down in the snow and gasped weakly. A sorrier looking spectacle could hardly be imagined. His eyes were inflamed, blood-red. His face and clothing were smeared with soot and ashes. One cheek was bleeding from a wound, made, as it afterward appeared, by a splinter torn off from the door-frame by one of Pat's bullets. Alec wasted no time in securing the prisoner's hands behind him and then deftly searched him for hidden weapons, finding nothing but a knife. That reminded him of the knife Pierre had tossed at his feet when he was captured at the spring, and he sent Sparrer to get it. As soon as the capture was made the three boys had rushed forward, forgetting that they were under orders to remain at their posts until signaled. Somewhat sternly but with a twinkle in his eyes that belied the severity of his voice Pat now reminded them of this and ordered Upton back to clear the boughs from the top of the chimney. By this time the sweater had burned through and the whole mass had dropped into the fireplace, where it continued to burn, the smoke rolling out of the open door in a dense cloud. With the removal of the boughs from the top of the chimney a draft was reëstablished and the smoke sought its natural outlet. It was some time, however, before the interior of the cabin could be examined with any comfort, and Pat took advantage of this to quiz the Indian. So far as results were obtained he might as well have talked to a wooden post. The redskin stolidly refused to answer questions. When confronted with Sparrer he denied ever having seen him before, much to that young man's disgust. He steadfastly denied all knowledge of the black fox and refused to admit that he ever had been in Smugglers' Hollow. At last Pat gave up in disgust. The cabin had sufficiently cleared of smoke by this time to permit of a search being made. Leaving Alec to stand guard over the prisoners Pat and the three boys entered and began their investigations. Two rifles stood inside the door, and these Pat emptied of cartridges and stood them outside against the end of the cabin. Then without ceremony he pulled the bedding from the two low bunks and tossed it out on the snow. This was followed by everything else the cabin contained until it was stripped bare. Under the two bunks they found part of the object of their search, many cased furs. There were marten, mink, fisher, a couple of otter, three red fox, two lynx and a number of muskrat, a pile that altogether represented a tidy sum from a trapper's point of view. But the black fox was not among them. Pat glowered at the prisoners savagely as he noted that some of the skins had been carelessly handled and therefore would not bring what they would had they been properly treated. Then he resumed his search of the cabin. The only thing further in the way of skins were two tightly rolled deer-hides freshly taken from the animals, one being that of a fawn. "Do you mind what I told you had happened at the deer yard?" growled Pat as he tossed the skins out of the door. Convinced at last that the skin of the black fox was not in the camp they regretfully gave up the search there and emerged from the cabin. Alec read the disappointment and chagrin in their faces. So, too, did Big Pierre, who had been awaiting the result of their search with ill-concealed impatience. He had scarcely looked at his partner since the latter had been captured. Now he turned and spoke rapidly in French to Alec. "He says," explained the latter, "that if the Injun really has got the skin he has hidden it outside somewhere, and that if we'll agree to let him go he'll help us hunt for it. He says that it is probably in a hollow tree somewhere near, but swears that he doesn't know where. He thinks that the Injun meant to wait until he, Pierre, was away from camp and then get it and light out." "I shouldn't wonder if he's right, at that," exclaimed Hal. "What do you think of the proposition, Pat?" "He may be right enough about the Injun, but I wouldn't trust him the length av me nose," Pat growled. "Let me talk a bit more to the Injun." He strode up in front of the captive and shook a brawny fist beneath his nose. "We've got you, and we're going to turn you over to the sheriff unless you come across mighty quick with that skin," he thundered. Then dropping into simple speech that the Indian could not misunderstand he continued, "You kill deer out of season; skins prove it." He pointed to the bundle of fresh hides. "You steal much fur; Big Pierre say so if we let him go." Alec translated and Pierre nodded. The Indian glanced at his late partner and saw the nod. A vindictive look swept across his face and left it as expressionless as before. "You try to kill white boy. He go to court and swear. Injun go to prison for long time, years and years. Black fox only thing can save Injun." The Indian appeared to consider the triple indictment, but no hint of what was passing in his mind appeared in his face. It was as stolid and expressionless as ever. At length he spoke. "You give Injun gun and all his things and let go if he tell something?" he inquired. "We'll see about it," Pat growled. "No promise, Injun no tell," was the prompt response. It was Pat's turn to consider. Finally he made up his mind. "Listen, Alec," said he. "You tell Pierre that we'll give them their guns, but no cartridges; that we'll let them take their personal belongings and as much grub as they can carry and let them go on condition that they will admit having stolen those skins from our traps, that they will agree to get out of these parts and never come back, and that the Indian shows us where the fox is. Otherwise we'll take them to camp and hold them prisoners while one of us goes out for the sheriff. Tell him to tell the Injun." Alec turned to Pierre and spoke rapidly. The latter interjected a question now and then and when Alec had finished made a brief reply. "He says," Alec explained, "that he agrees, though he thinks we ought to let them have some cartridges. He admits the stealing of the furs, but still protests that he wasn't in on the fox affair and wants to know if we'll let him go in case the Injun refuses to come across." "Tell him yes," replied Pat. This Alec did, and Pierre at once turned to the Indian and addressed him in his own tongue. Alec picked up enough to know that Pierre was putting the case in its strongest light and dwelling on the length of time in prison likely to follow conviction. When he finished the Indian turned to Pat. "You come," he said simply, and turned toward the woods. CHAPTER XIX SPARRER SAVES THE SKIN Without hesitancy Pat followed the Indian. It was a queer sight, the Indian leading with his hands bound behind him, and Pat with his rifle across the hollow of one arm stalking grimly behind him. They were soon lost to view and the others settled down to wait and speculate. It was almost three-quarters of an hour later that they reappeared, and it was seen at once that Pat carried a black object swinging from one hand. As by one impulse the three boys rushed forward to meet them. In their haste they quite forgot that they were on snow-shoes, with the result that Sparrer took an inglorious header, in the course of which he upset Walter and the latter, landing on the tail of one of Hal's shoes, sent him sprawling. Alec roared and even Big Pierre permitted himself to grin. By the time all three had regained their feet Pat and the Indian had come up. "Here you are, son! See if you can take better care of him this time," said Pat as he flung the fox at Sparrer's feet. With a cry of joy Sparrer seized the fox and held him up for the admiring gaze of his comrades. The animal had not been skinned, for which Pat and Alec were sincerely thankful. This important matter and the stretching of the skin they preferred to attend to themselves, especially after seeing the careless way in which some of the furs found in the cabin had been handled. "Where did you find him?" asked Hal as he ran his fingers through the luxuriant fur. "In a hollow tree, just as Pierre guessed," replied Pat. "The Injun wouldn't answer any questions, but it is clear enough that he didn't have time to skin the beast last night, and hid it there on his way to camp, intending to get it the first chance he had when Pierre wasn't around. He took good care of it, and it is in perfect condition. That was some shot of yours, son." Sparrer flushed with pleasure. "'Twa'n't nothin'," he mumbled. "Anybody could have done it." By this time they had rejoined Alec and Pierre. The latter's eyes glittered as he ran them appraisingly over the beautiful black form of the fox, then darted a malevolent glance in the direction of his partner. "What will that skin bring, Alec?" asked Pat. The trapper was studying the fox with the critical stare of the expert. "I dinna ken, Pat," he replied slowly. "'Tis a big beastie, and by all odds the finest fur I ever put my eyes on. It will bring $1,500 anyway, and maybe $2,000. I never thought to lay my hands on the likes of it." He turned and looked at Sparrer with an expression almost of awe. "Tell me, laddie, what is the charm ye carry?" said he. Sparrer laughed. "Oi didn't even have a rabbit's foot," he confessed. "Sure, an' it was just the luck av the Oirish." "Right, me son! Hurray for the Irish!" cried Pat. Then with an abrupt change he once more became the leader. "Alec, go through the clothes of our misguided friends and see that they have no cartridges in their pockets." This Alec did, despite the protests of Big Pierre. When he was sure that he had secured all of these, thus rendering the guns useless, he set both prisoners free, at Pat's order, and they were commanded to pack up their stuff and get ready to hit the trail. This they did sullenly enough, for they felt that they were under guard, as indeed they were. Their packs were soon ready, for besides their blankets, a few cooking utensils and grub, they had little enough. The latter included part of the ill-gotten deer meat. When they were about ready to start Big Pierre made one last plea for cartridges, at least for himself. But Pat was obdurate and told them that they were lucky to be allowed to take their guns. When all was ready for the trail their knives were returned to them, and the Frenchman's axe was given him. The Indian's axe Pat retained. "Ye may loike ut as a bit av a souvenir av the lump on yer head," he murmured in an aside to Sparrer, though his real reason was that he feared what might happen should the two outlaws be equally armed when it came to the quarrel which he felt sure was brewing between them. They were given a final warning to get wholly out of the country and never show their faces there again on pain of having the charges of poaching and theft brought against them. The big Frenchman was manifestly glad enough to get off so lightly, but there was an ugly gleam in the black eyes of his companion. Sparrer had laid the fox on the snow and drawn a few steps away from it the better to watch proceedings. As the outlaws started to hit the trail to the north, the redskin in the lead, the latter suddenly sprang toward the fox, at the same instant snatching his knife from his belt. Sudden as was his move Sparrer was too quick for him. He thrust forward a foot that tripped the Indian and sent him sprawling, Sparrer also being upset. Before the Indian could regain his feet Big Pierre was on him, sending his big fist crashing full into the swarthy face. Then wrenching the knife from his grasp Pierre flung it far into the brush and once more raised his fist. By this time Pat and Alec had joined the mêlée and were dragging the infuriated Frenchman from his victim. All the time Pierre poured out a stream of invective which only the Indian and Alec could understand. The latter explained later that he was charging his companion with trying to put them both in prison after they had been fortunate enough to win their freedom, believing, and rightly, that if the Indian had succeeded in slashing the skin as he had intended they would have been held and turned over to the proper authorities. "Dat puts me even wid him!" shrilled Sparrer triumphantly as he mounted guard over the fox, and the Indian with a bruised and battered face regained his feet and once more hit the trail, Big Pierre at his heels heaping abuse upon him. As they disappeared in the brush Pat dropped the butt of his rifle to the snow. "That's the end of that precious pair, so far as we are concerned," said he with a sigh of relief. "Pierre is wise enough to know that this isn't a healthy country for them, and they won't bother us any more. He's got the Indian where the hair is short now, for the latter hasn't even a knife, and I guess it's just as well. Now we'll finish our job here and get back to camp. You fellows rustle up some birch bark and dry wood and heap it up inside the cabin." "What for?" demanded Hal, looking blank. "To fumigate after the prisence av a skunk," retorted Pat whimsically. By means of the belt axes of the boys, supplemented by the Indian's axe in the hands of Alec, a pile of inflammable stuff was soon collected and heaped up inside the cabin. Then Pat touched a match to the pile and soon the whole interior was a roaring furnace. The bark roof quickly burned through and fell with a great hissing of the snow which it carried down with it, sending the sparks and embers skyward in a golden cloud. Satisfied that the destruction of the camp would be sufficient to render it uninhabitable Pat ordered all hands to make ready for the return to their own camp and they were soon on the trail. The fire was left to burn itself out, as no harm could come from it, owing to the snow-covered surroundings. Hal still puzzled over the burning of the cabin. "I should think you would have wanted to keep it, Pat," he ventured at length. "It might have come in handy some time." "'Twas too handy altogether, as it was," retorted Pat. "When you've dug a fox out fill up his den." And with this cryptic reply Hal was forced to be content. Sparrer, having no rifle, insisted on carrying the fox, an honor granted him with one accord. Very different was their entrance into Smugglers' Hollow from their departure in the small hours of that same day, and there was much jesting and hilarity, for their buoyant spirits had rebounded wonderfully now that the load of anxiety and dread had been lifted. Pat and Alec each carried a bundle of furs sufficient in themselves to raise their spirits to a high plane, for these, added to those they already had, assured the financial success of their partnership. As they came in sight of their cabin Upton called attention to a thin vapor of smoke rising from the chimney. "Somebody there, as sure as I'm alive and kicking," exclaimed Pat. "Now I wonder who is paying us a visit this time." As if in answer the door opened and a big burly form stepped forth. "Jim! Oh, you Jim!" yelled Upton delightedly. The big guide and lumber boss, for it was he, turned in their direction, his weather-tanned face lighting with real pleasure. Then as they drew nearer a comical look of wonder and perplexity crossed it. He stepped back to the door and apparently spoke to some one inside, for a second later another strapping big man stepped out. "Hello!" exclaimed Pat. "That's Bill Marshman, the game warden and deputy sheriff, who was looking for Alec last fall, and scared away the bear the day we left Plympton to take care of camp. It's lucky for those two chaps back there," nodding in the direction from which they had come, "that Bill didn't get here a day sooner. They wouldn't have got off so easy." By this time the party had approached within easy talking distance of the men at the cabin, who were staring at them in dumb amazement. Pat chuckled. "Hello, Jim! Hello, Bill!" he called. "Mighty glad to see you. Sorry you didn't get here sooner so as to join our little expedition." "Say," drawled the warden, "is this a war party returning from a raid?" "You've guessed it," declared Pat, dropping his load and shaking hands warmly with the two men. "In the absence av the constitooted authority" (he poked his fist into the ribs of the warden by way of emphasizing the point) "we have been upholding the majesty av the law and the rights av free-born American citizens, and yez have just missed putting the bracelets on as ugly a pair av villains as iver stole the furs av honest men." A light broke over the sheriffs face. "Big Pierre and his Injun partner!" he exclaimed. "I was tipped off that they were somewhere about here, and that's what brought me in. Where are they now?" "Hitting the trail for parts unknown," replied Pat. "We'll tell you about it later. Meanwhile here are some friends of mine you ought to know and keep an eye on, Bill. They'll bear watching." He then introduced the three boys. Sparrer still clung to his prize, and as he came forward to shake hands Jim and the warden sensed for the first time what it was he was carrying. "By gum!" exclaimed Jim. "I believe that's the very fellow I was telling you about, Bill. Saw him the last time I was over here. Did you trap him, Pat, or is he part of the spoils of war?" "Wrong both ways, Jim," replied Pat. "He was the cause of this little expedition. Come on in and while we are rustling up some grub we'll tell you the yarn." Jim and the warden listened with growing interest and appreciation while Pat unfolded the story. When it ended the warden gravely arose and walked over to Sparrer. "Shake hands over again, son," said he, to the boy's great confusion. "If I had had to sit still and watch a fortune trot around the way you did I sure would have been so plumb shaky that I'd have missed the shot when the time came. What are you going to do with him now that you've got him?" Thus did the warden bring to a head a question that had been troubling the boy ever since the fox was recovered. "He ain't mine," he gulped. "Oi lost him, and wouldn't never seen him again if it hadn't been fer dem." He nodded in the direction of Pat and Alec. "He's theirs, an' dey ain't no use talkin' about it." Sparrer set his lips firmly. In an instant Pat and Alec were on their feet, protesting that such talk was foolishness, and that the prize belonged to Sparrer and no one else. But the boy shook his head stubbornly. "Seems to me," drawled the warden when he could make himself heard, "that this here is a case for a disinterested party to decide. Now if you was to ask me I should say that an even split, fifty-fifty, is the fair thing. This here young tenderfoot comes up here with horseshoes or rabbit's-feet or some other luck charms hung all over him and without no help from any one bags a fortune which he finds running around loose. Right up to that point it's hisn and nobody else ain't got no claim on it. Then he loses it and ain't got no more chance of gettin' it back himself than a bull moose has of growing a long tail. Up steps Pat and Alec and friendly like does for him what he can't do for himself, an' gets the prize back. Now it seems to me that half ought to go to this here young feller fer gettin' it in the first place, and half to the other two fer gettin' it back after it was lost. What do you say, Jim?" "The only fair thing," declared Jim judicially. "There's enough in it to give 'em all a comf'table bit." A warm discussion followed in which Hal and Upton sided with the warden and Jim and it ended only when Sparrer at last agreed to a three-way split. From this stand no amount of argument could move him. He would take a third share if Pat and Alec would each take a third. Otherwise he wouldn't take any. And so it was finally agreed. The skinning and stretching of the hide was left to Alec, who was a past master in the art. While he was thus engaged the warden mysteriously beckoned Pat to one side. "Pat, whose are these?" he asked gravely, drawing a bunch of traps from under a bunk. Pat reached for them and examined them curiously. "Mine. That is, mine and Alec's; those are our marks," he replied, pointing to certain file marks on them. "Where did you get them?" he added wonderingly. "Where I got this fellow," replied the warden, reaching under the bunk and drawing out the body of a beaver. "I know you better than to think you had a hand in this, Pat," he continued, "but"--he hesitated and then continued hurriedly, "I thought perhaps your partner has been doin' a little poachin' unbeknown to you. You know he didn't have the best name ever was when he first came into these parts." A great light broke over Pat's face. "Alec don't know anything more about this than I do," he declared. "There isn't a straighter man in the woods than Alec is now, and you just want to make up your mind to that right now, Bill. That's the work of that thievin' Injun. You mind what I told you about Sparrer's findin' those traps at the beaver-pond? Well, it's as plain as the nose on your face. That Injun lifted some of our traps and set them there. He knew that if you came snoopin' round and found 'em the marks on 'em would point to us. Those skunks didn't have any traps, anyway. Thinkin' about that fox I'd clean forgotten about the beaver. Poor little chap." Pat stroked the body of the beaver. Alec was now called in, and his look of blank astonishment when he saw the traps and the dead animal was all that was needed to convince the warden that Pat was right in his surmise. That evening Jim explained his visit by stating that he had all along planned to get over to the Hollow before the boys left. When the warden dropped into his camp early that morning and stated his intention of going on to the Hollow Jim decided that he would accompany him. "How are you boys going back?" he asked. "The same way we came in, I suppose," replied Upton. "What's the matter with putting in a day with me and seeing how a logging camp is run? Then I'll send you out to the railroad on a lumber wagon," suggested the big lumber boss. The idea appealed to the boys, and it was finally agreed that they would accompany him to his camp the next day. It would give them a new experience for which they were eager, and at the same time eliminate the long hike back to Lower Chain. So, not without sincere regret, it must be admitted, they got their duffle together preparatory to an early start the next morning for the fifteen mile hike to Jim's headquarters. They turned in early, for now that the excitement was over they felt the reaction from the long strain they had been under, and the loss of sleep the night before. Jim and the warden bunked on the floor and the cabin in Smugglers' Hollow was soon wrapped in silence save for the gentle breathing of the sleepers. So ended a red letter day for at least three of the occupants. CHAPTER XX THE BLACK FOX IS SOLD The day in the lumber camp was all too short for all of the boys, but especially for Sparrer, to whom the cutting of the great trees and the hauling of the logs and piling of them on the rollways on the banks of the river ready for breaking out on the high water of the spring was of absorbing interest. Hal and Upton were familiar with logging operations, having visited logging camps many times during their summers in the woods. The only novelty to them lay in the changed setting of the scenes produced by the snow. Sparrer was of just the type to win immediate favor with the rough, big-hearted lumber-jacks, and they made him feel at home at once. They vied with one another in showing him things of interest, and his comments, colored with the slang of the city streets, afforded them no end of amusement. So it was with regret on all sides that at break of the following day the boys put their duffle on the big sled used for hauling in supplies and followed it themselves. Pat went with them to see them off at the train. With the last glimpse of the lumber camp as the sled entered the forest a silence broken only by the tinkle of the bell on one of the horses, the muffled sound of their feet and the slithering slide of the broad runners over the snow, fell on the little group. None felt in the mood for talking save the driver, and he soon subsided, failing to elicit more than monosyllabic responses. Pat was busy with thoughts of what his share from the sale of the black fox skin would mean to him in the furtherance of his ambitions for an education. But on his three guests the unfathomable mystery of the wilderness had once more fallen and wrapped them in its spell. It was the deeper for the knowledge that they were so soon to break it with no certainty of when they might again surrender their spirits to it. They were going back to another world. Oddly enough it was Sparrer who finally voiced the feeling of which both Upton and Hal were conscious, yet found no words to express. "It makes a feller feel little," said he, "like he ain't nothin' at all, and yet dat inside av him is somethin' bigger'n this." He swung one hand around in an all inclusive sweep. "An' it makes him feel clean inside, just like it is outside, an' like he'd got to do big things an' little mean things hadn't got no place. An'--an'"--Sparrer was groping for words to make his meaning clear--"it gives a feller a funny feelin' dat he ain't much and yet dat some way he's bigger'n de mount'ns, an' if dey is a million years old like people say, he's goin' ter last a lot longer. Bein' out here makes me feel just like Oi do when Oi go into de church an' de sun comes trew dem colored winders and de organ plays an' lifts a feller right up 'til he feels like he had wings an' could fly if he only knew how ter use 'em." Sparrer stopped abruptly and gazed with unseeing eyes off through the forest aisles. Pat looked over at the youngster with the light of understanding in his eyes. "Right, son," said he. "I know the feeling. This is the great cathedral that God has built for Himself and the littleness we feel is because of His own presence, and the sense of being greater than all this, the mountains, the lakes and the rivers, is, I reckon, because He makes us feel that if He made all these things to last through millions of years He isn't going to let His greatest work, man, perish in the little bit of time that makes a man's lifetime." The bell on the horse tinkled, the runners slithered over the snow and no further word was spoken until the driver cried, "Yonder's the clearin'. I reckon you fellers hev got just about time enough to look the town over before the train comes." An hour later farewells were said, and the three boys stood on the rear platform of the Pullman waving to Pat as the train pulled out. For some time after the straight form of the brawny young trapper and the dingy depot of the little village had faded from view the boys stood watching the panorama of frozen wilderness. Then, reluctantly it must be confessed, they turned to the warmth and luxury of the car. "Say, hasn't it been great?" exclaimed Hal as he dropped into his seat. "Great doesn't express it at all," declared Upton. "It beats even the hunt for Lost Trail." As for Sparrer, he said nothing at all, but glued his face to the window that he might drink in as long as he could the beauty of this land of enchantment, where the test of a man was his ability to contend successfully with the forces of nature and to live within the law when beyond the watchful eyes of the law; this land where a man was gauged by his moral strength no less than by his physical strength. These two weeks in the heart of the wilderness had wrought a change in the lad's whole attitude toward life. His inherent love of battle for battle's sake had been given a new turn. His old ambitions to be a soldier or a prize-fighter were forgotten in a new ambition--to be a woodsman; to pit his strength and courage and skill against the elemental forces of Nature instead of against his fellows. In short, Sparrer had resolved that some day he would shake the dust of the city from his feet forever. He would become a guide and lumber boss like Big Jim. And so he watched the flying landscape and dreamed dreams, and they were wholesome. It had been agreed that Pat and Alec should attend to the marketing of the fox skin, Sparrer's share to be forwarded to him when the sale was made. The day after they reached New York the operator at Upper Chain received a message over which he puzzled long. It was addressed to Pat Malone, and was as follows: "Wire best price you can get for skin, but do not sell until you hear from me. Hal." It was two weeks before Pat's reply was received. Hal was back at school, but Mr. Harrison opened the message and smiled as he read it. It was brief and to the point: "Two thousand dollars. What's up? Pat." Mr. Harrison rang for his private secretary. "Take this message and get it off at once," he said crisply. "Pat Malone, Upper Chain: Will give twenty-four hundred dollars for skin. Ship at once by express. My check by next mail." Then he dictated a letter to Hal telling him of the success of their conspiracy, for the two had hatched the plan together. Hal's description of the events in Smugglers' Hollow had so delighted Mr. Harrison that he had at once exclaimed: "We've got to have that skin, my boy. As a piece of fur it is worth as much to me as it is to any one else. For sentimental reasons it is worth more to me than it is to any one else. I don't believe in mixing sentiment with business, my boy, but there are exceptions to all rules. This is one. Besides, I owe that young Irishman up there in the woods more than money can repay for what he has done in helping to make you what you are to-day. You have him wire the best price he can get, and I'll go it one better. And by the way, you might suggest to that youngster who shot the beast that when he gets his share of the money I'll be glad to invest it for him where it will earn more than it will in a bank." And this is how it happened that Pat, Alec and Sparrer with eight hundred dollars apiece experienced for the first time that sense of independence, and power which comes with the possession of wealth, for not even Mr. Harrison with his millions felt richer than they. To Alec it meant the realization of a cherished dream which included the ownership of a certain tiny farm. To Pat it meant the education he had set his heart upon. While to Sparrer it meant a better home, a lifting of some of the load from his mother's shoulders, and a further stimulating of an already awakened ambition to gain for himself a share in the higher and better things of life. Of course when the story was told to the Blue Tortoise Patrol Sparrer was more popular than ever. He was little short of a hero in the eyes of his companions, the more so because Upton was at pains to point out that the boy's good fortune was really due to his adherence to the Scout principles which he had embraced, and to the moral victory which he had gained through loyalty to the Scout oath in the face of the hardest kind of temptation--the temptation when there is none to see either victory or defeat. A few weeks later the damage suit growing out of the automobile accident in Bronx Park was tried and the Blue Tortoises were called as witnesses. Once more Sparrer distinguished himself, unhesitatingly picking out from a group of men the one whose face he had seen for just a fleeting moment in the big car racing away from the scene of the accident. So positive was his identification that the defense, which was based on the claim that the car had been taken without the owner's knowledge, crumbled then and there, for the man who Sparrer identified was none other than the owner himself. As for Upton, he returned to his studies with renewed vim and determination which in due time brought its reward--the scholarship on which he had set his heart. "On my honor I will do my best-- To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout law; To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight." Well might the men of to-day as well as the men of to-morrow subscribe to this oath of the Boy Scouts of America, whether their lot in life be cast in the turmoil of the great city or the loneliness of a trapper's camp. The Stories in this Series are: THE BOY SCOUTS OF WOODCRAFT CAMP THE BOY SCOUTS ON SWIFT RIVER THE BOY SCOUTS ON LOST TRAIL THE BOY SCOUTS IN A TRAPPER'S CAMP 
27980	----	Wood Rangers, by Captain Mayne Reid. CHAPTER ONE. PEPE, THE SLEEPER. No landscape on the Biscayan coast, presents a more imposing and picturesque aspect than the little village of Elanchovi. Lying within an amphitheatre of cliffs, whose crests rise above the roofs of the houses, the port is protected from the surge of the sea by a handsome little jetty of chiselled stone; while the single street of which the village is composed, commencing at the inner end of the mole, sweeps boldly up against the face of the precipice. On both sides, the houses, disposed in a sort of _echelon_, rise, terrace-like, one above the other; so that viewed from a distance, the street presents the appearance of a gigantic stairway. In these the common dwellings, there is not much variety of architecture; since the village is almost exclusively inhabited by poor fishermen. There is one building, however, that is conspicuous--so much so as to form the principal feature of the landscape. It is an old chateau--perhaps the only building of this character in Spain--whose slate roofs and gothic turrets and vanes, rising above the highest point of the cliffs, overlook the houses of the village. This mansion belonged to the noble family of Mediana, and formed part of the grand estates of this ancient house. For a long period, the Counts of Mediana had not inhabited the chateau of Elanchovi, and it had fallen into a state of neglect and partial decay, presenting a somewhat wild and desolate aspect. However, at the beginning of the year 1808, during the troubles of the French invasion, the Count Don Juan, then head of the family, had chosen it as a safe residence for his young wife Dona Luisa, whom he passionately loved. Here Don Juan passed the first months of his married life--a marriage celebrated under circumstances of sad augury. The younger brother of Don Juan, Don Antonio de Mediana, had also fervently loved the Dona Luisa; until finding her preference for his brother, he had given up his suit in anger, and quitted the country. He had gone, no one knew whither; and though after a time there came back a rumour of his death, it was neither confirmed nor contradicted. The principal reason why the Count had chosen this wild spot as a residence for his lady was this:--He held a high command in the Spanish army, and he knew that duty would soon call him into the field. The _alcalde_ of Elanchovi had been an old servant of the Mediana family, and had been raised to his present rank by their influence. Don Juan, therefore, believed he could rely upon the devotion of this functionary to the interests of his house, and that during his absence Dona Luisa would find security under the magisterial protection. Don Ramon Cohecho was the name of the chief magistrate of Elanchovi. The Count was not permitted long to enjoy the happiness of his married life. Just as he had anticipated, he soon received orders to join his regiment; and parted from the chateau, leaving his young wife under the special care of an old and respectable domestic--the steward Juan de Dios Canelo. He parted from his home never more to return to it; for in the battle of Burgos, a French bullet suddenly terminated his existence. It was sad tidings for the Dona Luisa; and thus to the joys of the first days of her married life succeeded the sorrows of a premature widowhood. It was near the close of the year 1808, when the chateau was the sombre witness of Dona Luisa's grief, that our story commences, and though its scene lies in another land--thousands of leagues from, the Biscayan coast--its history is intimately woven with that of the chateau of Elanchovi. Under ordinary circumstances, the village of Elanchovi presents a severe and dreary aspect. The silence and solitude that reigns along the summit of the cliffs, contrasted with the continuous roaring of the breakers against their base, inspires the beholder with a sentiment of melancholy. Moreover, the villagers, as already said, being almost exclusively fishermen, and absent during the whole of the day, the place at first sight would appear as if uninhabited. Occasionally when some cloud is to be observed in the sky, the wives of the fishermen may be seen at the door, in their skirts of bright colours, and their hair in long double plaits hanging below their waists. These, after remaining a while to cast anxious glances upon the far horizon, again recross the thresholds of their cottages, leaving the street deserted as before. At the time of which we are writing--the month of November, 1808-- Elanchovi presented a still more desolate aspect than was its wont. The proximity of the French army had produced a panic among its inhabitants and many of these poor people--forgetting in their terror that they had nothing to lose--had taken to their boats, and sought safety in places more distant from the invaders of whom they were in dread. Isolated as this little village was on the Biscayan coasts, there was all the more reason why it should have its garrison of _coast-guards_; and such in reality it had. These at the time consisted of a company of soldiers--carabiniers, under the command of a captain Don Lucas Despierto--but the condition of these warriors was not one to be envied, for the Spanish government, although nominally keeping them in its pay, had for a long time neglected to pay them. The consequence was, that these poor fellows had absolutely nothing upon which to live. The seizure of smuggled goods--with which they might have contrived to indemnify themselves--was no longer possible. The contraband trade, under this system, was completely annihilated. The smugglers knew better than to come in contact with _coast-guards_ whose performance of their duty was stimulated by such a keen necessity! From the captain himself down to the lowest official, an incessant vigilance was kept up--the result of which was that the fiscal department of the Spanish government was, perhaps, never so faithfully or economically served. There was one of these coast-guards who affected a complete scepticism in regard to smuggling--he even went so far as to deny that it had ever existed! He was distinguished among his companions by a singular habit--that of always going to sleep upon his post; and this habit, whether feigned or real, had won for him the name of _the Sleeper_. On this account it may be supposed, that he was never placed upon guard where the post was one of importance. Jose, or as he was more familiarly styled, _Pepe_, was a young fellow of some twenty-five years--tall, thin, and muscular. His black eyes, deeply set under bushy eyebrows, had all the appearance of eyes that _could_ sparkle; besides, his whole countenance possessed the configuration of one who had been born for a life of activity. On the contrary, however--whether from a malady or some other cause--the man appeared as somnolent and immobile as if both his visage and body were carved out of marble. In a word, with all the exterior marks that denote the possession of an active and ardent soul, Pepe _the Sleeper_ appeared the most inactive and apathetic of men. His chagrin was great--or appeared to be so--when, upon the evening of the day in which this narrative commences the captain of the coast-guard sent a messenger to summon him to headquarters. On receiving the unexpected order, Pepe rose from his habitual attitude of recumbence, stretched himself at his leisure, yawned several times, and then obeyed the summons, saying as he went out: "What the devil fancy has the captain got into his head to send for _me_?" Once, however, on the way and alone, it might have been observed that the somnolent coast-guard walked with an energetic and active step, very unlike his usual gait! On entering the apartment where the captain awaited him, his apathetic habit returned; and, while rolling a cigarette between his fingers, he appeared to be half asleep. The captain was buried in a profound meditation, and did not at first perceive him. "_Bueno_! my captain," said the coast-guard, respectfully saluting his superior, and calling attention to his presence. "I am here." "Ah! good! my fine fellow," began the captain, in a winning voice. "Well, Pepe!" added he more slowly and significantly, "the times are pretty hard with us--are they not?" "Rather hard, captain." "But you, _hombre_!" rejoined Don Lucas, with a laugh, "you don't appear to suffer much of the misery--you are always asleep I understand?" "When I sleep, captain, I am not hungry," replied the coast-guard, endeavouring to stifle a yawn; "then I dream that the government has paid me." "Well--at all events you are not its creditor for many hours of the day, since you sleep most of them. But, my fine fellow, it is not about this I desire to talk to you. I wish to give you a proof of my confidence." "Ah!" muttered Pepe. "And a proof of my regard for you," continued the officer. "The government has its eye open upon all of us; your reputation for apathy begins to be talked about, and you might be discharged one of these days as a useless official. It would be a sad affair if you were to lose your place?" "Frightful! captain," replied Pepe, with perfect simplicity of manner; "for if I can scarce keep from dying of hunger in my place, what would be the result were I deprived of it? Frightful!" "To prevent this misfortune, then," continued the captain, "I have resolved to furnish to those who calumniate you, a proof of the confidence which may be placed in you, by giving you the post of _Ensenada_--and this very night." Pepe involuntarily opened his eyes to their fullest extent. "That surprises you?" said Don Lucas. "No," laconically replied the coast-guard. The captain was unable to conceal from his inferior a slight confusion, and his voice trembled as he pronounced the interrogation:-- "What! It does not surprise you?" "No," repeated Pepe, and then added in a tone of flattery: "The captain Despierto is so well-known for his vigilance and energy, that he may confide the most important post to the very poorest of his sentinels. That is why I am not astonished at the confidence he is good enough to place in me: and now I await the instructions your Honour may be pleased to give." Don Lucas, without further parley, proceeded to instruct his sentinel in his duty for the night. The orders were somewhat diffuse--so much so that Pepe had a difficulty in comprehending them--but they were wound up by the captain saying to the coast-guard, as he dismissed him from his presence-- "And above all, my fine fellow, _don't go to sleep upon your post_!" "I shall _try_ not to do so, captain," replied Pepe, at the same time saluting his superior, and taking his leave. "This fellow is worth his weight in gold," muttered Don Lucas, rubbing his hands together with an air of satisfaction; "he could not have suited my purpose better, if he had been expressly made for it!" CHAPTER TWO. THE SENTINEL OF LA ENSENADA. The little bay of Ensenada, thus confided to the vigilance of Pepe the sleeper, was mysteriously shut in among the cliffs, as if nature had designed it expressly for smugglers--especially those Spanish _contrabandistas_ who carry on the trade with a cutlass in one hand and a carbine in the other. On account of its isolation, the post was not without danger, especially on a foggy November night, when the thick vapour suspended in the air not only rendered the sight useless, but hindered the voice that might call for assistance from being heard to any distance. In the soldier who arrived upon this post, advancing with head erect and light elastic tread, no one could have recognised Pepe the sleeper-- Pepe, habitually plunged in a profound state of somnolence--Pepe, of downcast mien and slow dragging gait--and yet it was he. His eyes, habitually half shut, were now sparkling in their sockets, as if even the slightest object could not escape him even in the darkness. After having carefully examined the ground around his post, and convinced himself that he was entirely alone, he placed his lantern in such a position that its light was thrown along the road leading to the village. Then advancing some ten or twelve paces in the direction of the water, he spread his cloak upon the ground, and lay down upon it--in such an attitude that he could command a view both of the road and the bay. "Ah, my captain!" soliloquised the coast-guard, as he arranged his cloak around him to the best advantage, "you are a very cunning man, but you have too much faith in people who are always asleep; and devil take me! if I don't believe that you are interested in my sleeping most soundly on this particular night. Well, _quien sabe_? we shall see." For about the period of half an hour Pepe remained alone--delivering himself up to his reflections, and in turns interrogating with his glance the road and the bay. At the end of that time a footstep was heard in the loose sand; and looking along the pathway, the sentinel perceived a dark form approaching the spot. In another moment the form came under the light of the lantern, and was easily recognised as that of Don Lucas, the captain of the coast-guard. The officer appeared to be searching for something, but presently perceiving the recumbent sentinel, he paused in his steps. "Pepe!" cried he, in a low mincing voice. No reply came from Pepe. "Pepe!" repeated the captain, in a tone a little more elevated. Still no reply from the sentinel, who remained obstinately silent. The captain, appearing to be satisfied, ceased calling the name, and shortly after retraced his steps towards the village. In a few seconds his form was lost in the distance. "Good!" said Pepe, as his superior officer passed out of sight; "just as I expected. A moment ago I was fool enough to doubt it. Now I am sure of it. Some smuggler is going to risk it to-night. Well, I shall manage badly if I don't come in for a windfall--though it be at the expense of my captain." Saying this, the sentinel with one bound rose erect upon his feet. "Here I am no more Pepe the Sleeper," continued he stretching himself to his full height. From this time his eyes were bent continually upon the ocean; but another half hour passed without anything strange showing itself upon the bosom of the water--nothing to break the white line of the horizon where sea and sky appeared to be almost confounded together. Some dark clouds were floating in the heavens, now veiling and now suddenly uncovering the moon, that had just risen. The effect was fine; the horizon was one moment shining like silver, and the next dark as funeral crape; but through all these changes no object appeared upon the water, to denote the presence of a human being. For a long while the coast-guard looked so intently through the darkness, that he began to see the sparks flying before his eyes. Fatigued with this sustained attention, he at length shut his eyes altogether, and concentrated all his powers upon the organs of hearing. Just then a sound came sweeping over the water--so slight that it scarce reached him--but the next moment the land-breeze carried it away, and it was heard no more. Fancying it had only been an illusion, he once more opened his eyes, but in the obscurity he could see nothing. Again he shut them closely and listened as before. This time he listened with more success. A sound regularly cadenced was heard. It was such as would be made by a pair of oars cautiously dipped, and was accompanied by a dull knocking as of the oars working in their thole-pins. "At last we shall see!" muttered Pepe, with a gasp of satisfaction. A small black point, almost imperceptible, appeared upon the horizon. Rapidly it increased in size, until it assumed the form and dimensions of a boat with rowers in it, followed by a bright strip of foam. Pepe threw himself suddenly _a plat ventre_, in fear that he might be seen by those on the water; but from the elevated position which he occupied, he was able to keep his eye upon the boat without losing sight of it for a single instant. Just then the noises ceased, and the oars were held out of water, motionless, like some sea-bird, with wings extended, choosing a spot upon which to alight. In the next instant the rowing was resumed, and the boat headed directly for the shore of the bay. "Don't be afraid!" muttered the coast-guard, affecting to apostrophise the rowers. "Don't be afraid, my good fellows--come along at your pleasure!" The rowers, in truth did not appear to be at all apprehensive of danger; and the next moment the keel of the boat was heard grinding upon the sand of the beach. "_Por Dios_!" muttered the sentinel in a low voice; "not a bale of goods! It is possible after all, they are not smugglers!" Three men were in the boat, who did not appear to take those precautions which smugglers would have done. They made no particular noise, but, on the other hand, they did not observe any exact silence. Moreover their costume was not that ordinarily worn by the regular _contrabandista_. "Who the devil can they be?" asked Pepe of himself. The coast-guard lay concealed behind some tufts of withered grass that formed a border along the crest of the slope. Through these he could observe the movements of the three men in the boat. At an order from the one who sat in the stern sheets, the other two leaped ashore, as if with the design of reconnoitring the ground. He who issued the order, and who appeared to be the chief of the party, remained seated in the boat. Pepe was for a moment undecided whether he should permit the two to pass him on the road; but the view of the boat, left in charge of a single man, soon fixed his resolution. He kept his place, therefore, motionless as ever, scarce allowing himself to breathe, until the two men arrived below him, and only a few feet from the spot where he was lying. Each was armed with a long Catalonian knife, and Pepe could see that the costume which both wore was that of the Spanish privateers of the time-- a sort of mixture of the uniform of the royal navy of Spain, and that of the merchant service; but he could not see their faces, hid as they were under the slouched Basque bonnet. All at once the two men halted. A piece of rock, detached by the knees of the coast-guard, had glided down the slope and fallen near their feet. "Did you hear anything?" hastily asked one. "No; did you?" "I thought I heard something falling from above there," replied the first speaker; pointing upward to the spot where Pepe was concealed. "Bah! it was some mouse running into its hole." "If this slope wasn't so infernally steep, I'd climb up and see," said the first. "I tell you we have nothing to fear," rejoined the second; "the night is as black as a pot of pitch, and besides--the _other_, hasn't he assured us that he will answer for the man on guard, _who sleeps all day long_?" "Just for that reason he may not sleep at night. Remain here, I'll go round and climb up. _Carramba_! if I find this sleepy-head," he added, holding out his long knife, the blade of which glittered through the darkness, "so much the worse--or, perhaps, so much the better for him-- for I shall send him where he may sleep forever." "_Mil diablos_!" thought Pepe, "this fellow is a philosopher! By the holy virgin I am long enough here." And at this thought, he crept out of the folds of his cloak like a snake out of his skin, and leaving the garment where it lay, crawled rapidly away from the spot. Until he had got to a considerable distance, he was so cautious not to make any noise, that, to use a Spanish expression, _the very ground itself did not know he was passing over it_. In this way he advanced, carbine in hand, until he was opposite the point where the boat rested against the beach. There he stopped to recover his breath,--at the same time fixing his eye upon the individual that was alone. The latter appeared to be buried in a sombre reverie, motionless as a statue, and wrapped in an ample cloak, which served both to conceal his person and protect him from the humidity of the atmosphere. His eyes were turned toward the sea; and for this reason he did not perceive the dark form of the carabinier approaching in the opposite direction. The latter advanced with stealthy tread--measuring the distance with his eye--until at length he stood within a few paces of the boat. Just then the stranger made a movement as if to turn his face towards the shore, when Pepe, like a tiger hounding upon its prey, launched himself forward to the side of the boat. "It is I!" he exclaimed, bringing the muzzle of his carbine on a level with the man's breast. "Don't move or you are a dead man!" "You, who?" asked the astonished stranger, his eyes sparkling with rage, and not even lowering their glance before the threatening attitude of his enemy. "Why me! Pepe--you know well enough? Pepe, the Sleeper?" "Curses upon him, if he has betrayed me?" muttered, the stranger, as if speaking to himself. "If you are speaking of Don Lucas Despierto," interrupted the carabinier, "I can assure you he is incapable of such a thing; and if I _am here_ it is because that he has been only too discreet, senor smuggler." "Smuggler!" exclaimed the unknown, in a tone of proud disdain. "When I say smuggler," replied Pepe, chuckling at his own perspicuity, "it is only meant as a compliment, for you haven't an ounce of merchandise in your boat, unless indeed," continued he, pointing with his foot to a rope ladder, rolled up, and lying in the bottom, "unless that may be a sample! _Santa Virgen_! a strange sample that!" Face to face with the unknown, the coast-guard could now examine him at his leisure. He was a young man of about Pepe's own age, twenty-five. His complexion had the hale tint of one who followed the sea for a profession. Thick dark eyebrows were strongly delineated against a forehead bony and broad, and from a pair of large black eyes shone a sombre fire that denoted a man of implacable passions. His arched mouth was expressive of high disdain; and the wrinkles upon his cheeks, strongly marked notwithstanding his youth, at the slightest movement, gave to his countenance an expression of arrogance and scorn. In his eyes--in his whole bearing--you could read that ambition or vengeance were the ruling passions of his soul. His fine black curling hair alone tempered the expression of severity that distinguished his physiognomy. With regard to his costume, it was simply that of an officer of the Spanish navy. A look that would have frightened most men told the impatience with which he endured the examination of the coast-guard. "An end to this pleasantry!" he cried out, at length. "What do you want, fellow? Speak!" "Ah! talk of our affairs," answered Pepe, "that is just what I desire. Well, in the first place, when those two fellows of yours return with my cloak and lantern--which they are cunning enough to make a seizure of-- you will give them your commands to keep at a distance. In this way we can talk without being interrupted. Otherwise, with a single shot of this carbine, which will stretch you out dead, I shall also give the alarm. What say you? Nothing? Be it so. That answer will do for want of a better. I go on. You have given to my captain forty _onzas_?" continued the carabinier, with a bold guess, making sure that he named enough. "Twenty," replied the stranger, without reflecting. "I would rather it had been forty," said Pepe. "Well, one does not pay so high for the mere pleasure of a sentimental promenade along the shore of the Ensenada. My intervention need be no obstruction to it--provided you pay for my neutrality." "How?" asked the unknown, evidently desirous of putting an end to the scene. "Oh, a mere bagatelle--you have given the captain forty _onzas_." "Twenty, I tell you." "I would rather it had been forty," coolly repeated the carabinier, "but say twenty, then. Now I don't wish to be indiscreet--he is a captain, I am nothing more than a poor private. I think it reasonable therefore, that I should have _double_ what he has received." At this extortionate demand the stranger allowed a bitter oath to escape him, but made no answer. "I know well," continued Pepe, "that I am asking too little. If my captain has three times my pay, of course he has three times less need of money than I, and therefore I have the right to _triple_ the sum he has received; but as the times are hard, I hold to my original demand-- forty _onzas_." A terrible struggle betwixt pride and apprehension appeared to be going on in the bosom of the stranger. Despite the coldness of the night the perspiration streamed over his brow and down his cheeks. Some imperious necessity it was that had led him into this place--some strange mystery there must be--since the necessity he was now under tamed down a spirit that appeared untamable. The tone of jeering intrepidity which Pepe held toward him caused him to feel the urgency of a compromise; and at length plunging his hand into his pocket he drew forth a purse, and presented it to the carabinier. "Take it and go!" he cried, with impatience. Pepe took the purse, and for a moment held it in his hand as if he would first count its contents. "Bah!" he exclaimed, after a pause, "I'll risk it. I accept it for forty _onzas_. And now, senor stranger, I am deaf, dumb, and blind." "I count upon it," coldly rejoined the unknown. "By the life of my mother!" replied Pepe, "since it's not an affair of smuggling I don't mind to lend you a hand--for as a coast-guard, you see, I could not take part in anything contraband--no, never!" "Very well, then," rejoined the stranger, with a bitter smile, "you may set your conscience at rest on that score. Guard this boat till my return. I go to join my men. Only whatever happens--whatever you may see--whatever you may hear--be, as you have promised, deaf, dumb, and blind." As he uttered these words the stranger sprang out of the boat, and took the road leading to the village. A turning in the path soon bid him from the sight of the coast-guard. Once left to himself, Pepe, under the light of the moon, counted out the glittering contents of the purse which he had extorted from the stranger. "If this jewel is not false," muttered he to himself, "then I don't care if the government never pays me. Meanwhile, I must begin to-morrow to cry like a poor devil about the back pay. That will have a good effect." CHAPTER THREE. THE ALCALDE AND HIS CLERK. It is not known how long Pepe remained at his post to await the return of the stranger: when the cock was heard to crow, and the aurora appeared in the eastern horizon, the little bay of Ensenada was completely deserted. Then life began to appear in the village. The dark shadows of the fishermen were seen upon the stair-like street, descending to the mole; and the first beams of the morning lit up their departure. In a few minutes the little flotilla was out of sight; and at the doors of the cottages the women and children only could be seen, appearing and disappearing at intervals. Among these wretched hovels of the village, there was one dwelling of greater pretensions than the rest. It was that of the alcalde, Don Ramon Cohecho of whom we have already spoken. It alone still kept its doors and windows closed against the morning light. It was full day, when a young man, wearing a high-crowned beaver hat,-- old, greasy and shining, like leather--walked up to the door of the alcalde's mansion. The limbs of this individual were scantily covered with a pair of pantaloons, so tightly fitting as to appear like a second skin to his legs, so short as scarce to touch his ankles, and of such thin stuff as to ill protect the wearer from the sharp air of a November morning. The upper half of this individual was not visible. A little cloak, of coarse shaggy cloth, known as an _esclavina_, covered him up to the very eyes. In the manner in which he so carefully guarded the upper part of his person with this pinched mantle, at the expense of his thighs and legs, an observer might have supposed that he was perfectly content with his pantaloons. Appearances, however, are often deceptive; for in truth the ambition of this youth; whose unsteady glance, miserable aspect, and a certain smell of old papers about him, proclaimed to be _un escribano_--his everyday dream was to have a pair of pantaloons entirely different from his own--in other words, a pair with long ample legs, of good wide waist, and made out of fine broadcloth. Such a pair would render him the most satisfied man in the world. This young man was the _right hand_ of the alcalde--his name Gregorio Cagatinta. On reaching the door, he gave a modest knock with his horn ink-bottle, which he carried hanging to his button. The door was opened by an old housekeeper. "Ah! it is you, _Don_ Gregorio?" cried the housekeeper, with that superb courtesy so peculiar to the Spaniards--that even two shoeblacks on meeting lavish upon each other the epithet _Don_, as if each were a grand noble. "Yes, it is I, Dona Nicolasa," replied Gregorio. "_Santisima Virgen_!--since it is you, then I must be late, and my master will be waiting for his pantaloons that are not yet aired. Take a seat, Don Gregorio: he will soon be down." The chamber into which the notary's clerk had been introduced would have been a large one, had it not been for the singular conglomeration of objects with which it was more than half filled. Nets of all sizes, masts, yards, and rudders of boats, oars, sails of every kind--both square and lateen--woollen shirts worn by sailors or fishermen, and a variety of other marine objects, were placed pellmell in every corner of the room. Notwithstanding, there was space enough left to hold three or four chairs around a large oaken table, upon which last stood a large cork ink-stand, with several goose-quill pens; with some sheets of half dirty paper placed ostentatiously around it to awe the visitors, who might have business with the alcalde. The presence of this odd assortment of objects, it would have been difficult for a stranger to explain--though there was no mystery about it. The fact is, that besides his official character as first magistrate, the alcalde had another _role_ which he played, of rather an unofficial character. He was the _pawnbroker_ of the place--that is, he lent out money in small sums, charging a _real_ for every dollar by the week--in other words, a simple interest of twenty per cent, by the month, or two hundred and fifty per cent, per annum! His clients being all fishermen, will account for the nautical character of the "pledges" that filled the chamber of audience. Cagatinta scarce deigned to cast a look at this miscellaneous collection of objects. Had there been a pair of pantaloons among them, it might have been different; for to say the truth, the probity of Don Gregorio was scarce firm enough to have resisted so strong a temptation as this would have been. The notary's clerk was not exactly of that stuff of which honest men are composed. Nature, even in its crimes, does not leap to grand villainies at once; it proceeds from less to greater; and Cagatinta, though still but young, was yet capable of a little bit of "cribbing." Don Ramon was not long in coming out of his sleeping-room. In a little while he showed his jovial face at the door of the audience chamber. He was a person of portly and robust figure; and it was easily seen that one leg of his ample pantaloons would have been sufficient to have made a pair for the thin limbs and meagre body of the escribano. "_Por Dios_! Senor alcalde," said the clerk, after having exchanged with his superior a profusion of matinal salutations, "what a splendid pair of pantaloons you have on!" From the alcalde's answer, it was evident that this was not the first time that Cagatinta had made the remark. "Ah! Gregorio, _amigo_!" replied he, in a tone of good-humour, "you are growing tiresome with your repetitions. Patience, patience, senor escribano! you know that for the services you are to render me--I say nothing of those already rendered--I have promised you my liver-coloured breeches, which have been only a very little used: you have only to gain them." "But what services are to gain them, senor alcalde?" inquired the clerk, in a despairing tone. "Eh--Dios!--who knows what--patience, _amigo_! Something may turn up all at once, that will give you that advantage over me. But come! let us to business--make out the deed of appropriation of the boat of that bad pay, Vicente Perez, who under pretence that he has six brats to feed, can't reimburse me the twenty dollars I have advanced him." Cagatinta drew out from his little portfolio a sheet of stamped paper, and sitting down by the table proceeded to execute the order of the magistrate. He was interrupted by a hurried knocking at the outer door--which had been closed to prevent intrusion. "Who dare knock in that fashion?" sharply inquired the alcalde. "_Ave Maria purisima_!" cried a voice from without. "_Sin pecado concebida_!" replied at the same time the two acolytes within. And upon this formula, Gregorio hastened to the door, and opened it. "What on earth can have brought you here at this hour, Don Juan de Dios Canelo?" inquired the alcalde in a tone of surprise, as the old steward of the Countess de Mediana appeared in the doorway, his bald forehead clouded with some profound chagrin. "Ah, senor alcalde," replied the old man, "a terrible misfortune has happened last night--a great crime has been committed--the Countess has disappeared, and the young Count along with her!" "Are you sure of this?" shouted the alcalde. "Alas--you will only have to go up into the balcony that overlooks the sea, and there you will see in what state the assassins have left the Countess's chamber." "Justice! justice! Senor alcalde! Send out your alguazils over the whole country; find the villains--hang them!" This voice came from a woman still outside in the street. It was the _femme de chambre_ of the Countess, who, to show a devotion which she very little felt, judged it apropos to make a great outcry as she precipitated herself into the chamber of audience. "Ta-ta-ta, woman! how you go on!" interrupted the alcalde. "Do you think I have a crowd of alguazils? You know very well that in this virtuous village there are only two; and as these would starve if they didn't follow some trade beside their official one, they are both gone fishing hours ago." "Ah, me!" cried the _femme de chambre_, with a hypocritical whine, "my poor mistress!--who then is to help her?" "Patience, woman, patience!" said the alcalde. "Don't fear but that justice will be done." The chamber-maid did not appear to draw much hope from the assurance, but only redoubled her cries, her excited behaviour strongly contrasting with the quiet manner in which the faithful old steward exhibited the sincerity of his grief. Meanwhile a crowd of women, old men, and children, had gathered around the alcalde's door, and by little and little, were invading the sanctuary of the audience chamber itself. Don Ramon advanced towards Cagatinta, who was rubbing his hands under his _esclavina_, charmed at the idea of the quantity of stamped paper he would now have an opportunity to blacken. "Now, friend Gregorio," said the alcalde, in a low voice, "the time has come, when, if you are sharp, you may gain the liver-coloured breeches." He said no more; but it was evident that the _escribano_ understood him, at least, to a certain extent. The latter turned pale with joy, and kept his eye fixed upon every movement of his patron, determined to seize the first opportunity that presented itself of winning the breeches. The alcalde reseated himself in his great leathern chair; and commanding silence with a wave of his hand, addressed his auditory in a long and pompous speech, with that profuse grandiloquence of which the Spanish language is so capable. The substance of his speech was as follows: "My children! We have just heard from this respectable individual, Don Juan de Dios Canelo, that a great crime has last night been committed; the full knowledge of this villainy cannot fail to arrive at the ears of justice, from which nothing can be kept hid. Not the less are we to thank Don Juan for his official communication; it only remains for him to complete the accusation by giving the names of the guilty persons." "But, senor alcalde," interrupted the steward, "I do not know them, although, as you say, my communication may be official--I can only say that I will do all in my power to assist in finding them." "You understand, my children," continued the alcalde, without taking notice of what the steward had said, "the worthy Canelo by his official communication asks for the punishment of the guilty persons. Justice will not be deaf to his appeal. I may now be permitted, however, to speak to you of my own little affairs, before abandoning myself to the great grief which the disappearance of the Countess and the young Count has caused me." Here the alcalde made a sign to Cagatinta, whose whole faculties were keenly bent to discover what service was expected from him, by which he was to gain the object of his ambition--the liver-coloured breeches. The alcalde continued:-- "You all know, my children, of my attachment to the family of Mediana. You can judge, then, of the grief which this news has given me--news the more incomprehensible, since one neither knows by whom, or for what reason such a crime should be committed. Alas, my children! I lose a powerful protector in the Countess de Mediana; and in me the heart of the old and faithful servant is pierced with anguish, while as a man of business I am equally a sufferer. Yes, my children! In the deceitful security, which I felt no later than yesterday, I was up to the chateau, and had an important interview with the Countess in regard to my rents." "To ask time for their payment," Cagatinta would have added, for the clerk was perfectly acquainted with the alcalde's affairs. But Don Ramon did not allow him an opportunity of committing this enormous indiscretion, which would forever have deprived him of the promised breeches. "Patience, worthy Cagatinta!" he exclaimed hastily, so as to prevent the other from speaking, "constrain this thirst for justice that consumes you!--Yes, my children!" he continued, turning to his auditory, "in consequence of this feeling of security, which I have now cause to regret, I placed in the hands of the unfortunate Countess,"--here the voice of Don Ramon quivered--"a sum equivalent to ten years of my rents _in advance_." At this unexpected declaration, Cagatinta bounded from his chair as if stung by a wasp; and the blood ran cold in his veins when he perceived the grand blunder he had been so near committing. "You will understand, then, my children, the terrible situation in which this disappearance of the Countess has placed me, when I tell you that I _took no receipt from the lady_, but this very morning was to have gone up for it." This revelation produced a profound sensation among the auditory; and though perhaps not one of them really believed the story, no one dared to give utterance to his incredulity. "Fortunately," continued the alcalde, "the word of persons worthy of credit may yet repair the mistake I have committed--fortunately there were witnesses of the payment." Here Cagatinta--who like water that had been a long time dammed up and had now found vent--stretched out both his arms, and in a loud voice cried out: "I can swear to it!" "He can swear to it," said the alcalde. "He can swear to it," mechanically repeated one or two of the bystanders. "Yes, my friends!" solemnly added Cagatinta. "I swear to it now, and should have mentioned the matter sooner, but I was prevented by a little uncertainty. I had an idea that it was _fifteen_ years of rent, instead of _ten_, that I saw the alcalde hand over to the unfortunate Dona Luisa." "No, my worthy friend," interrupted the alcalde in a tone of moderation, likely to produce an effect upon his auditory. "It was only ten years of rent, which your valuable testimony will hinder me from losing." "Yes, senor alcalde," replied the wily scribe, determined at all hazards to deserve the liver-coloured breeches, "I know it was ten years in advance, but there were also the two years of back rent which you paid-- two years of arrears and ten in advance--twelve years in all. _Por Dios_! a large sum it would be to have lost!" And with this reflection Cagatinta sat down again, fancying, no doubt, that he had fairly won the breeches. We shall not detail what further passed during the scene in the alcalde's chamber of audience--where justice was practised as in the times of Gil Blas--long before and long after Gil Blas--for it is not very different in a Spanish law court at the hour in which we are writing. Enough to say that the scene concluded, most of the dramatis personae, with the alcalde at their head, proceeded to the chateau, to inspect the chamber, and if possible find out some clue to the mysterious disappearance of the Countess. CHAPTER FOUR. THE FORSAKEN CHAMBER. On arriving at the chateau, the alcalde ordered the door of the Countess's chamber to be burst in--for it was still bolted inside. On entering the apartment a picture of confusion was presented. Drawers empty, others drawn out, but only half sacked of their contents. All this did not indicate precisely that there had been any violence. A voluntary but hurried departure on the part of the Countess might have left just such traces as were discovered. The bed was still undisturbed, as if she had not lain down upon it. This fact appeared to indicate a foreknowledge, on the part of the lady, of what was to happen--as if she had had the intention of going off, but had made no preparation until the moment of departure. The furniture was all in its place--the window curtains and those of the alcove had not been disarranged, and no traces of a struggle were to be discerned within the chamber, which contained many light fragile objects of furniture that could not fail to have been destroyed by the slightest violence. The fetid odour of an oil lamp filled the apartment despite the cold air that came in through the open window. It was evident, therefore, that this lamp had been left alight, and had continued to burn until the oil had become exhausted. It could not be a robbery either. A thousand articles of value, likely enough to have tempted the cupidity of robbers, were left behind both on the tables and in the drawers. The conclusion then was that neither assassination nor burglary had taken place. Notwithstanding all these deceptive appearances, the old steward shook his head doubtfully. The signs were sufficient to baffle his reason, which was none of the strongest, but the faithful servant could not bring himself to believe that his noble mistress would take flight in a manner so extraordinary--his good sense revolted at the thought. In his belief some crime had been committed, but how was it to be explained-- since the assassin had left no traces of his guilt? The devoted Don Juan looked with a sad eye upon that desolate chamber--upon the dresses of his beloved mistress scattered over the floor; upon the cradle of the young Count, where he had so lately slept, rosy and smiling, under the vigil of his mother. Suddenly struck with an idea, the steward advanced towards the iron balcony that fronted upon the sea--that where the window had been found open. With inquiring eye he looked to the ground below, which was neither more nor less than the beach of the sea itself. It was at no great depth below; and he could easily have seen from the balcony any traces that might have been there. But there were none. The tide had been in and out again. No trace was left on the sand or pebbles that had the slightest signification in regard to the mysterious event. The wind sighed, the waves murmured as always; but amid the voices of nature none raised itself to proclaim the guilty. On the fair horizon only were descried the white sails of a ship, gradually passing outwards and fading away into the azure of the sea. While the old steward watched the disappearance of the ship with a sort of dreamy regard, he sent up a silent prayer that his mistress might still be safe. The others, with the exception of the alcalde and his clerk, stood listening to the mournful howling of the wind against the cliffs, which seemed alternately to weep and sigh as if lamenting the sad event that had just transpired. As regards the alcalde and his assistant, they were under the same conviction as Don Juan--both believing that a crime had been committed-- though they did not care to avow their belief, for reasons known to themselves. The absence of any striking evidence that might lead to the discovery of the delinquents, but more especially the difficulty of finding some interested individual able to pay the expenses of justice (the principal object of criminal prosecutions in Spain), damped the zeal of Don Ramon and the scribe. Both were satisfied to leave things as they stood--the one contented with having gained the recompense so much coveted--the other with the twelve years of rents which he felt sure of gaining. "_Valga me Dios_! my children," said the alcalde, turning toward the witnesses, "I cannot explain what fancy the Countess may have had in going out by the window--for the door of the chamber, bolted inside, leaves no room to doubt that she went that way. Some woman's caprice, perhaps, which justice has no business to meddle with." "Perhaps it was to escape from giving the alcalde his receipt," suggested one of the bystanders to another, in an undertone of voice. "But how, Don Juan," continued the magistrate, addressing himself to the old steward, "how did you know of the Countess's disappearance, since you could not get into the room?" "That is simple enough," replied the old man. "At the hour in which the chamber-maid is accustomed to present herself before the senora, she knocked as usual at the door. No answer was given. She knocked louder, and still received no answer. Growing anxious, she came to me to tell me. I went to the door myself, first knocked and then called; and receiving no reply, I ran round to the garden and got the ladder. This I placed against the balcony, and mounted up in order to see through the window. On reaching the window I found it open, and the chamber in the condition you now see it." When the steward had finished this declaration, Cagatinta whispered some words in the ear of the alcalde; but the latter only replied by a shake of the shoulders, and an expression of disdainful incredulity. "Who knows?" answered the scribe in reply to this dumb show. "It might be," muttered Don Ramon, "we shall see presently." "I persist, gentlemen," continued the alcalde, "in my belief that the Countess has gone out by the window; and however singular it may appear, I believe the lady is free to her fancy to go out as she pleases--even though it be by a window." Cagatinta, and some others, complimented, with a laugh, this little bit of magisterial facetiousness. "But, senor alcalde," spoke out Don Juan, disgusted with this ill-timed pleasantry, "a proof that there has been a forced entry into the chamber is this broken glass of the window, of which you see some pieces still lying on the balcony." "This old fool," muttered the alcalde to himself, "is not going to let me have any breakfast. By this time everything will be cold, and Nicolasa--What do these bits of glass prove?" he continued, raising his voice; "don't you think that the breeze which was blowing roughly last night might have caused this? The window was hanging open, and the wind clashing it violently against the frame, would readily cause the breaking of a pane?" "But why is it," answered Don Juan, "that the broken pane is precisely the one adjacent to the fastening? It must have been knocked out to get the window open." "_Carramba_! Senor Don Juan de Dios!" cried the alcalde, in a peevish tone--at the same time biting his gold-headed cane, the emblem of his office--"Is it you or I who have here the right to ask questions? _Carrai_! it appears to me that you make me cut a strange figure!" Here Cagatinta interposed with a modest air-- "I shall answer our friend Canelo, if you permit me. If the window was open with the design he has stated, it must of course have been done from the outside. The pieces of glass then would have fallen _into_ the chamber; but such is not the case--there they lie on the balcony! It has been the wind therefore, as his honour the alcalde has reasonably stated, that has done this business. Unless, indeed," added he, with a feigned smile, "some trunk carried incautiously past the window might have struck one of the squares. This may have been--since it appears the Countess intends a prolonged absence, judging from the effects-- taken with her, as testified by the empty drawers." The old steward lowered his head at this proof which seemed completely to falsify his assertion. He did not hear the last observation of Cagatinta, who was cogitating whether he ought not to exact from the alcalde something more than the liver-coloured breeches, as a recompense of this new service he had done him. While the faithful Don Juan was busy with painful reflections that threw their shadows upon his bald forehead, the alcalde approached and addressed him in a voice so low as not to be heard by the others. "I have been a little sharp with you, Don Juan--I have not sufficiently taken into account the grief, which you as a loyal servant must feel under such an unexpected stroke. But tell me! independent of the chagrin which this affair has caused you, are you not also affected by some fears about your own future? You are old--weak in consequence--and without resources?" "It is just because I am old, and know that I have not long to live, that I am so little affected. My grief, however," added he with an air of pride, "is pure and free from all selfishness. The generosity of Count de Mediana has left me enough to pass the remainder of my days in tranquillity. But I should pass them all the more happily if I could only see avenged the lady of my old master." "I approve of your sentiments, Senor Don Juan! you are doubly estimable on account of your sorrow, and as to your _savings_--Notary! Senor Cagatinta!" cried the alcalde, suddenly raising his voice so as to be heard by all present, "Make out a _proces verbal_--that the Senor Don Juan Dios Canelo, here present, will become prosecutor in this case. It cannot be doubted that a crime has been committed; and it is a duty we owe to ourselves as well as to this respectable man, to seek out and punish the authors of it." "But, senor alcalde!" interposed the steward, perfectly stupefied with this unexpected declaration, "I did not say--I have no intention to become _prosecutor_." "Take care, old man!" cried Don Ramon, in a solemn tone; "if you deny what you have already confided to me, grievous charges may be brought against you. As friend Cagatinta has just this minute observed to me, the ladder by which you scaled the balcony might prove sinister designs. But I know you are incapable of such. Rest contented, then, at being the accuser in place of the accused. Come, gentlemen! our duty calls us outside. Perhaps underneath the balcony we may find some traces of this most mysterious matter." So saying, the alcalde left the chamber, followed by the crowd. Poor Don Juan found himself thus unexpectedly between two horns of a dilemma, the result in either case being the same--that is, the spoliation of the little _pecadillo_ he had put away against old age. He shook his head, and with a sublime resignation accepted the voice of iniquity for that of God--consoling himself with the reflection, that this last sacrifice might be of some service to the family whose bread he had so long eaten. No trace was found under the balcony. As already stated the waves must have obliterated any footmarks or other vestiges that may have been left. It was believed for a while that an important capture had been made, in the person of a man found lying in a crevice among the rocks. This proved to be Pepe the Sleeper. Suddenly aroused, the coast-guard was asked if he had seen or heard anything? No, was the reply, nothing. But Pepe remembered his full pockets; and fearing that the alcalde might take a fancy to search him, saw that some _ruse_ was necessary to put an end to the scene. This he succeeded in doing, by begging the alcalde for a _real_ to buy bread with! What was to be done with this droll fellow? The alcalde felt no inclination to question him farther, but left him to go to sleep again and sleep as long as he pleased. Any further investigation appeared to Don Ramon to be useless--at least until some order might be received from higher quarters--besides it would be necessary to graduate the expenses of justice to the means of the prosecutor; and with this reflection, the alcalde went home to his breakfast. In the evening of this eventful day for the village of Elanchovi--when the twilight had fallen upon the water--two persons might have been seen wandering along the beach, but evidently desirous of shunning one another. Both appeared in grief, though their sorrows sprang from a very different cause. One was a poor old steward, who, while heaving a sigh at the thought that his worldly store was about to be absorbed in the inexorable gulf of justice, at the same time searched for some trace of his lost mistress, praying for her and her child, and calling upon God to take them under his protection. The other pensive wanderer was Cagatinta, of whom the alcalde had again taken the advantage. Profiting by the confidence of the scribe, Don Ramon had induced the latter to commit his oath to stamped paper; and then instead of the liver-coloured breeches had offered him an old hat in remuneration. This Cagatinta had indignantly refused. He was now lamenting his vanished dreams of ambition, his silly confidence, and the immorality of false oaths--_not paid for_. Nevertheless, he was meditating whether it would not be more prudent to accept the old hat in lieu of the liver-coloured breeches, alas! so well earned! CHAPTER FIVE. PEPE'S REVANCHE. When Pepe the Sleeper had made himself master of the secret of Captain Despierto--which he had found of such profitable service--he was not aware that the captain had held back another. Nevertheless, the coast-guard felt some kind of remorse of conscience--though he had as yet no idea of the terrible consequences that had resulted. His remorse was simply that he had betrayed his post of sentinel; and he determined that he would make up for it by a more zealous performance of duty whenever an opportunity should offer. To bring about this contingency, he went on the very next night, and requested to be once more placed on the post of Ensenada. His wish was gratified; and while Don Lucas believed him asleep as usual, Pepe kept wide awake, as on the preceding night. We shall leave him at his post, while we recount what was taking place off the coast not far from the Ensenada. The night was as foggy as that which preceded it, when about the hour of ten o'clock a _coaster_ was observed gliding in towards the cliffs, and entering among a labyrinth of rocks that lay near the mouth of the bay. This vessel appeared well guided and well _sailed_. The shape of her hull, her rigging, her sails, denoted her to be a ship-of-war, or at the least a privateer. The boldness with which she manoeuvred, in the middle of the darkness, told that her pilot must be some one well acquainted with this dangerous coast; and also that her commander had an understanding with some people on the shore. The sea dashed with fury against both sides of the rocky strait, through which the coaster was making her way, but still she glided safely on. The strait once cleared, a large bay opened before her, in which the sea was more calm, and rippled gently up against a beach of sand and pebble. The coaster at length succeeded in gaining this bay; and then by a manoeuvre directed by the officer of the watch she hove-to with a celerity that denoted a numerous crew. Two boats were let down upon the water, and, being instantly filled with men, were rowed off in the direction of the upper end of the bay, where some houses, which could be distinguished by their whiteness, stood scattered along the beach. To end the mystery, let us say that the little coaster was a French vessel--half-privateer half-smuggler--and had entered the bay with a double design--the disposing of merchandise and the procuring of provisions, of which the crew began to stand in need. Further we shall add, that the pilot was a skilful fisherman of Elanchovi, furnished by Don Lucas Despierto, captain of the coast-guard! The officer of the watch silently walked the deck--now listening to the waves surging against the sides of the little vessel--now stooping a moment over the light of the binnacle--anon watching the sails that napped loosely upon the yards, now turned contrary to the direction of the wind. An hour had been passed in this manner, when a brisk fusillade was heard from several points on the shore. Other reports of musketry appeared to respond and shortly after the two boats came hastening back to the coaster. It was Pepe who had caused all this; Pepe, who, to the great chagrin of his captain, had given warning to the coast-guards. He had been too late, notwithstanding his zeal, for the boats came back laden with sheep and other provisions of every soft. The last of the men who climbed over the gangway--just as the boats were being hoisted up--was a sailor of gigantic height, of colossal proportions, and Herculean vigour. He was a Canadian by birth. He carried in his arms a young child that was cold and motionless, as if dead. A slight trembling in its limbs, however, proclaimed that there was still life in it. "What the deuce have you got there, Bois-Rose?" demanded the officer of the watch. "With your leave, lieutenant, it's a young child that I found in a boat adrift, half dead with hunger and cold. A woman, quite dead, and bathed in her own blood, still held it in her arms. I had all the trouble in the world to get the boat away from the place where I found it, for those dogs of Spaniards espied it, and took it for one of ours. There was a terrible devil of a coast-guard kept all the while firing at me with as much obstinacy as awkwardness. I should have silenced him with a single shot, had I not been hindered in looking after this poor little creature. But if ever I return--ah!" "And what do you intend to do with the child?" "Take care of it, lieutenant, until peace be proclaimed, then return here and find out who it belongs to." Unfortunately the only knowledge he was able to obtain about the infant was its name, Fabian, and that the woman who had been assassinated was its mother. Two years passed during which the French privateer did not return to the coast of Spain. The tenderness of the sailor towards the child he had picked up--which was no other than the young Count Fabian de Mediana-- did not cease for an instant, but seemed rather to increase with time. It was a singular and touching spectacle to witness the care, almost motherly, which this rude nurse lavished upon the child, and the constant _ruses_ to which he had recourse to procure a supplement to his rations for its nourishment. The sailor had to fight for his own living; but he often indulged in dreams that some day a rich prize would be captured, his share of which would enable him to take better care of his adopted son. Unfortunately he did not take into his calculations the perilous hazards of the life he was leading. One morning the privateer was compelled to run from an English brig of war of nearly twice her force; and although a swift sailer, the French vessel soon found that she could not escape from her pursuer. She disdained to refuse the combat, and the two vessels commenced cannonading each other. For several hours a sanguinary conflict was kept up, when the Canadian sailor, dashed with blood, and blackened with powder, ran towards the child and lifting it in his arms, carried it to the gangway. There, in the midst of the tumult, with blood running over the decks, amidst the confusion of cries and the crash of falling masts, he wished to engrave on the child's memory the circumstance of a separation, of which he had a strong presentiment. In this moment, which should leave even upon the memory of an infant, a souvenir that would never be effaced, he called out to the child, while shielding it with his huge body, "Kneel, my son!" The child knelt, trembling with affright. "You see what is going on?" "I am afraid," murmured Fabian, "the blood--the noise--" and saying this he hid himself in the arms of his protector. "It is well," replied the Canadian, in a solemn tone. "Never forget, then, that in this moment, a sailor, a man who loved you as his own life, said to you--_kneel and pray for your mother_!" He was not permitted to finish the speech. At that moment a bullet struck him and his blood spouting over the child, caused it to utter a lamentable cry. The Canadian had just strength left to press the boy to his breast, and to add some words; but in so low a tone that Fabian could only comprehend a single phrase. It was the continuation of what he had been saying--"_Your mother_--_whom I found_--_dead beside you_." With this speech ended the consciousness of the sailor. He was not dead, however; his wound did not prove fatal. When he came to his senses again he found himself in the fetid hold of a ship. A terrible thirst devoured him. He called out in a feeble voice, but no one answered him. He perceived that he was a prisoner, and he wept for the loss of his liberty, but still more for that of the adopted son that Providence had given him. What became of Fabian? That the history of the "Wood-Rangers" will tell us; but before crossing from the prologue of our drama--before crossing from Europe to America--a few events connected with the tragedy of Elanchovi remain to be told. It was several days after the disappearance of the Countess, before anything was known of her fate. Then some fishermen found the abandoned boat driven up among the rocks and still containing the body of the unfortunate lady. This was some light thrown upon the horrid mystery; but the cause of the assassination long remained unknown, and the author of it long unpunished. The old steward tied black crape upon the vanes of the chateau, and erected a wooden cross on the spot where the body of his beloved mistress had been found; but, as everything in this human world soon wears out, the sea-breeze had not browned the black crape, nor the waves turned green the wood of the cross, before the tragic event ceased to cause the slightest emotion in the village--ay, even ceased to be talked of. CHAPTER SIX. SONORA. Sonora, naturally one of the richest provinces of Mexico, is also one of the least known. Vast tracts in this State have never been explored; and others have been seen only by the passing traveller. Nevertheless, Nature has been especially bountiful to this remote territory. In some parts of it the soil, scarce scratched by the plough, will yield two crops in the year; while in other places gold is scattered over the surface, or mixed with the sands, in such quantity as to rival the _placers_ of California. It is true that these advantages are, to some extent neutralised by certain inconveniences. Vast deserts extend between the tracts of fertile soil, which render travelling from one to the other both difficult and dangerous; and, in many parts, of the province the savage aborigines of the country are still masters of the ground. This is especially the case in those districts where the gold is found in _placers_. Those placers are not to be approached by white men, unless when in strong force. The Indians repel all such advances with warlike fury. Not that they care to protect the gold--of whose value they have been hitherto ignorant--but simply from their hereditary hatred of the white race. Nevertheless, attempts are frequently made to reach the desired gold fields. Some that result in complete failure, and some that are more or less successful. The natural riches of Sonora have given rise to very considerable fortunes, and not a few very large ones, of which the origin was the finding a "nugget" of virgin gold; while others again had for their basis the cultivation of the rich crops which the fertile soil of Sonora can produce. There is a class of persons in Sonora, who follow no other business than searching for gold _placers_ or silver mines, and whose only knowledge consists of a little practical acquaintance with metallurgy. These men are called _gambusinos_. From time to time they make long excursions into the uninhabited portions of the State; where, under great privations, and exposed to a thousand dangers, they hastily and very superficially work some vein of silver, or wash the auriferous sands of some desert-stream, until, tracked and pursued by the Indians, they are compelled to return to their villages. Here they find an audience delighted to listen to their adventures, and to believe the exaggerated accounts which they are certain to give of marvellous treasures lying upon the surface of, the ground, but not to be approached on account of some great danger, Indian or otherwise, by which they are guarded. These _gambusinos_ are to mining industry, what the backwoodsmen are to agriculture and commerce. They are its pioneers. Avarice stimulated by their wonderful stories, and often too by the sight of real treasure brought in from the desert--for the expeditions of the _gambusinos_ do not always prove failures--avarice thus tempted, is ready to listen to the voice of some adventurous leader, who preaches a crusade of conquest and exploration. In Sonora, as elsewhere, there are always an abundance of idle men to form the material of an expedition--the sons of ruined families--men who dislike hard work, or indeed any work--and others who have somehow got outside the pale of justice. These join the leader and an expedition is organised. In general, however, enterprises of this kind are too lightly entered upon, as well as too loosely conducted; and the usual consequence is, that before accomplishing its object the band falls to pieces; many become victims to hunger, thirst, or Indian hostility; and of those who went forth only a few individuals return to tell the tale of suffering and disaster. This example will, for a while, damp the ardour for such pursuits. But the disaster is soon forgotten; fresh stories of the _gambusinos_ produce new dreams of wealth; and another band of adventurers is easily collected. At the time of which I am writing--that is, in 1830--just twenty-two years after the tragedy of Elanchovi, one of these expeditions was being organised at Arispe--then the capital of the State of Sonora. The man who was to be the leader of the expedition was not a native of Mexico, but a stranger. He was a Spaniard who had arrived in Sonora but two months before, and who was known by the name, Don Estevan de Arechiza. No one in Arispe remembered ever to have seen him; and yet he appeared to have been in the country before this time. His knowledge of its topography, as well as its affairs and political personages, was so positive and complete, as to make it evident that Sonora was no stranger to him; and the plan of his expedition appeared to have been conceived and arranged beforehand--even previous to his arrival from Europe. Beyond doubt, Don Estevan was master of considerable resources. He had his train of paid followers, kept open house, made large bets at the _monte_ tables, lent money to friends without appearing to care whether it should ever be returned, and played "grand Seigneur" to perfection. No one knew from what source he drew the means to carry on such a "war." Now and then he was known to absent himself from Arispe for a week or ten days at a time. He was absent on some journey; but no one could tell to what part of the country these journeys were made--for his well-trained servants never said a word about the movements of their master. Whoever he might be, his courteous manner _a l'Espagnol_, his generosity, and his fine free table, soon gave him a powerful influence in the social world of Arispe; and by this influence he was now organising an expedition, to penetrate to a part of the country which it was supposed no white man had ever yet visited. As Don Estevan almost always lost at play, and as he also neglected to reclaim the sums of money which he so liberally lent to his acquaintances, it began to be conjectured that he possessed not far from Arispe some rich _placer_ of gold from which he drew his resources. The periodical journeys which he made gave colour to this conjecture. It was also suspected that he knew of some _placer_--still more rich--in the country into which he was about to lead his expedition. What truth there was in the suspicion we shall presently see. It will easily be understood that with such a reputation, Don Estevan would have very little difficulty in collecting his band of adventurers. Indeed it was said, that already more than fifty determined men from all parts of Sonora had assembled at the _Presidio of Tubac_ on the Indian frontier--the place appointed for the rendezvous of the expedition. It was further affirmed that in a few days Don Estevan himself would leave Arispe to place himself at their head. This rumour, hitherto only conjecture, proved to be correct; for at one of the dinners given by the hospitable Spaniard, he announced to his guests that in three days he intended to start for Tubac. During the progress of this same dinner, a messenger was introduced into the dining-room, who handed to Don Estevan a letter, an answer to which he awaited. The Spaniard, begging of his guests to excuse him for a moment, broke the seal and read the letter. As there was a certain mystery about the habits of their convivial host, the guests were silent for a while--all watching his movements and the play of his features; but the impassible countenance of Don Estevan did not betray a single emotion that was passing his mind, even to the most acute observer around the table. In truth he was a man who well knew how to dissemble his thoughts, and perhaps on that very occasion, more than any other, he required all his self-command. "It is well," he said, calmly addressing himself to the messenger. "Take my answer to him who sent you, that I will be punctual to the rendezvous in three days from the present." With this answer the messenger took his departure. Don Estevan, turning to his guests, again apologised for his impoliteness; and the dinner for an instant suspended once more progressed with renewed activity. Nevertheless the Spaniard appeared more thoughtful than before; and his guests did not doubt but that he had received some news of more than ordinary interest. We shall leave them to their conjectures, and precede Don Estevan to the mysterious rendezvous which had been given him, and the scene of which was to be a small village lying upon the route to the Presidio of Tubac. The whole country between Arispe and the Presidio in question may be said to be almost uninhabited. Along the route only mean hovels are encountered, with here and there a _hacienda_ of greater pretensions. These houses are rarely solitary, but collected in groups at long distances apart. Usually a day's journey lies between them, and, consequently, they are the stopping-places for travellers, who may be on their way towards the frontier. But the travellers are few, and the inhabitants of these miserable hovels pass the greater part of their lives in the middle of a profound solitude. A little patch of Indian corn which they cultivate,--a few head of cattle, which, fed upon the perfumed pastures of the plains, produce beef of an exquisite flavour,-- a sky always clear,--and, above all, a wonderful sobriety of living,-- enable these dwellers of the desert steppes of Sonora to live, if not in a state of luxury, at least free from all fear of want. What desires need trouble a man who sees a blue sky always over his head, and who finds in the smoke of a cigarette of his own making, a resource against all the cravings of hunger? At one part of the year, however, these villages of hovels are uninhabited--altogether abandoned by their occupants. This is the _dry season_, during the greater portion of which the cisterns that supply the villages with water become dried up. The cisterns are fed by the rains of heaven, and no other water than this can be found throughout most tracts of the country. When these give out, the settlements have to be abandoned, and remain until the return of the periodical rains. In a morning of the year 1830, at the distance of about three days' journey from Arispe, a man was seated, or rather half reclining, upon his _serape_ in front of a rude hovel. A few other huts of a similar character were near, scattered here and there over the ground. It was evident, from the profound silence that reigned among these dwellings, and the absence of human forms, or implements of household use, that the _rancheria_ was abandoned by its half nomad population. Such in reality was the fact, for it was now the very height of the dry season. Two or three roads branched out from this miserable group of huts, leading off into a thick forest which surrounded it on all sides. They were rather paths than roads, for the tracks which they followed were scarce cleared of the timber that once grew upon them. At the point of junction of these roads the individual alluded to had placed himself; and his attitude of perfect ease told that he was under no apprehension from the profound and awe-inspiring loneliness of the place. The croak of the ravens flitting from tree to tree hoarsely uttered in their flight; the cry of the _chaculucas_ as they welcomed the rising sun, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the scene. Presently the white fog of the night began to rise upward and disappear under the strength of the sunbeams. Only a few flakes of it still hung over the tops of the mezquite and iron-wood trees that grew thickly around the huts. Near where the man lay, there might be seen the remains of a large fire. It had been kindled no doubt to protect him from the chill dews of the night; and it now served him to prepare his breakfast. Some small cakes of wheaten meal, with few pieces of _tasajo_, were already placed upon the red embers of the fire; but notwithstanding that these would made but a meagre repast the man appeared eagerly to await the enjoyment of it. Near at hand, with a frugality equal to that of his master, a horse was browsing upon the tufts of dry yellow grass, that grew thinly over the ground. This horse, with a saddle and bridle lying near, proved the solitary individual to be a traveller. Contrary to the usual custom of the country, the horse had no _lazo_, or fastening of any kind upon him; but was free to wander where he pleased. The costume of the traveller consisted in a sort of jacket or vest of brick-coloured leather, without buttons or any opening in front, but drawn over the head after the manner of a shirt. Wide pantaloons of the same material, open from the knee downwards, and fastened at the waist by a scarf of red China crape. Under the pantaloons, and covering the calf of the leg nearly up to the knee, could be seen the _botas_ of strong stamped leather, in one of which was stuck a long knife with a horn hilt--thus ready to the hand whether the owner was seated, standing, or on horseback. A large felt hat, banded with a _toquilla_ of Venetian pearls, completed a costume sufficiently picturesque, the vivid colours of which were in harmony with that of the _serape_ on which the traveller was reclining. This costume denoted one of those men accustomed to gallop among the thorny jungles that cover the desert steppes of North Mexico; and who in their expeditions, whether against Indian enemies, or for whatever purpose, sleep with indifference under the shadow of a tree, or the open heaven itself,--in the forest, or upon the naked plain. There was in the features of this traveller a singular mixture of brutal ferocity and careless good-humour. A crooked nose, with thick bushy eyebrows, and black eyes that sparkled from time to time with a malicious fire, gave to his countenance a sinister aspect, and belied the expression of his mouth and lips, that presented rather a pleasant and smiling contour. But the man's features, when viewed as a whole, could not fail to inspire a certain feeling of repulsiveness mingled with fear. A short carbine that lay by his side, together with the long knife, whose haft protruded above the top of his boots, did not in any way tame down the ferocious aspect of his face. On the contrary they proclaimed him one whom it would not be desirable to have for a companion in the desert. Despite the _nonchalance_ of his attitude, it was evident that he awaited some one; but as everything in these countries is on a large scale, so also is the virtue of patience. This outlaw--for everything about him signified that he was one of some sort--this outlaw, we say, having made three days' journey before arriving upon the ground where he now was, thought nothing of a few hours, less or more, spent in expectation. In the desert, he who has travelled a hundred leagues, will consider it a mere bagatelle to wait for a hundred hours: unlike to him who keeps an appointment in the midst of a great city, where a delay of a quarter of an hour will be endured with feverish impatience. So it was with our solitary traveller; and when the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard at some distance off in the forest, he did nothing more than to make a slight change in the attitude in which he had been reclining; while his steed, also hearing the same sounds, tossed up his head and neighed joyously. The hoof-strokes each moment were heard more distinctly; and it was evident that a horseman was galloping rapidly in the direction of the huts. After a little the strokes became more gentle, and the gallop appeared to be changed to a walk. The rider was approaching with caution. A few seconds intervened, and then upon one of the roads--that leading to Arispe--the horseman was perceived coming on at a slow and cautious pace. On perceiving the traveller, still half reclining upon his _serape_, the horseman drew his rein still tighter and halted, and the two men remained for some seconds regarding each other with a fixed and interrogative glance. CHAPTER SEVEN. TWO HONEST GENTLEMEN. The new-comer was a tall man with a dark complexion, and thick black beard, costumed very similarly to the other--in vest and pantaloons of brick-red leather, felt sombrero, sash, and boots. He was mounted upon a strong active horse. It may appear strange that during the period of mutual examination, each of these two men made a very similar reflection about the other; but it was scarcely strange either, considering that both presented an equally suspicious aspect. "_Carramba_!" muttered the horseman as he eyed the man on the _serape_, "if I wasn't sure that he is the gentleman I have been sent to meet, I should believe that I had chanced upon a very unlucky acquaintance." At the same instant he upon the ground said to himself-- "_Por Dios_! if that infernal Seven of Spades had left any dollars in my purse, I should have considered them in danger of being taken out of it just now." Despite the nature of his reflection, the horseman did not hesitate any longer, but spurring his horse forward to the edge of the fire, lifted his hat courteously from his head, and saluted him on the ground, at the same time saying interrogatively:-- "No doubt it is the Senor Don Pedro Cuchillo I have the honour to address?" "The same, cavallero!" replied the other, rising to his feet, and returning the salute with no less politeness than it had been given. "Cavallero! I have been sent forward to meet you, and announce to you the approach of the Senor Arechiza, who at this time cannot be many leagues distant. My name is Manuel Baraja, your very humble servant." "Your honour will dismount?" The horseman did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, but at once flung himself from the saddle. After unbuckling his enormous spurs, he speedily unsaddled his horse, fastened a long lazo around his neck, and then giving him a smart cut with the short whip which he carried, despatched the animal without further ceremony to share the meagre provender of his companion. At this movement the _tasajo_, beginning to sputter over the coals, gave out an odour that resembled the smell of a dying lamp. Notwithstanding this, Baraja cast towards it a look of longing. "It appears to me Senor Cuchillo," said he, "that you are well provided here. Carramba!--_tortillas_, of wheaten meal! _tasajo_!--it is a repast for a prince!" "Oh, yes," replied Cuchillo, with a certain air of foppishness, "I treat myself well. It makes me happy to know that the dish is to your liking; I beg to assure you, it is quite at your service." "You are very good, and I accept your offer without ceremony. The morning air has sharpened my appetite." And saying this, Baraja proceeded to the mastication of the tassajo and tortillas. After being thus engaged for some time, he once more addressed himself to his host. "Dare I tell you, Senor Cuchillo, the favourable impression I had of you at first sight?" "Oh! you shock my modesty, senor. I would rather state the good opinion your first appearance gave me of _you_!" The two new friends here exchanged a salute, full of affability, and then continued to eat, Baraja harpooning upon the point of his long knife another piece of meat out of the ashes. "If it please you, Senor Baraja," said Cuchillo, "we may talk over our business while we are eating. You will find me a host _sans ceremonie_." "Just what pleases me." "Don Estevan, then, has received the message which I sent him?" "He has, but what that message was is only known to you and him." "No doubt of that," muttered Cuchillo to himself. "The Senor Arechiza," continued the _envoy_, "started for Tubac shortly after receiving your letter. It was my duty to accompany him, but he ordered me to proceed in advance of him with these commands: `In the little village of Huerfano you will find a man, by name Cuchillo; you shall say to him that the proposal he makes to me deserves serious attention; and that since the place he has designated as a rendezvous is on the way to Tubac, I will see him on my journey.' This instruction was given by Don Estevan an hour or so before his departure, but although I have ridden a little faster to execute his orders, he cannot be far behind me." "Good! Senor Baraja, good!" exclaimed Cuchillo, evidently pleased with the communication just made, "and if the business which I have with Don Estevan be satisfactorily concluded--which I am in hopes it will be--you are likely to have me for a comrade in this distant expedition. But," continued he, suddenly changing the subject, "you will, no doubt, be astonished that I have given Don Estevan a rendezvous in such a singular place as this?" "No," coolly replied Baraja, "you may have reasons for being partial to solitude. Who does not love it at times?" A most gracious smile playing upon the countenance of Cuchillo, denoted that his new acquaintance had correctly divined the truth. "Precisely," he replied, "the ill-behaviour of a friend towards me, and the malevolent hostility of the alcalde of Arispe have caused me to seek this tranquil retreat. That is just why I have established my headquarters in an abandoned village, where there is not a soul to keep company with." "Senor Don Pedro," replied Baraja, "I have already formed too good an opinion of you not to believe that the fault is entirely upon the side of the alcalde, and especially on the part of your friend." "I thank you, Senor Baraja, for you good opinion," returned Cuchillo, at the same time taking from the cinders a piece of the meat, half burnt, half raw, and munching it down with the most perfect indifference; "I thank you sincerely, and when I tell you the circumstances you may judge for yourself." "I shall be glad to hear them," said the other, easing himself down into a horizontal position; "after a good repast, there is nothing I so much enjoy as a good story." After saying this, and lighting his cigarette, Baraja turned upon the broad of his back, and with his eyes fixed upon the blue sky, appeared to enjoy a perfect beatitude. "The story is neither long nor interesting," responded Cuchillo; "what happened to me might happen to all the world. I was engaged with this friend in a quiet game of cards, when he pretended that I had _tricked_ him. The affair came to words--" Here the narrator paused for an instant, to take a drink from his leathern bottle, and then continued-- "My friend had the indelicacy to permit himself to drop down dead in my presence." "What at your words?" "No, with the stab of a knife which I gave him," coolly replied the outlaw. "Ah! no doubt your friend was in the wrong, and you received great provocation?" "The alcalde did not think so. He pestered me in the most absurd manner. I could have forgiven the bitterness of his persecution of me, had it not been that I was myself bitterly roused at the ill-behaviour of my friend, whom up to that time I had highly esteemed." "Ah! one has always to suffer from one's friends," rejoined Baraja, sending up a puff of smoke from his corn-husk cigarette. "Well--one thing," said Cuchillo, "the result of it all is that I have made a vow never to play another card; for the cards, as you see, were the original cause of this ugly affair." "A good resolution," said Baraja, "and just such as I have come to myself. I have promised never to touch another card; they have cost me a fortune--in fact, altogether ruined me." "Ruined you? you have been rich then?" "Alas! I had a splendid estate--a _hacienda de ganados_ (cattle farm) with a numerous flock upon it. I had a lawyer for my _intendant_, who took care of the estate while I spent my time in town. But when I came to settle accounts with this fellow I found I had let them run too long. I discovered that half my estate belonged to him!" "What did you do then?" "The only thing I could do," answered Baraja, with the air of a cavalier, "was to stake my remaining half against his on a game, and let the winner take the whole." "Did he accept this proposal?" "After a fashion." "What fashion?" "Why, you see I am too timid when I play in presence of company, and certain to lose. I prefer, therefore, to play in the open air, and in some quiet corner of the woods. There I feel more at my ease; and if I should lose--considering that it was my whole fortune that was at stake--I should not expose my chagrin to the whole world. These were the considerations that prompted me to propose the conditions of our playing alone." "And did the lawyer agree to your conditions?" "Not a bit of it." "What a droll fellow he must have been!" "He would only play in the presence of witnesses." "And you were forced to his terms?" "To my great regret, I was." "And of course you lost--being so nervous in presence of company?" "I lost the second half of my fortune as I had done the first. The only thing I kept back was the horse you see, and even him my ex-intendant insisted upon having as part of the bet. To-day I have no other hope than to make my fortune in this Tubac expedition, and if I should do so I may get back, and settle accounts with the knave. After that game, however, I swore I should never play another card; and, carramba! I have kept my oath." "How long since this happened?" "Five days." "The devil!--You deserve credit for keeping your word." The two adventurers after having exchanged these confidences, began to talk over their hopes founded on the approaching expedition--of the marvellous sights that they would be likely to see--but more especially of the dangers that might have to be encountered. "Bah!" said Baraja, speaking of these; "better to die than live wearing a coat out at elbows." Cuchillo was of the same opinion. Meanwhile the sun was growing hotter and hotter. A burning wind began to blow through the trees, and the horses of the two travellers, suffering from thirst, uttered their plaintive neighings. The men themselves sought out the thickest shade to protect them from the fervid rays of the sun, and for a while both observed a complete silence. Baraja was the first to resume the conversation. "You may laugh at me, Senor Cuchillo," said he, fanning himself with his felt hat, "but to say the truth the time appears very long to me when I am not playing." "The same with myself," hastily responded Cuchillo. "What do you say to our staking, on word of honour, a little of that gold we are going to find?" "Just what I was thinking myself, but I daren't propose it to you;--I am quite agreeable." Without further parley each of the two thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a pack of cards--with which, notwithstanding the oath they had taken, both were provided. The play was about to commence, when the sound of a bell, and the clattering of hoofs at a distance, announced the approach, most probably, of the important personage whom Cuchillo awaited. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SENATOR TRAGADUROS. The two players suspended operations, and turned their faces in the direction whence came the sounds. At some distance along the road, a cloud of dust suddenly rising, indicated the approach of a troop of horses. They were without riders. One only was mounted; and that was ridden by the driver of the troop. In short, it was a _remuda_--such as rich travellers in the north of Mexico usually take along with them for a remount. These horses, on account of the half-wild life they lead upon the vast plains where they are pastured, after a gallop of twenty leagues without carrying a rider, are almost as fresh as if just taken out of the stable. On long routes, each is saddled and mounted at regular intervals; and in this way a journey is performed almost as rapidly as by a mail express, with relays already established. According to usual custom, a _bell-mare_ preceded this drove, which appeared to consist of about thirty horses. It was this bell that had first attracted the attention of the players. When within a hundred yards or so of the huts, the driver of the _remuda_ galloped to the front, and catching the bell-mare, brought her to a stop. The other horses halted on the instant. Shortly after, five cavaliers appeared through the dust, riding in the direction of the huts. Two were in advance of the other three, who, following at a little distance, were acting as attendants or servants. The most distinguished looking of the two who rode in advance, was a man of somewhat over medium height. He appeared to have passed the age of forty. A greyish-coloured _sombrero_, with broad brim, screened his face from the fervent sunbeams. He was habited in a pelisse, or _dolman_, of dark blue, richly laced with gold, and almost concealed under a large white kerchief, embroidered with sky-blue silk, and known in Mexico as _pano de sol_. Under the fiery atmosphere, the white colour of this species of scarf, like the _burnous_ of the Arabs, serves to moderate the rays of the sun, and for this purpose was it worn by the cavalier in question. Upon his feet were boots of yellow Cordovan leather, and over these, large spurs, the straps of which were stitched with gold and silver wire. These spurs, with their huge five-pointed rowels, and little bells, gave out a silvery clinking that kept time to the march of the horse--sounds most agreeable to the ear of the Mexican _cavallero_. A _mango_, richly slashed with gold lace, hung over the pommel of the saddle in front of the horseman, half covering with its folds a pair of wide pantaloons, garnished throughout their whole length with buttons of filigree gold. In fine, the saddle, embroidered like the straps of the spurs, completed a costume that, in the eyes of a European, would recall the souvenirs of the middle ages. For all that, the horseman in question did not require a rich dress to give him an air of distinction. There was that in his bearing and physiognomy that denoted a man accustomed to command and perfectly _au fait_ to the world. His companion, much younger, was dressed with far more pretension: but his insignificant figure, though not wanting in a certain degree of elegance, was far from having the aristocratic appearance of him with the embroidered kerchief. The three servants that followed--with faces blackened by dust and sun, and half savage figures--carried long lances adorned with scarlet pennons, and _lazos_ hung coiled from the pommels of their saddles. These strange attendants gave to the group that singular appearance peculiar to a cavalcade of Mexican travellers. Several mules, pack laden, and carrying enormous valises, followed in the rear. These valises contained provisions and the _menage_ necessary for a halt. On seeing Cuchillo and Baraja, the foremost of the two cavaliers halted, and the troop followed his example. "'Tis the Senor Don Estevan," said Baraja, in a subdued voice. "This is the man, senor," he continued, presenting Cuchillo to the cavalier with the _pano de sol_. Don Estevan--for it was he--fixed upon Cuchillo a piercing glance, that appeared to penetrate to the bottom of his soul, at the same time the look denoted a slight expression of surprise. "I have the honour to kiss the hands of your excellency," said Cuchillo. "As you see, it is I who--" But in spite of his habitual assurance, the outlaw paused, trembling as vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory; for these two men had met before, though not for a very long time. "Eh! if I don't deceive myself," interrupted the Spaniard, in an ironical tone, "the Senor Cuchillo and I are old acquaintances--though formerly I knew him by a different name?" "So too your excellency, who was then called--" Arechiza frowned till the hairs of his black moustache seemed to stand on end. The outlaw did not finish his speech. He saw that it was not the time to tell what he knew; but this species of complicity appeared to restore him to his wonted assurance. Cuchillo was, in truth, one of those gentlemen who have the ill luck to give to whatever name they bear a prompt celebrity; and for this reason he had changed his more than once. "Senor Senator," said Arechiza, turning toward his _compagnon de voyage_, "this place does not appear very suitable for our noon siesta?" "The Senor Tragaduros y Despilfarro, will find the shade of one of these cottages more agreeable," interposed Cuchillo, who knew the senator of Arispe. He knew, moreover, that the latter had attached himself to the fortunes of Don Estevan, in default of better cause: and in hopes of repairing his own fortune, long since dissipated. Despite the low state of his finances, however, the Senator had not the less a real influence in the congress of Sonora; and it was this influence which Don Estevan intended using to his own advantage. Hence the companionship that now existed between them. "I agree with all my heart to your proposal," answered Tragaduros, "the more so that we have now been nearly five hours in the saddle." Two of the servants dismounting, took their masters' horses by the bridle, while the other two looked after the _cargas_ of the mules. The camp-beds were taken from the pack saddles, and carried into two of the houses that appeared the most spacious and proper. We shall leave the Senator reclining upon his mattress, to enjoy that profound slumber which is the portion of just men and travellers; while we accompany Don Estevan into the hut which he had chosen for himself, and which stood at some distance from that occupied by the legislator. CHAPTER NINE. THE COMPACT. After having followed Don Estevan, at the invitation of the latter, inside the hovel, Cuchillo closed behind him the wattle of bamboos that served as a door. He did this with great care--as if he feared that the least noise should be heard without--and then he stood waiting for the Spaniard to initiate the conversation. The latter had seated himself on the side of his camp-bedstead, and Cuchillo also sat down, using for his seat the skull of a bullock,-- which chanced to be in the house. It is the ordinary stool of this part of the country, where the luxury of chairs is still unknown--at least in the houses of the poor. "I suppose," said Arechiza, breaking silence, "that you have a thousand reasons why I should know you by no other than your present name. I, with motives very different from yours, no doubt, desire to be here nothing more than _Don Estevan Arechiza_. Now! Senor Cuchillo," continued the speaker with a certain affectation of mockery; "let us have this grand secret that is to make your fortune and mine!" "A word first, Senor Don Estevan de Arechiza," replied Cuchillo, in the same tone; "one word, and then you shall have it." "I listen to you; but observe, sir, say nothing of the past--no more perfidy. We are here in a country where there are _trees_, and you know how I punish traitors." At this allusion to some past event--no doubt some mysterious souvenir-- the face of the outlaw became livid. "Yes," replied he, "I remember that it is not your fault that I was not hung to a tree. It may be more prudent not to recall old wrongs-- especially as you are no longer in a conquered country, but in one of forests--forests both sombre and dumb." There was in this response of the outlaw such an evident air of menace, that, joined with his character and sinister antecedents, it required a firm heart on the part of Don Estevan not to regret having recalled the souvenir. With a cold smile he replied: "Ha! another time I shall entrust the execution of a traitor in the hands of no human being. I shall perform that office myself," continued he, fixing upon Cuchillo a glance which caused the latter to lower his head. "As to your threats, reserve them for people of your own kind; and never forget, that between my breast and your dagger there is an insurmountable barrier." "Who knows?" muttered Cuchillo, dissembling the anger which was devouring him. Then in a different tone, he continued: "But I am no traitor, Senor Don Estevan; and the proposal I am now about to make to you is frank and loyal." "We shall see, then." "Know, then, Senor Arechiza, that for several years past I have followed the profession of a _gambusino_, and have rambled over most of this country in the exercise of my calling. I have seen a deposit of gold such as mortal eye perhaps never looked upon!" "You have seen it, and not possessed yourself of it?" "Do not mock me, Don Estevan; I am in earnest. I have seen a _placer_ so rich that the man who gets it might for a whole year play the game of hell with luck all the while against him, and not be impoverished! So rich as to satisfy the most insatiable avarice; so rich, in fact, as to buy a kingdom!" At these words, which responded to some hopes and desires already conceived, Don Estevan could not hinder himself from the manifestation of a certain emotion. "So rich," continued the outlaw, in an exalted tone, "that I would not hesitate for one instant to give my soul to the devil in exchange for it." "The devil is not such a fool as to value so highly a soul which he knows he will get _gratis_. But how did _you_ discover this _placer_?" "Thus, senor. There was a _gambusino_ called Marcos Arellanos, who was celebrated throughout the whole province. It was he who discovered this _bonanza_ in company with another of the same calling as himself; but just as they were about to gather some of the gold, they were attacked by the Apache Indians. The associate of Marcos Arellanos was killed, and he himself had to run a thousand risks before he succeeded in making his escape. "It was after he came home again that by chance I met him at Tubac. There he proposed to me to join him, and go back to the _placer_. I accepted his offer, and we started. We arrived safely at the _Golden Valley_, for by that name he called the place. Powers of Heaven!" exclaimed Cuchillo, "it only needed to see those blocks of gold shining in the sun to bring before one's eyes a thousand dazzling visions! "Alas! we were only permitted to feast our eyes. The savages were upon us. We were compelled to fly in our turn, and I alone escaped. Poor Marcos! he fell under the horrible war clubs; and I--I have sorely grieved for him! Now, senor, this is the secret of the Golden Valley which I desire to sell to you." "To sell to me:--and who is to answer for your fidelity?" "My own interest. I sell you the secret, but I do not intend to alienate my rights to the _placer_. I have vainly endeavoured to get up an expedition such as yours, for without a strong force it would be of no use going there. It would be certain death to a party of only two or three. With your band, however, it will be easy, and success would be certain. I only ask the tenth part of all the gold that may be gathered, which I would deserve as guide of the expedition; and going as guide I will be at the same time a hostage for my good faith." "Is that what I am to understand; you estimate the price of your secret and services a tenth part of the whole?" "That and two hundred dollars paid down to enable me to equip myself for the expedition." "You are more reasonable than I expected, Cuchillo. Very well, then let it be so; the two hundred dollars you shall have, and I promise you the tenth part." "Agreed." "Agreed, and you have my word upon it. Now, answer me some questions which I wish to put. Is this Golden Valley in that part of the country where I intended to have taken my expedition?" "It is beyond the Presidio of Tubac; and since your men are to meet there you will not need to make any change in the dispositions you have already taken." "Good. And you have seen this Golden Valley you say with your own eyes?" "I have seen it without the power of touching it. I have seen it grinding my teeth as I looked upon it, like the damned in hell who get a glimpse of Paradise." As Cuchillo spoke, his countenance betrayed beyond doubt the anguish he felt, at his cupidity having been balked. Arechiza knew too well how to read the human physiognomy to doubt the truth of Cuchillo's report. Two hundred dollars were to him a mere bagatelle; and taking an ebony case from his bed, small but heavy, he drew from it a rouleau of gold pieces and handed them to the gambusino, who immediately put them in his pocket. There was a little more in the rouleau than had been bargained for. The Spaniard took no notice of this, but forming a cross with his thumb and index finger of his right hand _a la mode Espagnole_, he held it before Cuchillo, directing him to make an oath upon it. "I swear by the cross," said the latter, "to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At the end of ten days' journey beyond Tubac, going in a north-western direction, we shall arrive at the foot of a range of mountains. They are easy to recognise--for a thick vapour hangs over them both night and day. A little river traverses this range of hills. It is necessary to ascend it to a point where another stream runs into it. There in the angle where the two meet, is a steep hill, the summit of which is crowned by the tomb of an Indian chief. I was not near enough to distinguish the strange ornaments that surround this tomb; but at the foot of the hill there is a small lake by the side of a narrow valley in which the water from rain torrents has thrown to the surface immense treasures of gold, this is the _Golden Valley_." "The way will be easily found?" inquired Don Estevan. "But difficult to travel," replied Cuchillo. "The arid deserts will be no obstacle compared with the danger from the hostility of Indians. This tomb of one of their most celebrated chiefs they hold in superstitious veneration. It is the constant object of their pilgrimages, and it was during one of these visits that we were surprised. Arellanos and myself." "And this Arellanos--do you think, he has not revealed this secret to any one besides yourself?" "You must know," replied Cuchillo, "that it is a custom of the gambusinos, before starting upon any expedition, to swear before the Holy Evangelists not to reveal the _bonanzas_ they may find without the consent of their associates. This oath Arellanos took, and his death of course prevented him from betraying it." "You have said that after his return from his first expedition, you met him in Tubac. Was there no woman whom he may perchance have had in his confidence?" "His wife only--he may have told it to her. But yesterday a vaquero gave me the news that she has lately died. For all that, she may have revealed the secret to her son." "Arellanos had a son then?" "An adopted son--a young man whose father or mother no one knows anything about." Don Estevan could not repress an involuntary movement. "This young fellow is, no doubt, the son of some poor devil of this province?" said the Spaniard, in a careless way. "No," replied Cuchillo, "he was born in Europe, and very likely in Spain." Arechiza appeared to fall into a reverie, his head bending towards his breast. Some souvenirs were disturbing his spirit. "This much at least is known," continued Cuchillo. "The commander of an English brig-of-war brought him to Guaymas. He stated that the child, who spoke both French and Spanish, had been captured in an affair between the brig and a French privateer. A sailor who was either killed in the fight or taken prisoner, was beyond doubt his father. The captain of the English brig, not knowing what to do with him, gave him to Arellanos--who chanced to be in Guaymas at the time--and Arellanos brought him up and has made a man of him--my faith! that he has. Young as the fellow is, there is not such a _rastreador_ nor horse-tamer in the province." The Spaniard, while apparently not listening to Cuchillo, did not lose a word of what he was saying; but whether he had heard enough, or that the subject was a painful one, he suddenly interrupted the gambusino: "And don't you think, if this wonderful tracker and horse-breaker has been told the secret of his adopted father he might not be a dangerous rival to us?" Cuchillo drew himself up proudly, and replied:-- "I know a man who will yield in nothing--neither at following a trail, nor taming a wild horse--to Tiburcio Arellanos; and yet this secret has been almost worthless in his keeping, since he has just sold it for the tenth part of its value!" This last argument of Cuchillo's was sufficiently strong to convince Don Estevan that the Golden Valley was so guarded by these fierce Indians that nothing but a strong party could reach it--in short, that he himself was the only man who could set this force afoot. For a while he remained in his silent reverie. The revelations of Cuchillo in regard to the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos had opened his mind to a new set of ideas which absorbed all others. For certain motives, which we cannot here explain, he was seeking to divine whether this Tiburcio Arellanos was not the young Fabian de Mediana! Cuchillo on his part was reflecting on certain antecedents relative to the gambusino Arellanos and his adopted son; but for powerful reasons he did not mention his reflections to Don Estevan. There are reasons, however, why the reader should now be informed of their nature. The outlaw, as we have said, frequently changed his name. It was by one of these aliases used up so quickly, that he had been passing, when at the Presidio Tubac he made the acquaintance of the unfortunate Arellanos. When the latter was about starting out on his second and fatal journey--before parting with his wife and the young man whom he loved as well as if he had been his own son--he confided to his wife the object of his new expedition; and also the full particulars of the route he intended to take. Cuchillo was nevertheless ignorant of this revelation. But the knowledge which the outlaw carefully concealed, was that he himself after having reached the Golden Valley guided by Arellanos, murdered his companion, in hope of having all the treasure to himself. It was true enough that the Indians appeared afterwards, and it was with difficulty that the assassin could save his own scalp. We shall now leave him to tell his own story as to how he made the acquaintance of young Arellanos, and it will be seen that this story is a mere deception practised upon Don Estevan. "Nevertheless," resumed Cuchillo in breaking the silence, "I was determined to free my mind from all doubt upon the subject. On my return to Arispe I repaired to the dwelling of the widow of Arellanos to inform her of the death of poor Marcos. But with the exception of the great grief which the news caused her, I observed nothing particular-- nothing that could give me the least suspicion that I am not the sole possessor of the secret of the Golden Valley." "One easily believes what he wishes to believe," remarked Arechiza. "Hear me, Senor Don Estevan! There are two things on which I pride myself. One is, that I have a conscience easily alarmed; the other, that I am gifted with a perspicuity not easily deluded." The Spaniard made no further objections. He was satisfied, not with the outlaw's conscience, but his perspicuity. With regard to Tiburcio Arellanos, we need hardly state what the reader has no doubt already divined--that this young man was in reality no other than Fabian, the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana. Cuchillo has already related how the English brig brought him to Guaymas. Left without a guide to enable him to discover his family-- disinherited of his rich patrimonial estates--an orphan knowing nothing of his parents, here he was in a strange land, the possessor of nothing more than a horse and a hut of bamboos. CHAPTER TEN. THE AFTERNOON RIDE. When Cuchillo, after the interview just described, came forth from the hovel, the sun was no longer in the vertex of the heavens, but had commenced his downward course to the western horizon. The earth, burned up and dry as tinder, gave forth a thin vapoury mist, that here and there hung over the surface in condensed masses, giving that appearance known as the _mirage_. Limpid lakes presented themselves to the eye, where not a drop of water was known to exist--as if nature, to preserve a perfect harmony, offered these to the imagination in compensation for the absence of the precious fluid itself. Far off in the forest, could be heard at intervals the crackling of branches under the burning rays of the sun--just as if the woods were on fire. But the trees were beginning to open their leaves to the southern breeze that freshened as the hours passed on, and they appeared impatiently to await the twilight, when the night-dews would once more freshen their foliage. Cuchillo gave a whistle, at which well-known signal his horse came galloping up to him. The poor beast appeared to suffer terribly from the thirst. His master, moved with pity, poured into a bowl a few drops of water from his skin bottle; and although it was scarce enough to moisten the animal's lips, it seemed to bring back the vigour of his spirit. Cuchillo having saddled and bridled his horse, and buckled on a pair of huge spurs, called one of the attendants of Don Estevan. To this man he gave orders to have the pack of mules harnessed, as well as to collect the _remuda_ to be sent on in advance--in order that the sleeping quarters for the night should be ready upon their arrival. The place where the travellers were to rest that night--as Cuchillo informed the domestic--was to be at the cistern known as _La Poza_. "But _La Poza_ is not on the route to Tubac!" objected the servant; "it lies out of the way and on the road leading to the _Hacienda del Venado_." "_You_ have nothing to do with the route," peremptorily answered Cuchillo, "your master intends spending some days at the Hacienda del Venado. Therefore do as I have ordered you." The Hacienda del Venado was the most important estate between Arispe and the Indian frontier, and its proprietor had the reputation of being the most hospitable man in the whole province. It was, therefore, without repugnance that the attendants of Don Estevan heard this news from Cuchillo--since, although their route of march would be extended in making the detour by the Hacienda del Venado, they knew they would enjoy several days of pleasant repose at this hospitable mansion. The man to whom Cuchillo had given his orders, immediately saddled his horse and set off to collect the _remuda_. He soon discovered the horses browsing in the woods near at hand, and collected, as usual, around the bell-mare. As he approached, the troop bounded off in affright--just as wild horses would have done; but the active horseman was too quick for them, for already the running noose of his lazo was around the neck of one of them. The horse, perceiving that he was caught, and knowing well the lazo--whose power he had often felt--yielded without resistance, and permitted himself to be led quietly away. The _capitansa_ (bell-mare) knew the signal and followed the horse of the servant, with all the others trooping at her heels. Two of the freshest of the drove were left behind, for Don Estevan and the Senator. These would be enough to serve them as far as La Poza--the place of their intended night halt--which was only a few hours distant. The other horses, guided by the bell-mare, were taken on in advance, and the drove soon disappeared behind the cloud of dust thrown up by their hoofs. Shortly after, the Senator made his appearance at the door of the hut where he had taken his siesta--a necessity almost imperious in these hot climates. At the same time, Don Estevan presented himself in the open air. The atmosphere, though a little fresher than when they had gone inside, was still sufficiently stifling to be disagreeable. "Carramba!" cried the Senator, after inhaling a few mouthfuls of it, "it is fire, _not_ air, one has to breathe here. If these hovels were not a complete nest of snakes and scorpions, I should prefer staying in them until night, rather than launch myself into this dreadful furnace." After this doleful speech the Senator climbed reluctantly into his saddle, and he and Don Estevan took the route, riding side by side, as in the morning. Behind, at a few paces distance, followed Cuchillo and Baraja, and after these the little _recua_ of mules with the other domestics. For the first hour of their march the shade of the trees rendered the heat supportable, but soon the forest ended, and the road debouched upon the open plains that appeared interminable. It is hardly possible to conceive a more dreary prospect than that presented by those arid plains of Northern Mexico--naked, white, and almost destitute of vegetation. Here and there at long distances on the route, may be seen a tall pole which denotes the presence of some artificial well-cistern; but as you draw near, the leathern buckets, by which the water is to be raised, show by their stiff contracted outlines that for a long time they have held no water, and that the well is dried up--a sad fortune for the traveller whose evil star has guided him into these deserts during the dry season, especially if at the end of his day's journey he reckons on a supply from these treacherous depositaries. If his canteen is not well filled, or if he is by any chance detained upon his route, his story is likely to be that of hundreds who have perished of thirst upon these plains, between a heaven and an earth that are equally unpitying. "Is it true, then, Don Estevan," inquired the Senator, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow, "that you have been through this country before?" "Certainly," replied Don Estevan; "and it is just because I have been here before that I am here now. But what brought me here formerly, and why I now return, is a secret I shall tell you presently. Let me say that it is a secret sufficient to turn a man's brain, provided he is not one with a bold, firm heart. Are you that man, senor Senator?" added the Spaniard, fixing his eyes upon his companion, with a calm regard. The Senator made no reply, farther than by giving a slight shiver that was perceptible through his frame, and which denoted that he felt some apprehension as to the role he might be called upon to play. The Spaniard did not fail to observe his uneasiness, as he resumed: "Meanwhile, senor, let me ask you, are you decided to follow my advice, and restore your fortunes by some rich matrimonial alliance which I shall arrange for you?" "Without doubt I am," replied the Senator, "though I can't see what interest that can be to you, Senor Don Estevan." "That is my affair and my secret. I am not one of those who sell the skin of the bear before the animal is caught. It is enough for you to know, Don Vicente Tragaduros y Despilfarro, that I have a hundred thousand dollars at your disposal the moment you say the word--it only remains for you to hear my conditions, and subscribe to them." "I don't say no," replied the Senator, "but I candidly avow that for the life of me I cannot think of any one possessing such an inheritance as you mention--not one in the whole province." "Do you know the daughter of the rich landowner Augusta Pena--at whose hacienda, please God, we shall sleep to-morrow night?" "Oh!" exclaimed the Senator, "the proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado? I have heard of her--_her_ dowry should be a million if report speaks true; but what folly it would be for me to pretend--" "Bah!" interrupted the Spaniard. "It is a fortress that well besieged may capitulate like any other." "It is said that the daughter of Pena is pretty." "Beautiful." "You know her, then?" said the Senator, regarding his companion with an astonished look. "Perhaps," he added, "it is to the hacienda of Venado that you make those periodical and mysterious journeys, so much talked about at Arispe?" "Precisely so." "Ah! I understand you," said the Senator, turning a sly look upon his companion, "it was the beautiful eyes of the daughter that attracted you, the--?" "You are mistaken. It was the father, who was simply the banker from whom, from time to time, I drew the funds necessary for my expenses at Arispe." "Is that also the object of our present journey?" "Partly," replied the Spaniard, "but not altogether--there is another object, which I will communicate to you hereafter." "Well, senor," answered the Senator, "you are a mystery to me from head to foot; but I abandon myself blindly to your guidance." "You do well," said Don Estevan, "and in all likelihood your sun, for a while eclipsed, will shine out again with more than its former splendour." CHAPTER ELEVEN. AN UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER. It was now near sunset; the travellers were still about two leagues from La Poza, and the desert plains were nearly passed. Some _mezquite_ trees appeared in front thinly covering the calcareous soil, but the twilight sun began to render less visible the objects here and there scattered over the plain. All at once the horse of Don Estevan came to a stand, and showed signs of affright. The steed of the Senator acted in a similar fashion, though neither of the two horsemen could perceive the cause of this strange behaviour. "It is the body of some dead mule?" suggested the Mexican. Don Estevan spurred his horse forward, despite the repugnance of the animal to advance; and a few paces further on, behind a clump of wild aloe plants, he perceived the body of a horse stretched out upon the sand. Such a sight in these dry plains is by no means uncommon; and the travellers would not have given a moment's thought to it, but for the fact that the horse in question appeared to be saddled and bridled. This circumstance indicated some extraordinary occurrence. Cuchillo had meanwhile ridden forward to the spot. "Ah!" said he, after glancing a moment at the dead horse, "the poor devil who has ridden him has met with a double accident: he has not only lost his horse, but also his water-bottle. See!" The guide pointed to an object lying upon the ground by the shoulder of the fallen horse, and still attached by a strap to the saddle. It was a leathern water-bottle apparently broken and empty. In fact, its position proved that the horse, enfeebled by the heat and thirst, had fallen suddenly to the earth, and the bottle, hardened by the sun, and coming in contact with the animal's shoulder, had got crushed either by the fall, or in the struggle that succeeded it. A large fracture was visible in the side of the vessel, through which the water had escaped to the very last drop. "We are likely enough by and by to stumble upon his owner:" suggested Cuchillo, while he examined the trappings of the dead horse, to see if there might be anything worth picking up. "_Por Dios_!" he continued, "this reminds me that I have the very devil's thirst myself," and as he said this, he raised his own bottle to his head, and swallowed some gulps from it. The tracks of a man upon the sandy surface, indicated that the traveller had continued his route on foot; but the footmarks showed also, that he must have tottered rather than walked. They were unequally distant from each other, and wanted that distinctness of shape, that would have been exhibited by the footsteps of a man standing properly on his legs. These points did not escape the keen eyes of Cuchillo, who was one of those individuals who could read such dumb signs with an unfailing certainty. "Beyond a doubt," said he, taking another gulp from his bottle, "the traveller cannot be far off." His conjecture proved correct. A few moments after, the body of a man was seen by the side of the path, lying upon the ground, and perfectly motionless. As if this individual had intended that his countenance should be hidden from the eyes of any one passing, a broad palm-leaf hat covered the whole of his face. The costume of this traveller in distress, betrayed a certain degree of poverty. Besides the hat already mentioned, which appeared old and battered, a rusty-coloured Indian shirt, somewhat torn, and a pair of pantaloons of nankeen, with common filigree buttons, appeared to be his only garments. At least they were all that could be noticed in the obscure twilight. "Benito," said Don Estevan, calling to one of his servants, "knock off with the butt of your lance the hat that covers this man's face--perhaps he is only asleep?" Benito obeyed the order, and tossed aside the hat without dismounting; but the man stretched on the ground did not appear to know what had been done--at least he made not the slightest movement. When the hat was removed, however, the darkness, which had suddenly increased, rendered it impossible to distinguish his features. "Although it is not exactly your speciality, Senor Cuchillo," said Don Estevan, addressing himself to the outlaw, "if you will do an act of humanity in trying to save the life of this poor devil, you shall have half an ounce of gold if you succeed." "Cospita! Senor Don Estevan," cried Cuchillo, "you surely mistake my character. I am the most humane of mortals--that is," continued he in an undertone, "when it is my interest to be so. You may ride forward then; and it will not be my fault, if I don't bring this poor fellow safe to our halting-place at La Poza." In saying these words Cuchillo dismounted, and laying his hands upon the neck of his horse, cried out: "Now, good Tordilla, don't budge an inch from this spot till I call for you." The animal, pawing the sand, and champing his bit, appeared to comprehend the words of his master, and remained in the place where he had been left. "Shall we leave one of the servants to assist you?" inquired the Senator, as they were riding off. "No, thank you, Senor Don Vicente," responded Cuchillo, fearing that if any one was left he might expect some share in the promised _demi-onza_; "it will not be necessary." And the cavalcade riding off, left the outlaw alone with the recumbent body. CHAPTER TWELVE. TIBURCIO ARELLANOS. Cuchillo approaching the body, bent down to examine the features, and see if there were any signs of life. At the first glance of that face the outlaw trembled. "Tiburcio Arellanos, as I live!" he involuntarily muttered. It was, in truth, the adopted son of his victim whom he saw before him. "Yes--there is no mistake--it is he! _Santa Virgen_! if not dead he's not far off it," continued he, observing the mortal paleness of the young man's countenance. A hellish thought at this moment arose in the mind of the outlaw. Perhaps the only man in all the world who shared with him that secret, which he himself had purchased by the crime of murder, was there before him--completely in his power. It only needed to finish him, if not already dead, and to report that he could not be saved. He was in the middle of the desert, under the shadow of night, where no eye could see, and no hand could hinder; why then should he not make his secret secure against every contingency of the future? All the ferocious instincts of the villain were re-awakened; mechanically he drew the long knife from his boot, and held its point over the heart of the unconscious Tiburcio. At that moment, a slight quivering of the limbs told that the latter still lived. The outlaw raised his arm, but still hesitated to strike the blow. "It was just thus," reflected he, "that I stabbed the man he called his father--just in the same way, as he slept beside me, in full confidence of security. I see him now contesting with me for the life of this young fellow more than half gone. I feel at this moment the weight of his body upon my shoulders, just as I felt it when I carried him down to the river." And the murderer, at these thoughts, in the middle of the darkness and solitude, cast around him a look that betrayed the terror with which the souvenir still inspired him. That terror saved the life of Tiburcio; for the knife was thrust back into its singular scabbard, and the villain, seating himself beside the recumbent form, thrust his hand under the vest of the young man, and held it over his heart to try whether it was still beating. In this attitude he remained for a short while--until satisfied that Tiburcio was yet alive. Then a bright thought seemed to startle him; for a voice had spoken to him from within, stronger than the voice of conscience. It was that of personal interest. Cuchillo knew the rare qualities of Tiburcio--his talents as a _rastreador_, or tracker--his daring prowess in Indian warfare; and after some consideration, he resolved to enrol him in the expedition of Don Estevan, to which he would no doubt prove of great value. "That will be the best plan," said the outlaw, speaking in soliloquy. "What would his life be worth to me now?--Nothing; and if I wish to have it hereafter--why, then there will be no lack of opportunities. He cannot be otherwise than grateful for what I am going to do for him. But let me see how matters stand--of course it is thirst that is killing him--how lucky I have kept a little water in my canteen!" He now opened the mouth of the dying man, and holding the neck of the leathern bottle to his lips, poured some drops down his throat. The water produced an almost instantaneous reanimation, and the young man opened his eyes, but soon closed them again. "That shows he is coming round," muttered Cuchillo. Twice or thrice he repeated the operation, each time doubling the dose of water. Finally, at the end of half an hour or so, Tiburcio was sufficiently recovered to be able to raise himself up, and to answer the questions put to him by the man who was, in reality, the preserver of his life. Tiburcio Arellanos was still but a young man; but the sort of life he had led--solitary, and dependent on his own resources--had given to his judgment a precocious maturity. He therefore observed a degree of prudence in recounting to Cuchillo the death of his adopted mother, to which subject the outlaw had guided the conversation. "During the twenty-four hours that I passed by the death-bed of my mother," said Tiburcio, "I quite forgot to attend to my horse; and after all was over I closed the door of the cottage, where I never wished to return, and I set out upon this journey. The poor animal, so long neglected, became feeble on the second day, and fell dead under me: and, to my misfortune, my water-bottle was broken in the fall, and the water spilled upon the sand. I remained on the spot till thirst brought on fever, and then I strayed away; and after wandering about, I know not how long, I fell, as my horse had done, expecting never more to rise." "I comprehend all that," responded Cuchillo. "Well! it is astonishing how people will regret the death of parents, who do not leave them the slightest inheritance!" Tiburcio could have told him, that on her death-bed his adopted mother had left him a royal, as well as a terrible legacy--the secret of the Golden Valley, and the vengeance of the murder of Marcos Arellanos. Both had been, confided to him--the golden secret upon the especial conditions that Tiburcio would, if necessary, spend the whole of his life in searching for the assassin. Tiburcio appeared to take no notice of Cuchillo's last reflection, and perhaps his discretion proved the saving of his life: for had the outlaw been made sure that he was in possession of the secret of the Golden Valley, it is not likely he would have made any further efforts to save him, but the reverse. "And is that a fact," continued Cuchillo, interrogatively, "that with the exception of a hut which you have abandoned, a horse which has dropped dead between your legs, and the garments you carry on your back, that Arellanos and his widow have left you nothing?" "Nothing but the memory of their goodness to me, and a reverence for their name." "Poor Arellanos! I was very sorry for him," said Cuchillo, whose hypocrisy had here committed him to an unguarded act of imprudence. "You knew him then?" hastily inquired Tiburcio, with some show of surprise. "He never spoke to me of you!" Cuchillo saw that he had made a mistake, and hastened to reply. "No, I didn't know him personally. I have only heard him much spoken of as a most worthy man, and a famous gambusino. That is why I was sorry on hearing of his death. Was it not I who first apprised his widow of the unfortunate occurrence, having myself heard of it by chance?" Notwithstanding the natural tone in which Cuchillo delivered this speech, he was one of those persons of such a sinister countenance, that Tiburcio could not help a certain feeling of suspicion while regarding it. But by little and little the feeling gave way, and the young man's thoughts taking another turn, he remained for some moments buried in a silent reverie. It was merely the result of his feebleness, though Cuchillo, ever ready to suspect evil, interpreted his silence as arising from a different cause. Just then the horse of Cuchillo began to show evident signs of terror, and the instant after, with his hair standing on end, he came galloping up to his master as if to seek protection. It was the hour when the desert appears in all its nocturnal majesty. The howling of the jackals could be heard in the distance; but all at once a voice rising far above all the rest appeared to give them a signal to be silent. It was the voice of the American lion. "Do you hear it?" inquired Cuchillo of his companion. A howl equally loud, but of a different tone, was heard on the opposite side. "It is the puma and jaguar about to battle for the body of your horse, friend Tiburcio, and whichever one is conquered may take a fancy to revenge himself on us. Suppose you mount behind me, and let us be off?" Tiburcio followed the advice; and notwithstanding the double load, the horse of Cuchillo galloped off like an arrow, impelled to such swift course by the growling of the fierce animals, that for a long time could be heard, as if they were following in the rear. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A STUMBLING HORSE. Far along the route these sounds accompanied the two riders--that is, the wailing of the jackals, mingled with the more fearful utterance of the great feline denizens of the desert. All at once, however, these noises became stilled, as a sound of a far different nature indicated the presence of some human being interfering in this scene of the desert. It was the crack of a gun, but with that quick sharp report that distinguishes the detonation of the rifle. "A shot!" exclaimed Tiburcio. "But who can be amusing himself by hunting at this time of night, and in the middle of such a desert?" "Very likely one of those American trappers we see now and then at Arispe, where they come to sell their beaver skins. These fellows think as little of a puma or a jaguar as they do of a jackal." No other noise was afterwards heard to break the imposing silence of the night. The stars were shining brightly in the blue heaven, and the breeze, that had now become much cooler, scarce made the slightest rustling as it passed through the branches of the iron-wood trees. "Where are you taking me?" asked Tiburcio, after an interval of silence. "To La Poza, where I have some companions who are to pass the night there. To-morrow, if you like, on to the hacienda of Venado." "To the hacienda of Venado! that is just where I was going." Had it been daylight, Cuchillo might have seen a blush suddenly redden the cheeks of the young man as he pronounced these words; for it was an affair of the heart, that in spite of all the efforts he had made to resist it, was attracting him to the hacienda de Venado. The object of his interest was no other than the daughter of the _haciendado_ himself--the young heiress already spoken of. "For what purpose were you going there?" inquired Cuchillo, in a careless tone. This simple question was nevertheless difficult to be answered. His companion was not the man to whom the young gambusino could give his confidence. He hesitated before making reply. "I am without resources," said he at length, "and I go to ask Don Augustin Pena if he will accept me in the capacity of one of his _vaqueros_." "'Tis a poor business you wish to undertake, _amigo_. To expose your life forever for such paltry pay as you will get--to keep watch at night and run about all the day; exposed to the burning heat of the sun, and by night to the cold--for this is the lot of a vaquero." "What can I do?" replied Tiburcio. "Besides, it is just the sort of life I have been accustomed to; have I not always been exposed to privations and the solitude of the desert plains? These torn calzoneras and well-worn jacket are all that are left me--since I have now no longer my poor horse. Better turn vaquero than be a beggar!" "He knows nothing of the secret then," reflected Cuchillo, "since he is meditating on an employment of this nature." Then raising his voice:--"You are in truth, then, a complete orphan, amigo; and have no one to mourn for you if you were to die--except myself. Have you by chance heard anything of this grand expedition that is being organised at Tubac?" "No." "Become one of it then. To an expedition of this kind a resolute young fellow like you would be a valuable acquisition; and upon your part, an expert gambusino, such as I fancy you must be--from the school in which you have been taught--might make his fortune at a single stroke." If he parry this thrust, muttered the outlaw to himself, it will be proof positive that he knows nothing about it. Cuchillo was thus pursuing his investigation with a twofold object, sounding Tiburcio about the secret, while at the same time trying to attach him to the expedition by the hope of gain. But cunning as was the outlaw, he had to do with a party that was no simpleton. Tiburcio prudently remained silent. "Although between ourselves," continued Cuchillo, "I can tell you that I have never been beyond Tubac, yet I am to be one of the guides of this expedition. Now what say you?" "I have my reasons," replied Tiburcio, "not to engage in it without reflection. I therefore demand of you twenty-four hours to think it over, and then you shall have my answer." The expedition, of which this was the first news Tiburcio had heard, might, in fact, ruin or favour his own projects--hence the uncertainty he felt, and which he contrived so cleverly to conceal by his discreet reserve. "Very well," rejoined Cuchillo, "the thing will keep that long." And with this the conversation was discontinued. Cuchillo, joyed at being disembarrassed of his apprehension about the secret, began carelessly whistling while he spurred forward his horse. The greatest harmony continued between these two men, who, though they knew it not, had each a motive of the deadliest hatred one against the other. Suddenly, as they were thus riding along, the horse that carried them stumbled upon the left fore-leg, and almost came to the ground. On the instant Tiburcio leaped down, and with eyes flashing fire, cried out in a threatening tone to his astonished companion. "You say you have never been beyond Tubac? where did you get this horse, Cuchillo?" "What business of yours, where I got him?" answered the outlaw, surprised by a question to which his conscience gave an alarming significance, "and what has my horse to do with the interrogatory you have so discourteously put to me?" "By the soul of Arellanos! I will know; or, if not--" Cuchillo gave the spur to his horse, causing him to bound to one side-- while at the same time he attempted to unbuckle the straps that fastened his carbine to the saddle; but Tiburcio sprang after, seized his hand, and held it while he repeated the question:-- "How long have you owned this horse?" "There, now! what curiosity!" answered Cuchillo, with a forced smile, "still, since you are so eager to know--it is--it is about six weeks since I became his master; you may have seen me with him, perhaps?" In truth it was the first time Tiburcio had seen Cuchillo with this horse--that, notwithstanding his bad habits of stumbling, was otherwise an excellent animal, and was only used by his master on grand occasions. For this very reason Tiburcio had not seen him before. The ready lie of the outlaw dissipated, no doubt, certain suspicions that had arisen in the mind of the young man, for the latter let go the horseman's wrist, which up to this time he had held in his firm grasp. "Pardon me!" said he, "for this rudeness; but allow me to ask you another question?" "Ask it!" said Cuchillo, "since we are friends; in fact, among friends, one question less or more can make no difference." "Who sold you this horse six weeks ago?" "Por Dios, his owner, of course--a stranger, whom I did not know, but who had just arrived from a long journey." Cuchillo repeated these words in a slow and drawling manner, as if to gain time for some hidden purpose. "A stranger?" repeated Tiburcio; "pardon me! one more question?" "Has the horse been stolen from _you_?" asked the outlaw in an ironical tone. "No--but let us think no more of my folly--pardon me, senor!" "I pardon you," answered Cuchillo, in a tone of magnanimity, "the more so," added he mentally, "that you will not go much further, you son of a hound!" Tiburcio, unsuspecting, was no longer on his guard, and the outlaw, profiting by the darkness, had already detached his carbine from the saddle. In another moment, beyond doubt, he would have carried into execution his demoniac purpose, had it not been for the appearance of a horseman, who was coming at full gallop along the road. Besides the horse which he rode, the horseman led behind him another, saddled and bridled. He was evidently a messenger from Don Estevan. "Ah! is it you, Senor Cuchillo?" he cried out, as he rode up. "The devil!" grumbled the outlaw, at this ill-timed interruption. "Ah! is it you, Senor Benito?" he inquired, suddenly changing his tone. "Yes. Well, have you saved the man? Don Estevan has sent me back to you with a gourd of fresh water, and a horse to bring him on." "He is there," replied Cuchillo, pointing to Tiburcio, who stood at a little distance, "thanks to me he is sound and safe--until I have a chance of being once more alone with him," he muttered, in a tone not intended to be heard. "Well, gentlemen," remarked the servant, "we had better go on--the camping place is not far from here--we can soon reach it." Tiburcio leaped into the empty saddle, and the three galloped silently toward the place where the travellers had halted--the servant thinking only of reaching it as soon as possible, and going to rest--Cuchillo mentally cursing the interruption that had forced him to adjourn his project of vengeance--and Tiburcio vainly endeavouring to drive out of his mind the suspicion which this curious incident had aroused. In this occupation the three rode on for about a quarter of an hour, until the gleam of fires ahead discovered the halting-place of the travellers at La Poza. Soon afterwards their camp itself was reached. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. LA POZA. The place known by the name "La Poza" was the only one, within a circle of many leagues, where at this time of the year water could be found. There was here a natural cistern or well--partly nourished by a spring, and partly by rain from the skies. It was hollowed at the bottom of a little crater-shaped valley, only a few paces in circumference, the sloping side's of which served to conduct to the well the rain-water that fell around. The ridges inclosing the little valley were crowned with trees of thick frondage, which, nourished by the evaporation of the water, appeared green and vigorous, and protected the cistern from the burning rays of the sun. The green grass that grew around, the cool shadow of the trees, and the freshness of the air, rendered the well of La Poza, in the middle of the desert, a delicious little oasis. Besides serving as excellent resting-place for travellers, it was a favourite resort of hunters, who used it as a stalking-ground for animals--elks and deer--as well as jaguars and other fierce beasts that in great numbers came to the well to drink. At a short distance from the cistern of La Poza commenced a tract of thick forest through which ran the path leading to the Hacienda del Venado. Nearer to the edge of the little valley, upon the side of this path, the travellers had kindled an enormous fire, partly to defend themselves from the the cold night air, and partly to frighten off any jaguars or pumas that might be in the neighbourhood of the water. Not far from this fire the servants had placed the camp-beds of the Senator and Don Estevan; and while a large saddle of mutton was being roasted for supper, a skin bottle of wine was cooling in the fresh water with which the trough had been filled. After a painful day's march, it was an attractive spectacle which this scene presented to the eyes of the travellers. "_Mine_! your halting-place, Tiburcio," said Cuchillo, as they rode into the camp, and speaking in a tone of pretended friendliness in order to conceal the real rancour which he felt. "Dismount here, while I go and report your arrival to our chief. It is Don Estevan de Arechiza himself under whose orders we are enrolled; so, too, may you be, if you desire it; and between ourselves, _amigo_, it is the best thing you can do." Cuchillo fearing that his victim might escape him, now wished more than ever that he should join the expedition. He pointed out Don Estevan and the Senator seated on their camp-beds, and visible in the light of the great fire, while Tiburcio was not yet seen by them. Cuchillo himself advanced toward Don Estevan. "I am desirous, Senor Don Estevan," said he, addressing himself to the Spaniard, "to say two words to your honour, with the permission of his excellency the Senator." Don Estevan arose from his seat and made a sign to Cuchillo to accompany him into one of the dark alleys of the forest, the same by which the path entered that led to the hacienda. "You could hardly guess, Senor Don Estevan, who is the man your generosity has saved--for I have brought him with me safe and sound, as you see?" Without making answer, Don Estevan took from his purse the piece of gold he had promised, and handed it to Cuchillo. "It is the young Tiburcio Arellanos to whom you have given life," continued the outlaw. "As for me I only followed the dictates of my heart; but it may be that we have both done a very foolish action." "Why that?" asked the Spaniard. "This young man will be easily watched so long as he is near us; and I presume he is decided to be one of our expedition?" "He has asked twenty-four hours to reflect upon it." "Do you think he knows anything of--" "I have my fears," replied Cuchillo, in a melancholy tone, little regarding the lie he was telling, and the purpose of which was to render the Spaniard suspicious of the man he had himself vowed to kill. "In any case," continued he, with a significant smile, "we have saved his life, and that will serve as _tit for tat_." "What do you mean to say?" "Only that my conscience assures me it will be perfectly tranquil if-- if--Carramba!" added he, brusquely--"if I should send this young fellow to be broiled with his mother in the other world." "God forbid that!" exclaimed the Spaniard, in a lively tone. "What need? Admit that he knows all: I shall be in command of a hundred men, and he altogether alone. What harm can the fellow do us. I have no uneasiness about him. I am satisfied, and so must you be." "Oh! I am satisfied if you are," growled Cuchillo, like a dog whose master had hindered him from biting some one, "quite satisfied," he continued, "but perhaps hereafter--" "I shall see this young man," said the Spaniard, interrupting him, and advancing in the direction where Tiburcio stood, while Cuchillo followed, talking to himself: "What the devil possessed him to ask how long I had owned my horse? Let me see! the animal stumbled, I remember, and it was just then he dismounted and threatened me. I can't understand it, but I suspect what I do not understand." When Arechiza and Cuchillo reached the camp, an excitement was observed among the horses, that gathered around the _capitansa_, at a short distance from the fire, and to all appearance in a state of extreme terror, were uttering a wild and continuous neighing. Some danger yet afar, but which the animals' instincts enabled them to perceive, was the cause of this sudden _stampede_. "It is some jaguar they have scented," suggested one of the domestics. "Bah!" replied another, "the jaguars attack only young foals--they wouldn't dare to assault a strong vigorous horse." "Do you think so?" demanded the first speaker. "Ask Benito here, who, himself, lost a valuable animal taken by the jaguars." Benito, hearing this reference to himself, advanced towards the two speakers. "One day," he began, "or rather, one night just like this, I chanced to be at a distance from the Hacienda del Venado, where I was a _vaquero_ at the time. I was in search of a strayed horse, and not finding him, had made up my mind to pass the night at the spring of _Ojo da Agua_. I tied my horse at a good distance off--where there was better grass--and I was sleeping, as a man sleeps after riding twenty leagues, when I was suddenly awakened by all the howlings and growlings of the devils. The moon shone so clear you might have fancied it daylight. All at once my horse came galloping toward me with the lazo hanging round his neck, which he had broken at the risk of hanging himself. "`Here then,' said I, `I shall now have two horses to go in search of instead of one.' "I had scarce made this reflection, when I observed, under the light of the moon, a superb jaguar bounding after my horse. He scarce appeared to touch the ground, and each leap carried him forward twenty feet or more. "I saw that my poor steed was lost. I listened with anxiety, but for a while heard nothing. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, a terrible roar--" The speaker paused, and stood trembling. "_Virgen Santa_!" cried he, "that's it!" as the fearful cry of a jaguar at that moment echoed through the camp, succeeded by a deathlike stillness, as if both men and animals had been alike terrified into silence. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. NOCTURNAL VISITORS. The sudden shock occasioned by the perception of a peril so proximate and imminent paralysed every tongue. Even the ex-herdsman himself was silent, and appeared to reflect what had best be done to avoid the danger. At this instant the voice of Don Estevan broke the temporary silence that reigned within the camp. "Get your weapons ready!" shouted he. "It is useless, master," rejoined the old vaquero, whose experience among jaguars gave a certain authority to his words, "the best thing to be done, is to keep the fire ablaze." And saying this, he flung an armful of fagots upon it, which, being as dry as tinder, at once caught flame--so as to illumine a large circle around the camp. "If they are not choking with thirst," said Benito, "these demons of darkness will not dare come within the circle of the fire. But, indeed, they are often choking with thirst, and then--" "Then!" interrupted one of the domestics, in a tone of anxiety. "Then," continued the herdsman, "then they don't regard either light or fire; and if we are not determined to defend the water against their approach, we had better get out of their way altogether. These animals are always more thirsty than hungry." "How when they have drunk?" asked Baraja, whose countenance, under the light of the fire, betrayed considerable uneasiness. "Why, then they seek to appease their hunger." At this moment a second cry from the jaguar was heard, but farther off than the first. This was some relief to the auditory of Benito, who, relying upon his theory, was satisfied that the animal was not yet at the extreme point of suffering from thirst. All of them preserved silence--the only sounds heard being the crackling of the dry sticks with which Baraja kept the fire profusely supplied. "Gently there, Baraja! gently!" called out the vaquero, "if you consume our stock of firewood in that fashion, you will soon make an end of it, and, _por Dios_! _amigo_, you will have to go to the woods for a fresh supply." "There! hold your hand," continued he, after a pause, "and try to make the fagots last as long as possible, else we may get in darkness and at the mercy of the tiger. He is sure to come back again in an hour or two, and far thirstier than before." If Benito had desired to frighten his companions, he could not have succeeded better. The eyes of one and all of them were anxiously bent upon the heap of dried sticks that still remained by the fire, and which appeared scarcely sufficient to last for another hour. But there was something so earnest in the tone of the ex-herdsman, despite the jesting way in which he spoke, that told he was serious in what he had said. Of course, Don Estevan had postponed the interview with Tiburcio; and the young man, still ignorant that it was to Don Estevan he really owed his life, did not think of approaching to offer him thanks. Moreover, he saw that the moment would be ill-timed to exchange compliments of courtesy with the chief of the expedition, and for this reason he remained standing where Cuchillo had left him. Nevertheless Don Estevan could not hinder himself from casting an occasional glance in the direction where the young man stood--though through the obscurity he could make no exact observation of his features. The silence continued. Don Estevan and the Senator remained seated on their camp-beds, carbine in hand, while Benito, surrounded by the other domestics, formed a group by the side of the fire. The horses had all approached within a few feet of their masters, where they stood trembling and breathing loudly from their spread nostrils. Their behaviour indicated an instinct on their part that the danger was not yet over. Several minutes passed, in which no human voice broke the silence. In the midst of greatest perils there is something consolatory in the sound of a man's voice--something which makes the danger appear less; and as if struck by this idea, some one asked Benito to continue the narrative of his adventures. "I have told you then," resumed the ex-herdsman, "that I saw the tiger springing after my horse, and that in the chase both disappeared from my sight. The moment after, the horse came galloping back; but I knew that it was his last gallop, as soon as by the light of the moon I saw the terrible rider that he carried. The jaguar was upon his back, flattened over his shoulders, with the neck of the poor horse fast between his jaws. "They had not gone a dozen paces before I heard a crackling sound--as if some bone had been crushed--and on the instant I saw the horse stumble and fall. Both tiger and horse rolled over and over in a short but terrible struggle, and then my poor steed lay motionless. "For safety I stole away from the dangerous proximity; but returning after daylight, I found only the half-stripped skeleton of a horse that had carried me for many a long year. "And now, amigo," continued the ex-herdsman, turning to the man who had first spoken, "do you still think that the jaguar attacks only foals?" No one made reply, but Benito's audience turned their glances outward from the fire, fearing that in the circle around they might see shining the eyes of one of these formidable animals. Another interval of silence succeeded to the narrative of the vaquero. This was broken by the young man Tiburcio, who, used to the wild life of the plains and forests, was very little frightened by the presence of the jaguars. "If you have a horse," said he, "you need not much fear the jaguar; he is sure to take your horse first. Here, we have twenty horses and only one tiger." "The young man reasons well," rejoined Baraja, reassured by the observation of Tiburcio. "Twenty horses for one tiger--yes," replied Benito; "but suppose the horses don't choose to remain here. Supposing, what is likely enough to happen, we have an _estampeda_--the horses will be off. Now the jaguar knows very well he cannot overcome a horse unless he does so in the first bound or two. I will not follow the horses then, but will stay by the water, and of course by us as well. Besides, the jaguars that hunt by these springs are likely enough to have tasted human flesh before now; and if so, they will not, as the young man affirms, prefer the flesh of a horse." "Very consoling, that," interrupted Cuchillo. Benito appeared to be a man fond of the most frightful suggestions, for not contented with what he had already said, he continued-- "If there be but one jaguar, then he will be satisfied with one of us, but in case he should chance to be accompanied by his female, then--" "Then what, by all the devils?" demanded Cuchillo. "Why, then--but I don't wish to frighten you." "May thunder strike you! Speak out," cried Baraja, suffering at the suspense. "Why, in that case," coolly added Benito, "the tiger would undoubtedly show his gallantry to his female by killing a pair of us." "Carramba!" fervently exclaimed Baraja. "I pray the Lord that this tiger may be a bachelor," and as he said this he flung a fresh armful of fagots on the fire. "Gently, amigo! gently," interrupted the ex-herdsman, lifting off some of the sticks again. "We have yet at least six hours of night, and these fagots will scarce serve to keep up the light for one. Gently, I say! We have still three chances of safety: the first that the jaguar may not be thirsty; the second, that he may content himself with one of our horses; and the third, that he may, as you have wished it, be a _bachelor_ tiger." There was no response, and another interval of silence succeeded. During this it was some consolation to the travellers to see the moon, which now, rising above the horizon, lit up the plains with her white beams, and flung her silvery effulgence over the trees. From the direction of the woods came the mournful notes of the great horned owl, and the sound of flapping wings, caused by the vampire bat, as it glided through the aisles of the forest. No other sounds appeared to indicate the presence of living thing except those made by the horses or the travellers themselves. "Do you think," said Baraja, addressing himself to Benito, "that the jaguar is likely to return again? I have known these animals howl at night around my hut, and then go off altogether." "Yes," replied Benito, "that may be when their drinking place is left free to them. Here we have intercepted their approach to the water. Besides, here are both men and horses--both food and drink in one place; it is not likely they have gone away from a spot that promises to furnish them with both. No, I warrant you, they are still in the neighbourhood." At this moment the cry of the jaguar was heard once more, proving the correctness of Benito's judgment. "There!" cried he, "just as I said; the beast is nearer too--no doubt his thirst is increasing--the more so that he is hindered from approaching the spring. Ha! do you hear that?" This exclamation was caused by another roar of the jaguar, but evidently not the one that had been already frightening the travellers--for this cry came from the opposite side of the camp. "Ave Maria!" screamed Baraja, in anguish, "the tiger has a wife!" "You speak true," said Benito, "there are two of them, and they must be a male and female, since two male jaguars never hunt in company." "_Carrai_!" exclaimed Cuchillo, "may the devil take me if ever I passed a night in the company of such a man as this old herdsman. He would frighten the hair off one's head if he could." "After all," said Baraja, "I think there can't be much danger, so long as we have got the horses between us and these terrible brutes." Unhappily, this chance of safety was not to exist much longer, for just then the jaguars recommenced their growling, both of them nearer than ever. The effect upon the horses was now exhibited in a complete _estampeda_,--for these animals, seeing they could no longer rely upon their masters for protection, preferred trusting to their heels, and one and all of them broke away in a wild gallop. As this last chance of security was gone, the old vaquero, leaving the fire, approached the spot where Don Estevan and the Senator were seated, and thus addressed them:-- "Gentlemen," said he, "prudence requires that you will not remain so far from the rest of us. As you perceive there is danger on both sides, it will be best that we should all keep close together, and as near the fire as possible." The affrighted look of the Senator offered a striking contrast to the countenance of Don Estevan, which still preserved its calm rigidity. "It is good advice this faithful servant gives us," said Tragaduros, rising to do as Benito had suggested. "Come, Benito," said Don Estevan, "these are nothing but hunter's stories you have been telling, and you wish to frighten these novices? Is it not so?" "As I live, Senor Don Estevan, 'tis the truth!" "There is a real danger, then?" "Certain there is, my master!" "Very well, in that case I shall remain where I am." "Are you in earnest?" asked the frightened Tragaduros. "Quite so--the duty of a leader is to protect his followers," said the Spaniard, proudly, "and that is what I mean to do. If the danger is only from the right and left as it appears to be--I shall guard the right here. There are two bullets in my gun, and with these and a sure eye, what care I for a jaguar? You, Senor Don Vicente, can take your stand on the left of the fire, and watch that side. If it appears prudent to you to keep near the men, do so." This compromise appeared to the taste of Tragaduros, who had no idea of exposing the person of a man who was to be the future proprietor of a million of dollars dowry. He lost no time, therefore, in crossing over to the fire, and although he made a feint to keep watch on the opposite side from that guarded by Don Estevan, he took care to remain within a few feet of the group of attendants. These dispositions had scarce been completed, when a formidable dialogue was struck up between the two fierce beasts that were approaching on opposite sides of the camp. Now they would utter a hoarse roaring, then a series of screams and yells, succeeded by a shrill mewing that resembled the caterwauling of cats--only louder and more terrific in its effect. Though Benito and Tiburcio knew that all these noises were caused by a single pair of tigers, the others imagined that not less than a dozen must be engaged in the frightful chorus. The gun of the Senator shook in his hand--Baraja commended his soul to all the saints in the Spanish calendar--Cuchillo clutched his carbine, as if he would crush it between his fingers--while the chief himself coolly awaited the denouement of the drama. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE TIGER HUNTERS. By the light of the fire Don Estevan could be seen walking in the direction whence proceeded the cries of the jaguar that was approaching on the right. He appeared calm as if going out in search of a deer. Tiburcio, at the aspect of the Spanish chief, felt within him that exultation of spirit which danger produces in certain energetic natures; but his dagger was the only weapon he possessed. He cast a glance at the double-barrelled gun which the Senator held in his hand, and of which the latter was likely to make a use more fatal to his companions than to the jaguar. On his part the Senator cast an envious look upon the safe position which Tiburcio occupied--in the centre of the group formed by Benito and his companions. Tiburcio read the meaning of this look. "Senor Senator," said he, "it is not proper that you should expose your life thus--a life valuable to the state. You have relatives--a noble family; as for me, if I should be killed, there is no one to care for me." "The fact is," said the Senator, "if others set upon my life one half the value I put upon it myself, my death would cause a great deal of unhappiness." "Well, senor, suppose we change places? You give me your gun, and permit me to place my body in front of you as a rampart against the claws of the jaguars." This proposal was made at the moment when the two cavernous voices of the ferocious beasts were heard loudly answering to one another. Under the impression produced by the terrible dialogue, Tiburcio's offer was hastily accepted. The Senator took his place; while the young man, with sparkling eyes and firm step, advanced several paces in the direction of the forest whence came theories of the jaguar. There he halted to receive the attack that appeared inevitable. Don Estevan and he appeared motionless as a pair of statues. The unequal reflection of the fire gleamed upon these two men--whom chance had thus strangely united--neither of whom might yield to the other in pride or courage. The moment was becoming critical. The two jaguars were about to find enemies worthy of them. The fire, now burnt down, threw out only a pale light, scarce strong enough to illumine the group that stood near its edge. At this moment an incident occurred which was likely to cause a change in the situation of affairs. In the midst of an interval of silence--in which the very stillness itself increased the apprehension of the travellers--was heard the long lugubrious whine of a prairie wolf. Melancholy as was this sound, it was sweet in comparison with the cries of the more formidable animals, the jaguars. "The prairie wolf to howl in the presence of the tiger!" muttered the ex-herdsman. "Carramba! there's something strange about that." "But I have heard it said," rejoined Tiburcio, "that it is the habit of the prairie wolf to follow the jaguar when the latter is in search of prey?" "That is true enough," replied Benito, "but the wolf never howls so near the tiger, till after the tiger has taken his prey and is busy devouring it. Then his howl is a humble prayer for the other to leave him something. "This is strange," continued the vaquero, as the prairie wolf was heard to utter another long whine. "Hark! another!--yes--another prairie wolf and on the opposite side too!" In fact, another plaintive whine, exactly resembling the first, both in strength and cadence, was heard from a point directly opposite. "I repeat it," said Benito, "prairie wolves would never dare to betray themselves thus. I am greatly mistaken if it be not creatures of a different species that make this howling, and who don't care a straw for the jaguars." "What creatures?" demanded Tiburcio. "Human creatures!" answered the ex-herdsman. "American hunters from the north." "Trappers do you mean?" "Precisely. There are no people in these parts likely to be so fearless of the jaguar, and I am pretty sure that what appears to be the call of the prairie wolf is nothing else than a signal uttered by a brace of trappers. They are in pursuit of the jaguars; they have separated, and by these signals they acquaint one another of their whereabouts." Meanwhile the trappers, if such they were, appeared to advance with considerable precaution; for although the party by the fire listened attentively, not the slightest noise could be heard--neither the cracking of a branch, nor the rustling of a leaf. "Hilloa! you by the fire there!" all at once broke out from the midst of the darkness a loud rough voice, "we are approaching you. Don't be afraid; and don't fire your guns!" The voice had a foreign accent, which partly confirmed the truth of the vaquero's conjecture, and the appearance of the speaker himself proved it to a certainty. We shall not stay to describe the singular aspect of the new arrival-- further than to say that he was a man of herculean stature, and accoutred in the most _bizarre_ fashion. He appeared a sort of giant armed with a rifle--proportioned to his size--that is, having a barrel of thick heavy metal nearly six feet in length. As he approached the group his sharp eye soon took in the different individuals that composed it, and rested with a satisfied look on the form of Tiburcio. "The devil take that fire of yours!" he said abruptly, but in a tone of good-humour. "It has frightened away from us two of the most beautiful jaguars that ever roamed about these deserts." "Frightened them away!" exclaimed Baraja. "_Carramba_! I hope that may be true!" "Will you allow me to put the fire out?" inquired the new-comer. "Put out the fire--our only safeguard!" cried the astonished Senator. "Your only safeguard!" repeated the trapper, equally astonished, as he pointed with his finger around him. "What! eight men wanting a fire for a safeguard against two poor tigers! You are surely making game of me!" "Who are you, sir?" demanded Don Estevan, in a haughty tone. "A hunter--as you see." "Hunter, of what?" "My comrade and I trap the beaver, hunt the wolf, the tiger--or an Indian, if need be." "Heaven has sent you then to deliver us from these fierce animals," said Cuchillo, showing himself in front. "Not very likely," replied the trapper, whose first impression of the outlaw was evidently an unfavourable one. "Heaven I fancy had nothing to do with it. My comrade and I at about two leagues from here chanced upon a panther and two jaguars, quarrelling over the body of a dead horse." "I re was mine," interrupted Tiburcio. "Yours, young man!" continued the trapper, in a tone of rude cordiality. "Well, I am glad to see you here, for we thought that the owner of the horse might be no longer among the living. The panther we killed, but the two jaguars made off, and we tracked them hither to the spring, which your fire now hinders them from approaching. Therefore, if you wish to be rid of these beasts, the sooner you put out the fire the better; and you will see how soon we shall disembarrass you of their presence." "And your comrade?" asked Don Estevan, struck with the idea of making a brace of valuable recruits. "Where is he?" "He'll be here presently; but to the work, else we must leave you to get out of your scrape as you best can." There was a certain authority in the tone and words of the trapper--a cool assurance that produced conviction--and upon his drawing near to put out the fire, Don Estevan did not offer to hinder him, but tacitly permitted him to have his way. In a few seconds the burnt fagots were scattered about over the grass, and the cinders quenched by a few buckets of water drawn from the trough. This done the trapper uttered an imitation of the voice of the coyote; and before its echoes had died away, his companion stepped forward upon the ground. Although the second trapper was by no means a man of low stature, alongside his companion he appeared only a pigmy. He was not less strangely accoutred, but in the absence of the firelight his costume was not sufficiently visible for its style to be distinguished. Of him and his dress we shall hereafter speak more particularly. "At last your devilish fire is out," said he, as he came up, "for the want of wood, no doubt, which none of you dared to go fetch." "No, that is not the reason," hastily replied the first trapper; "I got leave from these gentlemen to put it out--so that we may have an opportunity to rid them of the presence of the tigers." "Hum!" murmured the Senator; "I fear we have done wrong in letting the fire be put out. Suppose you miss them?" "Miss them! _Por Dios_! how?" cried the second trapper. "_Caspita_! If I had not been afraid to frighten off one of the beasts, I could have killed the other long ago. Several times I had him at the muzzle of my carbine, when the signal of my comrade hindered me from firing. Miss them indeed!" "Never mind!" interrupted the great trapper; "we shall end the matter, I have no doubt, by convincing this gentleman." "You already knew, then, that we were here?" said Baraja. "Of course. We have been two hours involuntarily playing the spy upon you. Ah! I know a part of the country where travellers that take no more precautions than you would soon find their heads stripped of the skin. But come, Dormilon! to our work!" "What if the jaguars come our way?" suggested the Senator, apprehensively. "No fear of that," replied the trapper. "Their first care will be to satisfy their thirst, which your fire has hindered them from doing. You will hear them howling with joy, as soon as they perceive that the fire is gone out. It was the light shining upon the water that frightened them more than the presence of men. All they want now is to get a drink." "But how do you intend to act?" inquired Don Estevan. "How do we intend to act?" repeated the second trapper. "That is simple enough. We shall place ourselves in the cistern--the jaguars will come forward to its brink; and then, if we are only favoured by a blink of the moon, I'll answer for it that in the twinkling of an eye the brutes will neither feel hunger nor thirst." "Ah, this appears very simple!" cried Cuchillo, who was in reality astonished at the simplicity of the plan. "Simple as bidding `good-bye' to you," humorously responded one of the trappers. "Listen there!--what did I tell you?" Two loud roars, as if from a brazen trumpet, were heard at the moment. They appeared to proceed from the same point, proving that the jaguars had joined company; and, moreover, proclaimed the joy which the fierce creatures felt at the darkness being restored. This was further evident from their repeated sniffing of the air, like horses who afar off scent with delight the fresh emanations of the water. At this the two trappers, leaving the party by the fire, betook themselves to the cistern. The moon, for a moment shining out, glanced upon the barrels of their long rifles; but the next moment they had disappeared behind the ridge that surrounded the spring. No doubt it is a grand pleasure to witness the spectacle of a bull-fight, as the huge bull dashes into the ring, and, pierced by the tormenting _bandrilleros_, with a crest erect, and eyes flashing fire, bounds over the arena. But, if the spectators were not separated from the actors by an impassable barrier, the sight would have in it less of enjoyment than of terror. The combats between men and tigers--which the Romans used to enjoy--must have been a still more exciting spectacle; but who can doubt that, if the iron railing which separated the audience from the combatants had been removed, scarce one of the former would have remained in the circus to witness the sanguinary struggle? Only a short space--not wider than a jaguar could have passed over in a single leap--here separated the spectators from the actors in the drama about to be enacted. Supposing, then, that one of the actors should fail in performing his part, and the spectators have to take his place? Here was a situation, exceptional, and fertile in emotions, which most of the travellers felt keenly at the moment. Meanwhile the trappers had descended into the little crater-like valley of the spring, and there placed themselves in readiness, rifle in hand, to await the approach of their terrible adversaries. They were both upon their knees, back to back, in order that they could keep at the same time under view the whole circumference of the circle. Both had placed their knives in readiness, in case that, by any chance, they should either miss their aim, or--what would be almost as unlucky--only wound the enemy; for they well knew that a wounded jaguar is a more dangerous adversary than one that escapes altogether from the touch of the bullet. Fortunately the moon had again appeared; but being yet low down in the sky, her beams were not thrown into the bottom of the valley--and therefore the trappers themselves were still under the shadow. This circumstance was in their favour. Notwithstanding the perilous position in which they had thus voluntarily placed themselves, neither made the slightest movement; and the long barrels of their rifles stood forth in front of them, as motionless as bronze cannon set in battery. They well knew, in case either should miss with their firearms, that a hand-to-hand struggle with the ferocious tigers would be the result; a combat of knives and claws--a combat to the death. Yes; at the bottom of that little valley it would be necessary for them to conquer or die. They knew this without exhibiting the slightest show of fear. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. UNEXPECTED RECOGNITIONS. It was not long before the spectators, who awaited this terrible conflict, perceived the jaguars advancing toward the crest of the ridge. All at once, however, the two made an abrupt pause, uttering a loud roar that seemed to express disappointment. They had just scented the presence of the two men within the cistern--from which the animals were now only a few paces distant. For a moment both male and female stood together, stretching their bodies out to their full length, and lashing their flanks with their long sinewy tails. Then, uttering another prolonged roar, they bounded simultaneously forward, passing, at a single leap, over a space of full twenty feet. A second spring brought them upon the crest of the ridge, upon which they had scarce rested an instant, before the quick sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a yell of agony, told that one of them had fallen to the hunter's bullet. The second jaguar appeared for the moment to have escaped, but not to have retreated. He was seen to launch himself into the bottom of the little valley; and then was heard a confusion of noises--human voices mingling with the howls of the fierce brute, and the sound of a struggle, as if jaguar and hunters were rolling over one another. A second report now struck upon the ear, followed as before by the expiring yell of the tiger, and then succeeded a profound silence, which told that the wild scene was at an end. The great trapper was now perceived scrambling up to the ridge--towards which the whole of the travellers had advanced to meet him. "See!" he said, addressing himself to his admiring auditory, "see what a brace of Kentucky rifles and a good knife can do in the hands of those who know how to manage them!" The darkness, however, hindered the spectators from making out the tableau which was exhibited at the bottom of the little valley. A few minutes afterwards the moon lighted up the scene, and then could be observed the dead bodies of the two tigers, stretched along the ground by the water's edge, while the other trapper upon his knees was engaged in bathing with cold water a long scar, which he had received from the claws of the last killed jaguar, and which extended from behind his ear nearly down to his waist. Fortunately this ugly-looking wound was no more than skin-deep, and therefore not very dangerous. "What signify the sharpest claws compared with the scratch of a knife!" cried he, pointing to the nearest of the jaguars, whose upturned belly exhibited a huge cut of more than a foot in length, and through which the entrails of the animal protruded. "Can any of you tell us," continued he, without thinking further about his wound, "if there is a hacienda in this neighbourhood where one might sell these two beautiful jaguar skins, as well as the hide of a panther we've got?" "Certainly," replied Benito, "there is the Hacienda del Venado, where we are going. There you may get not only five dollars apiece for the skins, but also the bounty of ten dollars more." "What say you, Canadian?" inquired the trapper, addressing his great comrade. "Will that do?" "Certainly," replied the Canadian, "forty-five dollars is not to be sneezed at; and when we have had a short nap we shall make tracks for the hacienda. We shall be likely to get there before these gentlemen, whose horses have taken a fancy to have a bit of a gallop, and I guess it will be some time before they lay hands on them again." "Don't be uneasy about us!" rejoined the ex-herdsman. "It's not the first time I've seen a horse drove _stampedoed_, nor the first time I've collected them again. I've not quite forgotten my old business, and as soon as it is daylight, with the permission of the Senor Don Estevan, I shall go in search of them." No one made any opposition to the rekindling of the fire, for the night had grown cooler, and it was not yet midnight. The domestics, no longer afraid of going out into the woods, collected fresh fagots--enough to last till morning--and the preparations for supper, which had been interrupted by the approach of the jaguars, were now continued with renewed zeal. The blaze soon flared up bright and joyous as ever--the broiling mutton sent forth its delicious odour, sharpening to a keen edge the appetites of the travellers as they stood around the fire. Don Estevan and the Senator now called before them the two intrepid hunters, who had rendered them a service that fully deserved their thanks. "Come hither, brave hunters!" said the Senator, "you, whose daring behaviour has been of such service to us. A slice of roast mutton and a cup of Catalonian wine will not be out of place, after the rude struggle you have sustained." "Ugh!" said the eldest of the trappers, in presenting his athletic form in front of the fire, "throwing a couple of poor tigers is no great feat. If it had been an affair of a dozen Comanches, or Pawnees, that would have been different. Howsomever, a chunk of roast mutton is welcome after a fight, as well as before one, and we're ready for it with your permission. Come along, comrade! Here's some chawing for you!" "And you, young man," continued Don Estevan, addressing himself to Tiburcio, who stood at some distance apart, "you will also partake of our hospitality?" Tiburcio by a sign accepted the invitation, and approached the fire. For the first time his countenance came fairly under the light; and as it did so, the eyes of the Spaniard seemed to devour him with their regard. In truth the physiognomy of Tiburcio Arellanos was of no ordinary character, and would have merited observation from one less interested in examining it than was Don Estevan Arechiza. An aquiline nose, black eyes with thick dark eyebrows and long lashes, and olive complexion--that appeared almost white in contrast with the jetty blackness of his beard--but above all, the extreme contraction of a thin upper lip, indicated the countenance of a man of quick resolves and fiery passions. A shade of tranquil melancholy over these features to some extent tempered their half-fierce expression. The hair was of a chestnut brown colour, and hung in luxuriant curls over a forehead large and of noble outline. Broad shoulders and well-developed limbs denoted a man of European vigour, whose personal strength would be equal, if occasion required it, to the execution of those passionate designs nourished under the tropical skies of Spanish America. Tiburcio Arellanos was in truth the type of a noble and ancient race, transplanted into a country still less than half civilised. "The very form and bearing of Don Juan de Mediana!" muttered Don Estevan to himself, more than half convinced that the young man before his eyes was the son of him whose name he had pronounced. No one could have read his suspicions, hidden under the mask of perfect calmness. There was one other man in that group who was struck by the aspect of Tiburcio. This was the big trapper, who on first sight of the young man's face under the light of the fire started and closed his eyes, as if lightning had flashed before them. He was about to rush forward, when a second look seemed to convince him he had made a mistake; and smiling at his having done so, he kept his place. His eyes then wandered around the group of faces that encircled the fire, with that scrutinising glance, that showed a capacity for reading the characters of men in their looks. Having finished this scrutiny, he called out to his companion, who had not yet got forward:-- "Come along, partner; or people will say you are ashamed to show yourself. Prove to these gentlemen that you know how to enjoy life like other folk." "O certainly--I am coming--all right, comrade." And the next moment the younger trapper made his appearance within the circle of light. An odd-looking object he appeared, with his huge fur cap upon his head, drawn down in front, so as to cover his eyes, and an old striped cotton handkerchief fastened over his face and throat, in such a manner as to conceal the scar made by the claws of the tiger. With the cap and kerchief, the greater portion of his countenance was masked, leaving visible only his mouth, with a double row of grand teeth, that promised to perform their part upon the roast mutton. Having reached the fire, he sat down with his back to it--so that his half-masked face was still further concealed in shadow--and being supplied, as well as his comrade, with a large cut from the joint, he at once set about satisfying the appetite of hunger. "Are there many men of your size and strength where you come from?" inquired the Senator, addressing himself to the largest of the two hunters. "In Canada," answered the latter, "I should not be remarked among others; ask my comrade there!" "He speaks true," grumbled the other. "But you are not both from the same country?" said Tragaduros. "No--my comrade is a native of--" "Of New York State," hastily interposed the younger of the two trappers--a reply which astonished the Canadian, but which he refrained from contradicting. "And what is your calling?" continued the Senator, interrogatively. "_Coureurs des bois_, wood-rangers," answered the Canadian. "That is to say, we pass our time in ranging the woods, with no other object than to avoid being shut up in towns. Alas! it is a profession likely soon to come to an end; and when we two are gone, the race of wood-rangers will run out in America, since neither of us has any sons to carry on the business of their father." There was a tone of melancholy in the last words of the trapper's speech that contrasted strangely with his rude manner: something that seemed to evince a certain degree of regret. Don Estevan, noticing this, now entered into the conversation. "I fear it is a poor business you follow, my brave fellows! But if you feel inclined to leave it off for a while, and take a part in an expedition that we are about to set on foot, I can promise to fill your caps with gold dust. What say you?" "No!" brusquely responded the younger of the trappers. "Each to his own business," added the Canadian. "We are not gold-seekers. We love to range freely where we please, without leader, and without being controlled by any one--in a word, free as the sun or the prairie breeze." These answers were given in a tone so firm and peremptory that the Spaniard saw it would be of no use combating a resolution which was evidently not to be shaken, and therefore he declined to make any further offers. Supper was soon over, and each of the travellers set about making himself as comfortable as possible for the remainder of the night. In a short time all, with the exception of Tiburcio, were asleep. But Tiburcio was yet a mere youth, an orphan, who had lately lost a mother for whom he had a profound affection; and above all, Tiburcio was in love--three reasons why he could not sleep. A deep sadness had possession of his spirits. He felt himself in an exceptional situation--his past was equally mysterious with his future. "Oh, my mother! my mother!" murmured he, despairingly, to himself, "why did you not tell me who I am!" And as he said this he appeared to listen--as if the breeze, sighing through the leaves, would give a response to his interrogation. Little thought he at the moment that one of those men, lying near him under the light of the moon, could have given the desired answer--could have told him the name which he ought to hear. Nevertheless, on her death-bed, the widow of Marcos Arellanos had revealed to him a secret--perhaps almost as interesting as that of his birth and parentage. The secret of the Golden Valley, which had been made known to Tiburcio, had opened his eyes to a world of pleasant dreams. A prospect which hitherto had appeared to him only as a chimerical vision was now viewed by him in the light of a reality. A gulf that before seemed impassable was now bridged over as if by the hand of some powerful fairy. Gold can work such miracles. Had he not in prospect the possession of a rich placer? Would not that enable him to overcome all obstacles both of the past and the future? Might he not, by the puissance of gold, discover who were his real parents? and by the same means, might he not realise that sweeter dream that had now for two years held possession of his heart? As he lay upon the ground, kept awake by these hopeful reflections, a vision was passing before his mind's eye. It was a scene in which were many figures. A gentleman of rich apparel--a young girl his daughter--a train of servants all affrighted and in confusion. They have lost their way in the middle of the forest, and are unable to extricate themselves from the labyrinth of llianas and thickets that surround them. A guide appears in the presence of a young hunter, who engages to conduct them to the place whither they wish to go. That guide is Tiburcio himself, who in his reverie--as in the real scene that occurred just two years before--scarce observes either the gentleman in rich apparel nor the attendants that surround him, but only remembers the beautiful dark eyes and raven hair of the young girl. Tiburcio reassures them of safety, guides them, during a journey of two days--two days that appeared to him to pass only too rapidly. In his waking dream one scene is forcibly recalled. He remembers a night halt in the woods. All were asleep around him--the attendants upon the grass--the rich gentleman upon his cloak, and the young girl upon the skin of a jaguar which the guide himself had supplied. He alone remained awake. The moon was shining upon all; and a delicious perfume from the blossoms of the sweet sassafras trees that grew near was wafted toward them upon the gentle breeze. The blue heaven above appeared in perfect harmony with the tranquil scene below. The guide, with admiring eyes, looked upon that lovely virgin form and listened to the soft breathing of that innocent bosom. To him it was a moment of delicious anguish... Then the vision changed--the young girl at length reached her home, and entered the grand dwelling of her father. There the guide remained a whole week a welcome guest--drunk with love yet not daring to raise his eyes to the object of his passion. Afterwards, too, at the festivals of the neighbouring villages, a hundred times had he gazed upon her; but what of that? he was only a poor _gambusino_, and she the daughter of the richest proprietor in the province! But now--with the secret of the Golden Valley--Tiburcio suddenly saw himself powerful and rich; hope had sprung up within his bosom; and amidst the reverie occasioned by these delightful thoughts, he at last fell asleep. It is scarce necessary to add that the young girl who recalled these sweet souvenirs, and who was now mingling in his dreams, was the daughter of Don Augustin Pena, the proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado. At daybreak the sleepers were awakened by the ringing of a bell and the clatter of hoofs. It was the _cavallada_ returning to camp, under the charge of Benito, who had thus kept his promise. The travellers were soon upon their feet, but it was soon perceived that the two trappers were not amongst them. These had gone away without any one having observed their departure! The horses being saddled and bridled and the mules packed, the cavalcade continued its journey towards the hacienda--Don Estevan and the Senator, as before, riding in front. It was after sunset before the walls of the hacienda were descried in the distance, already assuming a sombre hue under the fast increasing obscurity of the twilight. But through the wide forest tract which surrounded the hacienda a well-defined road led in the direction of the dwelling, which the travellers could follow even in the darkest night, and upon this road the cavalcade was now seen to enter. A few minutes before they had passed into the forest from the open plain two men were seen standing near the edge of a thicket, by which they were hidden from the view of the travellers. These men might have been easily recognised by their long rifles as strangers to that part of the country; they were, in fact, the two trappers, the Canadian and his comrade, who had that morning so abruptly taken leave of the camp. "You must have been deceived by some accidental resemblance," said the Canadian to his companion. "No," replied the latter; "I am sure it is he. Twenty years have not made much change either in his face or figure. His voice is just the same as it was when I was the coast-guard, Pepe the Sleeper. My eyes and ears are as good as they were then, and I assure you, Bois-Rose, that he's the very man." "Strange enough," answered Bois-Rose (for the great Canadian trapper was no other than Bois-Rose himself). "After all, one is more likely to meet an enemy he is in search of than a friend. It may be the same." As he finished this speech, the Canadian, leaning upon his long rifle, stood looking after the cavalcade, which was just disappearing into the forest road that led to the hacienda. After remaining a few minutes in this position, the two trappers turned back again into the forest, and soon disappeared under the shadows of the trees. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE HACIENDA DEL VENADO. The Hacienda del Venado--like all buildings of this kind situated upon the Indian frontier, and of course exposed to the attacks of the savages--was a species of citadel, as well as a country dwelling-house. Built with sun-dried bricks and hewn stone, crowned by a crenelled parapet, and defended by huge, massive doors, it could have sustained a siege from an enemy more expert in strategy than the tribe of Apaches who were its neighbours. At one corner stood a tower of moderate height, which crowned the chapel belonging to the hacienda, serving for the great clock as well as for a belfry. In case the principal part of the building should be forced, this tower would answer for an asylum almost impregnable. Finally, a strong stockade composed of trunks of the _palmetto_, completely encircled the building; within which enclosure were the quarters destined for the domestics of the hacienda--as also for the herdsmen, and such ordinary guests as from time to time came to seek a passing hospitality. Outside this privileged enclosure was a group of from twenty to thirty huts, composing a species of little village. These were inhabited by the day-labourers (peons) and their families attached to the hacienda--who, in case of danger, would escape within the enclosure for safety and protection. Such was the Hacienda del Venado. The proprietor, Don Augustin Pena, was a man of great opulence. In addition to a rich gold mine which he worked, at no great distance off, he was the owner of countless herds of horses, mules, and cattle, that in a half-wild state roamed over the vast savannahs and forests that constituted the twenty leagues of land belonging to the hacienda. Such a vast tract of territory belonging to one man is by no means a rare thing in northern Mexico. At this time Don Augustin was a widower, and his family consisted of only one daughter--the young girl already introduced to the reader. Considering the immense heritage that the Dona Rosario--or, as she was more gracefully called, Rosarita--was likely to bring to whoever should become her husband, it was natural that an alliance with Don Augustin should be the object of many an ambition; in fact her beauty without the grand fortune--which, at her father's death, she was to become mistress of--would of itself have been enough to have challenged a crowd of pretenders to her hand. The Andalusian type has lost nothing in the northern provinces of Mexico. Its purity of outline is there associated with freshness of colour, and this happy mixture of graces was exhibited in the beautiful countenance of Rosarita. We have described her with black eyes and hair of raven hue; but hers was a beauty that words can but faintly portray, and about which all description would be superfluous. And this lovely creature bloomed in the very midst of the desert, like the flower of the cactus which blossoms and fades under the eye of God alone. The immense plain in the midst of which stood the Hacienda del Venado presented a double aspect. In front of the house only did the ground show any traces of cultivation. On that side fields of Indian corn and vast olive plantations denoted the presence and skilful labour of man. Behind the hacienda--at some hundred paces distance from the stockade-- the clearing ended, and thence extended the virgin forest in all its sombre and primitive majesty. The cultivated ground was intersected by a considerable stream of water. During the dry season it ran gently and silently along, but in the season of rain it would suddenly change into an impetuous torrent that inundated the whole plain, bearing huge rocks along in its current, and every year widening its channel. Perhaps the most powerful of Arab chiefs, the richest patriarch of ancient times, never counted such superb and numerous herds as roamed over the pasturage of the Hacienda del Venado. About an hour before sunset--on that same day on which the travellers departed from La Poza--two men, one on horseback, the other mounted on a mule, were seen traversing the plain in the direction of the hacienda. Both horse and mule were each a splendid specimen of his kind--the horse with fiery eye, broad chest, and curving, swan-like neck, was scarce more to be admired than the mule, that with fine, delicate limbs, rounded flanks, and shining coat, walked side by side with him. This horseman was the master of the hacienda, Don Augustin Pena. His costume consisted of a hat of Guayaquil grass, a shirt of the finest cambric, an embroidered vest, and silk velvet pantaloons fastened down the sides with large buttons of gold. His companion, the rider of the mule, was the chaplain of the hacienda, a reverend Franciscan monk in a sort of half convent costume. This consisted of an ample blue frock confined around the waist with a thick cord of silk, the tassels of which hung down below his knees. Beneath this appeared a pair of large riding-boots heavily spurred. Upon his head a grey beaver, somewhat jauntily set, gave to the Franciscan an appearance rather soldier-like than monastic. The haciendado appeared to be regarding with a look of pride his rich possessions--extending beyond view on every side of him--as if he was reflecting how much this kind of wealth was superior to golden ingots shut idly in a chest; while the monk seemed to be absorbed in some profound reverie. "By Saint Julian! the patron saint of travellers!" said Don Augustin, breaking silence, "you have been more than twenty-four hours absent! I was afraid, reverend father, that some jaguar had swallowed both you and your mule." "Man proposes, and God disposes," replied the monk. "When I took my departure from the hacienda, I did not except to be gone more than a few hours--giving Christian burial to poor Joaquin, that had been killed by one of the bulls--but just as I had blessed the earth where they had buried him, a young man came galloping up like a thunderbolt, both himself and horse all of a sweat, to beg that I would go along with him and confess his mother who was upon her death-bed. Only ten leagues he said it was, and I should have been glad for a pretext to get off from such a difficult turn of duty; but at the earnest entreaty of the young fellow, and knowing who he was, I could not refuse him. Who do you think he was?" "How should I know?" replied the haciendado. "Tiburcio, the adopted son of the famous gambusino, Marcos Arellanos." "How! his mother dead! I am sorry. He is a brave youth, and I have not forgotten the service he once did me. But for him we should all have been dead of thirst, my daughter, my people, and myself. If he is left without resources, I hope you have said to him that he will find a welcome at the Hacienda del Venado." "No--I have not," replied the monk. "And why?" "Because this young fellow is desperately in love with your daughter; it is my duty to tell you so." "What signifies that, so long as my daughter does not love him?" replied Don Augustin. "And if she did, where would she find a man possessing higher physical or moral qualities than this same Tiburcio? I never dreamt of having for my son-in-law any other than an intelligent man, brave enough to defend the frontier against these hordes of savage Indians, and just such a man is young Arellanos. But in truth I forget myself; I have this day designed for Rosarita a husband of a more exalted station." "And it may be that you have done wrong," rejoined the monk, in a serious tone; "from what I suspect--in fact, what I may say I know--this Tiburcio might make a more valuable son-in-law than you imagine." "It's too late then," said Don Augustin. "I have given my word, and I cannot retract it." "It is just about this matter I wish to speak to you, if you have time to hear me." At this moment the two horsemen, having passed the stockade, had arrived at the foot of the stone stairway--which led up to the portico, and thence into the grand sala of the hacienda--and while dismounting, their dialogue was interrupted. This sala was a large room, which, according to the practice in hot countries, was so arranged as to be continually kept cool by a current of air passing lengthwise through its whole extent. Fine Chinese mats covered the floor, while richly painted window-blinds prevented the rays of the sun from entering the apartment. The walls, whitened with stucco, were adorned with rare illuminated paintings set in gold frames, some leathern chairs called _butacas_, several side tables--upon one of which stood a silver brazero filled with red cinders of charcoal--these, with a _fauteuil_ or two, and a mahogany couch of Anglo-American manufacture, completed the furniture of the apartment. Upon a table of polished balsam-wood stood several porous jars containing water; beside them, on a large silver waiter, were confections of several kinds; while heaped upon other dishes, also of solid silver, were fruits both of the tropic and temperate climes-- oranges, granadillas, limes, and pitayas, here brought together to tempt the appetite or assuage the thirst. The appearance of these preparations denoted that Don Augustin expected company. As soon as they had entered within the sala, the monk, observing the well garnished tables, inquired if such was the case. "Yes," answered the haciendado, "Don Estevan de Arechiza has sent me word that he will arrive this evening with a somewhat numerous train, and I have taken measures to entertain a guest of such importance. But you say you wish to speak to me about some business--what is it, Friar Jose Maria?" The two now sat down, each choosing an easy-chair, and while Don Augustin was lighting a cigar the monk commenced speaking as follows: "I found the old woman seated upon a bank outside the door of her hut, whither she had dragged herself to look out for my arrival. `Bless you, good father!' said she, `you have arrived in time to receive my last confession. But while you rest a little, I wish you to listen to what I am going to say to him whom I have always treated as my own child, and to whom I intend to leave a legacy of vengeance.'" "What! holy father!" interrupted Don Augustin, "surely you did not permit this infraction of God's law, who says, _vengeance belongs only to Him_?" "Why not?" replied the monk. "In these deserts, where neither laws nor tribunals exist, every man must be his own avenger." With this strange apology for his conduct, the monk continued: "I sat down and listened to what she had to say to this adopted son. It was this:--`Your father was _not_ killed by the Indians, as we were led to believe. It was his companion who murdered him--for the purpose of being the sole possessor of a secret, which I shall presently disclose-- but to you only, Marcos.' "`God alone knows who this man was,' said Tiburcio, `he alone knows him.' "`He only!' cried the dying woman, with an air of disdain. `Is this the language of a man? When the Indians come to steal his cattle from the vaquero, does he sit still and say: _God only can prevent them_? No!-- with his eye bent, and his hand ready, he follows upon their traces, till he has recovered his herds, or perished in the attempt. Go you and do as the vaquero! Track out the assassin of your father. That is the last wish of her who nourished you, and has never failed in her affection.' "`I shall obey you, my mother,' answered the young man, in a firm voice. "`Listen, then, to what I have got to say!' continued the widow. `The murder of Arellanos is no longer a supposition, but a reality. I have it from a herdsman who came from the country beyond Tubac. Some days before, he had met two travellers. One was your father Marcos; the other was a stranger to him. The herdsman was travelling on the same route, and followed them at some distance behind. At a place where certain signs showed that the two travellers had made their bivouac, the herdsman had found the traces of a terrible struggle. The grass was bent down, and saturated with blood. There were tracks of blood leading to a precipice that hung over a stream of water; and most likely over this the victim was precipitated. This victim must have been Marcos; for the herdsman was able to follow the trail of the murderer by the tracks of his horse; and a little further on he noticed where the horse had stumbled on the left fore-leg. The assassin himself must have been wounded in the struggle, for the herdsman could tell by his tracks leading to the precipice that he had limped on one leg.'" Don Augustin listened with attention to this account--proving the wonderful sagacity of his countrymen, of which he had almost every day some new proof. The monk went on with his narration. "`Swear then, Tiburcio, to avenge your father!' continued the dying woman. `Swear it, and I promise to make you as rich as the proudest in the land; rich enough to bend to your wishes the most powerful--even the daughter of Augustin Pena, for whom your passion has not escaped me. This day you may aspire to her hand without being deemed foolish; for I tell you, you are as rich as her own father. Swear, then, to pursue to the death the murderer of Arellanos?' "`I swear it,' rejoined Tiburcio, with a solemn gesture. "Upon this, the dying woman placed in the hands of the young man a piece of paper, upon which Arellanos, before leaving his home for the last time, had traced the route of his intended journey. "`With the treasure which that paper will enable you to find,' continued the dying woman, `you will have gold enough to corrupt the daughter of a viceroy, if you wish it. Meanwhile, my child, leave me for a while to confess to this holy man: a son should not always hear the confession of his mother.'" The monk, in a few more words, related the closing scene of the widow's death, and then finished by saying:-- "Now, Don Augustin, you perceive my reason for saying that this young fellow, whatever may be his family, is not the less likely to make a good match for the Dona Rosarita." "I agree with you," responded the haciendado; "but, as I have said to you, my word is given to Don Estevan de Arechiza." "What!" exclaimed the monk, "this Spaniard to be your son-in-law!" Don Augustin smiled mysteriously as he replied:-- "He! no, good Fray Jose, not he, but another. Don Estevan does not wish this alliance." "Caspita!" exclaimed the monk. "Does he think it beneath him?" "It may be he has the right to think so," added Don Augustin, again smiling mysteriously. "But who is this man?" inquired the monk, with an air of surprise. Just as Don Augustin was about to reply, a servant entered the _sala_. "Senor Don Augustin," said the servant, "there are two travellers at the gate, who beg of you to give them a night's lodging. One of them says that he is known to you." "Bid them welcome!" replied the haciendado, "and let them enter. Whether they are known to me or not, two guests more or less will be nothing here." A few seconds after, the two travellers had advanced to the foot of the stone stairway, where they stood awaiting the presence of the master of the house. One of them was a man of about thirty years of age--whose open countenance and high forehead denoted courage, combined with intelligence. His figure presented an appearance of strength and vigorous activity, and he was somewhat elegantly dressed--though without any signs of foppery. "Ah! is it you, Pedro Diaz?" cried Don Augustin, recognising him. "Are there any Indians to be exterminated, since I find you coming into these solitudes of ours?" Pedro Diaz was, in truth, known as the most celebrated hater and hunter of Indians in the whole province--hence the strange salutation with which Don Augustin received him. "Before answering you, Senor Don Augustin, permit me to introduce to you the king of _gambusinos_ and prince of musicians, the Senor Don Diego Oroche, who scents a placer of gold as a hound would a deer, and who plays upon the mandolin as only he can play." The individual presented under the name of Oroche, solemnly saluted the haciendado. It must have been a long time since the prince of gambusinos had found an opportunity to exercise the subtle talent of which his companion spoke--or else the cards had been of late unlucky--for his outward man presented an appearance that was scarcely more than comfortable. In reaching his hand to his hat, it was not necessary for him to disarrange the folds of his cloak. It only required that he should choose one of the numerous rents that appeared in this garment, to pass through it his long-clawed fingers--whose length and thinness denoted him a player on the mandolin. In reality, he carried one of these instruments slung over his shoulders. Don Augustin invited both Diaz and his singular companion to enter. When they were seated in the saloon Diaz began the conversation. "We have heard," said he, "of an expedition being got up at Arispe to proceed to _Apacheria_; and this gentleman and I are on our way to take part in it. Your hacienda, Senor Don Augustin, chanced to lie in our way, and we have entered to ask your permission to lodge here for the night. By daybreak we shall continue our route for Arispe." "You will not have to go so far," replied Don Augustin, with a smile. "The expedition is already on foot, and I expect the leader of it here this very night. He will be glad of your services, I guarantee you, and it will save you several days' journey." "A miracle in our favour!" exclaimed Diaz; "and I thank God for the lucky coincidence." "The thirst of gold has caught you also, Pedro Diaz?" asked Don Augustin, smiling significantly. "No, thank God!" replied Diaz, "nothing of the sort. Heave the searching for gold to experienced gambusinos, such as the Senor Oroche here. No--you know well that I have no other passion than hatred for the ferocious savages who have done so much ill towards me and mine. It is only because I hope through this expedition once more to carry steel and fire into their midst, that I take any part in it." "It is right," said the haciendado, who like all dwellers upon the frontiers exposed to Indian incursions, nourished in his heart a hatred for the savages almost equal to that of Diaz himself. "I approve of your sentiments, Don Pedro Diaz; and if you will permit me to offer you a gage of mine, I beg you will accept from me the present of a horse I have--one that will carry you to your satisfaction. I promise you that the Indian you pursue, while on his back, will require to go as fast as the wind itself, if you do not overtake him." "He shall be my war-horse," exclaimed Diaz, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at the gift. "I shall ornament his crest with Indian scalps, in honour of him who gave him to me." "I cannot divine what has delayed Don Estevan," said the haciendado, changing the subject of conversation. "He should have been here three hours before this, that is, if he passed the night at La Poza." Don Augustin had scarce finished his speech when a sudden and graceful apparition glided into the saloon. It was his daughter, the beautiful Rosarita. As if the expected cavalcade only awaited her presence, the clattering of hoofs at the same instant was heard outside; and by the light of the torches which the domestics had carried out, Don Estevan and his suite could be seen riding up to the entrance of the hacienda. CHAPTER NINETEEN. ROSARITA. On the route from La Poza it had fallen to the lot of Cuchillo and Tiburcio to ride side by side, but for all this few words had passed between them. Although Cuchillo had not the slightest idea of renouncing his dire design, he continued to hide his thoughts under an air of good-humour--which when need be he knew how to assume. He had made several attempts to read the thoughts of the young gambusino, but the latter was on his guard, seeking in his turn to identify Cuchillo with the assassin of his father. No opportunity offered, however; and in this game of mutual espionage, neither had the advantage. Nevertheless, an instinctive and mutual hatred became established between the two, and before the day's journey was over, each regarded the other as a mortal foe. Cuchillo was more than ever determined to execute his hellish purpose--since a crime less or more would be nothing to him--while Tiburcio, keenly remembering the oath which he had made to his adopted mother, was resolved on keeping it, and only awaited the time when he should be sure of the assassin. We need scarcely add that Tiburcio in the accomplishment of his vow, had no thought of playing the assassin. No. Whenever and wherever the murderer should be found, he was to die by Tiburcio's hand; but only in fair and open fight. But there were other painful reflections that occupied Tiburcio's mind during the journey. The nearer he approached the object of his love the greater seemed to be the distance between them. Though a man may hope to obtain what he only wishes for in a moderate way, yet when anything is ardently yearned after, the obstacles appear insurmountable. Hence the secret of many a heroic resolution. When Tiburcio was reclining by the well of La Poza, his sweet dream hindered him from thinking of these obstacles; but now that the journey was nearly ended, and he drew near to the grand hacienda, his spirits fell, and a feeling of hopelessness took possession of his soul. Hence it was that he formed the resolution to put an end to the painful suspense which he had now a long time endured; and that very night, if possible, he intended to ascertain his position in the eyes of Dona Rosarita. Come what might, he resolved to ask that question, whose answer might render him at once the happiest or the most miserable of men. When Tiburcio had first met Dona Rosarita, with her father and his servants, in the depth of the forest, he knew nothing of the rank of the party thus wandering astray. Even during the two happy days in which he acted as their guide, he was ignorant of the name of the beautiful young girl, to whom his eyes and his heart rendered a continual homage. He therefore permitted himself to indulge in those pleasant dreams which have their origin in a hopeful love. It was only after he had learned the quality of his fellow-travellers--that the young lady was the daughter of the opulent proprietor, Don Augustin Pena--it was only on ascertaining this that Tiburcio perceived the folly of his aspirations, and the distance that lay between him and the object of his love. If then the secret, so unexpectedly revealed to him, had given him a desire for the possession of riches, it was not for the sake of being rich. No; a nobler object inspired him--one more in keeping with his poetic character. He desired riches only that with them he might bridge over the chasm that separated him from Rosarita. Unhappily he could not hide from himself the too evident fact that he was not the sole possessor of the secret. All at once it occurred to him that the expedition to which he found himself thus accidentally attached could have no other object than this very placer of the Golden Valley. Most likely the very man who shared the secret with him--the murderer of Marcos Arellanos--was among the men enrolled under the orders of the chief Don Estevan. The ambiguous questioning of Cuchillo, his comprehension of events, the stumbling of his horse, with other slighter indications, appeared to throw some light upon the obscurity of Tiburcio's conjectures; but not enough. How was he (Tiburcio) to arrive at a complete understanding? A still more painful uncertainty pressed upon his spirit, as they approached the dwelling of Don Augustin. What reception would he meet with from Dona Rosarita? he, a poor gambusino--without resources, without family--poorly dressed even--a mere follower, confounded with the common mob of adventurers who composed the expedition? Sad presentiments were passing in his mind, as the cavalcade of which he formed so humble an appendage arrived at the palisade enclosure of the hacienda. The gates were soon open to receive them; and the moment after Don Augustin himself welcomed the travellers at the front entrance of the mansion. With that ease and elegance, almost peculiar to Spanish manners, he received Don Estevan and the Senator, while the cordiality with which he welcomed Tiburcio appeared to the young man a happy omen. The travellers all dismounted. Cuchillo remained outside--partly out of respect to his chief and partly to look after his horse. As to Tiburcio, he had not the same motives for acting thus, and therefore entered along with Don Estevan and Tragaduros, his face pale and his heart beating audibly. The room into which they had been shown was the grand sala already described, and in which certain preparations had been made for a magnificent banquet. But Tiburcio saw nothing of all this. His eyes beheld only one object--for there stood a beautiful girl whose lips rendered paler the carnation red of the granadillas, and the hue of whose cheeks eclipsed the rosy tint of the _sandias_, scattered profusely over the tables. It was Rosarita herself. A silken scarf covered her head, permitting the thick plaits of her dark hair to shine through its translucent texture, and just encircling the outline of her oval face. This scarf, hanging down below the waist, but half concealed her white rounded arms, and only partially hindered the view of a figure of the most elegantly voluptuous tournure. Around her waist another scarf of bright scarlet formed a sort of cincture or belt, leaving its long fringed ends to hang over the skirt of her silken robe, and blending its colours with those of the light veil that fell down from her shoulders. It was a costume that seemed well-suited to her striking beauty, and the effect of the _coup d'oeil_ upon the heart of poor Tiburcio was at once pleasant and embarrassing. Notwithstanding the gracious smile with which she acknowledged his presence, there was a certain hauteur about the proffered welcome--as if it was a mere expression of gratitude for the service he had formerly rendered. Tiburcio observed this with a feeling of chagrin, and sighed as he contrasted her cold formality of speech with the abandon and freedom of their former relations. But he could not help noticing a still greater contrast when he looked at his own poor garments and compared them with the elegant costumes of his two travelling companions. While Don Estevan was entertaining his host with some account of what had happened on their journey, the Senator appeared to have eyes only for the beautiful Rosarita--upon whom he was not slow in lavishing a string of empty compliments. The young girl appeared to Tiburcio to receive these compliments with a smile very different from that she had accorded to himself; he also observed, with a feeling of bitterness, the superior easiness of manner in which those whom he regarded as his rivals addressed themselves to her. With anguish he noticed the colour become more vivid upon her cheeks; while the heaving of her bosom, as the scarf rose and fell in regular vibrations, did not escape the keen glance of jealousy. In fact the young girl appeared to receive pleasure from these gallantries, like a village belle who listens to the flatteries of some grand lord, at the same time that a voice from within whispers her that the sweet compliments she is receiving are also merited. Don Estevan was not unobservant of this by-play that was passing around him. He easily read in the expressive looks of Tiburcio the secret of his heart, and involuntarily contrasted the manly beauty of the young man with the ordinary face and figure of the Senator. As if from this he apprehended some obstacles to his secret projects, more than once his dark eyebrows became contracted, and his eyes shone with a sombre fire. By little and little he ceased to take part in the conversation, and at length appeared wrapped in a profound meditation. Insensibly also an air of melancholy stole over the features of Rosarita. As for Don Augustin and the Senator they appeared at once to be on good terms with each other, and carried on the conversation without permitting it to flag for a moment. Just then Cuchillo, accompanied by Baraja, entered to pay their respects to the master of the hacienda. Their entrance within the sala of course created some slight disarrangement in the tableaux of the _dramatis personal_ already there. This confusion gave Tiburcio an opportunity to carry out a desperate resolution he had formed, and profiting by it, he advanced nearer to Rosarita. "I will give my life," said he to her, in a side whisper, "for one moment alone with you. I wish to speak of an affair of the highest importance." The young girl regarded him for a moment with an air of astonishment, further expressed by a disdainful movement of the lip; although, considering their former relations, and also the free familiarity of Mexican manners, she might have been expected to have excused his freedom. Tiburcio stood waiting her reply in a supplicating attitude, and as everything seemed spontaneous with her, he had not long to wait. She answered in a few words: "To-night then--at ten o'clock I shall be at my window." Scarcely had the thrilling tones of her voice ceased to vibrate on the ear of Tiburcio, when supper was announced, and the guests were shown into another room. Here a table, splendidly set out, occupied the middle of the apartment, above which hung a great chandelier fitted with numerous waxen candles: these gave out a brilliant and cheerful light, that was reflected from hundreds of shining vessels of massive silver of antique forms, arranged upon the table below. The upper end of the table was occupied by the host himself and his principal guests. His daughter sat on his left hand, while Don Estevan was placed upon the right. After them, the Senator and the chaplain, and Pedro Diaz. At the lower end were seated Tiburcio, Cuchillo, Baraja and Oroche. The chaplain pronounced the _benedicite_. Although it was no longer the same jumbling formula, _sans facon_, which he had used at the death-bed of the widow of Arellanos, yet the air of mock solemnity and unction with which the grace was uttered, recalled to the heart of Tiburcio that sad souvenir, which recent events had for a time caused him to forget. Cheerfulness soon reigned around the table. The expedition was talked of, and toasts drunk to its success. Vast silver goblets of antique shape were used for wine glasses, and these, passing rapidly from hand to mouth, soon produced an abundance of good-humour among the guests. "Gentlemen!" said Don Augustin, when the festive scene was near its end, "before retiring I have the honour to invite you all to a hunt of the wild horse on my estate--which is to come off early in the morning." Each of the guests accepted the invitation, with that _abandon_ natural to people who have made a good supper. With regard to Tiburcio, jealousy was devouring him. He scarce ate of the rich viands placed before him. He kept his eyes constantly fixed upon Don Estevan, who, during the supper appeared to pay marked attentions to Rosarita, and for every one of which Tiburcio thanked him with a look of hatred. As soon as the supper was ended, the young man silently left the room and repaired to the chamber that had been assigned to him for the night. At an early hour--for such was the custom of the hacienda--all the guests had retired to their sleeping apartments--even the domestics were no longer to be seen in the great hall; and a profound silence reigned throughout the vast building, as if all the world had gone to rest. But all the world was not yet asleep. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE ASSIGNATION. Alone in his chamber, Tiburcio awaited impatiently the hour named by Rosarita. From his window he cast a distracted glance over the plain that stretched away from the walls of the hacienda. The moon was up in the heavens, and the road leading to Tubac appeared under her light shining like a vast ribbon extended through the middle of the forest. The forest itself appeared asleep; not even a breath stirred the leaves of the trees, and the only sounds he heard were those caused by the half-wild herds that wandered through its glades. Now and then the bellowing of a bull denoted the uneasiness of the animal--perhaps from the presence of those terrible night robbers, the puma and jaguar. There was one other sound that reached the ear of Tiburcio, but this appeared to proceed from some part of the hacienda itself. It was the tinkling of a mandolin. The hour was appropriate to amorous reflections, as well as to thoughts of a graver character, and both presented themselves at that moment to the spirit of Tiburcio. Like all those whose life has been passed amid the depths of the desert, there was at the bottom of his heart a certain poetic temperament, at the same time that his soul exhibited that energetic vigour required by the dangers which surround such a life of solitude. His present position then was perfectly appropriate to this double character. His love was unreciprocated--the coolness of Rosarita, almost assured him of the painful fact--and some secret presentiment told him that he was encompassed by enemies. While thus sadly reflecting on his situation, an object came under his eyes that attracted his attention. It was the gleam of a fire, which appeared to be kindled under cover of the forest at no great distance from the hacienda. The light was partly eclipsed by that of the moon, but still it could be traced by the greater redness of its rays, as they trembled mysteriously on the silver foliage of the trees. It denoted the halting-place of some traveller. "So near the hacienda!" muttered Tiburcio, in entering upon a new series of reflections. "What can it mean? Why have these travellers not come here to demand hospitality? They have certainly some reason for keeping themselves at a distance? They may be unknown friends to me for heaven often sends such to those who stand in need of them. Cuchillo, Don Estevan, and this pompous Senator, all appear to be my enemies and all are secure under this roof! why might not these travellers, who appear to shun it for that very reason prove friends to me?" The hour of rendezvous had at length arrived. Tiburcio took up his _serape_ and his knife--the last, the only weapon he had--and prepared to go out from his chamber without making any noise. A fearful conflict of emotions was passing in his bosom; for he knew that in a few minutes would be decided the question of his happiness or misery. Before leaving his chamber, he looked once more through the window in the direction of the forest fire. It was still gleaming in the same place. While the lover, with cautious tread and wildly beating heart, was silently traversing the long gallery, and passing round to that side upon which opened the window of Rosarita, other scenes were passing elsewhere that must now be detailed. Since his arrival at the hacienda, Don Estevan, in presence of the other guests, had scarce found an opportunity to speak with the _haciendado_ on business that concerned both of them. Only for one moment had they been alone; and then the Spaniard had briefly related to Don Augustin the contract he had entered into with Cuchillo. When Don Estevan mentioned the secret of the Golden Valley, the haciendado appeared to make a slight gesture, as of disappointment, but their short dialogue ended abruptly by a promise to return to the subject at a later hour of the night. Don Estevan awaited until all the other guests had retired to their chambers. Then drawing the Senator into the bay of one of the large windows of the sala, he requested him to look up at the stars that were shining in all their brilliance in the blue sky above. "See!" said he, pointing to a particular constellation. "That is the _Chariot_ that has risen above the eastern horizon. Do you perceive a single star farther down, which scarce shines through the vapour? That is the emblem of _your_ star, which at present pale, to-morrow may be in the ascendant, and gleam more brightly than any of those that compose the brilliant cortege of the _Chariot_." "What mean you, Senor Arechiza?" "I shall tell you presently. Perhaps the hour is nearer than you think when you may be the future master of this hacienda, by a marriage with the charming daughter of its present owner, who is to be its heiress. Come presently to my apartment. The conversation which I am about to have with Don Augustin must be decisive, and I shall let you know the result." With these words the Spaniard and the Senator parted--the heart of the latter beating at the same time with hope and fear. Don Estevan now awaited the haciendado, who the moment after came up to him. The proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado, as has already been seen, had given to the Spaniard more than an ordinary welcome. His politeness to him when in presence of witnesses, was even less respectful than when the two were alone. On his side Don Estevan appeared to accept the homage of the other as if it were due to him. There was in his polite condescension towards the rich proprietor, and in the deference of the latter towards him, something resembling the relation that might be supposed to exist between a powerful sovereign and one of his noble vassals. It was not until after reiterated requests--orders they might almost be called--that Don Augustin consented to be seated in the presence of the other--whereas the Spaniard had flung himself into a _fauteuil_ on the moment of entering the chamber, and with the most perfect abandon. The haciendado waited silently for Don Estevan to speak. "Well, what do you think of your future son-in-law?" inquired the Spaniard. "I presume you never saw him before?" "Never," answered Don Augustin. "But if he was even less favoured by nature than he is, that would make no obstacle to our projects." "I know him; he only needs to be known to prove that he has in him the stuff of a gentleman, besides being a senator of the illustrious congress of Arispe." The Spaniard pronounced these words with a slight smile of contempt. "But, senor," continued he, "that is not the difficulty, the important matter is whether _your daughter_ will find him to her liking." "My daughter will act according to my wish," said the haciendado. "But supposing her heart is not free?" "The heart of Rosarita is free, Senor Don Estevan; how could it be otherwise--she whose life has been spent in the midst of these deserts?" "And what about this ragged young fellow, this Tiburcio Arellanos, whom you appear to know? he is in love with your daughter?" "I have been made aware of it this very morning." "If it is only a few hours, then, since you have been apprised of the secret of his passion, surely that of your daughter cannot have to this time escaped you?" "The truth is," answered Don Augustin, smiling, "that I understand better how to follow the traces of an Indian, and read in the countenance of a savage his most secret thoughts, than to look into the heart of a young girl. But I repeat it, I have reason to believe that my daughter's heart is free of any such affection. I do not apprehend any difficulty in this regard. I dread an obstacle of a more important character--I mean an obstacle to the expedition you are about to conduct into the desert." Here the haciendado communicated to Don Estevan the particulars which the monk had gathered at the death-bed of the widow of Arellanos, and which seemed to produce a strong impression on the Spaniard; but although the conversation continued for some time longer, I shall not here detail what was said, but return to the Senator, who with anxious heart was now awaiting Don Estevan in the apartment which had been assigned to the latter. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE DUKE DE ARMADA. The chamber set apart for the Senor Don Estevan de Arechiza was undoubtedly the best in the house; and, notwithstanding the little progress that luxury has made in the state of Sonora, was furnished with considerable elegance. In this chamber Don Estevan found the Senator pacing to and fro, with an air that bespoke him a prey to the most vivid emotions. "Well, Senor Don Vicente!" began Arechiza, who appeared to make light of the impatience of his _protege_, "what do you think of the daughter of our host? have I exaggerated her beauty?" "Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the Senator, with all that vivacity of pantomimic gesture so characteristic of the South, "the reality far exceeds the imagination. She is an angel! Even in our country, famous for its beautiful women, Dona Rosarita is certainly loveliest of all." "And richest too," added the Spaniard, with a smile. "Who would have expected to find, in the middle of the desert, such an accomplished beauty? such youthful freshness? Such charms were created to shine in afar higher sphere?" "At the court of a king, for instance," carelessly rejoined Arechiza. "Oh! Senor Don Estevan!" again exclaimed the Senator in an earnest voice, "do not keep me in suspense; the divine, the rich Dona Rosarita-- is it possible I am to have her for my wife?" "One word from me, one promise from you, and the thing is done. I have her father's word. Within fifteen days you may be the husband of his daughter." "Agreeable as easy." "A little later you will be rich." "No harm in that." "Later still you will be a grand proprietor." "Oh! it is magnificent. Carramba! Senor de Arechiza, it is a perfect cataract of felicities to be lavished upon my head, it is a dream! it is a dream!" shouted the Senator, as he strode to and fro across the floor. "Lose no time then in making it a reality," replied Don Estevan. "But is the time so pressing?" inquired the Senator, suddenly pausing in his steps. "Why this question? Is it possible to be too quick in obtaining happiness?" The Senator appeared thoughtful, and for a moment presented an aspect of embarrassment, in strange contrast to his previous looks. He replied after a pause-- "The fact is, Don Estevan, I am willing to marry an heiress whose wealth, as is usually the case, would compensate for her ugliness. In this case it is the very beauty of the lady that confuses me." "Perhaps she does not please you!" "On the contrary, so much happiness awes me. It appears to me, for a reason which I cannot divine, that some sad disappointment lurks under the seductive prospect." "Ah! just as I expected," answered Don Estevan; "it is the human heart. I knew you would make some objection of this kind, but I thought you were more a man of the world than to trouble yourself about the past with such a splendid fortune before you. Ah! my poor Despilfarro," added the Spaniard, with a laugh, "I thought you were more advanced." "But why, Don Estevan?" inquired the Senator, intending to give a proof of his high diplomatic capacity,--"why is it, _entre nous_, that you desire to lavish this treasure of beauty--to say nothing of her grand wealth--upon another, while you yourself--" "While I myself might marry her," interrupted the Spaniard. "Is that what you mean to say? Suppose I have no wish to get married. I had that desire long ago, like the rest of the world. My history has been like a great many others; that is, my sweetheart married another. It is true I adopted the means to re--to console myself, and quickly too," added Arechiza, with a dark scowl. "But who do you think I am, Don Vicente Tragaduros?" "Who are you! why; Don Estevan de Arechiza, of course!" "That does honour to your penetration," said the Spaniard, with a disdainful smile. "Well, then, since I have already demanded the hand of Dona Rosarita for the illustrious senator Tragaduros y Despilfarro, of course I cannot now take his place." "But why, senor, did you not make the demand on your own account?" "Why, because, my dear friend, were this young lady three times as beautiful, and three times as rich as she is, she would neither be beautiful enough nor rich enough for me!" Despilfarro started with astonishment. "Eh! and who are you then, senor, may I ask in my turn?" "Only, as you have said, Don Estevan Arechiza," coolly replied the Spaniard. The Senator made three or four turns across the room before he could collect his thoughts; but in obedience to the distrust that had suddenly sprung up within him, he resumed: "There is something in all this I cannot explain, and when I can't explain a thing I can't understand it." "Good logic," exclaimed Don Estevan, in a tone of raillery, "but am I really mistaken about you, my dear Senator? I did you the honour to believe you above certain prejudices; and even if there was anything in the past life of the beautiful Rosarita--for instance, any prejudice to be trampled under foot--is a million of dowry, besides three millions of expectation, nothing in your eyes?" Don Estevan put this question for the purpose of sounding the morality of the man, or rather to try the strength of a tool, which he meant to make use of. Despilfarro returned no reply. "Now, then, I await your answer," said Don Estevan, after a pause, appearing to take pleasure in the Senator's embarrassment. "Upon my word, Don Estevan," replied Despilfarro, "you are cruel to mystify one in this manner. I--I--Carramba! it is very embarrassing." Don Estevan interrupted him. This hesitation on the part of Despilfarro told the Spaniard what he wished to know. An ironical smile played upon his lips, and laying aside his pleasantry, he resumed in a serious tone: "Listen to me, Tragaduros! It would be unworthy of a gentleman to continue longer this badinage where a lady's reputation is concerned. I can assure you, then, that the past life of the Dona Rosarita is without a stain." The Senator breathed freely. "And now," continued Don Estevan, "it is necessary that you give me your full confidence, and I will set you an example by giving mine with a perfect frankness: the success of the noble cause I have embraced depends upon it. First, then, hear who I am. Arechiza is only a borrowed appellation. As to my real name--which you shall soon know--I made oath in my youth, that no woman, however rich or beautiful, should share it with me; therefore, now that my hair is grey do you think that I should be likely to break the oath I have so long kept? Although a wife, such as I propose for you, may ofttimes be a stepping-stone to ambition, she is oftener an obstacle." As he said this, Don Estevan rose, and in his turn paced the floor with an agitated air. Some traces of distrust were still perceptible upon the countenance of the Senator--they were noticed by him. "You wish for a more precise explanation?" said he; "you shall have it." The Spaniard approached the window and closed the shutters--as if fearful that their conversation might be heard outside. He then sat down again, and requested the Senator to be seated near him. Tragaduros watched him with a lively curiosity, at the same time lowering his eyes whenever they met the fiery glances of the Spaniard. The latter appeared suddenly to become transformed, as if looking grander and nobler. "Now, Senor Senator!" began he, "I am going to make known to you some secrets sufficient to turn your head." The Senator trembled. "When the tempter carried the Son of Man to the top of a mountain, and promised him all the kingdoms of the earth if he would fall down and worship him, he scarce offered him more than I am offering to the Senator of Arispe. As the tempter, then, I lay at your feet honours, power, and riches, if you will subscribe to my conditions." The solemnity of this exordium, and the imposing manner of Don Estevan, following so closely upon the jocular mien he had hitherto exhibited, made a painful impression upon the mind of the Senator. There was a short moment in which he regretted being so _advanced_ in his opinions, and during this time the great dowry of Rosarita and her rosy lips had but slight prestige for him. "It is now twenty years," continued the Spaniard, "since I took up my real vocation in the world. Previous to that time, I believed myself made for domestic life, and indulged in those absurd dreams of love natural to young hearts. An illusion soon destroyed--an evil hour--an accident showed me the deception; and I found out that I was made for ambition--nothing more. I have therefore sought for glory and honour to satisfy my desires, and I have won them. I have conquered the right to stand uncovered in the presence of the king of Spain. Chevalier of the Order of Saint James of the Sword, I have taken part in the royal ceremonies of the _white cloak and red sword_; and I may say that for me fame has been no idle illusion. Chevalier also of Carlos the Third, I have shared with the royal princes the title of the Grand Cross. I have won successively the Order of Saint Ferdinand, of Saint Hermengildo, and the Golden Fleece of Calatrava. These honours, although coveted by all, were for me but sterile consolations." This enumeration, made without the slightest show of ostentation, caused the Senator to regard the speaker with an air of respectful astonishment. Don Estevan continued: "Wealth followed close upon these honours. Rich _appanages_, added to the fortune I derived from my ancestors, soon left far behind me, the time when, as a simple cadet of my family, I was worth nothing but my sword. Now I was rich, opulent, and--will I tell you?--I was still far from being content. My efforts continued; and I was made Comte de Villamares, and afterwards Duke de Armada--" "Oh! Senor Duke," interrupted Despilfarro, in a humble voice, "permit me--but--I--" "I have not yet finished," calmly continued the Spaniard; "when you have heard all, you will no longer doubt my words. Notwithstanding your mistrust, senor, I am still nothing more than the secret agent of a prince, and I desire to remain in your eyes, as ever, the simple gentleman Don Estevan de Arechiza--nothing more. It is necessary, however, that this distrust of me should not manifest itself again; for since you are presently to know the object which I am pursuing, you will be privy to my most secret thoughts." The Senator continued to listen in the most respectful silence. "As I have said, then, I followed ambition for twenty years for its own sake; or to speak more truly, I passed twenty years of my life to destroy a painful souvenir, at the same time that I was pursuing the path to fame. I fancied that in the middle of a turbulent life, this souvenir would in time be effaced from my memory. The favourite of a prince, the expectant heir to one of the first thrones in Christendom-- elevated to the highest places of power--wealth prodigally lavished upon me--I hoped to be able to forget that terrible souvenir. Vain hope!" added the speaker in a solemn voice: "Alas! Nothing can banish remorse. The bloody sword of Saint James was no idle symbol in my hands; for remorse lends to ambition a fearful activity--like a voice continually crying, `On--on forever!'" Don Estevan paused, and for a time remained silent, during which the Senator regarded him with a timid look, at the same time admiring the imposing and solemn dignity of his countenance. "But where to go on?" continued the speaker; "what object to follow next? Into what new course might I precipitate this torrent of ambition that was boiling within me? At length a new incident offered itself, and gave me a fresh opportunity for action--an opportunity to strive and combat--for in my case, to struggle and fight is to forget. "In all likelihood you have scarce heard of our political troubles, Don Vicente? I am aware that all the kingdoms of Europe might be shaken to their bases, without your knowing anything of the matter, in this out of the way corner of the world. Well, then, I shall make known to you what occurred. "It is now about two years since the king of Spain--by a total violation of the Salic law, hitherto observed by all his ancestors--violently cut off the succession to the throne in the person of his brother Don Carlos; and by this act kindled the fires of civil war throughout the kingdom. The Infanta Isabella was declared heiress to the crown, to the exclusion of her uncle, the legal heir. This prince it was of whom I spoke, and who is my august patron and protector. I did everything in my power to assuage the mortal grief that this unexpected event naturally caused to the man, whom I above all others have reason to esteem. "Amidst the consolations which I offered him, and the plans which I proposed, one design of a gigantic nature offered itself to my imagination. True, it presented the prospect of countless dangers, and obstacles almost insurmountable; but for this very reason I adopted it. "My dream, then, is to conquer for my master a kingdom as vast as the one of which he has been wrongfully deprived; to restore to him one of the brightest jewels of that Transatlantic crown, which his ancestors once so gloriously wore. I dream of conquering a kingdom--and that kingdom once conquered, I, a simple gentleman, intend to present it to the true heir of the Spanish monarchy--Don Carlos de Bourbon! "Now, do you believe, Senor Senator, that Don Estevan de Arechiza has the power to bestow upon others, and without regretting it, the beauty and wealth of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado?" The Spaniard pronounced these last words with an air of proud tranquillity, and then remained silent, awaiting their effect upon his listener. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE NEW KINGDOM. The Mexican senator, with his contracted, or rather egoistic views, was struck dumb by the gigantic and daring design of his companion. He could only exclaim, as he respectfully pressed the hand which the Spaniard held out to him: "Oh, Don Estevan--if you permit me still to give you this modest title-- I regret my suspicions; and for the happiness which you offer me, for the grand perspective which you open before me, I promise you my life, my heart, but--" "But! another suspicion?" asked Don Estevan, with a smile. "_No_, not a suspicion of you, but a fear of some one else. Have you noticed the young man whom chance brought into our company? I have a secret presentiment that there is something between him and Dona Rosarita. He is young--he is good-looking--and they appear to have known each other a long while." "What!" exclaimed Don Estevan, "jealous of this ragged rustic?" "I avow," replied the Senator, "that I cannot help it. I noticed two or three times their eyes fixed upon each other with a strange expression." "Make yourself easy about that. I know, for certain--and from Don Augustin himself I have had my information--that the heart of his daughter is free. Besides, her vanity alone would hinder her from any fancy for this droll fellow, who appears to have all the pride of a Spanish beggar. He shall be watched; and, should he have the impudence to carry his pretensions so high, it will be an easy matter to send him about his business." In pronouncing the last words the countenance of Don Estevan appeared for a moment to wear a troubled expression, and he could not hinder himself from adding: "I have myself remarked what you say, but let us not dwell upon chimerical fears. Listen to me, Don Vicente, while I explain more categorically the object of which I have been speaking, in order that you may understand fully why I wish to reckon upon your assistance. I have not yet told you--either what resources I have, or the kingdom it is my design to conquer." "True enough," assented Tragaduros, "you have not." "The province then which I intend to transform into a kingdom is neither more nor less than this of Sonora." "What! our republican state to be changed into a monarchy!" exclaimed the Senator. "Senor Don Estevan, to attempt this will be to play with your life." "I know it." "But what resources do you count upon?" "Listen: Ten years ago I was in the Spanish army, and fought against the independence of your country in this very province. I then became acquainted with its resources--its incalculable richness--and when I quitted it to go home to Europe, I had a presentiment that some day I should again return to it--as I have done. Chance at that time made me acquainted with Don Augustin, then occupied in amassing the vast wealth which to-day he so freely spends. I had the fortune to render him a service--to save his life, in fact, and prevent his house from being pillaged by the insurgents, for he did not conceal his sympathy for the Spanish cause. I afterwards kept up with him a correspondence, and learned that Sonora became every day more discontented with the federal government. I then designed my great plan, which was approved of by the prince, and at his desire I came over here. Don Augustin was among the first to whom I opened my purpose. He was flattered by the promises I was able to make in the name of my royal master, and at once placed his fortune at my disposal. "Nothwithstanding the large pecuniary resources I have been able to dispose of, I am seeking to augment them still farther, and chance has favoured me. While here in my former campaign I made the acquaintance of an odd character--a young fellow who in turns betrayed both royalists and republicans. My relations with him recall a somewhat droll occurrence. I found that he was guiding the regiment I commanded into an ambuscade of the insurgents, and I ordered him to be hung to the first tree we should meet with. Fortunately for him my men translated the order in its most literal sense; and being at the time in the middle of vast savannahs entirely destitute of trees, the execution was held over, as it was an impossibility to perform it. The result was that in the middle of our marchings and counter-marchings the fellow escaped; and it appears did not, afterwards, hold any rancour towards me, since he has again offered his services to me. This fellow to-day goes by the name of Cuchillo. It was he whom I met at the village of Huerfano, where you saw us renew our acquaintance; and at that interview he has made known to me the secret of an immense placer of gold--whither I intend to conduct my expedition. Besides ourselves, Cuchillo alone knows the object of this enterprise," (the Spaniard did not mention the name of Tiburcio), "which is generally supposed to be merely a new expedition--like many others that have been got up to go gold seeking by chance. "And now, Senor Senator," continued Don Estevan, "you need not proceed farther with us. You may remain here, where you will have an easy part to play, in making yourself agreeable to the fair Rosarita, while I am braving the perils of this unknown frontier. As for Cuchillo, if he attempt to play the traitor with me a second time, I shall take care to be a little more prompt in punishing him. "The product of this expedition," pursued the Spaniard,--"of which, as leader, I shall be entitled to a fifth part--will be added to the resources I have already. The men who compose it will be easily converted into devoted partisans of our design; and should it happen that the forces I expect from Europe should fail to come to hand in due time, these adventurers will serve a good purpose. But I have no fear for the want of followers. Europe is at the present moment overcrowded with people who lack employment: any enterprise will be welcome to them; and a leader in any part of the world needs only to speak the word for crowds to enrol themselves under his banner." As he said this, Don Estevan paced the room, agitated by the grandeur of his thoughts. His dark eyes flashed with excitement, and his soul seemed inspired with a warlike ardour that caused him for a while to forget the presence of the Senator. It was only after some minutes spent in this wild enthusiasm that he remembered an important fact--that in all projects such as he was engaged in, _intrigue_ should be the precursor of open action; and as this was to be the peculiar _role_ which the Senator was expected to play, he again turned to address himself to this individual. "Meanwhile," said he, "your tactics will be of a more pacific character. I take charge of the open fighting--while you manage the secret diplomacy of the affair. Your fortune, restored to you by this opulent alliance, will enable you to get back the influence you have lost. You will receive with the daughter of Don Augustin, at least two hundred thousand dollars of dowry. Half of this you are to employ in making partisans in the Senate, and in what you are pleased to call _your army_. This sum you will not lose: it will be repaid to you, and with usurious interest; or if it never should, you still make a good thing of it. The end you will keep in view, is to detach the Senate of Sonora from the Federal alliance. You will find no lack of reasons for this policy. For instance, your State has now scarcely the privileges of a simple territory; your interests differ entirely from those of the central States of the Republic. Every day your laws are becoming more centralised. The President, who deals with your finances, resides at a distance of seven hundred leagues from your capital--it is ridiculous! Besides, the funds of the treasury are misappropriated--the army badly paid, although you have to do your duty in raising the tax that is to pay it--a thousand grievances can be cited. Well, this will enable you to get up a _pronunciamento_, and before the news of your _grito_ can reach the city of Mexico, and the Executive power there can send a force against you--ay, before the government troops could get half-way to Sonora, more than two-thirds of them would desert. The others would come upon the ground, only to find the insurrectionary party too strong for them, and they themselves would be certain to join us. "Laws emanating from your own Senate--of which you yourself would have the control and guidance--laws suited to the manners and usages of your State, would soon become firmly established and respected, and Sonora would then be an independent government. This would be the first step and the most difficult. After that the rest would be easy enough; and the gold which I should furnish will bring it about. The Senate and the army would call for a European prince to place himself at their head-- one who speaks the same language and professes the same religion as themselves. This prince I have already provided. Now hear me, Don Vicente! as to your own share in this business. The Senator Despilfarro is already a rich man, with a lady for his wife of whom a prince might be proud. He will be made noble--a count--a Grandee of Spain. A lucrative post will attach him to the person of the new king, and nothing is to hinder him from rising to the very summit of his ambition. All this I promise on the part of your future sovereign, _King Charles the First_." With these words the Spaniard finished his harangue. The Mexican Senator, fascinated by the riches and honours thus promised him, grasped the hand of the bold conspirator, at the same time crying out with enthusiasm, "_Viva! Viva Carlos el Primero_!" "Good!" rejoined Don Estevan, with a smile. "Don Carlos can count upon one powerful partisan already in Sonora, and there will soon be many. But it is getting late, Don Vicente, and I have yet much business to do before I can go to sleep. You will excuse me, then, if I bid good-night to you." After exchanging the usual _buenas noches_, the Senator returned to his own chamber and couch, to dream of his future riches and grandeur. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. QUARRELSOME GAMESTERS. In a remote chamber of the hacienda were lodged the four adventurers, Pedro Diaz, Oroche, Cuchillo, and Baraja. These gentlemen were not slow in becoming acquainted with one another, and this acquaintance was soon of the most familiar character. In the middle of the room in which all four were to pass the night, stood a strong oaken table, upon which, in an iron candlestick, was burning a long thin tallow candle, that gave forth a somewhat dim and doubtful light. By this light Cuchillo and Baraja--forgetful of all their promises and vows--were going on with the game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village of Huerfano. Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche, seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his elbow resting on his knee--the favourite attitude of mandolin players-- accompanied his own voice as he sang the _boleros_ and _fandangos_ then most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region. Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of _mezcal_, already half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally helped themselves--as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour. Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja's pockets, and Cuchillo was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him. The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the table. "Who the devil wants your music?" cried he to Oroche in a furious tone, "and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion--only credit when I win, and cash whenever I lose." "You offend me, Senor Cuchillo," said Baraja, "my word has always passed for its value in cash." "Especially when you don't happen to lose," sneeringly added Cuchillo. "That is not a very delicate insinuation," said Baraja gathering up the cards. "Fye, fye! Senor Cuchillo--to get angry about such a trifle! I myself have lost half a hacienda at play--after being robbed of the other half--and yet I never said a word about it." "Didn't you indeed? what's that to me? I shall speak as I please, Senor Baraja, and as loudly as I please too," added he, placing his hand upon the hilt of his knife. "Yes," coolly answered Baraja, "I know you use words _that cause your friends to drop dead_; but these words are harmless at a distance-- besides I have got a tongue as sharp as yours, Senor Cuchillo." As Baraja said this, he drew his knife from its sheath--in which action he was imitated by his antagonist--and both placed themselves simultaneously in an attitude for fight. Oroche coolly took up his mandolin--which at the interference of Cuchillo he had laid aside--and, like a bard of ancient times was, preparing to accompany the combat with a chant, when Diaz suddenly interposed between the two champions. "For shame, gentlemen!" cried he; "what! two men made to be mutual friends, thus to cut each other's throats for a few paltry dollars! on the eve too of becoming the owners of a hundred times as much! Have I not understood you to say, Senor Cuchillo, that you were to be the guide of our expedition? Your life is no more your own, then; it belongs to us all, and you have no right to risk it. And you, Senor Baraja! you have not the right to attempt the life of our guide. Come! put up your knives, and let there be no more of this matter." This speech recalled the two combatants to their senses. Cuchillo remembering the grand interest he had in the success of the expedition, and perceiving that the risk of life was playing a little too high--for a combat of this sort usually ends in the death of one or the other-- gave ready ear to the counsel of Diaz. Baraja, on his side, reflected that the dollars he had already pocketed might be better employed than in defraying the expenses of his own funeral; and on this reflection was equally ready to desist from his intention. "Be it so, then!" cried Cuchillo, speaking first; "I sacrifice my feelings to the common good." "And I," said Baraja, "I am willing to follow so noble an example. I disarm--but--I shall play no more." The knives were again stuck into their scabbards, and the two adversaries mutually extended their hands to one another. At this moment, Diaz, by way of preventing any allusion to the recent quarrel, suddenly turning to Cuchillo, demanded: "Who, Senor Cuchillo, is this young man whom I saw riding by your side as you came up to the hacienda? Notwithstanding the friendship that appeared to exist between you and him, if I mistake not, I observed you regarding one another with an occasional glance of mistrust--not to say hostility. Was it not so?" Cuchillo recounted how they had found Tiburcio half dead upon the road, and also the other circumstances, already known to the reader; but the question put by Diaz had brought the red colour into the face of the outlaw, for it recalled to him how his cunning had been outwitted by the young man, and also how he had been made to tremble a moment under Tiburcio's menace. Writhing under these remembrances, he was now determined to make his vengeance more secure, by enlisting his associates as accomplices of his design. "It often happens," said he, in a significant tone, "that one man's interest must be sacrificed to the common welfare--just as I have now done--does it not?" "Without doubt," replied several. "Well then," continued Cuchillo, "when one has given himself, body and soul, to any cause, whatever it may be, it becomes his duty, as in my case, to put a full and complete constraint upon his affections, his passions, even his dearest interests--ay, even upon any scruples of conscience that might arise in an over-delicate mind." "All the world knows that," said Baraja. "Just so, gentlemen. Well, I feel myself in that difficulty; I have a too timid conscience, I fear, and I want your opinions to guide me." His audience maintained an imperturbable silence. "Suppose, then," continued the outlaw, "there was a man whom you all held in the highest esteem, but whose life compromised the success of our expedition, what should be done with him?" "As God lives," cried Oroche, "I should be happy to find some occasion of sacrificing private interests to the common good." "But is there such a man?" inquired Diaz, "and who may he be?" "It's a long story," replied Cuchillo, "and its details concern only myself--but there _is_ such a man." "Carajo!" exclaimed Oroche, "that is enough; he should be _got rid of_ as speedily as possible." "Is that the advice of all of you?" asked Cuchillo. "Of course," answered simultaneously Oroche and Baraja. Diaz remained silent keeping himself out of this mysterious compromise. After a little, he rose from his seat, and under some pretext left the chamber. "Well, then, gentlemen," said Cuchillo, addressing himself to his two more facile comrades, "you are fully of the opinion that the man should be got rid of? Let me tell you, then, that this man is no other than Tiburcio Arellanos." "Tiburcio!" exclaimed the two acolytes. "Himself--and although, since he is one of my dearest friends, it goes sadly against my heart, I declare to you that his life may render abortive all the plans of our expedition." "But," interposed Baraja, "why may he not lose it?--to-morrow in this hunt of wild horses there will be a thousand opportunities of his losing it?" "True enough," said Cuchillo, in a solemn voice. "It is of great importance he should not return from this hunt. Can I rely upon you, gentlemen?" "Blindly!" replied the two adventurers. The storm was gathering over the head of poor Tiburcio, but danger threatened him from still another quarter; and long before the expected hunt, that danger would be at its height. The three adventurers continued their conversation, and were entering more particularly into the details of their design, when a knocking at the outer door interrupted their sinister councils. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TIBURCIO IN DANGER. Cuchillo opened the door, outside of which appeared one of the attendants of Don Estevan. Without entering the man communicated his message--which was to Cuchillo himself--to the effect that Don Estevan awaited him in the garden. The outlaw, without reply, followed the servant, who conducted him to an alley between two rows of granadines, where a man wrapped in his cloak was pacing to and fro, apparently buried in a deep meditation. It was Don Estevan himself. The approach of Cuchillo interrupted his reverie, and a change passed over his countenance. Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself. "You have sent for me?" said he to Don Estevan. "You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion," began the Spaniard, without making answer. "I have allowed you time enough to sound this young fellow--you know whom I mean. Well! no doubt you have penetrated to the bottom and know all--you, whose perspicacity is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience?" There was an ascerbity in this speech which caused the outlaw to feel ill at ease, for it re-opened the wounds of his self-esteem. "Well," continued Don Estevan, "what have you learnt?" "Nothing," replied Cuchillo. "Nothing!" "No; the young man could tell me nothing, since he knew nothing himself. He has no secrets for me." "What! does he not suspect the existence of the Golden Valley?" "He knows no more of it than of the Garden of Eden," replied Cuchillo, with a confident swagger. "What was bringing him to the hacienda, then--for that is upon the route? He must have some object in coming this way." "O yes!--he came to ask Don Augustin to take him into his service as a vaquero." "It is evident," said the Spaniard, in a tone of mockery, "that you have gained his full confidence and know all about him." "I flatter myself, my perspicacity--" "Is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience," interrupted Don Estevan, still keeping up his tone of raillery. "Well, but has this young man not confided to you any other secret? You have had a long ride together, and an opportunity to talk of many things. For instance, has he said nothing to you about an affair of the heart?--has he not told you he was in love?" "Por Dios! Who could Tiburcio be in love with in these deserts? The poor devil is likely to think more of a good horse than a pretty girl." "Indeed!" exclaimed the Spaniard, with a mocking laugh that sent a shivering through the frame of Cuchillo. "Well, well! friend Cuchillo, your youth promised better than this. If your conscience is as callous as your perspicacity is obtuse--which God forbid--it is not likely to interfere with your sleep." "What do you mean, senor?" demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach. "I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it." "Good action!" repeated Cuchillo, embarrassed to know at what epoch of his life he had done such a thing. "Yes--in saving this young man's life." "But it was you who did that good action: as for me, it was only a lucrative one." "Be it so. I will lend it to you, notwithstanding the proverb which says we should only lend to the rich. But now hear what I have ascertained--I, who do not boast either of my scruples of conscience or of my perspicacity. This young man has in his pocket, at this moment, a written direction of the route to the Golden Valley; moreover, he is passionately in love with Dona Rosarita, for whom he would give all the gold in this valley, or all the gold in the world, and all the horses in Sonora, if he had them. Moreover, his object in coming to the Hacienda del Venado, was to make himself its future proprietor." "Blood and thunder!" cried Cuchillo, started as if bitten by a snake--"that cannot be--it is not possible I could be fooled in that manner by a child!" "That child is a giant beside you, master Cuchillo," coldly replied Arechiza. "It is impossible!" exclaimed the exasperated Cuchillo. "Do you wish the proofs?--if you do you shall have them--but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet." "No matter; I should like to hear them," said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice. "I will not speak of your conscience--mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders--nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars--" Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect. "Tiburcio," continued he, "is of a race--or appears to be of a race-- that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?" "No," said Cuchillo. "Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is:--In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?" "Eh!" ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale. "A second question:--Were they really _Indians_ who murdered your companion?" "Perhaps it was me?" replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile. "Third question:--Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?" "I did--to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians." "One more question:--Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river--not quite dead, it may be?" The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert. Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken! "Does Tiburcio know all this?" he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety. "No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant--the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception--no treason, or your life will answer for it!" "Well, as regards Tiburcio," muttered Cuchillo to himself, "if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you." The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance: "But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Dona Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration--" "Hush!" interrupted the Spaniard; "I fancy I hear voices!" Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears--as of two persons engaged in conversation--but the words could not be distinguished. "It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!" muttered the outlaw. "Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having." A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this:--"If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!" Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged. The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle? Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus! "Providence," said he to himself--and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips--"Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no--no--I spurn the occasion--it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve." As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance. "The hour is come," said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, "when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes--now follow me!" Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin. The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition. Tiburcio in going forth from his chamber, and traversing the path that conducted him to the appointed rendezvous, was under the belief he had not been observed: neither was he; but unfortunately chance had now betrayed him. The night was not so dark as Don Estevan and Cuchillo would have wished; nevertheless, by crouching low, and keeping well in to the wall that enclosed the garden, they succeeded in reaching a little grove of orange and citron trees, the foliage of which was thick enough to shelter them from view. From this grove, thanks to the calmness of the night, they could catch every word that was said--for under the shadow of the trees they were able to approach very near to the speakers. "Whatever you may hear," whispered Don Estevan in the ear of the other, "remain motionless as I do." "I will," simply answered Cuchillo. The two now placed themselves in an attitude to see and hear. They were separated from the speakers by a slight barrier of leaves and branches, and by a distance not greater than an active man could pass over in two bounds. Little did the victims of their espionage suspect their proximity--little dreamt Tiburcio of the danger that was so near him. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. LOVE THROUGH THE WINDOW. For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches exchanged between lovers--when the young man, doubtful of his position, makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with Rosarita? It remains to be known. According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window of Rosarita's chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is called the _reja_, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon--for it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish race appear to the greatest advantage. A _reboso_ of silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette against the light burning within. Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him. "Ah!" said he, "I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in it that charmed my soul--something that I had never heard till that moment." "I have never forgotten the service you rendered us," said the young girl; "but why recall those times? they are long past." "Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita--that scene appears to me as if it had happened yesterday. Yes," continued the young man, in a tone of melancholy, "when the light of the camp-fire by little and little enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce describe the emotion which it gave me." Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks. Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen, without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of her beauty. Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by emotion:--"I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible, Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I have lived from that day up to the present hour?" There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the particulars mentioned by Tiburcio. "No," at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight trembling of her voice, "I do not forget, but we were then only children--to-day--" "To-day," interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, "to-day that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to comprise you in his projects of ambition." The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride. "Comprise me in his projects of ambition," said she, her beautiful nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, "and who has told you, senor, that it is not I who condescend?" "This stranger, too," continued Tiburcio, still preserving his reproachful manner, "this Don Estevan--whom I hate even worse than the Senator--has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid--of the wonderful countries that lie beyond the sea--and you wish to see them with your own eyes!" "Indeed I acknowledge," answered Rosarita, "that in these deserts life appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have heard so much. What can you offer to me--to my father?" "I understand now," cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, "to be poor, an orphan, unhappy--these are not the titles to win the heart of a woman." "You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that happens--for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this preference with their daughters." There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio evidently did not comprehend--for he continued his reproaches and bitter recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to them. "Of course you love this Senator," said he. "Do not talk, then, of being compelled!" "Who talks of being compelled?" said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the young man. "I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle dreams." "And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say, Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you do not make answer--you love him, Rosarita? And I--Oh! why did they not leave me to die upon the road?" At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges, where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment. "Hush!" said the young girl, "did you not hear a noise?" Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the terrible anger that tortured it--but the rays of the moon shone only upon the silvery foliage--all was quiet around. He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had passed as lightning though a sombre sky. "Very likely," said he, with a melancholy smile, "it is the spirit of some poor lover who has died from despair." "Santisima Virgen!" exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross. "You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of love?" she inquired in a tone of _naivete_. "It may be," replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, "Hear me, Rosarita! you are ambitious, you have said so--hear me then! Supposing I could give you all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I shall become--for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it to you." As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in his soul the pride of an ancient race. For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more attention than what she had hitherto exhibited. Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of implacable raillery. "We shall see now," whispered the Spaniard, "whether this young fellow knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the Garden of Eden." Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply. As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with him was to discover whether Tiburcio's passion was reciprocated: the rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to which Don Estevan desired to have the answer. Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin, and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo. "Not for your life!" said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw, whose hand rested upon his knife. "Not for your soul's safety! Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred. Hush!" he continued, "listen!" and still holding the outlaw by the arm he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking. "Why should I conceal it from you longer?" exclaimed the young man, in a tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation. "Hear me, then! honours--riches--power I can lay at your feet, but you alone can enable me to effect this miracle." Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory expression. "Perhaps I should have told you sooner," continued Tiburcio, "that my adopted mother no longer lives--" "I know it," interrupted the young girl, "you are alone in the world; I heard it this evening from my father." The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the pressure given to it. At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold upon the arm of Cuchillo. "Yes," continued Tiburcio, "my mother died in poverty, though she has left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own. The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos." At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth. His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio. "Here me further!" continued the young man. "About sixty leagues from here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?" Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his heart like the tolling of a funeral knell. "I hope, Tiburcio," said she, with a significant smile, "that this is only a _ruse_ on your part to put me to the proof--I hope so, because I do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make yourself master of a secret that belongs to another." "The secret of another!" cried the young man in a voice hoarse with astonishment. "Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it--" Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret, too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of his disappointment, she too--for whose sake alone he had valued it--she to accuse him of treason! "Ah!" cried he, "Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!" cried he, striking the ground with his heel, "perhaps it was himself!" "Pray God rather to protect you,--you will need all his grace!" cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form--that of a man--rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio. The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence--nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it. "Now, villain, we are quits," cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. "Villain!" repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: "you shall die the death of an assassin." Places had suddenly changed--Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan. "Hold," screamed Rosarita, "hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father's guest; his life is sacred under our roof." Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him. Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serape around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself. "You call this being quits!" cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving from the pressure to Tiburcio's knee. "Your life belongs to me--I only lent it to you, and I shall now take it back." "Come on, dog!" shouted Tiburcio, in answer; "and you too, Don Estevan, you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless people." The countenance of the Spaniard turned livid pale at this unexpected accusation. He instantly drew his dagger, and crying out:--"Down with him, Cuchillo!" rushed furiously forward to the attack. No doubt Tiburcio would soon have succumbed before two such formidable antagonists, but at this moment a red light flashed upon the combatants, as Dona Rosarita, with a flaming torch in her hand, rushed forward between them. The aspect of Tiburcio, who, despite the odds against him, and the blood that was running from his arm, still fearlessly maintained his defensive attitude, caused the heart of Rosarita to beat with sympathetic admiration. This sanguinary _denouement_ to their interview, was pleading the cause of the lover far more eloquently than either his reproaches or promises! The first impulse of Rosarita was to fling herself into the arms of the young man so daring and beautiful. She was restrained only from following this impulse, by a feeling of feminine delicacy; and for an instant Tiburcio seemed the one about whom she was least concerned. "Oh! my God!" cried she, "are you wounded? Don Estevan? Senor Cuchillo? Senor Arechiza! retire; for the love of the Virgin, let not the world know that a crime has been committed in our house." The excited bearing of the young girl, her bosom heaving under the light tissue of her dress, her reboso floating behind her, mingled with the long dark tresses of her dishevelled hair--all these, added to the proud savage beauty of her countenance--commanded respect; and as if by enchantment, the weapons of the combatants were restored to their sheaths. Cuchillo growled like a dog newly muzzled, while Don Estevan preserved a sombre silence. Both walked away from the ground, and their forms were soon lost in the darkness. Tiburcio, with face upturned, his eyes still flashing with rage, his features illuminated with the red light of the torch, remained for some moments without changing his attitude. His features exhibited that superb expression that danger only magnifies into grandeur. Gradually, however, their tone became softened, and an air of melancholy succeeded it, as his eyes rested upon Rosarita. The young girl had suddenly become pale, under the reaction of such vivid emotions, as well as under the influence of the powerful sentiment now rekindled within her heart. Acting under this influence as well, she hastily arranged her scarf in order to cover her nude shoulders, and the palpitating movements of her bosom. Even her motive for this was misunderstood by Tiburcio. "Rosarita!" he said, speaking with perfect calmness, "I might have doubted your words, but your actions have spoken more plainly. It was to my enemies you first ran, though my blood was spilling; all your fears appeared to be for Don Estevan." "God knows that I do not deserve this reproach," said the young girl, as with a look of terror she saw the blood streaming to the ground. At the same instant she advanced to examine the wound. Tiburcio repulsed her by stepping backward. "It is too late," said he with a bitter smile, "the evil is done. Adieu! I have been too long your guest. The hospitality of your house is fatal to me. Under your roof my life has been threatened, my dearest hopes have been crushed! Adieu, Rosarita! Adieu!" As he pronounced the last words, he turned and walked hastily away. There was a broken place in the wall of the enclosure, and towards this he directed his steps. A hundred paces beyond, the forest commenced, and the dark sombre trees were visible through the opening. The mysterious light he had already noticed, was still glimmering feebly above their tops. "Where are you going, Tiburcio?" cried the young girl, her hands joined and her eyes filling with tears, "my father's roof will protect you." Tiburcio only answered by a negative shake of the head. "But yonder," continued Rosarita, pointing to the woods, "yonder, alone and without defence--danger--death will await you." "God will send me friends," answered Tiburcio, glancing towards the distant light. "The hospitality of the wandering traveller--a sleep by his camp-fire--will be safer for me than that of your father's roof." And Tiburcio continued to advance towards the breach with a gentle but resolute step. "For the love of heaven do not expose yourself to dangers that may perhaps arise when I am no longer present to protect you! I tell you out yonder you will be risking your life;" then giving to her voice a tone of persuasive softness, she continued, "In what place, Tiburcio, will you be safer than with me?" Tiburcio's resolution was for a moment shaken, and he paused to make answer. "One word, Rosarita!" said he; "say that you hate my rival as I hate him--say this, and I remain." A violent conflict appeared to arise in the breast of Rosarita. Her bosom swelled with conflicting emotions, as she fixed upon Tiburcio a glance of tender reproach, but she remained silent. To a man of Tiburcio's age the heart of a woman is a sealed book. Not till we have lost the attractions of youth--so powerful, despite its inexperience--are we able to penetrate the mysteries of the female heart--a sad compensation which God accords to the maturity of age. At thirty years Tiburcio would have remained. But he was yet only twenty-four; he had spent his whole life in the desert, and this was his first love. "You will not say it? Adieu, then," cried he, "I am no longer your guest," and saying this, he leaped over the broken wall, before the young girl could offer any opposition to his departure. Stupefied by this unexpected movement, she mounted upon the fragments that lay at the bottom of the wall, and stretching her arms toward the forest, she cried out-- "Tiburcio! Tiburcio! do not leave us so; do you wish to bring upon our house the malediction of heaven?" But her voice was either lost to his ears, or he disdained to reply. She listened a moment, she could hear the sound of his footsteps fast dying in the distance--until they could be heard no more. "Oh! my God," cried she, falling upon her knees in an attitude of prayer, "protect this young man from the dangers that threaten him. Oh God! watch over him, for alas! he carries with him my heart." Then forgetting in her grief her projects of ambition, the will of her father, all that deceptive confidence, which had kept silent the voice of a love, of the existence of which she was hitherto almost ignorant-- the young girl rose hastily from her knees, once more mounted upon the wall, and in a heart-rending voice called out, "_Come back! Tiburcio; come back! I love only you_!" But no answer was returned, and wrapping her face in her reboso, she sat down and wept. Before returning to her chamber she cast one more look in the direction of the forest, but the woods were still enveloped in the obscurity of night; all was sombre and silent, though in the distance the feeble light was still glimmering over the tree tops. All at once it appeared for an instant to flash more brightly, as if offering a welcome to him who had no longer a home! CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. AN ABRUPT DEPARTURE. Don Estevan and Cuchillo, on leaving the ground of the combat, returned to the alley of granadines; but for some time not a word passed between them. Don Estevan was buried in a profound meditation. More skilled than his coarse companion in the mysteries of the female heart, he had divined, before the end of the dialogue between Rosarita and Tiburcio, that the young girl felt for the latter a tender sentiment. It was true it was just germinating in her soul; but the accents of her voice, her gestures, and other signs, discovered to the experienced intelligence of Don Estevan that she really loved Tiburcio, though herself not yet aware of the extent of that love. For Tiburcio knowing the secret of the Golden Valley, Don Estevan cared little--that was a matter of secondary importance; but Tiburcio's love reciprocated by Dona Rosarita was a very different affair. This at once presented a series of obstacles to the ambitious projects of the Spaniard. Tiburcio then must be got out of the way at all hazards, and at any price. Such are the terrible exigencies of ambition. It only remained to adopt some plan; but the Spaniard was not then in the spirit to think of one. He was writhing at the inadvertence that had just happened. "The clumsy fool!" he muttered, but loud enough for his companion to hear him. "Is it of me your excellency is speaking?" inquired Cuchillo, in a tone that savoured strongly of his usual impudence. "Who else could I mean, you sot? You who neither know how to use strength or stratagem! A woman has accomplished what you could not do! I have told you that this child is a giant to you; and had it not been for me--" "Had it not been for you," interrupted the outlaw, "this young fellow would not now have been living to trouble us." "How sir?" demanded Don Estevan. "Last night, as I was bringing him to your bivouac, the fellow did an outrage to my honour, and actually threatened me. I was about putting an end to our differences by a shot from my carbine, when your precious old fool of a servant, Benito, came galloping up, and of course I had to renounce my design. So you see, the only good action I have ever done, has brought me to grief. Such is the reward of our virtue!" "Speak for yourself, my droll fellow!" said the Spaniard, whose pride revolted at being thus classed with such company as the outlaw. "But if that could be outraged which does not exist, may I ask what attempt this young man made upon your honour?" "I do not know myself--it was something that happened with my horse, who has the fault--" Cuchillo interrupted himself as one who has made an imprudent speech. "The fault of stumbling in the left fore-leg?" added Don Estevan. "I see--this old history of the murder of Arellanos." "I did not murder him," cried the outlaw, impudently. "I had reasons not to like him; but I pardoned him, for all that." "Oh! you are so magnanimous! But come, an end to these pleasantries. It remains for you to get this young man out of the way. I have my reasons for wishing it so--among others, he knows our secret. I gave you a half _onza_ to save his life. To-day I have different views regarding him; and I promise to give you twenty _onzas_ when I am assured that he is no longer alive." "Agreed, Don Estevan; and in to-morrow's hunt of these wild horses, it will be strange if Tiburcio Arellanos don't knock his brains out against either a rock or the trunk of a tree, or at least get himself into some corner, where he won't be able to find his way out again. The only regret I have is, that I shall have to share these twenty onzas with my friends, Baraja and Oroche." "To-morrow!" exclaimed Don Estevan; "and who knows but that to-morrow may be too late? Is the night not better for your purpose? Are you not three to one? Who is to assure you that to-morrow I may not change my mind?" This threat seriously alarmed Cuchillo. "Carramba! your excellency is quick to decide; you are not one of those who leave for to-morrow what should be done to-day. _Pues_--then--I shall try my best. In fact, it is very quiet here--I wonder the cries of this young woman have not startled the whole house. There's not a creature about." Such was in reality the case. Notwithstanding the noise of the struggle between Tiburcio and his assailants, and later still, the cries of Rosarita, no one had been awakened. The vast extent of the building prevented these sounds from being heard, particularly as all the domestics of the hacienda, as well as the proprietor himself, were buried in a profound slumber. Cuchillo now directed himself toward the apartment where he had left his comrades; Don Estevan returning at the same time to his own chamber. The moon once more poured her soft, silvery light upon the grove of oranges, as if no crime had ever been attempted in that tranquil spot. Don Estevan did not go to rest; but for a long time paced to and fro across his ample chamber, with the air of one accustomed to watch over ambitious projects while others were asleep. After a lapse of time, Cuchillo was heard knocking softly at his door; and as soon as it was opened, the hired assassin stepped in. His confused looks caused Don Estevan to tremble. Was the deed already done? He wished it, yet feared to ask the question. Cuchillo relieved him from his embarrassment by speaking first. "My twenty onzas are gone to the devil!" said he, in a lugubrious tone. "How?" hastily inquired Don Estevan. "The bird has flown: the young man is no longer about the place." "Gone!" exclaimed Don Estevan. "And you have let him escape?" "How could I hinder him? This brute, Baraja, as well as Oroche, were both drunk with mezcal; and Diaz refused to assist me, point-blank. While I was endeavouring to arouse the other two, the fellow had taken leg bail through an opening in the wall of the garden--at least that's all we can make out." "And how have you arrived at this conjecture?" asked Don Estevan, angrily striking the floor with his foot. "Why, when we arrived at the place, the Dona Rosarita was clinging over the wall, no doubt guided there by Tiburcio. He could not be far off at the time, for she was still calling upon him to return; and judging by the love-speeches she was making, she must have earnestly desired it." "She loves him, then?" "Passionately--or her words and her accents are all deceit. `_Come back_!' she cried, `_Tiburcio, come back_! _I love only you_!' These were the last words I heard; for shortly after she left the wall, and went back to her room." "We must to horse and pursue him!" cried Don Estevan, hurrying to make ready; "yes, there is no help for it now. The success of our expedition depends upon the life of this ragged fellow. Go! arouse Benito and the others. Tell them to saddle the horses. Warn your friends in the chamber that we must be _en route_ in an hour. Away! while I awake Don Augustin and the Senator." "Just as I have known him for twenty years," muttered Cuchillo, as he hastened to his companions, "always awake, always ready for the greatest obstacles. Well, if with his character he has not made way in his own country, I fear that in Europe perseverance and energy are not worth much." Don Estevan, as soon as Cuchillo had left him, spent a few minutes in putting himself once more in travelling costume, and then repaired to the chamber of the Senator. He found the door open--as is the custom in a country where people spend most of their lives outside their houses. The moon was beaming full through the large window, and her light illumined the chamber as well as the couch upon which the Senator was sleeping. "What is it, Don Estevan?" cried the Senator, suddenly leaping up in his bed; "Senor Estevan, I should say." Tragaduros had been dreaming of the court of the King of Spain. "What is it, your grace?" "I come to take leave of you, and to give you my final instructions." "Eh! what?" said the Senator. "Is the hour late? or have I been three days asleep?" "No," gravely replied the Spaniard, "but there is a serious danger that menaces our projects--both yours and mine. This young rustic, whom we found on the road, knows all about the Golden Valley; and what is still worse, he loves Dona Rosarita, and Dona Rosarita loves him." Tragaduros, instead of starting up at this announcement, sank back upon his pillow, crying out. "Adieu then to the million dollars of dowry! adieu to those beautiful plains covered with horses and cattle, which I already believed my own! adieu to the honours of the court of _Carlos el Primero_!" "Come! all is not yet lost," said Don Estevan. "The evil may be remedied if taken in time. This young fellow has quitted the hacienda. It will be necessary to follow and find him before he gets out of the way. So much the worse for him, if his evil star is in opposition to yours." The Spaniard said no more of his designs with regard to Tiburcio. As to the Senator, it was of little importance to him how he was to be disembarrassed of so dangerous a rival, so long as he himself should not be troubled with the matter. "Whatever may be the end of it," added Don Estevan, "one thing is certain--the young fellow will never be allowed to come back to this house, for I shall arrange that with Don Augustin. You will therefore be master of the situation, and will have everything your own way. Make the young lady love you--it will be easy enough--your rival will be absent, he may be _dead_--for these deserts are dangerous, and you know the old proverb about absence?" "I shall make myself irresistible!" said the Senator, "for since yesterday I feel as if I was on fire about this lovely creature, who appears to have come down direct from heaven--and with--such a dowry!" "No man ever aimed at an object more desirable than this immense dowry and this fair flower of the desert. Spare no pains, therefore, to win both the lady and the fortune." "If necessary I shall spin for her, as Hercules at the feet of Omphale." "Ha, ha ha!" laughed the Spaniard. "If Hercules had any merits in the eyes of Omphale, it was not on account of his spinning, but because he was Hercules. No--do better than spin. To-morrow Don Augustin has a hunt among his wild steeds; there will be an opportunity for you to distinguish yourself by some daring exploit. Mount one of the wildest of the horses, for the honour of the beautiful eyes of Rosarita, and after having tamed him, ride him up panting into her presence. That will gain you more grace than handling the thread and distaff _a la Hercules_." The Senator responded to these counsels with a sigh: and Don Estevan, having given him further instructions as to how he was to act during the absence of the expedition, took leave of him, and repaired to the chamber of Don Augustin. The clank of his heavy spurs, as he entered the sleeping apartment of the haciendado, awoke the latter--who on opening his eyes and seeing his nocturnal visitor in full riding-costume, cried out: "What! is it time to set forth upon the chase? I did not know the hour was so late!" "No, Don Augustin," replied the Spaniard, "but for me the hour has come to set forth upon a more serious pursuit than that of wild horses. I hasten to pursue the enemy of your house--the man who has abused your hospitality, and who if not captured, may bring ruin upon all our projects." "The enemy of my house! the man who has abused my hospitality!" cried the haciendado, starting up in astonishment, and seizing a long Toledo rapier that hung by the side of his bed, "Who is the man that has acted so, Don Estevan?" "Be calm!" said Don Estevan, smiling inwardly at the contrast exhibited between the spirit of the haciendado and the pusillanimity of the Senator. "Be calm! the enemy I speak of is no longer under your roof-- he has fled beyond the reach of your just vengeance." "But who is he?" impatiently demanded Don Augustin. "Tiburcio Arellanos." "What! Tiburcio Arellanos my enemy! I do not believe it. Loyalty and courage are the characteristics of the young man. I shall never believe him a traitor." "He knows the situation of the Golden Valley! Furthermore, he loves your daughter!" "Is that all? Why, I was aware of these facts already!" "Yes, but your daughter loves him--perhaps you were not aware of that fact?" Don Estevan here detailed the events that had just transpired, and which proved that the passion of the young gambusino was reciprocated by Rosarita. "Well!" calmly rejoined Don Augustin; "so much the worse for the Senator!" This reply could not fail to astonish the Spaniard, and create a feeling of disappointment. "Remember," said he, "remember, Don Augustin Pena; that you have engaged your word--not only to me, not only to Tragaduros, but to a prince of the blood royal of Spain, from whose brow this apparently simple incident--the caprice of a young girl--may snatch a crown. Think too of your country--its future glory and greatness--all dependent on the promise you have given--" "Why," interrupted Don Augustin, "why set forth all these considerations? After my promise has been given, I never retract my word. But it is only to the Duke de Armada I have engaged myself, and he alone can free me from that engagement. Are you satisfied with this assurance?" "How could I be otherwise?" cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the noble haciendado. "Enough! I have your word, it will be necessary forme to leave you without farther delay. This young fellow may find comrades to accompany him to the Golden Valley. There is not a moment, therefore, to be lost. I must at once proceed to Tubac. Adieu, my friend, adieu!" Don Augustin would have risen to accompany his guest to the gates, but the Spaniard would not permit him, and they parted without farther ceremony. When Don Estevan reached the court-yard, his attendants and domestics were found in readiness to depart. The mules had been packed, and the _remuda_ collected in charge of the driver. The followers, Cuchillo, Baraja, Oroche, and Pedro Diaz were already in their saddles--the last mounted on a magnificent and fiery steed, which told that the generous haciendado had kept his promise. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE LONE FIRE IN THE FOREST. The motive for this hasty departure from the hacienda was unknown only to Benito and the other domestics. The cavalier adventurers were aware of its object though two of them, Baraja and Oroche, had no very clear understanding upon the matter. The fumes of the mezcal were still in their heads, and it was with difficulty they could balance themselves in the saddle. They were sensible of their situation, and did their best to conceal it from the eyes of the chief. "Am I straight in my stirrups?" whispered Oroche addressing himself to Baraja. "Straight as a bamboo!" replied the other. "Do I appear firm?" inquired he in turn. "Firm as a rock," was the response. Thanks to the efforts they were making to keep themselves upright, Don Estevan, as he glanced over the ranks of his followers, did not observe anything amiss. Cuchillo, however, knowing that they were not in a fit state for inspection regarded them with an anxious glance. As Don Estevan was about to mount, the outlaw rode up to him, and pointing to the others with an expressive gesture, said, "If your honour desires me to act as guide, and give the order of march, I am ready to enter upon my duties." "Very well," replied Don Estevan, springing into the saddle, "commence at any moment, but let us be gone as soon as possible." "Benito!" shouted the newly appointed guide, "take the _remuda_ and _recua_ in advance; you will wait for us at the bridge of the _Salto de Agua_." Benito, with the other attendants, obeyed the order in silence; and the moment after were moving with their respective charges along the road leading to Tubac. A little later the cavalcade rode out of the court-yard of the hacienda, and turning round the wall of the enclosure, guided by Cuchillo, proceeded toward the breach through which Tiburcio had passed. The guide was riding by the side of Don Estevan. "We have found his traces," said he to the chief, as they moved forward; "he is down in the forest." "Where?" "Do you see a light yonder shining through the trees?" The mysterious light was gleaming, just as Tiburcio had first seen it from his window. It was to this that Cuchillo directed the attention of the chief. "Yes," replied the latter, "what of it?" "It is the camp-fire of some travellers; and in all probability the fellow will be found there. So," continued he, with a hideous smile, "we are going to give chase to a wild colt--which will be better than hunting Don Augustin's wild horses--and here are the three hunters." As the outlaw said this, he pointed with his whip, first to himself, and then to his two comrades, Oroche and Baraja. "They have both espoused our quarrel," he added. "From what motive?" inquired the Spaniard. "That motive which the hound has in taking the part of the hunter against the stag," answered the outlaw, with a significant smile; "they only follow their instincts, and they are two animals with formidable teeth." At this moment the moon shone out, and gleaming upon the carbines and knives of the two adventurers, seemed to confirm the assertion of Cuchillo. But the light proved disadvantageous to Baraja and Oroche, for it enabled Don Estevan to perceive that they were far from steady in their seats. "Why, these fellows are drunk!" cried he, turning upon the guide a look of furious reproach. "Are these the assistants you count upon?" "True, your honour," replied Cuchillo, "they are not exactly sober; but I hope soon to cure them. I know of a remedy that will set them all right in five minutes. It is the fruit of the _jocuistle_, which grows abundantly in these parts. I shall find it as soon as we have reached the woods." Don Estevan was forced to swallow his chagrin in silence. It was not the time for vain recriminations; and above all, Tiburcio had first to be found, before the services of either of the inebriated gentlemen would be called into requisition. In a few seconds' time the party had reached the breach in the wall. Cuchillo dismounted, and striking a light, pointed out to the others the traces left by Tiburcio. There could be seen some fragments freshly fallen from the wall, evidently detached by the feet of one passing over; but what was of more consequence, they were stained with drops of blood. This must have been Tiburcio's. "You see," said the outlaw to Don Estevan, "that he must have passed this way. Ah! if I had only given him another inch or two. After all," added he, speaking to himself, "it is better I didn't. I shall be twenty onzas the richer that I didn't settle with him then. Now," continued he, once more raising his voice, "where can he have gone, unless to yonder fire in the woods?" A little farther on in the direction of the forest, other spots of fresh blood were discovered upon the dry calcareous surface of the soil. This appeared to confirm the conjecture of the guide--that Tiburcio had proceeded towards the camp-fire. "If your honour," resumed Cuchillo, addressing himself to his chief, "will go forward in company with the Senor Diaz, you will reach a stream running upon your left. By following down its bank for some distance, you will come to a bridge constructed with three or four trunks of trees. It is the bridge of the _Salto de Agua_. Just before reaching it, your honour will see a thick wood on the right. Under cover of that you can remain, until we three have finished our affair and rejoin you. Afterwards we can overtake the domestics. I have ordered them forward, for the reason that such people should not be privy either to our designs or actions." In this arrangement Cuchillo exhibited the consummate skill of the practiced bandit. Don Estevan, without offering any opposition to his plan, rode off as directed, in company with Diaz; while the outlaw, with his two chosen acolytes turned their horses' heads in the direction of the fire. "The fire betokens a halt of travellers, beyond doubt," remarked Diaz to Don Estevan; "but who these travellers can be is a thing that puzzles me." "Travellers like any others, I suppose," rejoined the Spaniard, with an air of abstraction. "No, that is not likely. Don Augustin Pena is known for his generous hospitality for twenty leagues around. It is not probable that these travellers should have halted so near his hacienda without knowing it. They must be strangers to the country I fancy, or if not, they have no good purpose in camping where they are." Pedro Diaz was making almost the same observations that had occurred to Tiburcio at an earlier hour of the night. Meanwhile, Cuchillo, with his two comrades, advanced towards the edge of the forest. As soon as they had reached it the guide dismounted from his horse. "Stay here," said he, "while I go fetch something to cure you of your ill-timed drunkenness." So saying he glided in among the trees, and in a few seconds came out again, carrying with him several oblong yellow-coloured fruits that resembled ripe bananas. They were the fruits of the _jocuistle_, a species of _asimina_, whose juice is an infallible remedy against the effects of intoxication. The two inebriates ate of the fruit according to Cuchillo's direction; and in a minute or two their heads were cleared of the fumes of the mezcal as if by enchantment. "Now to business!" cried Cuchillo, without listening to the apologies his comrades were disposed to make--"to business! You will dismount and lead your horses forward by the bridle, until you can see the fire; and when you hear the report of my gun, be ready, for I shall then fall back upon you." "All right," responded Oroche, "we are both ready--the Senor Baraja and myself--to sacrifice all private interests to the common good." Cuchillo now parted with the two, leading his horse ahead of them. A little farther on he tied the animal to the branch of a tree, and then stooping downward he advanced on foot. Still farther on he dropped upon his hands and knees, and crept through the underwood like a jaguar stealing upon its prey. Now and then he paused and listened. He could hear the distant lowing of the wild bulls, and the crowing of the cocks at the hacienda, mingled with the lugubrious notes of the great wood owl, perched near him upon a branch. He could hear the distant sound of water--the cataract of the _Salto de Agua_--and, in the same direction, the continuous howling of the jackals. Again the assassin advanced--still creeping as before. Presently he saw before him the open glade, lit up by the flame of the camp-fire. On the edge nearest him, stood a huge button-wood tree, from whose base extended a number of flat ridge-like processes, resembling the bastions of a fortification. He perceived that, behind these he would be concealed from the light of the fire; while he himself could command a view of every object within the glade. In another moment he was crouching under the trunk of the button-wood. His eyes gleamed with a fierce joy, as he gazed in the direction of the fire, around which he could distinguish the forms of three men--two of them seated, the other stretched along the ground, and apparently asleep. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE WOOD-RANGERS. Behind the Hacienda del Venado--that is, to the northward of it--the surface of the country was still in a state of nature; as we have already said, the edge of the forest lay almost within gun-shot of the walls; and this vast tract of woods extended for many leagues to the north, till it ended in the great deserts of Tubac. The only road that trended in a northerly direction, was that leading to the Presidio of Tubac--though in reality it was not a road, but simply an Indian trail. At a short distance beyond the hacienda, it was crossed by a turbulent and rapid stream--the same that passed near the house--augmented by several tributaries that joined it in the woods. Where the road crossed it, and for a long distance above and below, this stream partook rather of the nature of a torrent, running in a deep bed, between rocky banks--a _canon_. Over this canon the crossing was effected by means of a rude bridge consisting simply of the trunks of two or three trees, laid side by side, and reaching from bank to bank. About half-way between the hacienda and this bridge, and but a short distance from the side of the road, was the fire which had already attracted so much attention. This fire had been kindled near the centre of a little glade, but its flame cast a red glare upon the trees at a distance, until the grey bark of the button-wood, the pale foliage of the acacias, and the scarlet leaves of the sumac, all appeared of one colour: while the darker llianas, stretching from tree to tree, encircled the little glade with a series of festoons. At the hour when Tiburcio was about leaving the hacienda, two persons were seated by this fire, in the attitude of men who were resting after a day of fatigue. These persons were the trappers, who had already made their appearance at La Poza. There was nothing remarkable in two men having made their camp-fire in the woods; it was their proximity to a hacienda--and that, too, the Hacienda del Venado--that rendered the fact significant. The trappers knew well enough that the hacienda was close at hand; it followed, then, that they had some reasons of their own for not availing themselves of its hospitality. A large pile of fagots lay near the fire, evidently collected to feed it, and this proved that the men who had kindled it intended to pass the night on the spot. The appearance of these two men would have been striking, even in the light of day; but under that of the fire it was picturesque--almost fantastic. The older of the two was habited in a costume half Indian, half Canadian; on his head was a sort of bonnet, shaped like a truncated cone, and made out of the skin of a fox; a blue striped cotton shirt covered his shoulders, and beside him upon the ground lay a sort of woollen surtout--the _capote_ of the Canadians. His legs were encased in leathern leggins, reaching from the thigh downward to the ankle; but instead of moccasins he wore upon his feet a pair of strong iron-bound shoes, capable of lasting him for a couple of years at the least. A large buffalo-horn, suspended from the shoulder, contained his powder; and upon his right side hung a leathern pouch, well filled with bullets. In fine, a long rifle, with a barrel nearly six feet in length, rested near his hand; and this, with a large hunting-knife stuck in his belt, completed his equipment. His hair already showed symptoms of turning grey and a long scar which crossed his temples, and appeared to run all round his head, showed that if his scalp was still there he had some time or other run the risk of having it _raised_. His bronzed complexion denoted a long exposure to sun, wind, and rain; but for all this, his countenance shone with an expression of good-humour. This was in conformity with his herculean strength--for nature usually bestows upon these colossal men a large share of kind-heartedness. The other trapper appeared to be some five or six years younger; and although by no means a man of small stature, he was but a pigmy alongside his gigantic companion. His countenance also lacked the serenity which distinguished that of the other--his black eyes gave out an expression of boldness approaching to effrontery; and the play of his features indicated a man whose passions, fiery by nature, once aroused, would lead him into acts of violence--even of cruelty. Everything about him bespoke the second trapper to be a man of different race from his companion--a man in whose veins ran the hot blood of the south. Although his style of dress did not differ very much from that of his comrade, there were some points in it that denoted him to be more of a horseman. Nevertheless, his well-worn shoes bore witness to his having made more than one long journey on foot. The Canadian, half reclining upon the grass, was watching with especial interest a large piece of mutton, which, supported upon a spit of iron-wood, was frizzling and sputtering in the blaze of the fire. He appeared to enjoy the savoury odour that proceeded from the joint; and so much was his attention taken up by his gastronomic zeal, that he scarce listened to what his companion was saying. "Well, I have often told you," said the latter, "that when one is on the trace of an enemy, whether it be an Indian or a white, one is pretty sure of coming on his tracks somewhere." "Yes," rejoined the Canadian; "but you forgot that we shall just have time to reach Arispe, to receive the pay for our two years' campaign; besides, by our not going to the hacienda, we lose the bounty upon these three skins, and miss selling them besides." "I never forget my interests," replied the other; "no more than I do the vows which I make: and the best proof of it is, that twenty years ago I made one which I believe I shall now be able to accomplish. We can always force them to pay us what is due at Arispe, and we shall find many an opportunity of getting rid of the skins: but the chance which has turned up in the middle of these deserts, of bringing me in contact with the man against whom I have sworn vengeance may not offer again during my whole lifetime." "Bah!" exclaimed the Canadian, "vengeance is like many other kinds of fruit, sweet till you have tasted it, and afterwards bitter as gall." "For all that, Senor Bois-Rose, you do not appear to practise your own doctrine with the Apaches, Sioux, Crows, and other Indians with whom you are at enmity! Your rifle has cracked many a skull--to say nothing of the warriors you have ripped open with your knife!" "Oh! that is different, Pepe. Some of these would have robbed me of my peltries--others would have taken my scalp, and came very near doing so, as you see--besides, it is blessed bread to clear the prairies of these red vermin; but I have never sought to revenge myself against one of my own race and colour. I never hated one of my own kind sufficiently to kill him." "Ah! Bois-Rose; it is just those of one's own race we hate most--that is when they have given us the reason for doing so--and this man has furnished me with such motives to hate him as can never be forgotten. Twenty years have not blunted my desire for vengeance; though, on account of the great distance that separated us, I supposed I should never find an opportunity of fulfilling my vow. Strange it is that two men, with relations like ours, should turn up together in the middle of these desert plains. Well! strange though it be, I do not intend to let the chance escape me." Pepe appeared to have fixed his resolution upon this matter, and so firmly that his companion saw the folly of attempting to dissuade him by any further advice. The Canadian, moreover, was of an easy disposition, and readily yielded to the arguments of a friend. "After all," said he, "perhaps, if I fully understood your motives, I might entirely approve of the resolution you have made." "I can give them in two words," rejoined he whom the Canadian was addressing as Pepe. "It is just twenty years, as I have already told you, since I was a carabinier in the service of her Catholic majesty. I should have been content with my position and the amount of pay, had it only been _paid_ which unfortunately it was not. We were obliged to do the duty of coast-guard as well, and this would have done well enough had there been any smuggling, with the capture of which we might have indemnified ourselves; but there was none. What a fool a smuggler would have been to have ventured on a coast, guarded by two hundred fellows at their wits' end with hunger! Well, then I reasoned that if any smuggler was to land it could only be with the concurrence of our captain, and I suspected that the captain would make no objection to such an arrangement--for he himself was, like the rest of us, a creditor of the government. In such case he would cast around among us for the man in whom he _could most_ confide, and that would be he who was noted as being most careless upon his post. I resolved, therefore, to become the captain's confidential sentry. "To arrive at this object I pretended to be all the day asleep; and, notwithstanding the reprimands I received, I managed also to be found asleep upon my post at all hours of the night. I succeeded in my design. The captain soon learnt all about my somnolent habits, and chose me for his favourite sentinel." At this moment the Canadian detached the mutton from the spit, and having cut a large "hunk" from it with his knife passed the joint to his comrade. This interrupted the narrative, for both narrator and listener were hungry. The two now sat face to face, their legs forming a sort of an ellipse, with the roast mutton in the centre, and for several minutes a formidable gritting of teeth, as huge pieces of the mutton passed through them, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the night. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. OLD SOUVENIRS. "I have said then," resumed Pepe, after a time, "that I pretended to be always asleep. The _ruse_ succeeded equal to my best expectations, and one night the captain sent for me. Good! said I to myself, there's an eel under the stone--the captain is going to confide a post to me. Just as I had anticipated he sent me to sleep--at least he thought so--on a most important post; but for all that I did not sleep a wink during the whole of that night." Here Pepe paused for a moment, in order to swallow an enormous mouthful of the roast mutton, that hindered the free use of the tongue. "To be brief, then," resumed he, "a boat arrived with men, and I permitted it to land. It was only afterwards that I learnt that it was no smuggling business these men were bent upon, but an affair of blood-- of murder; and the thought that I was instrumental in aiding the assassins causes me to this hour a feeling of remorse. I did not conceal what I knew. Afterwards I denounced the murderer, by way of atoning for my fault. A trial took place, but as in Spain justice goes to the highest bidder, the assassin was set free, and I became a victim. I was drummed out of my regiment, and transported to the fisheries of Ceuta, on the unhealthy coast of Africa. There I was compelled to remain for many years, till at last having made my escape, after a thousand perilous adventures, I found myself on the prairies of America." "It was a rich man then--some powerful person--whom you denounced?" "Yes; a grand senor. It was the old story of the pot of clay broken against the pot of iron. But the desert here has no distinctions; and, by the Virgin of Atocha! I shall prove that before many suns have gone over my head. Ah! if I only had here a certain alcalde of the name of Don Ramon Cohecho, and his damned friend, one Senor Cagatinta, I fancy I should make them pass an uncomfortable quarter of an hour." "Very well, then," said Bois-Rose, seeing the other had finished his narrative; "very well. I quite approve of your intentions--let the journey to Arispe stand over." "It is an old story," said Pepe, in conclusion; "and if for ten years you have been teaching me to handle a rifle, after many more spent in the usage of a carbine in the service of her Catholic majesty, surely I should be able to manage it now. I think I would scarcely miss an object as large as him whom you have seen at the head of those horsemen journeying towards the hacienda." "Yes--yes," replied the Canadian, with a laugh; "but I remember the time, Pepe, when you missed many a buffalo twice as big as he. Nevertheless, I fancy I have made a passable shot of you at last, although you still persist in mistaking the ear of an otter for his eye, which always depreciates the value of the skin. Well, you know that I myself was not brought up on the prairies. I was a sailor for many long years; and perhaps I should have continued one but for--a sad event--a melancholy affair--but what good is there in speaking of that which is no more. Let the past be past! I find the life of the desert something like that on the ocean--once a man has got used to it he cannot easily quit it." "Yes," rejoined Pepe; "the life of the forest and prairie has its charms, and for my part--" "Hush!" whispered the Canadian, interrupting the speech of his comrade and placing himself in an attitude to listen. "I heard a rustle among the branches. Other ears than mine may be listening to you." Pepe cast a glance in the direction whence the sounds had been heard. The dark form of a man was perceived among the trees coming from the direction of the hacienda. It was evident that the man was not trying to approach by stealth, for his form was erect and he made no attempt to conceal himself behind the branches. This would have freed the mind of Pepe from all suspicion, but for the circumstance that the stranger appeared to be coming direct from the hacienda. "Who goes there?" he hailed in a loud tone, as the dark shadow was seen entering the glade. "One who seeks an asylum by your fire," was the ready reply, delivered in rather a feeble voice. "Shall we allow him to come on? or beg him to continue his journey?" muttered Pepe to the Canadian. "God forbid we should deny him! Perhaps they have refused him a lodging up at the house; and that voice, which I think I have heard before, plainly denotes that he is fatigued--perhaps ill." "Come on, Senor!" called out Pepe, without hesitating farther; "you are welcome to our fire and our mess; come on!" At this invitation the stranger advanced. It is needless to say that it was Tiburcio Arellanos, whose cheeks as he came within the light of the fire betrayed by their paleness the traces of some violent emotion, or else of some terrible malady. This pallor, however, was partly caused by the blood which he had lost in the conflict with Cuchillo. As soon as the features of Tiburcio came fairly under the light, the trappers recognised him as the young man they had met at La Poza; but the ex-carabinier was struck with some idea which caused him to make an involuntary gesture. The Canadian, on the other hand, regarded the new-comer with that expression of condescending kindness which age often bestows upon youth. "Have you parted with the gentlemen in whose company we saw you?" asked Pepe of Tiburcio. "Yes." "Perhaps you are not aware that there is a house close by. I do not know the owner, but I fancy he would not refuse you a night's lodging, and he could entertain you better than we. Perhaps," continued he, observing that Tiburcio made no reply, "you have been up to the house already?" "I have," answered Tiburcio. "I have no reproach to make against its owner, Don Augustin Pena; he has not refused me hospitality; but there are other guests under his roof with whom my life is not safe." "Oh, that!" exclaimed Pepe, appearing to become more interested; "has anything happened to you?" Tiburcio lifted his serape, exhibiting the wound in his right arm from which the blood was yet oozing. Both Pepe and the Canadian rose hastily to their feet and stepped forward to examine the wound. Having done so, they immediately set about dressing it, which they effected with as much dexterity and despatch as might have been shown by practised surgeons; at the same time the rude physiognomy of each was marked by an expression of interest almost amounting to tenderness. While the Canadian kept bathing the wound with water from his canteen, Pepe proceeded into the woods in search of a peculiar plant noted for its healing properties. This plant was the _oregano_. Presently he returned, bringing with him several slices which he had cut from the succulent stem of the plant; the pulp of these, mashed between two stones, was placed over the wound, and then secured by Tiburcio's own scarf of China crape wound several times around the arm; nothing more could be done than await the effect of the application. "Now," said the Canadian, "you will soon feel better. There is no danger of inflammation--nothing beats the oregano for preventing that, and you need not be afraid of fever. Meanwhile, if you feel inclined, there's a bit of roast mutton and a glass of _eau de vie_ at your service; after which you had best lie down by the fire and take some sleep--for I can see that you're weary." "In truth," replied Tiburcio, "I am fatigued. I thank you for your offer, but I do not feel inclined either to eat or drink; I have more need of sleep, and with your permission shall try and get some. One request I would make of you: that you will not permit me to sleep too long; there are reasons why I should soon be awake again." "Very well," said Pepe; "we don't want your reasons. If you wish us to watch the hacienda, I beg you will only say so, and you shall have two pair of good eyes at your service; therefore make your mind easy, and sleep without fear of any enemy coming upon you unawares." Tiburcio stretched himself upon the grass, and overcome by fatigue and the many violent emotions he had that day experienced, soon fell into a lethargic slumber. For some time Bois-Rose sat regarding the sleeper in silence, but with an air of strange interest. "What age do you think he is?" he at length inquired of his comrade. "Twenty-four, I should fancy," replied the ex-coast-guard. "Just what I was thinking," said the Canadian, speaking in a tone of half soliloquy, while a melancholy expression appeared to tone down his rude physiognomy. "Yes, just the age he ought to be if still alive." "He! who are you talking of?" brusquely interrupted his companion, in whose heart the words of the Canadian seemed to find an echo. "No matter," said Bois-Rose, still speaking in a tone of melancholy; "the past is past; and when it has not been as one would have wished it, it is better forgotten. But come! let us have done with idle regrets and finish our supper--such souvenirs always spoil my appetite." "The same with me," agreed Pepe, as he seized hold of a large mutton-bone, and commenced an attack upon it in a fashion that proved that his appetite was not yet quite gone. After a while Pepe again broke the silence. "If I had the pleasure," said he, "of a personal acquaintance with this Don Augustin Pena, who appears to be the proprietor here, I would compliment him upon the fine quality of his mutton; and if I thought his horses were of as good a sort, I think I should be tempted to borrow one--one horse would never be missed out of the great herds we have seen galloping about, no more than a sheep out of his vast flocks; and to me a good horse would be a treasure." "Very well," said the Canadian. "If you feel inclined for a horse, you had better have one; it will be no great loss to the owner, and may be useful to us. If you go in search of one, I can keep watch over this young fellow, who sleeps as if he hadn't had a wink for the last month." "Most probably no one will come after him; nevertheless, Bois-Rose, keep your eye open till I return. If anything happens, three howls of the coyote will put me on my guard." As he said this, Pepe took up a lazo that lay near, and turning his face in the direction in which he was most likely to find a drove of horses, he walked off into the woods. Bois-Rose was left alone. Having thrown some dry branches upon the fire, in order to produce a more vivid light, he commenced regarding anew the young man who was asleep; but after a while spent in this way he stretched himself alongside the prostrate body, and appeared also to slumber. The night-breeze caused the foliage to rustle over the heads of these two men, as they lay side by side. Neither had the least suspicion that they were here re-united by strange and providential circumstances--that twenty years before, they had lain side by side--then lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean, just as now by the whispering murmurs of the forest. CHAPTER THIRTY. BOIS-ROSE AND FABIAN. For twenty years the murderer of the Countess de Mediana had gone unpunished. For twenty years the justice of heaven had remained suspended; but the time of its accomplishment was not far off. Soon was it to open its solemn assizes; soon would it call together accuser and criminal, witness and judge--not from one part of a country to another, but from opposite sides of the globe; and, as if led by some invisible hand, all would have to obey the terrible summons. Fabian de Mediana and the Canadian sailor lay side by side--just as they had done twenty years ago, at three thousand leagues distance from Sonora. And yet they had no suspicion of ever having met before, though a single chance word might at that moment have brought either to the memory of the other. It was just about this time that Don Estevan and his party rode off from the hacienda. The Canadian, according to the counsel of his comrade Pepe, slept with one eye open. At short intervals he contrived to awake himself, and raising his head slightly, cast around him a scrutinising glance. But on each of these occasions, the light of the fire showed him Tiburcio still tranquilly asleep; and this appearing to satisfy him, he would again compose himself as before. About an hour had passed, when the sound of heavy footsteps awakened him once more, and listening a moment, he distinguished them as the hoof-strokes of a horse. A few moments after, Pepe made his appearance within the circle of the blaze, leading a horse at the end of his lazo--a magnificent animal, that snorted and started back at sight of the fire. Pepe, however, had already given him more than one lesson, and his obedience was nearly complete; so that, after a short conflict, the trapper succeeded in bringing him nearer and attaching him to the trunk of a tree. "Well," said Pepe, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an old ragged handkerchief, "I've had a tough struggle with him; but he's worth it, I fancy. What think you, Bois-Rose? Isn't he the most splendid quadruped that ever galloped through these woods?" In truth it was a beautiful creature, rendered more beautiful by the terror which he was exhibiting at the moment, as he stood with his fine limbs stretched, his head thrown high in the air, his mane tossed over his wild savage eyes, and his nostrils spread and frothy. Strange enough that fear, which renders vile and degraded the lord of the creation, should have an opposite effect on most of the lower animals-- especially on the horse. This beautiful creature under its impulse only appears more beautiful! Little as Bois-Rose delighted in horse-flesh, he could not withhold his approval of the capture which his comrade had made. "He looks well enough," was his sober reply; "but he'll be a rough mount, I reckon." "No doubt of that," assented Pepe. "I know he'll be rough at first; but the main thing was to get hold of him. I had a lucky hand to hook him as I did." "I hope your neck will prove as lucky as your hand. For my part, I'd rather walk ten leagues than be on his back for ten minutes. But see, comrade!" continued the big trapper, pointing to the stars, "they're gone down yonder! you'll need some sleep before morning. Lie down while I take my turn of the watch." "I'll take your advice," replied Pepe, at the same time stretching himself out upon his back, with his feet to the fire--in which attitude he was soon asleep. The Canadian rose to his feet, took several turns round the fire--as if to drive away any remains of sleep that might be lurking in his eyes-- then sat down again, with his back resting against the stump of a tree. He had not been long seated before he got up once more, and, approaching with caution, stood over Tiburcio. For several minutes he remained in this attitude, attentively examining the features of the young man: he then returned to his seat by the stump. "Just about _his_ age, if he is still living," muttered he to himself. "But what chance have I to recognise in a grown man the features of an infant scarce four years old?" A smile of disdain played for an instant on his lips, as if he were chiding himself for the silliness of his conjectures. "And yet," he continued, his countenance changing its expression, "I have seen and taken part in too many strange events--I have been too long face to face with Nature--to doubt the power of Providence. Why should I consider this a miracle? It was not one when I chanced upon the boat adrift that carried that poor infant and its murdered mother! No, it was the hand of God. Why might not the same hand restore him to me in the midst of the desert? The ways of Providence are inscrutable." As if this reflection had given birth to new hopes, the Canadian again rose to his feet, and approaching, stooped once more over the prostrate form of Tiburcio. "How often," said he, "have I thus gazed on my little Fabian as he slept! Well, whoever you are, young man," continued he, "you have not come to my fire without finding a friend. May God do for my poor Fabian what I am disposed to do for you!" Saying this, he once again returned to his seat, and remained for a long time reflecting upon incidents that had transpired twenty years before in the Bay of Biscay. It should here be stated that up to this hour Bois-Rose and Pepe had not the slightest suspicion that they had ever met, before their chance encounter upon the prairies of America. In reality they had never met-- farther than that they had been within musket-range of each other. But up to this hour Pepe knew not that his trapping comrade was the gigantic smuggler he had fired at from the beach of Ensenada; and Bois-Rose was equally ignorant that Pepe was the coast-guard whose "obstinacy and clumsiness" he had spoken of to his lieutenant. The cause of this mutual ignorance of each other's past was that neither of them had ever mentioned the word Elanchovi in the hearing of the other. The Canadian had never thought of communicating the incidents of that night to his prairie comrade; and Pepe, on his side, would have given much to have blotted them altogether from the pages of his memory. The night became more chilly as the hours passed on, and a damp dew now fell upon the grass and the foliage of the trees. It did not wake the sleepers, however, both of whom required a long rest. All at once the silence was broken by the horse of Pepe, that neighed loudly and galloped in a circle at the end of his lazo: evidently something had affrighted him. Bois-Rose suddenly started from his reverie, and crept silently forward, both ear and eye set keenly to reconnoitre. But nothing could be heard or seen that was unusual; and after a while he glided back to his seat. The noise had awakened Tiburcio, who, raising himself into a sitting posture, inquired its cause. "Nothing," answered the trapper, whose denial, however, was scarce sincere. "Something indeed," continued he, "has frightened the horse. A jaguar, I fancy, that scents the skins of his companions, or, more likely, the remains of our roast mutton. By the way, you can eat a bit now; I have kept a couple of pieces for you." And as he said this he handed two goodly-sized pieces of mutton to Tiburcio. This time the young man accepted the invitation to eat. Rest had given him an appetite; and after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the cold mutton, warmed up by a glass of the brandy already mentioned, he felt both his strength and spirits restored at the same time. His features, too, seemed to have suddenly changed their hue, and now appeared more bright and smiling. The presence of the hunter also added to the pleasure thus newly arisen within his breast. He remembered the solicitude which the Canadian had exhibited in dressing his wound--which he now extended even to giving him nourishment--and the thought occurred to him that in this man he might find a friend as redoubtable for his herculean strength as for his dexterity and courage. He no longer felt so lone in the world--so abandoned. On the other hand, Bois-Rose sat looking at his _protege_ and apparently delighted to see him enjoy his repast. The heart of the trapper was fast warming into a strong friendship for this young man. "Stranger!" said he, after a considerable interval of silence, "it is the custom of the Indians never to inquire the name or quality of a guest until after he has eaten of their bread. I have followed their example in regard to you; and now may I ask you who you are, and what happened at the hacienda to drive you forth from it?" "I shall willingly tell you," answered Tiburcio. "For reasons that would have no interest for you, I left my hut and started on a journey to the Hacienda del Venado. My horse, overcome by thirst and fatigue, broke down on the way. It was his dead body, as you already know, that attracted the jaguars, so adroitly destroyed by you and your brave comrade." "Hum!" interrupted the Canadian, with a smile; "a poor feat that--but go on. I long to hear what motive any one could have for hostility to a mere youth scarce twenty years old, I should fancy." "Twenty-four," answered Tiburcio, and then proceeded with his narrative. "I came very near sharing the fate of my poor horse; and when, about two hours after, you saw me at La Poza, I had just arrived there--having been saved by the party in whose company you found me. But what motive those gentlemen could have, first to rescue me from death, and then afterwards attempt to take my life, is what I am unable to comprehend." "Perhaps some rivalry in love?" suggested the Canadian, with a smile; "it is usually the history of young men." "I acknowledge," rejoined Tiburcio, with an air of embarrassment, "there is something of that; but there is also another motive, I believe. Possibly it is to secure to themselves the sole possession of an important secret which I share with them. Certain it is, that there are three men whom my life appears to discommode; there is one of them against whom I have myself sworn vengeance, and although I am but one against three I must accomplish the vow which I made at the death-bed of a person who was very dear to me." The three men whom Tiburcio meant--and whose names he repeated to Bois-Rose--were Cuchillo, who had attempted to assassinate him; the Senator, his rival: and Don Estevan, whom Tiburcio now believed to be the murderer of Marcos Arellanos. Bois-Rose tacitly applauded this exhibition of youthful ardour and reckless courage. "But you have not yet told me your name?" said he, interrogatively, after a moment's hesitation. "Tiburcio Arellanos," was the reply. At the mention of the name the Canadian could not restrain a gesture that expressed disappointment. There was nothing in the name to recall the slightest souvenir. He had never heard it before. The young man, however, observed the gesture. "You have heard the name before?" he asked abruptly. "Perhaps you knew my father, Marcos Arellanos? He has often been through the wildest parts of the country where you may have met him. He was the most celebrated gambusino in the province." Instead of calling Marcos Arellanos his father, had Tiburcio said his _adopted father_, his explanation might have elicited a different response from the Canadian. As it was, he only said in reply: "It is the first time I have heard the name. It was your face that recalled to me some memories of events that happened--long, long ago--" Without finishing what he meant to have said, the Canadian relapsed into silence. Tiburcio, too, ceased speaking for a while; he was reflecting on some hopes that had suddenly sprung up within him. His meeting with the two trappers appeared to him not so much a mere chance as a providential circumstance. The secret which he possessed, almost useless to him alone, might be rendered available with the assistance of two auxiliaries such as they--it might become the key to the favour of Don Augustin. It was not without repugnance that he reflected on this means of winning the heart of Rosarita--or rather of purchasing it at the price of gold--for Tiburcio believed that it was closed against any more tender appeal. He had mentally resolved never to return to the hacienda; but notwithstanding this vow he still indulged in a slight remnant of hope--perhaps the echo of his own profound passion. This hope overcame his repugnance; and he resolved to make known his design to the trappers, and endeavour to obtain assistance in carrying it out. With this view he again opened the conversation. "You are a hunter by profession--I think I have heard you say?" "Yes; that is the vocation both of my comrade and myself." "It is not a very profitable one, and yet attended with many dangers." "Ah! it is a noble calling, my boy! My fathers followed it before my time, and I, after a few years of interruption, have resumed the profession of my fathers. Unfortunately I have no son to succeed me; and I can say, without boasting, that when I am gone a brave and strong race perishes with me." "I, too," said Tiburcio, "follow the profession of my father--who, as I have told you, was a gambusino." "Ah! you are one of a race whom God has also created--in order that the gold which He has given to the world should not be lost to the use of man." "My father," continued Tiburcio, "has left me a grand legacy--the knowledge of a deposit of gold, not far from the frontier; and if two men, such as you and your comrade, would join me in obtaining it, I could promise to make you richer than ever you dreamt of becoming." Tiburcio awaited the reply of the trapper, feeling almost certain of his adhesion, notwithstanding the refusal the latter had made in his presence to the proposal of Don Estevan. His astonishment, therefore, was great when the Canadian, with a negative shake of the head, replied as follows: "Your proposal, young man, might be seductive to many--there was a time when it would have been so to myself--but now it is no longer so. What would gold be to me? I have no one to whom either to give it or leave it. I have no longer a country. The woods and prairies are my home, and gold would be of no service to me there. I thank you, young friend, for your offer, but I must decline to accept it." And as he said this, the Canadian covered his face with his huge hand, as if to shut out from his eyes the seductive prospect which had been offered to his view. "Surely this is not your final answer?" said Tiburcio, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise. "A man does not so readily refuse a treasure that he has only to pick up from the ground?" "Nevertheless," responded the trapper, "it is my resolution, fixed and firm. I have other objects to follow. I have given myself, body and soul, to aid my comrade there in an enterprise--my comrade of ten years' standing." During this conversation the words _gold_ and _treasure_, frequently pronounced, appeared to produce their magic influence on Pepe. Every now and then he turned himself, as if about to protest against the refusal of Bois-Rose, so definitively given. It was evident he was not sleeping very soundly while the talk was going on. "This Don Estevan de Arechiza, of whom you speak," resumed the Canadian; "he is the same we saw at La Poza is he not--the chief of the expedition?" "The same." "Ha! is that the name he goes by here?" cried Pepe, suddenly rousing himself from his apparent sleep. "You know him, then?" said Tiburcio, interrogatively. "Yes--yes," replied Pepe; "he is an old acquaintance, with whom I have some back debts to settle--and that is why you see me in this part of the country. But if you desire to have the whole story--and from what has happened I fancy you will--I promise to tell it to you by-and-bye. I begin to fancy that our cause is a common one; and if so, I shall be able to lend you a hand. But there's a time for everything; and now, the most important thing for me is to get some sleep, so as to be ready for whatever turns up." As Pepe said this, he made a movement to return to the horizontal position from which he had temporarily raised himself. "Stay! Pepe!" interrupted the Canadian, with an air of good-humour; "one instant before you fall asleep, or I shall say that you deserved the name of Pepe the Sleeper. Hear me! This young man has made us an offer. He wishes us to accompany him to a _placer_ he knows of, where you have only to stoop down and gather the gold in handfuls." "Carramba!" exclaimed Pepe; "you have accepted the offer, of course?" "On the contrary, I have refused it." "Then you've done wrong, Bois-Rose! That's a thing that deserves consideration; but we can talk it over by-and-bye--I must have some sleep first." And as he uttered the last words he lay down again; and the instant after a loud snore announced that he was soundly asleep! CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. THE RECOGNITION. The conversation, for a moment interrupted, was resumed by Bois-Rose. "So you shall find," said he, "in my comrade Pepe, a man ready to join you against this Don Estevan; and, as Pepe's enemies are mine, I shall be equally your partisan. We shall be able to offer you a brace of good rifles that never miss their aim. There is one, at all events, I think I can answer for." As the trapper said this, he pointed to the long piece that rested by his side. Tiburcio cast his eyes upon the gun, and for a moment regarded it with some surprise. He appeared to look more particularly at the wood-work of the stock, which was notched and carved in a somewhat fantastic manner. Here there was a row of simple notches, and there another row of marks resembling crosses. Then there were rows of double crosses; and also one of triple crosses; and finally a series of stars. All these hieroglyphics appeared to have been cut with the blade of a knife; but their purpose was a puzzle to Tiburcio. Bois-Rose, noticing an interrogative expression upon the face of the young man, at once entered upon an explanation. "These marks," said he, "are the scores I keep of the savages that have fallen by my rifle. They themselves keep count by the number of scalps; but this, you see, is more Christian and decent. That row of crosses stands for Apache--there is a dozen in all. The double crosses are for Sioux--seven of them. Those with the triple branch are Pawnees--eight of them I have sent to the land of spirits. The stars are Crows--and number only four, that my rifle has caused to utter their death-yell. You see nine parallel notches?--well, these are nine Flatheads that, thanks to me, will rob no longer in this world; and finally, those marks of a roundish shape, which I needn't count, are so many Blackfeet, who have gone to their happy hunting-grounds. Now," added the trapper, "I think I can promise you a rifle that is not likely to miss fire, and the hand of a friend that will not fail you." And as he said this, he stretched forth his huge hand, and grasping that of Tiburcio, pressed it frankly and firmly. The young man accepted the offer with a profusion of thanks. "I had a presentiment," said he, "when I saw the light of your fire, that I should find friends around it." "You are not deceived," warmly responded Bois-Rose; "you have found friends;--but, pardon me when I ask you, have you no relatives or connections with whom you could find a home?" For a moment the colour mounted to the cheeks of Tiburcio; but after a slight hesitation, he replied: "Why should I not be frank with you?--I shall! Know then, brave trappers, that surrounded as I am by enemies who seek my life; disdained by the woman I have loved, and still love--I am alone in the world: I have neither father, nor mother, nor any relative that I know of?" "Your father and mother--are they dead?" inquired Bois-Rose, with an air of interest. "I never knew either of them," answered the young man in a sad voice. "You have never known them!" cried the Canadian, rising suddenly, and laying hold of a blazing fagot, which he held up to the face of Tiburcio. This fagot, light as it was, appeared as if a hundredweight in the hand of the giant, that trembled like an aspen, under the convulsive emotions that were agitating his bosom. He held the flame closed to the countenance of the young man, and scanned his features with eager anxiety. "But surely," said he, "you at least know in what country you were born?" "I do not," answered Tiburcio. "But why do you ask me? What interest--" "Fabian! Fabian!" interrupted Bois-Rose, in a soft, appealing tone, as if he was speaking to an infant--"what has become of you?" "Fabian!" repeated the young man; "I do not know the name." "Oh, my God!" exclaimed the Canadian, as if speaking to himself, "since this name recalls nothing to him, it is not he! Why did I indulge in such a foolish hope? And yet his features are just as Fabian's should be at his age. Pardon me," he continued, addressing himself to Tiburcio--"pardon me, young friend. I am a fool! I have lost my senses!" And throwing the fagot back upon the fire, he returned to his seat, placing himself with his back to the light, so that his countenance was concealed from the eyes of his companion. Both were for some minutes silent. Tiburcio was endeavouring to penetrate the past, and recall some vague reminiscences of infancy, that still lingered in his memory. The widow of Arellanos had told him all she knew of his early history--of the gigantic sailor who had nursed him; but it never occurred to Tiburcio that the great trapper by his side, a _coureur de bois_ of the American wilderness--could ever have been a seaman--much less that one of whom he had heard and read, and who was believed to have been his father. The strange interest which the trapper had exhibited and the questions he had asked were attributed by him to mere benevolence. He had no idea that the latter referred to any one whom he had formerly known, and who was now lost to him; for Bois-Rose had as yet told him nothing of his own history. As Tiburcio continued to direct his thoughts upon the past, certain vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory. They were only dim shadows, resembling the retrospect of a dream, and yet he was impressed with the belief that they had once been realities. He was the more confirmed in this idea, because such visions had occurred to him before--especially upon the night when he sat by the death-bed of his adopted mother--the widow of Arellanos. The revelations which she made to him before dying had revived in some mysterious way these shadowy souvenirs. After a while the young man made known his thoughts to his companion by the camp-fire, whose interest appeared to be forcibly re-awakened, and who listened with eager attention to every word. "I fancy I can remember," said Tiburcio--"that is, if it be not a dream I have sometimes dreamt--a terrible scene. I was in the arms of a woman who held me closely to her breast--that I was rudely snatched from her embrace by a wicked man--that she screamed and cried, but then all at once became silent; but after that I remember no more." These words appeared to produce an effect upon the Canadian; and his interest visibly increased as he listened. "You can remember no more?" he inquired, in an eager tone. "Can you not remember what sort of place it was in? Was it in a house? or do you not remember whether the sea was around you? That is a thing one is not likely to forget." "No," answered Tiburcio, "I saw the great ocean for the first time at Guaymas--that was four years ago--and yet from what has been told me I should have also seen it when I was a child." "But, when you saw it four years ago, did it not recall anything to your memory?" "No, nothing." "Nothing?" repeated the Canadian, interrogatively, and in a despairing tone. "Nothing more than this same dream, which I have mistaken no doubt for reality." Bois-Rose again resumed his attitude of melancholy, and remained silent. After a pause Tiburcio continued: "One figure appears to me in these visions that is different from the rest." "What sort of figure?" inquired the Canadian, with renewed interest. "That of a man of a hale rude countenance, but notwithstanding one of kindly expression. This man loved me, for I now have his face before me more clearly than I ever had; and I can trace that expression upon it." "And did you love him? can you remember that?" inquired the Canadian, while his heart beat with anxiety, as he awaited the answer. "I am sure I did, he was so kind to me. I can remember he was kind to me." A tear stole over the bronzed cheek of the trapper as he listened to these words; and then turning his face once more so that it was hidden from the view of Tiburcio, he murmured to himself-- "Alas, poor Fabian! he too loved me--I know he did." Then once more facing round to the fire, he hazarded a last question: "Do you not remember one circumstance above all? Do you not remember that this man was suddenly separated from you in the midst of a terrible affray--?" The emotion under which Bois-Rose was suffering hindered him from finishing his interrogatory. His head fell between his knees, and he awaited in trembling the response which Tiburcio might make. The latter was silent for some seconds, as if endeavouring to arrange the confused thoughts that had suddenly sprung up in his mind. "Hear me!" said he at length, "you who appear to be a beacon guiding my memories of the past--hear what I can remember at this moment. There was one day of terror and confusion; I saw much blood around me. The ground appeared to tremble--there was thunder or the noise of cannon. I was in great fear within a dark chamber where I had been shut up--a man came to me; it was the big man who loved me--" Tiburcio paused for an instant, as if to grapple freshly with the vague reminiscences that were endeavouring to escape from him, while the Canadian appeared like one suffering the agony of suspense. "Yes," resumed Tiburcio, "this man came to me--he lifted me up in his arms and carried me into the light--there he caused me to kneel down-- oh! I now remember what he said--`_kneel_!' said he, `_kneel, my child! and pray for your mother_!' That is all I can remember." The Canadian, who was still seated, appeared to tremble convulsively, as he listened to these last words; but when Tiburcio had finished speaking, he rose suddenly to his feet; and rushing forward threw his arms wildly around the young man, while at the same time he cried out in a broken voice: "_Your mother whom I found dead beside you_. Oh! my God! Once more in need of a father, hast thou sent him to me. Oh! Fabian! Fabian! Come to my heart! It was I who caused you to kneel--I am that man! who in the bay of Elanchovi--" At this moment the report of a carbine echoed in the woods; and a bullet whistling through the air, passed close to the head of Tiburcio, striking a tree that stood behind him. This unexpected intruder at once put an end to the dialogue; suddenly changing the tableaux of figures around the fire. Pepe, who had heard the shot, sprang instantaneously to his feet, and all three stood grasping their weapons, ready to receive the enemy who had committed the dastardly attempt. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. SOUVENIRS OF ELANCHOVI. While these incidents were passing by the trappers camp-fire, Don Estevan was actively pursuing the execution of his plans. From what little he had heard and seen of Diaz he had conceived a high opinion of this person. He had observed in him a man of very different character from the crowd of adventurers who usually make up expeditions of the kind he was about to lead. Don Augustin had pronounced upon his courage; and the chief himself had noticed the reserve with which Diaz treated his new associates Cuchillo and Baraja. Moreover, some words with Diaz himself had confirmed Don Estevan's favourable impression, and convinced him that the Indian fighter was a man of brave and loyal heart. He regarded Diaz, therefore, as a valuable member of the expedition, and resolved to attach him as much as possible to his service--not merely with a view to his assistance in the search and conquest of the Valley of Gold, but for that higher aim which he had proposed to himself--the establishment of a kingdom. While proceeding to the rendezvous designated by Cuchillo, Don Estevan took the opportunity of sounding Diaz on this important question. His bravery and address as a soldier were already known; but these two qualities were not sufficient for the purposes of the Spaniard. Something more would be required of the man of whom it was his design to make both his lieutenant and confidant. The reply of Diaz to his very first question, convinced Don Estevan that Diaz was the very man he stood in need of; but the time had not yet arrived for the leader to open himself fully. He contented himself by simply observing, that in the event of the expedition being crowned with success, it might lead to an important affair--the separation of Sonora from the Federal Republic. At this moment the conversation between the chief and Pedro Diaz was interrupted by the report of a carbine. It was the shot fired by Cuchillo, which had caused the sudden alarm at the camp-fire of the trappers, but which as already known had failed in its aim. If the outlaw had not yielded to his own cupidity, it is possible that Tiburcio would have fallen at that moment. The assassin would have taken with him his two associates Baraja and Oroche; and as three bullets instead of one would thus have been aimed at the intended victim, the chances are that some of them would have reached his life. But Cuchillo did not desire to have a partner in the deed who could claim a share in the promised reward, he was determined to have the twenty onzas to himself; and this it was that induced him to leave Baraja and Oroche behind him. His design was well conceived, and might have been executed to his satisfaction. No doubt his aim had been true enough; but it chanced to be taken at an inopportune moment--just as Tiburcio sprang forward under the impulse of the revelation which Bois-Rose had made to him. Having delivered his fire the outlaw did not even stop to ascertain its effect; but turning suddenly away, he ran to recover his horse. The dread of being pursued and overtaken by the two trappers caused him to fly at full speed. He dreaded the vengeance of two men of whose singular courage and dexterity he had already been a witness. Fear, however, so confused his senses, that on facing round, he was unable to remember in what direction he had come, or where the horse had been left; and for some seconds he stood hesitating and doubtful. Short as was the time, it might have proved fatal to him, but that his unexpected attack had somewhat disconcerted the camp. Both Bois-Rose and Tiburcio, interrupted while suffering the most vivid emotions, stood for some moments in a state of stupor, while Pepe was stretched out at full length, and supposed to be asleep. This was only apparent, however, for at the report he sprang to his feet as if he had heard the "hish" of the bullet as it passed close to his ears. "_Carramba_!" cried he, "I am curious to know which of us that bit of lead was intended for, you or myself, young man; for I have heard your conversation, and I am no stranger to this affair of Elanchovi." "Elanchovi!" exclaimed the Canadian. "What! do you know anything of Elanchovi?" "Ah, well do I," answered Pepe. "I have good reasons to know Elanchovi--but there's no time to talk of it now; I will settle that business by-and-by, for it's a secret you can't comprehend without my help. So indeed it is the young count, and you have found him again! Well that's enough at present. Now, Bois-Rose, forward! You take to the right of where the shot came from, while this young man and I go to the left. The cowardly rascal who fired will no doubt be trying to turn our camp, and by going both ways, one or other of us will be likely to chance upon him. Away, Bois-Rose, away!" Hurriedly pronouncing these words, Pepe grasped his rifle and struck off to the left, followed by Tiburcio, who had no other weapon than his knife. The Canadian, suddenly stooping, till his huge body was almost horizontal, glided off to the right under the branches of the trees, and then moved on with a silence and rapidity that showed how accustomed he was to this mode of progression. The camp-fire was abandoned to the guard of the half-wild horse, that, freshly affrighted by the report of the carbine, once more plunged and reared, until he had almost strangled himself in the noose of his lazo. Meanwhile the day was beginning to break, and the red light of the fire was every moment growing paler under the first rays of the morning. "Let us stop here," said Pepe to Tiburcio, as soon as they had reached a thicket where they could have the advantage of seeing without being seen, and from which they commanded a view of the road leading to the Salto de Agua. "Stand closely behind this sumac bush," continued he; "I have an idea that this _picaron_, who has such a crooked sight, will pass this way. If he do, I shall prove to him that the lessons Bois-Rose has given me have not been altogether lost upon me. I manage my piece somewhat better now than when I was in the service of her Catholic majesty. There now, stand close, and not a word above a whisper." Tiburcio--or, as we may now call him, Fabian de Mediana--obeyed with pleasure the injunctions of his companion. His spirit, troubled with a few strange words he had heard from Bois-Rose and Pepe, was full of hope that the latter would be able to complete the revelation just begun; and he waited with anxious silence to hear what the ex-carabinier might say. But the latter was silent. The sight of the young man--whom he had himself assisted in making an orphan, and despoiling not only of his title and wealth, but even of his name--renewed within him the remorse which twenty years had not sufficed to blot out from his memory. Under the dawning light he looked sadly but silently on the face of that child whom he had often seen playing upon the beach of Elanchovi. In the proud glance of the youth, Pepe saw once more the eyes of his high-born mother; and in the elegant and manly form he recognised that of Don Juan de Mediana, his father; but twenty years of a rude and laborious life-- twenty years of a struggle with the toils and dangers of the desert--had imparted to Fabian a physical strength far superior to that of him who had given him being. Pepe at length resolved to break the silence. He could no longer restrain himself, suffering as he was from such bitter memories. "Keep your eye fixed upon the road," said he, "at yonder point, where it is lost among the trees. Watch that point whilst I talk to you. It is the way in which Bois-Rose and I do when there is any danger threatening us. At the same time listen attentively to what I say." "I listen," answered Fabian, directing his glance as his companion, had instructed him. "Do you remember nothing of your young days, more than you have just related to the Canadian?" "Nothing--ever since I learnt that Arellanos was not my father, I have tried to remember something, but to no purpose. I do not even know who took care of me in my infancy." "No more know they of you, my poor young man. I am the only one who can tell you these things of which you are ignorant." "For heaven's sake speak!" impatiently cried Fabian. "Hush! not so loud!" cautioned the trapper. "These woods, remote and solitary as they seem, nevertheless contain your deadliest enemy-- unless, indeed, it was at me that the bullet was aimed. That may make a difference in your favour. In fact, since I have not been able to recognise you, I do not see how _he_ can?" "Who--of whom do you speak?" brusquely demanded Fabian. "Of your mother's murderer--of the man who has robbed you of your titles, your honours, your wealth, and your name." "I should be noble and rich then?" cried Fabian, interrogatively. "Oh that I had but known it sooner--only yesterday!" Fabian's thoughts were upon Rosarita. If he could have told this to her, in that sad parting interview, perhaps the result might have been different! "Noble! yes!" replied Pepe, "you should be and shall yet, if I mistake not--but rich--alas! you are no more rich." "What matters it?" responded Fabian, "to-day it would be too late." "Yes, but it does matter--ah! I knew two men--one at least--who shall restore to you what you have lost, or die in the attempt." "Of whom do you speak?" "Of one who, without knowing it, aided to some extent in the assassination of your mother--of one whom that sad souvenir has a thousand times troubled the conscience--who, in the silence of the night in the midst of the woods, has often fancied he could hear that cry of anguish, which at the time he mistook for the wailing of the breeze against the cliffs of Elanchovi. It was the death scream of your poor mother. Ah! Don Fabian de Mediana," continued the speaker, in reply to the gesture of horror made by the young man, "Ah! that man's conscience has reproached him in stronger terms than you could use; and at this hour he is ready to spill the last drop of his blood for you." The impetuous passions of Fabian, for a moment softened by thoughts of Rosarita, were again inflamed to their utmost. He had already sworn to avenge the death of Arellanos, and here was anew object of vengeance, the murderer of his own mother! The bland image of Rosarita at once disappeared, paling away as the firelight eclipsed by the brighter gleams of the rising sun. "My mother's assassin!" cried he, his eyes flashing with furious indignation. "And you know him?" "You also--you have eaten with him at the same table--under the same roof--that which you have just now quitted!" Pepe without further interrogation went on to recount what he knew of the events of Elanchovi. He told Fabian who he was--that Don Estevan was no other than his uncle, Antonio de Mediana--of the marriage of his mother with Don Juan his father--of the consequent chagrin of the younger brother--of his infamous design, and the manner it had been carried into execution. How Don Antonio, returning from the wars in Mexico, with his band of piratical adventurers, had landed in a boat upon the beach at Ensenada--how he had entered the chateau, and with the help of his two subordinate villains had abstracted the Countess and her infant--himself Fabian--how the assassination of the mother had been committed in the boat, and the child only spared in the belief that the murderer's steel was not necessary--in the belief that the waves and the cold atmosphere of a November night would complete the deed of death. Nor did Pepe conceal his own conduct connected with this affair. He disclosed all to his half-frantic listener--the after actions of Don Antonio with regard to himself--his imprisonment and subsequent banishment to the fisheries of Ceuta--his escape at a later period to the prairies of America, and his meeting with Bois-Rose--with whom, however, no recognition had ever been established about the events of Elanchovi--since neither had ever mentioned that name in hearing of the other. All these things Pepe narrated in turn, but briefly as the circumstances required. The rest of his history Fabian already knew--at least, the greater part of it; Bois-Rose had partially made the revelation. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. THE MAN IN THE YELLOW JACKET. Bois-Rose, as already stated, had gone alone in a direction opposite to that taken by his comrades. His mind full of the danger with which Fabian was surrounded--Fabian restored to him as if by a miracle--the Canadian continued to advance with rapid strides. He examined every opening and aisle of the forest with an eye keenly bent, and an ear straining to catch the slightest sound. After making a distance of a hundred yards or so, he stopped in his tracks, and laying himself flat along the grass, placed his ear to the ground and listened attentively. In a few seconds' time a dull sound reached him--the hoof-strokes of a horse that seemed to approach the spot where he lay. "Pepe is right," muttered he to himself, as he started to his feet; "the skunk is coming this way. Good! he has the advantage of me in being mounted; but I have a rifle that I dare say will make up for the difference--_enfant de grace_! he is here!" As this exclamation escaped him, the trapper was seen suddenly to raise his long rifle to his shoulder. At the same instant a leathern jacket of yellowish colour appeared at some distance off among the leaves, and at about the height of a man on horseback. The sharp crack of a rifle was instantly followed by the disappearance of the leathern jacket: and, since for marksmen like Bois-Rose to take aim is to hit, the latter had no doubt that his enemy had fallen to the ground either dead or wounded. For a moment he thought of reloading; but the ardour of his vengeance urged him to rush forward and make sure of his victim. In the event that the assassin should have companions, the trapper trusted to his great strength to equalise the chances of a hand-to-hand conflict. Neglecting all further precautions, therefore, like the hunter rushing upon the wounded stag, he dashed forward through the trees toward the spot where his enemy had fallen. As he drew near, he could perceive a horse rearing furiously in front of him, crushing the underwood as he plunged violently from side to side. The horse was saddled and bridled, but there was no one in the saddle. This led Bois-Rose to the belief that his bullet had dismounted the rider. All at once a shrill whistle rang through the trees; and the horse uttered a loud neigh--as if in reply--galloping off in the direction from which the signal had come. After making several lengths through the bushes, the horse came to a stop. Bois-Rose ran after, and in a few bounds was beside the animal. It was still dark under the shadow of the trees, but the Canadian could make out the form of a man upon the ground, at that moment struggling in the act of raising himself. Just then the horse dropped upon his knees, the man grasping the pommel of the saddle succeeded in crawling into it; a signal started the animal to his feet again; and before the trapper could come up to the spot, both horse and man were fast disappearing behind the foliage of the trees. Bois-Rose launched after them a furious malediction; and reloading his rifle as rapidly as he could, sent a bullet in the same direction; but the continued strokes of the horse's feet falling upon his ear told him that his random shot had been delivered to no purpose. Without following further, he turned in the opposite direction, and after imitating three times in succession, the howling of the prairie wolf--a signal for Pepe--he strode off to the spot where the yellow jacket had fallen from the saddle. There he perceived the grass pressed down as if where a man's body had fallen upon it; and at about the height of a man on horseback, the branches of the sumac tree were broken, as though the horseman had caught at them in falling. There were no traces of blood, however--not a drop could be seen; but a carbine lying upon the ground showed that the horseman, in his hurry to escape, had left his weapon behind him. "My poor Fabian!" muttered he, "this will serve for him. In these woods a knife is not much worth; this will be a better weapon for him." Somewhat consoled by this reflection, the trapper now turned to go back in the direction of the camp-fire. He had not made a dozen steps, when the sharp report of a rifle fell upon his ear. "It is Pepe's!" he cried. "I know it. God grant he may have made a better shot than I have done!" Just then a second report echoed through the woods. It sounded sadly on the ear of the Canadian--who did not recognise it--and being now the victim of a terrible uncertainty, he ran with all speed in the direction whence the sound had come. Another report that now reached him added to the anguish of his suspense; for this time, like the last, it was not the well-known crack of his comrade's rifle. Almost at the same instant, however, he heard Pepe's voice calling out: "Come back, Fabian! come back! What is the use of--" A third detonation seemed to cut short the speech of the ex-coast-guard--as if he had fallen by the bullet--while no voice of Fabian was heard to make reply. A profound and frightful silence followed the last shot, which was broken only by the voice of the mock-bird, who appeared imperfectly to imitate the words that had been spoken, and then commenced chanting a plaintive song--as if mourning the death of those who had fallen by the shots. The Canadian ran on for some moments, until--unable longer to restrain himself--he paused, and cried out, at the risk of exposing himself to some ambushed enemy: "Hola! Pepe!--where are you?" "Here!" answered the voice of the ex-carabinier. "We are here, straight before you--Don Fabian and myself. Come on!" A cry of joy was all the response the Canadian could give; and the next moment another joyous shout, as he came upon the ground and perceived that both his companions were still in safety. "The skunk ought to be wounded," said he; "my shot caused him to tumble out of his saddle. You were perhaps more fortunate than I? I heard your piece speak--have you throwed him, Pepe?" Pepe shook his head in the negative. "If you mean the fellow in the yellow jacket," said he, "I fancy the devil has _him_ under his protection; for I had a fair sight on him--and yet he's off! He's not alone, however; there are four other horsemen along with him; and in one of these gentleman I have recognised him whom they here call Don Estevan de Arechiza, but who is no other than--" "I have seen only the fellow in the leather jacket," interrupted the Canadian; "and here is his gun, Fabian, for you. But are you quite safe?" continued he, in an anxious tone. "You are sure you are not wounded?" "No, no--my friend--my father!" cried Fabian, flinging himself into the trapper's arms, as if they had just met after a long separation. "Oh, Pepe!" cried the Canadian, his eyes filling with tears, as he pressed Fabian convulsively against his great bosom, and then held him at a distance as if to get a better view of him. "Is he not grand? Is he not beautiful? He--once my little Fabian--oh!" "Pepe has told me all," said Fabian. "Among these men is the murderer of my mother." "Yes," exclaimed Pepe; "and by the Virgin of Atocha let us not delay here. There is no time for sentiment--the villain must not escape us. Justice, so long evaded, must now have its due." "As God wills!" rejoined Fabian. The three friends now held a rapid council as to what course was best to be taken. It was concluded by their resolving to follow the horsemen as rapidly as possible along the road which these had taken--the road to Tubac. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. THE BLOOD OF THE MEDIANAS. After having uselessly discharged their carbines several times, from too great a distance for the balls to be dangerous, Oroche and Baraja had rejoined Cuchillo. The outlaw was as pale as death; the ball fired at him by the Canadian had creased his head, and it was this had caused him to fall from his horse. Doubtless Bois-Rose would then have crushed him, like a venomous reptile, but for the horse. The noble animal, seeing that his master could not raise himself unaided, bent down that he might seize his mane, and so reach the saddle, and when he felt his master once more firmly seated on his back, he had set off at full gallop, and carried him away beyond the reach of Bois-Rose. This was not the only danger run by the outlaw. When his accomplices had rejoined him and all three had come up with Don Estevan and Diaz, another danger was in store for him. The Spaniard had no need to interrogate Cuchillo in order to learn that Fabian had once more escaped. From the disappointed air of the two followers, and the paleness of the outlaw, who was still tottering in his saddle, Don Estevan guessed all. Deceived in his expectation, the rage of the Spaniard burst out. He rode up to Cuchillo, crying, in a voice of thunder, "Cowardly and clumsy knave!" and in his blind fury, without reflecting that Cuchillo alone knew the secret of the Golden Valley, he drew his pistol. Luckily for the outlaw, Pedro Diaz threw himself quickly between him and Don Estevan, whose fury gradually subsided. "And those men who are with him--who are they?" cried he. "The two tiger-killers," replied Baraja. A short deliberation took place in a low voice between Don Estevan and Pedro Diaz, which ended by these words, pronounced aloud: "We must destroy the bridge of the Salto de Agua, and the devil is in it if they overtake us before we reach Tubac;" and at this they all set off at full gallop. Fabian had heard Don Estevan say to Cuchillo, the night before, that he should only pass two hours at the hacienda before his departure; and as the last events which had taken place at Don Augustin's must have tended to shorten his stay, there was no time to hesitate. The horse of Pepe became a precious auxiliary in following the fugitives, and, if necessary, for cutting off their retreat. It remained to be decided who should mount him, and undertake an enterprise so perilous as opposing singly the flight of five armed horsemen. "I shall follow them," said Fabian. So saying, he rushed towards the animal, who recoiled in terror; but seizing the cord by which he was tethered, the young man threw a handkerchief over his eyes. Trembling in every limb, the horse remained quiet, while Fabian brought Pepe's saddle, which he placed on his back, and then arranged the lazo so as to form at once a bridle and a snaffle. He was about to mount without removing the handkerchief, when Pepe, at a sign from Bois-Rose, interposed. "Gently," said he, "if any one here has a right to mount this animal, it is I--I who captured him, and to whom he belongs." "Do you not see," cried Fabian, impatiently, "that he is not _branded_, which shows that he has never yet been mounted? if you care for the safety of your limbs, I advise you not to try him." "That is my business," said Pepe, advancing; but scarcely had the animal felt his hand on the pommel, and his foot on the stirrup, than with a furious bound he threw him ten feet off. Pepe uttered an angry oath, but Fabian vaulted into the saddle without touching the stirrups. "Stop! Fabian, stop!" cried Bois-Rose, in a tone of anguish, "you must not go alone and risk falling into their hands." But already Fabian had removed the handkerchief; and the noble animal, his eyes restored to the light, made furious efforts to free himself from a weight which he felt for the first time, but at last stood motionless and trembling. Bois-Rose profited by this moment to seize the bridle, but was shaken off by another furious bound, and the terrified animal rushed away with such impetuosity that it was no longer in human power to restrain him. For a few moments the Canadian watched the intrepid rider struggling with the fury of the horse, and then both disappeared from his sight. "They will kill him," cried he; "they are five to one. Let us follow as closely as we can, Pepe, to protect once more my lately recovered child." Bois-Rose threw his rifle over his shoulder, and was already taking gigantic strides after Fabian. "The horse is difficult to manage," cried he; "I am certain that he will not go straight! we shall perhaps arrive as soon as he. Ah! Don Estevan, your evil star has guided you to these outlaws." Fabian, like those legendary cavaliers whom nothing appals, passed with fearful rapidity over hillocks, ravines, and fallen trunks of trees. Pepe was not wrong; in spite of the start that the pursued had of him, Fabian would soon have overtaken them, could he have guided his horse; but luckily, or unluckily for him, the intractable animal deviated constantly from the track; and it was only after prodigious efforts that he could bring him back to the road, which wound through the wood, and on which the traces of the five fugitives were visible, and thus the pursuer constantly lost ground. However, after an hour of this struggle, the horse began to find that he had met with his master, and that his strength was becoming exhausted; the curb, held by a vigorous hand, compressed his jaws, his speed gradually relaxed, his bounds became less violent, and he ended by obeying the hand which guided him. As if by common consent, man and horse stopped to take breath. Fabian profited by this rest to look around him; his heart began to beat less rapidly and he could both hear and see. Trampled leaves, newly broken branches and the prints of horses' feet, were clear indications of the passage of those who fled before him. Suddenly the sound of falling water struck upon his ear. In another moment the fugitives would have gained the rustic bridge which crossed the wide and deep bed of the torrent; their united efforts might destroy it, and then all pursuit would be useless. While he was seeking for a ford Don Estevan would escape through the vast plains which extended to Tubac. This thought aroused anew the young man's passion; and, pressing his horse's side he galloped along the path, the windings of which still hid his enemies from view. This time his horse had grown docile and flew along the road. The noise of the torrent soon drowned that of the horse's feet, but before long human voices mingled with it. This sound produced upon Fabian as powerful an effect as his repeated blows did upon his horse; a few minutes more and he would confront the enemies whom he was burning to reach. The impetuous pace of a horse excites a man to the greatest degree; horse and rider react upon each other, and Fabian in his excitement forgot the inequality of numbers, therefore the spectacle which met his eyes was one that caused him a bitter disappointment. As already stated, a bridge composed of trunks of trees roughly cut, joined the two steep banks, between which roared the Salto de Agua. This bridge, broad enough for a horse to pass over, rested at each end on the bare rock without anything to secure it, and the strength of a few men might overturn the trees and render the crossing impossible. Just as Fabian reached the bridge, four horses, urged on by their riders, were pulling vigorously, with ropes attached to the trees, which at that moment yielding, fell with a crash into the torrent. Fabian uttered a cry of rage. A man turned round--it was Don Estevan, but Don Estevan separated from him by an impassable barrier, and looking triumphantly at him. Fabian, his clothes torn to pieces by the brambles, and his face so transformed by fury as to be scarcely recognisable, rushed forward in his blind rage to cross the river. But his horse reared violently and refused to proceed. "Fire on him!" cried Don Estevan, "or the madman will derange all our plans. Fire, I tell you!" Three carbines were already pointed at Fabian, when at some distance behind him loud voices were heard, and Pepe and the Canadian appeared. At the sight of these formidable rifles, the outlaws hesitated; Fabian made a new effort, but the frightened horse plunged and reared as before. "Fire!" again cried Don Estevan. "Woe to him who does!" shouted the Canadian, "and you, Fabian, in heaven's name, retire!" "Yes, it is I, Fabian!" cried the Count, in a voice which drowned the thunder of the torrent and the cries of the hunters, "Fabian, who comes to avenge his mother's blood upon the infamous Don Antonio de Mediana!" Then, while his voice still sounded in the ears of Don Estevan, who for the first time in his life stood motionless with terror, the impetuous young man drew his knife and pricked his horse with it. This time the animal gave a furious leap across the gulf and reached the opposite bank; but one of his feet slipped, and after a short struggle he fell backwards, both horse and rider disappearing in the flood. A cry of anguish burst from the Canadian and one of triumph from the opposite bank; but both were quickly drowned by the roar of the torrent as it closed over its double prey. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. A BIRD'S EYE VIEW OF THE DESERT. About a fortnight after the events just related, other scenes were taking place in a part of the desert which extends from Tubac to the American frontier. But before referring to the actors let us describe the theatre on which they once more met. The vast plains which separated Mexico from the United States are known only by the vague reports of hunters or gold-seekers--at least that part watered by the river Gila and its tributaries. This river, which takes its rise in the distant mountains of the Mimbres, passes under various names through an immense extent of sandy barren country, the arid monotony of which is interrupted only by the ravines hollowed by the waters, which in their erratic course, ravage without fertilising. The reader must imagine himself at a spot distant about sixty leagues from Tubac. The sun, inclining towards the west, was already darting oblique rays; it was the hour when the wind, although still hot, no longer seems to come out of the mouth of a furnace. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and light white clouds tinted with rose colour, indicated that the sun had run two-thirds of his course; above, in the deep blue sky, an eagle hung motionless over the desert, the only visible inhabitant of the air. From the height where the king of birds balanced himself majestically, his eye could perceive on the immense plain, many human beings, some of whom were in groups, and others at so great a distance apart as to be visible to him alone, and not to each other. Just beneath the soaring bird was a kind of irregular natural circle formed by a hedge of cacti, with their fleshy leaves and thorny points, with which were mingled the pale foliage of the _bois de fer_. At one end of this hedge was an elevated piece of ground two or three feet high, with a flat top, which overlooked it on all sides. All around this entrenchment, untouched by the hand of man, stretched arid plains or a succession of little hillocks which appeared like motionless waves in a sea of sand. A troop of about sixty men on horseback had alighted in this place. The steaming horses showed that they had travelled fast. There was a confused noise of human voices, the neighing of horses, and the rattling of every kind of weapon--for it did not appear to be a regular cavalry corps. Lances with red pennons, muskets, carbines and double-barrelled guns were hanging from the saddle-bows. Some of the men were cleaning their horses, while others were lying on the sand under the shelter of the cacti; a little further back were a number of mules advancing towards the halting-place, and behind them again, some twenty carts, heavily laden. Visible to the eyes of the eagle, in the road along which these travellers must have passed, were corpses of men and animals strewn on the arid plain, marking the bloody track of this band of adventurers. Doubtless our readers have already recognised the Gold-seekers under the command of Don Estevan de Arechiza. When the mules and the carts joined the horsemen, the mules were unharnessed and the horses unsaddled; the carts were unloaded and then linked together with iron chains, while the saddles of the animals were piled upon one another, and served with the cacti to fill up the spaces between the wheels and form a formidable barricade. The animals were tied to the carts, and the cooking utensils placed by the side, of the brushwood brought from a distance; a portable forge was established; and this colony, which seemed as though it had risen from the ground as by a miracle, was soon busily employed, while the anvil resounded with the blows which were fashioning horses' shoes and repairing wheels. A man richly dressed, but whose clothes were faded with sun and dust, alone remained on horseback in the middle of the camp, looking earnestly around him. This man was the chief of the troop. Three other men were occupied meanwhile in fixing the poles of a tent, and then placing on its summit a red banner on which was painted a scutcheon with six golden stars on an azure ground, with the motto, "I will watch." The chief then alighted, and after having given an order to one of his men, who mounted and left the camp he entered the tent. All these preparations had occupied barely half-an-hour, so much were they simplified by habit. To the right of the camp, but far distant, arose from the sand a mass of gum-trees and _ironwoods_, the only trees produced by these arid plains. Here a second troop had halted. They had neither carts nor baggage mules, but were about double the number of the other party. By the bronzed complexions of the riders, some almost naked, others covered with skins and with waving plumes of eagle's feathers, and by the brilliant red and yellow with which they were painted, it was easy to recognise a party of Indians. Ten of them--doubtless the chiefs--gravely seated round a fire which produced more smoke than flame, were passing from hand to hand the calumet or pipe of council. Their arms, consisting of leathern bucklers--surrounded by a thick fringe of feathers--axes, and knives, were laid by their side. At some little distance and out of hearing, five warriors held a number of horses, strangely accoutred with wooden saddles covered with skins. These horses belonged to the chiefs, and seemed difficult to restrain. As one of the chiefs passed the calumet to the others, he pointed to a spot in the horizon. The eyes of a European would only have seen a slight grey cloud against the blue sky, but the Indian recognised a column of smoke--that rising from the camp of the whites. At that moment an Indian messenger arrived with some news, and all the party crowded round him. Now between the two camps the eye of the eagle could discover another rider, but alone and out of sight of both parties. It was doubtless he who was being sought for by the messenger despatched from the camp of the gold-seekers. This man rode a grey horse, and seemed to be seeking a track; he was dressed as a European; and his complexion, though much bronzed, denoted that he belonged to that race. It was Cuchillo, who, resuming his course, caused his horse to mount one of the hillocks, where he could perceive the columns of smoke arising from the two camps. The Indians perceived him at the same time; for a long howl, like that of a hundred panthers, arose, and the king of birds, terrified by the tumult, soon became only a black speck in the clouds. The outlaw fled rapidly in the opposite direction and the Indians rushed after him. Still further in the horizon, placed so as to form a triangle with the other camps, was a third group of men scarcely visible to the eagle himself. They were encamped upon a small islet in the midst of a river fringed with trees, and over which rested a light fog. The desert of Tubac ended at this river, which, flowing from east to west, divided, a league below the island, into two branches, and formed a vast delta-- bounded by a chain of hills which were now shrouded by the fog. In this delta, more than a league square, lay the Golden Valley. All these different groups of people will soon meet, like the waves which, raised by opposing winds, break against each other in the immensity of the ocean. Thanks to a skillful manoeuvre of Pedro Diaz, the expedition, on arriving near the Golden Valley, had concealed for two days from the Indians the route they had taken. But to associate himself with sixty companions did not please Cuchillo, who, under the pretence of reconnoitring the country, had separated himself from his companions. It was to indicate the position of their bivouac that they had lighted a fire in the camp, and to find him that Don Estevan had sent out a messenger. Cuchillo, indeed, was the only one who could guide them to the Golden Valley. A bold thought was in Cuchillo's mind, but the executions of this project was yet to lead him to a fearful punishment, which he well deserved. We cannot, however, speak of this at present. A man, as we have said, had arrived at the Indian camp with news. This man, in seeking the enemies whom they were pursuing, had reached the bank of the river, and concealed by the willows, had perceived three white men. These three men could only be Bois-Rose, Pepe the Spaniard, and Fabian de Mediana. It was indeed this trio of friends. We left Bois-Rose and Pepe on the banks of the torrent in which the young Spaniard, excited by the tale he had heard of his mother's assassination, and full of fury, had nearly found a tomb. Fortunately the fall had been fatal only to the horse, and the rider had escaped by a miracle. The three friends had resumed their pursuit; but, forced to proceed on foot while their enemies were on horseback, they had only arrived at Tubac on the day the expedition left it, after having travelled sixty leagues in five days. Then it became more easy to follow the adventurers--who were retarded by their baggage--and ten days' march had brought the intrepid companions to the same point as their enemies; for although forced for safety to take a different route, they had rarely lost sight of the fires of their bivouacs. Surrounded as he was, however, Don Estevan could not be easily captured. When the Indian messenger had finished his report, the warriors deliberated afresh. The youngest of the ten called upon to speak first, said: "The whites have sometimes the legs of a deer, sometimes the courage of the puma, and the cunning of the jackal. They have concealed their route for two days from eyes which can trace that of the eagle in the air; it is another ruse on their part to scatter their warriors, and we must seek them near the island in river Gila." After a minute's silence, another spoke: "The whites have doubtless a thousand stratagems at their service, but can they increase their stature? No; and if on the contrary they could make themselves so small that the Indian eye could not perceive them, they would do it. Our enemies are from the south--these men just discovered come from the north--it is not therefore towards the island that we must go." In the midst of these contradictory opinions, the shouts of the Indians, at the sight of Cuchillo, burst forth, compelling the chiefs to suspend their deliberations until the warriors who pursued him had returned. When they reappeared, they reported that they had discovered the trail of the whites. Then the second chief who had spoken--a man of tall stature and darker in colour than most of his tribe--whence his name of the _Blackbird_--again spoke: "I have said that the men who come from the north could not form part of those who come from the south. I have always seen that the south and the north are enemies of one another like the winds which flow from opposite quarters. Let us send a message to the three warriors on the island and ask them to join us against the other whites, and the Indian will be gladdened at the death of his enemies by the hands of each other." But this advice, dictated by prudence and knowledge of mankind, found no support in the council. The Blackbird was forced to yield, and it was agreed that the mass of the troop should march against the camp, while only a small detachment should be sent to the island. A quarter of an hour after, one hundred men set off for the camp; while twenty others went towards the island, thirsting for the blood of the three men who had taken shelter there. It is towards the end of the month of March that we find the gold-seekers and their chief in the camp described, after they had lost by the Indians and by the numberless dangers of the desert, forty of their men. But although weakened by this loss, still the chances between them and the Indians, ever ready to defend their territory, were nearly equal. On each side was cunning, and the habit of following an almost invisible track, while the cupidity of the one was equalled by the ferocity of the other. Nevertheless the enthusiasm was no longer so great as on the day when, after having celebrated a mass for the success of their expedition, the adventurers had set off from Tubac, uttering cries of triumph, which were accompanied by the sound of cannon and the acclamations of the inhabitants. No precaution had been omitted by Don Estevan, who seemed to foresee everything. Until then, in these kind of expeditions, each man had acted for himself, and trusted to himself and his own horse for his safety; but the Spaniard had disciplined this band, and forced them to obey him, while the carts that he had brought served both for transport and for defence. Thus moved the ancient people of the north in their invading journeys towards the south of Europe. No former expedition had penetrated so far into the desert as had this one, under the guidance of its skillful chief. The responsibility which weighed upon Don Estevan would of itself have been enough to account for the clouds upon his brow; but perhaps he thought more of the past than of the present or the future. He had been able to compare the energy of Fabian with the pusillanimity of the Senator Tragaduros. Carried away by the course of events, he had thought only of removing his nephew from his path; but when the young man disappeared in the gulf shouting a fierce menace to his father's brother, he had suddenly felt an immense void, and a scarcely-closed wound had re-opened in his heart. He missed one thing amidst all his prosperity, and in spite of himself, the pride of race revived in his breast, and an ardent sympathy had seized upon him for the ardent young man, loved by Dona Rosarita, who might perhaps have replaced the Senator in the execution of his bold plan. He regretted having allowed himself to be led away by circumstances, and at the moment when the last of the Medianas--except himself--disappeared from his eyes, he regretted an heir so worthy to bear the name. Now, when on the eve of mounting another step by the conquest of the Golden Valley, this regret became more vivid. This was not the only care, however, which then preoccupied Antonio de Mediana; the absence of Cuchillo made him uneasy, and he began to have a suspicion of this man's perfidy. Cuchillo had gained considerably upon the Indians who pursued him; but no sooner did he perceive through the hedge the entrenchment raised by his companions than he slackened his pace. The distance at which he still was from the camp was too great to enable him to be perceived by the sentinels; and when he saw the Indians who pursued him halt at sight of the column of smoke, he stopped altogether. His plan was to go into the camp as late as possible, so as only to give the alarm at the last moment. He knew enough of the Indians to play this dangerous game with the most perfect _sang froid_; he knew that they never attacked but with superior numbers, also that some hours would elapse before they decided on attacking the camp at all; that, satisfied with having recovered the track of their enemies, his pursuers would return and carry the report to their companions. He was right; and enchanted at the effect of his ruse, the outlaw lay down behind a mound of earth, ready to resume his course when his senses should warn him of the approach of danger. By regaining the camp only a few minutes before the attack, he hoped also to escape the questions of Don Estevan. "We should have sixty to divide the treasure," thought he, "had I not taken care to diminish that number. Then, while the whites and reds are fighting together, I--" A distant explosion, like that of a rifle, interrupted his meditations. This sound appeared to come from the north, and indeed proceeded from the river, where were Bois-Rose and his companions. "It is strange that such a sound should proceed from that quarter," said Cuchillo, "for the white camp is eastward and the red westward." A second shot was heard; then a third, followed by a short silence, to which succeeded a continual firing. Cuchillo trembled. He fancied that a second white party, distinct from his, were about to seize the coveted treasures. Then he feared that Don Estevan had despatched a detachment to take possession of the Golden Valley. But reason soon showed him the little probability of either of these surmises. A party of men must have left traces which he should have discovered during the two days he had been scouring the country; and then it was not probable that Don Estevan would have dared to weaken his force by dividing it. He therefore lay still, and concluded that the sounds proceeded from some party of American hunters surprised by the natives. We must return to the camp of Don Antonio, where the firing had also been heard, and where it had given rise to a host of conjectures. Evening had come on, and red clouds marked the fiery trace of the setting sun; the earth began to freshen up at the approach of night, and the crescent of the moon to grow more and more brilliant, under the light of which the camp appeared picturesque. On the rising ground which overlooked the whole entrenchment, arose, as we have said, the chief's tent with its floating banner. A feeble light from within indicated that he was still watching, and several fires, made in holes dug in the sand or surrounded by stones--lest their light should betray their position--threw a subdued red glare around; while, in case of attack, fagots were prepared to illumine the camp. Groups of men lying down, and others preparing the evening meal, were mingled with the horses and mules, who were eating their rations of maize. The careless and satisfied look upon every face, showed that these men confided the care of their defence wholly to their chief. At the entrance to the tent lay a man, like a dog watching over his master; and from his long hair and the guitar by the side of his rifle, it was easy to recognise Oroche. His time seemed to be divided between the contemplation of a heaven glittering with stars, and the care of keeping up a fire of green wood, the smoke of which rose in a vertical column silvered by the moon. Beyond the entrenchments the moonlight whitened the plain, and even the fog which covered the summits of a chain of mountains which were visible in the horizon. Behind the carts paced the sentinels, carbine in hand. Among the various groups of men scattered about were Benito, the servant of Don Estevan, and Baraja. They were engaged in conversation. "Senor Benito," said Baraja, speaking to the old herdsman, "you who are so well acquainted with all the affairs of these deserts, can you explain to me what is the cause of these shots, which we have been hearing ever since noon, and which can only be fired by our enemies, the Indians?" "It is difficult to say," answered Benito; "but certainly they must have some good reason for wasting so much powder--a scarce article among them. It appears probable enough that poor Cuchillo is captured; or may be the Senor Gayferos, who was sent after him." "But why should they keep firing from time to time?--one shot would be enough to put an end to either Cuchillo or Gayferos; whereas we have heard volleys." "Ah! it may be that the savages are practising one of their horrible modes of punishment--perhaps they are firing at their victims merely for the sport. There is one terrible torture they inflict--I remember to have been--" "Hold there, friend Benito!" cried Baraja, interrupting him, "no more of your horrible stories; I have not forgotten that frightful night by the well of La Poza." "Well," rejoined the herdsman, "unless they are firing at either Cuchillo or Gayferos--or perhaps at both--I cannot divine the cause of their continued fusillade. These Indians are as curious as the very devil; and they can extract a secret almost as effectually as the Holy Inquisition itself. Perhaps they are frightening either the guide or Gayferos to betray the situation of our camp." "God forbid they should succeed!" exclaimed Baraja. "I join you in the prayer," said the ex-herdsman: "but I cannot help remarking, how imprudent in our chief to permit the fire. The smoke has been rising all day like a column. In an atmosphere like this it may be seen for leagues off!" "I agree with you," replied Baraja; "but then you know it was kindled at the express wish of the guide--so that he might find the way to where we should be encamped. Both humanity towards Cuchillo, as well as our own interest in his safety, required us to light the fire." "Ah! that is not so certain. Between ourselves, I haven't much confidence in this Cuchillo. He appears to be one of those guides whose paths always end in quagmires." "But have you not heard the rumour of the camp?" "What rumour? That Don Estevan is not going by mere hazard to search for a mine of gold; but that he already knows of the existence of a rich placer? Is it that you mean?" "Yes--or rather that Don Estevan knows of the existence of the placer; but not _where_ it is, or the road that leads to it. This is only known to Cuchillo, whose death would therefore be an irreparable loss to all of us." "Bah!" replied the ex-herdsman, with a shake of the head; "Cuchillo's face is one that could never deceive an experienced eye. For my part I hope I am deceived in him, though I doubt it." "Oh, Senor Benito, you always look upon the dark side of things." "Well, perhaps so--and on this very night I may especially appear a bird of ill omen, for I cannot help feeling the presentiment that there is danger near us. See! look yonder! The animals have left off eating-- both mules and horses. Observe how they stand listening, as if they heard something. Well, what is to come will come; and I have not much to lose--even my life is not worth much." And with this consolatory speech the old shepherd wrapped himself up in his cloak and lay down to sleep. Not so Baraja. The words of his comrade had produced their effect, and he was unable to compose himself to rest. His imagination depicted to him a thousand phantoms, and every moment he fancied he could hear the yells of the savages, as they rushed forward to attack the camp. Not that the ex-haciendado was altogether a coward; but there was reason for his fears; and the darkness of the night, as well as the strange behaviour of the animals, was sufficient cause to render even a brave man apprehensive of danger. After the long day's march, all the adventurers were asleep--stretched here and there upon the ground. The sentinels alone were awake, and watching--now and then raising along the lines their monotonous cry of "_Sentinela alerte_!" It was the only sound that for a long time interrupted the silence of the night. After remaining awake for a considerable time, Baraja began to feel confidence, and perhaps would have gone to sleep, like the others, when all at once he heard several shots, similar to those that had been heard during the day, and which appeared to proceed from the same direction. "They are still firing over there," said he, nudging the old herdsman so as to awake him. "No matter," grumbled Benito; "let them fire away. If it be not Cuchillo or Gayferos, we needn't care. So, friend Baraja, I wish you good-night--go to sleep yourself. In the desert, time for sleep is precious, although at any minute you may be sent to sleep in eternity-- Good-night!" After this terrifying speech, the ex-herdsman drew his cloak over his eyes to keep out the rays of the moon, when a noise made by the mules caused him to raise his head again, "Ah!" said he, "the red devils are not far off." The neigh of a horse was now heard from a distance, accompanied by a cry of alarm, and the next moment a man was seen riding up at full gallop. "It is Cuchillo," cried the servant; then, in a low voice, to Baraja, "Let the travellers take care when the will-o'-the-wisp dances on the plain!" CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. THE ALARM. That evening, as usual, Don Estevan watched in his tent, while his people reposed. By the light of a smoky candle, the Spaniard, in spite of the modest appearance of his lodgings and of his dust-covered clothes, seemed to have lost nothing of the dignity of his appearance or of his grand air. His complexion, more sunburnt than usual, gave his countenance a still more energetic character. He appeared pensive, but his thoughts were no longer so uneasy as they had been; on the eve, after so many dangers, of realising his vast designs, Don Estevan had, for the time at least, shaken off gloomy thoughts, and fixed his mind on the hope of a success which he believed infallible. He had raised the canvas, which served as a door, in order to glance upon the men who reposed around, and seemed to wish to compare his means of action with the aim he was pursuing. "Nearly twenty years ago," thought he, "I commanded a party of sailors, nearly equal in number, and as determined as these. I was then only an obscure younger son, and they aided me to recover my inheritance--yes, it was mine. But I was then in the flower of my age, and had an aim in the future to pursue. I have attained this aim--I have even surpassed it; and now that I have nothing more to desire, I find myself, in my mature age, scouring the desert as I formerly scoured the sea. Why?" The conscience of Mediana cried to him, that it was in order to forget one day of his life, but at that moment he wished to remain deaf to its voice. The moon shone upon the firearms piled in the centre of the camp, and cast its light upon sixty men inured to peril and fatigue, and who laughed at heat and thirst. In the distance a luminous vapour rested upon the mountains beyond which lay the Golden Valley. "Why?" repeated Don Estevan; "because there remains to me still an immense treasure and a vast kingdom to conquer." The eyes of Mediana sparkled with pride; then this expression passed away, and he fixed on the horizon a melancholy look. "And yet," continued he, "what of this treasure shall I keep for myself? Nothing. The crown will be placed on the head of another, and I shall not even have a son or any descendant bearing the name of Mediana, who one day might bow before my portrait and say, `This man could be tempted neither by gold nor by a throne.' But they will say it of me now, and is not that enough?" At this moment Pedro Diaz raised the door of the tent, and said, "You sent for me, Senor Don Estevan?" "I wish to speak to you of important things, which I could not do yesterday, and ought to do to-day; I have some questions to ask; and although this is the hour for repose, they must not be adjourned. If I do not deceive myself, Diaz, you are one of those men who repose only when they have nothing better to do. The ambitious are such," added Don Estevan, with a smile. "I am not ambitious, Senor," replied the adventurer quietly. "You are so without knowing it, Diaz; and I will prove it to you, presently. But first tell me what you think of this distant firing?" "Men meet on the sea whose surface is incomparably more extensive than that of this desert; it is not astonishing that they should meet here. Travellers and Indians have encountered one another, and are fighting." "That is what I think. One more question and then we will return to the first subject which I have at heart. Has Cuchillo returned?" "No, Senor, and I much fear that we have lost the guide who has conducted us till now." "And to what do you attribute this strange absence?" asked Don Estevan, with an anxious look. "Probably he has gone too far upon the track of the Apaches, and has been surprised by them. In that ease his absence may prove eternal, in spite of the fires which we have lighted for two days to show him our encampment." "Is that really your idea?" said the chief, looking fixedly at Diaz. "It is; although, to say the truth, Cuchillo is one of those people whom one is rarely wrong in accusing of perfidy; but I do not see what object he could have in betraying us." Don Estevan pointed to the fog which hid the tops of the mountains in the horizon. "The neighbourhood of those mountains," said he, "might explain the absence of Cuchillo." Then, with a changed tone, "Are our men still of the same mind." "Yes, Senor, and have more confidence than ever, in the chief who watches while they sleep, and fights like the humblest of them." "I have battled in many parts of the world," said Don Estevan, sensible to praise, the sincerity of which he believed in, "and I have rarely commanded men more determined than these. Would they were five hundred instead of sixty, for then on the return of this expedition my projects would be easy of accomplishment." "I am ignorant what these projects are, of which you now speak to me for the first time," said Diaz in a reserved tone. "But perhaps Don Estevan thinks me ambitious, only because he does me the honour to judge me by himself." "It is possible, friend Diaz," replied Don Estevan, smiling; "the first time that I saw you I thought that your mind was of the same stamp as my own. We are made to understand each other, I am sure." The Mexican had all the vivacious intelligence of his country; he had judged Don Estevan, but he waited for him to take the initiative. He therefore bowed and kept silence. The Spaniard pushed open the curtains of the tent, and, pointing one more to the horizon, "Another day's march," said he; "and we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains." "Yes, we are scarcely six leagues distant." "And do you know what is below that mass of fog which crowns their top?" "No," replied the Mexican. Don Estevan cast upon Diaz a look which seemed as if meant to penetrate his soul, at the moment of revealing a secret until then so carefully kept. The Spaniard wished to assure himself that the confidant he was about to choose was worthy of his confidence. The honest look of Diaz-- on whose countenance could be traced none of that cupidity which spurred on his companions--reassured him, and he went on: "Well, it is towards those mountains that we have been marching. I shall now tell you why I have directed the expedition to this place, as the pilot conducts the ship to some point in the ocean known only to himself; this evening you shall read my mind clearly. That mass of fog, which the sun itself will not wholly disperse, serves as a veil to treasures which have been amassing perhaps from the beginning of the world. For centuries the rains have been washing them into the plains: the whites only suspected, and the Indians spared them; to-morrow they shall be ours! This has been my aim. Well, Diaz! do you not fall on your knees to thank God for being one of those called to share in these treasures?" "No," replied Diaz, simply; "cupidity would not have made me brave the dangers that a wish for revenge has done. I would have sought from the work of my arms what others seek by easier, if by less sure, methods. But the Indians have ravaged my fields, pillaged my flocks, and murdered my father and brothers. Of my people I alone escaped. Since that time I have made fierce war upon the savages, have slain many, have sold their sons by dozens, and it is still the hope of vengeance which brings me here--neither ambition nor cupidity. But I love my country and all that I should care for riches would be to enable me to make a last effort against that distant congress which tyrannises over but cannot protect us." "Good! friend Diaz!" cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the adventurer, and then added with vehemence: "Strong by the aid of this gold, I will confide my plans to those sixty men now buried in sleep. On our return our numbers will swell like the stream which widens as it flows, and we shall shake off the yoke of a capital--which is capable only of constantly changing its men and its principles." Don Estevan had already noticed, in former conversations with Diaz, his great hatred of the federal system, but wishing to be sure whether or not it was founded on personal motives, he continued-- "The congress is far from you, and the government of Mexico has neither troops nor money to protect provinces so distant as yours. Is that the only reproach you have to make of it!" "The only reproach! No. Independence is for us but an empty name, and we have to bear only the burden of a distant government." Don Estevan now unveiled to Diaz the project which he had discussed with the Senator. Then passing from principles to persons, he named the King, Don Carlos, as him whom they were to introduce. "A king! King Charles! so be it," replied Diaz, "but we shall have many obstacles to overcome." "Less than you imagine, Diaz. Gold will level all obstacles, and to-morrow we shall gather it by handfuls. We will pave the way to the new kingdom with gold, and pay largely the founders and guardians of a throne which will want only its king." Thus, as he had promised his master, the bold partisan laid, even in the desert, the foundation of a future dynasty. What the influence of the Senator was to effect in the congress, that of a man renowned by his exploits was to obtain from his equals. After this conversation Diaz retired to seek repose from his fatigues, and Don Estevan accompanied him out of the tent. The latter threw around him a glance of tranquil pride; all obstacles were surmounted, the incessant vigilance of the Indians had been eluded, thanks to Diaz, and an immense treasure, untouched since the commencement of the world, awaited only the hands which were about to be extended to seize it. "See!" said he, "from those will rise the elements of a new kingdom, and our names will belong to history. Now I have but one fear--that is, treachery on the part of Cuchillo--and you will share this fear with me when you hear that it is he who sold me the secret of this golden deposit." Diaz was looking earnestly at the plain. "There!" cried he, "I see a man approaching at full gallop: it is Gayferos or Cuchillo?" "Pray God it be the latter," said Don Estevan. "I prefer having him near rather than far from my sight." "I think I recognise his grey horse." In a minute, indeed, they recognised Cuchillo himself. "To arms! to arms!" cried the guide, "here are the Indians," and he rushed precipitately through the opening made for him by the sentinels. "Cuchillo! the Indians! both names of bad augury," said Don Estevan, as he turned towards his companion. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE ATTACK. At the cry of Cuchillo, which resounded throughout the camp, the Spaniard and Diaz exchanged looks of intelligence. "It is strange that the Indians should have found our trail again?" said Don Estevan, interrogatively. "Very strange," replied Diaz, and without saying another word, both descended from the eminence, on which they stood. The camp was already in motion, and confusion reigned everywhere; there was a general movement among these intrepid men, who were accustomed to such surprises, and who had already more than once measured their strength with their implacable enemies. Each armed hastily, but soon the tumult subsided, and all stationed themselves at the posts assigned to them in case of attack. The first who interrogated Cuchillo were the shepherd and Baraja. "Unless you drew the Indians on to our track, how could they have discovered us?" said the former, with a suspicious look. "Certainly it was I," replied Cuchillo, impudently. "I should have liked to have seen you pursued by a hundred, of these demons, and whether you would not, like me, have galloped to the camp to seek an asylum!" "In such a case," replied Benito, severely, "a man to save his companions, does not fly, but gives up his life sooner than betray them. I should have done so." "Every one in his own way," replied Cuchillo, "but I have an account to render only to the chief, and not to his servants." "Yes," murmured the other, "a coward and a traitor can but commit baseness and perfidies." "Are the Indians numerous?" asked Baraja. "I had not time to count them; all that I know is that they must be near." And crossing the camp he proceeded to where Don Estevan--after having attended to the most important precautions--stood at the door of his tent waiting for him. As Cuchillo went on without replying to any of the questions with which he was assailed, a man advanced with a lighted torch in his hand to set fire to the fagots piled in various places, but Don Estevan cried-- "Not yet; it is, perhaps, a false alarm, and until we have the certainty of attack we must not light up the camp to betray ourselves." At the words "false alarm," a smile played over Cuchillo's features. "However," added Don Estevan, "let every one saddle his horse and be prepared." Then he returned to his tent, making a sign to Diaz to accompany him. "That means, friend Baraja," said Benito, "that if the orders are given to light the fires, we are sure to be attacked--at night too; it is terrible." "Who knows that better than I?" said Baraja, "have you ever been present at such a thing?" "Never; that is why I dread it so much." "Well, if you had, you would dread it more." Cuchillo, as he drew near the tent, arranged his countenance and threw back his long hair--as though the wind had blown it about in his rapid flight--and then entered the tent like a man out of breath and pretending to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Oroche had glided in with Diaz. Cuchillo's story was brief: in reconnoitring the places towards which the expedition should advance, he had gone further than was prudent. Diaz interrupted him. "I had taken such precautions to deceive the Indians by false tracks," said he, "I had so misled them, that you must have quitted the line of march and gone from right to left." "Yes," replied the outlaw, "I lost my way, deceived by the monotony of these endless plains where each hillock resembles the other." "What!" cried Diaz, ironically. "Had a dweller in cities been so deceived it might be believed; but you--fear must have thrown a mist before your eyes!" "Fear!" replied Cuchillo; "I know it no more than you do." "Then you must be growing shortsighted, Senor Cuchillo." "However it happened, I lost myself; and, but for the column of smoke, I should not have regained my way so quickly. I was, however, forced to make a circuit on perceiving a party of Indians, and only owe the start I have got upon them to the speed of my good horse." As he spoke, Don Estevan frowned more than once. Oroche left the tent, but immediately re-entering, said-- "The Indians are there! Look at those black shadows on the plain over which the moon throws a distant light; those are men sent to reconnoitre our encampment." Over the sand of the desert they could indeed see men on horseback advancing, and then disappearing in the shadows of the sand heaps. Pedro Diaz consulted an instant with Don Estevan, and then cried loudly-- "Light the fires everywhere! we must count our enemies." A few minutes after, a red light, almost as bright as the sun, lit up the whole camp, and showed the adventurers at their post, rifles in hand; while the horses stood saddled and bridled, only waiting for their riders in case of a sortie being necessary. At the same time Don Estevan's tent was struck, and a calm succeeded to the tumult. The desert was silent also; the moon no longer shone on the Indians, who had all disappeared like a bad dream chased away by the return of morning. It was a dead silence--the precursor of the storm--and there seemed in this silence something fearful. It did not announce one of those surprises in which an enemy inferior in number disguises his weakness under the impetuosity of his attack, and ready to run if he is resisted: it was the respite before the combat, granted by pitiless enemies, preparing for a deadly struggle. "Yes, trust to me," said old Benito to Baraja, "in a quarter of an hour you will hear the howlings of these red devils sound in your ears like the trumpets of the last judgment!" "Carramba! you are the most skilled man about tigers and Indians that I ever met with, but you might be more consoling. I wish to God I could doubt the truth of your words!" "There are some things always easy to foresee," continued the old man. "One may predict to the traveller who goes to sleep in a bed of a torrent that he will be carried away by the waters; and that Indians who have discovered their enemies will draw off a little, and count their men before making an attack. One may also predict that several of them will utter their death-cry, as many among us will have to say their last prayer; but who those will be no one can say. Do you know any prayers for the dying, Senor Baraja?" "No," replied the latter, dolefully. "I am sorry for that; those are little services that friends may render each other, and if I had the grief, as is very possible, of seeing you first scalped then murdered--" Further conversation was interrupted by outcries which seemed drawing near to the camp. In spite of the terrifying words of the old shepherd, his _sang froid_ in the greatest perils and his resolution full of consoling fatalism, sustained the more wavering courage of Baraja. As he shuddered at the horrible sounds--which must be heard to be appreciated--he cast upon Benito a glance in order to catch from him a little of his philosophy. For the first time a cloud of sadness appeared on the ex-herdsman's brow, and his eyes looked as though tears stood in them. Baraja was struck by the change, and laid his head upon the old man's arm. Benito raised his head. "I understand you," said he, "but man has his moments of weakness. I am like him who is called from his hearth by the sound of the trumpet at a time he least thought to quit it. Amidst those howls I hear from above the sound of the last trumpet calling me, and although I am old, it grieves me to go. I leave neither wife nor children to regret, nor those who would weep for me; but there is an old companion of my solitary life from whom I cannot separate without grief. It is at least a consolation for the Indian warrior to know that his war-horse will share his tomb, and to believe that he shall find him again in the land of spirits. How many times have we scoured the woods and the plains together. How often have we borne together heat, hunger, and thirst! This old and faithful friend is my horse, as you may have guessed. I give him to you, friend Baraja. Treat him kindly--love him as I love him, and he will love you as he loves me. His companion was killed by a tiger, and he will now be left alone." So saying, the old man pointed to a noble courser, champing his bit proudly, among the other horses. He then went towards him, caressed him, and, this moment of weakness over, his countenance recovered its habitual serenity. As he recovered his calmness, he renewed his predictions, careless of the terror he excited in others. "Listen!" said he to Baraja; "to recompense you for the care you will take of my old friend, I shall teach you, while there is still time, a verse of the psalm for the dying, that may serve you as--" "Well!" said Baraja, as he did not go on, "what more terrifying things have you to say?" Benito did not reply, but his companion felt him press his arm convulsively, and then the sight which struck Baraja was more terrible than any answer. The old man's eyes were rolling wildly, and he was vainly trying to stanch the blood which flowed from a wound made by an arrow that had just pierced his throat. He fell, crying: "What is ordained must happen. No," added he, repulsing the assistance that Baraja was endeavouring to render him, "my hour is come--remember--my old friend--" and the flowing blood cut short his speech. At that moment the best mounted among the Indians showed themselves in the moonlight. Travellers who have met only with civilised Indians can with difficulty form any idea of the savage tribes. Nothing less resembled those degenerate Indians than these unconquered sons of the desert; who--like the birds of prey, wheeling in the air before pouncing on their victims--rode howling around the camp. Their figures hideously marked with paint, were visible from time to time; their long hair streaming in the wind, their cloaks of skins floating in their rapid course, and their piercing cries of defiance and bravado, giving them the appearance of demons, to whom they have justly been compared. There were few among the Mexicans who had not some revenge to take on these indefatigable spoilers, but none of them were animated by such deadly hatred as Pedro Diaz. The sight of his enemies produced on him the effect that scarlet does on a bull, and he could scarcely refrain from indulging in one of those exploits which had rendered his name formidable to their tribes. But it was necessary to set an example of discipline, and he curbed his impatience. Besides, the moment of attack could not be far off, and the superior position of the gold-seekers compensated for the inequality of their numbers. After having assigned to each his post behind the intrenchments, Don Estevan placed on the rising ground, where his tent had stood, those of his men whose rifles carried farthest, or whose sight was the best, and the fires gave light enough for their aim. As for himself, his post was everywhere. The piercing eyes of the Indians, and the reports of those who had preceded them had doubtless instructed them as to the position of the whites. For a moment an indecision seemed to reign among them, but the truce did not last long. After a short interval of silence, a hundred voices at once shrieked out the war-cry; the earth trembled under an avalanche of galloping horses; and amidst a shower of balls, stones, and arrows, the camp was surrounded on three sides by a disorderly multitude. But a well-sustained fire proceeded from the top of the hill. Under this murderous discharge riderless horses were seen galloping over the plain, and riders disengaging themselves from their wounded steeds. Before long, however, the combat became one of hand to hand; the Mexicans behind their carts, the Indians trying to scale them. Oroche, Baraja, and Pedro Diaz pressed one against the other, sometimes retiring to avoid the long lances of their enemies--sometimes advancing and striking in their turn--encouraging each other, and never pausing but to glance at their chief. As already stated, the report had vaguely spread that he knew the secret of the immense riches, and cupidity supplied to Oroche and Baraja the place of enthusiasm. "Carramba!" cried Baraja, "a man possessing such a secret should be invulnerable." "Immortal!" said Oroche, "or only die after--" A blow from a hatchet on his head cut short his words. He fell to the ground, and but for the solidity of his hat, and the thickness of his hair, all had been over with him. His adversary, carried away by the violence of his own blow, placed his hand for support on the shafts of the cart which separated them. Diaz immediately seized the Indian's arm, and leaning on the nave of the wheel, dragged him towards him with such force that he fell off his horse into camp; and, almost before he touched the ground, the Mexican's sword severed his head from his body. Useless now on their elevated position--for the _melee_ was so thick that their shots might have been as fatal to friends as foes--the sharpshooters had come down and mingled with the other combatants. In the corner of the intrenchments where they stood, Don Estevan and Cuchillo had to sustain an attack not less furious. The first, while he defended himself, yet cast an eye over the whole of the intrenchments; but it was with the greatest difficulty that amidst the tumult he could make heard his orders and advice. More than once his double-barrelled rifle of English make--and which he loaded and discharged with wonderful rapidity--stayed the knife or axe which was menacing one of his men--a feat which was greeted each time with loud hurrahs. He was, in a word, what the adventurers had seen him from the beginning of this dangerous campaign, the chief who thought of all, and the chief who feared nothing. Accompanied by his horse, which followed his movements with the intelligence of a spaniel, Cuchillo stood behind the chief--as much out of the way as possible--with more prudence than bravery. He seemed to be following with an anxious eye the chances of attack and defence: when all at once he tottered as though struck by a mortal wound, and fell heavily behind the carts. This incident passed almost unperceived amidst the confusion--every one being in so much danger as to be able to think only of himself. "There is a coward the less," said Don Estevan, coldly, while Cuchillo's horse drew near him with a terrified air. For some minutes Cuchillo remained motionless; then, little by little, he raised his head and cast around him a glance which seemed undimmed by the approach of death. A few minutes after, he rose on his feet, like a man to whom death lends some strength at the last, and apparently, mortally hurt, his hand on his breast, as though endeavouring to retain the spark of life ready to escape, tottered backwards, and then fell again some way off. His horse followed him once more; and then, if every one had not been too much occupied, they might have seen the outlaw rolling over and over towards an open place in the intrenchments. He then stopped again; and finally glided under the cart wheels out of the camp. There he rose upon his legs as firm as ever, while a smile of joy played over his lips. The darkness and the tumult favoured his manoeuvre. He silently unfastened the iron chains of two carts, and opened a passage. He whistled and his horse glided after him; in a second he was in the saddle, almost without touching the stirrup; when after a moment's thought, he spurred on the animal, who set off like the wind, and horse and rider soon disappeared in the darkness! On both sides of the intrenchment corpses covered the ground; half burnt-out piles of wood cast their red light upon the bloody scenes of this struggle; the shouts of enemies, the repeated discharge of firearms, and the whistling of bullets followed each other uninterruptedly. The hideous figures of the Indians looked more hideous still in the strange light. One point in the intrenchment had given way before the incessant attacks; and here, dead or wounded, its defenders had yielded to enemies who seemed to swarm from the ground. At this point there was an instant of horrible confusion. A _pele mele_ of bodies interlaced, over which appeared the plumes of the Indian warriors. Soon, however, the line of the adventurers, broken for an instant, reformed before a group of Indians who were rushing like wild beasts into the middle of the camp. Oroche and Baraja left the point which they were still defending, and found themselves face to face with their enemies, this time with nothing to separate them. Amidst the group of Indians, whose lances and hatchets fell indiscriminately upon horses, mules and men, the chief was recognisable by his vast height, the painting of his face and his great strength. It was the second time that he had faced the whites since the commencement of the campaign, and his name was known to them. "Here, Diaz," cried Baraja, "here is the _Spotted Cat_!" At the name of Diaz, which had already reached him, the Indian chief looked round for him who bore it, with eyes which seemed to dart flames, and raised his lance to strike Diaz, when a blow from Oroche's knife wounded his horse. The Indian thrown to the ground, let fall his lance. Diaz seized it, and while the chief raised himself on one knee and endeavoured to draw his sword, the lance which he had dropped, pierced his naked breast, and came out between his shoulders. Although mortally wounded, the Indian uttered no cry, his eyes never lost their haughty menace, and his face expressed only rage. "The Spotted Cat dies not so easily," said he, and with a vigorous hand he seized the wood of the lance still held by Diaz. A fierce struggle ensued, but at every effort of the Indian to draw Diaz towards him, and envelop him in a last deadly clasp, the murdering, lance pierced farther and farther. Soon his strength failed, and violently torn from his body the bloody weapon remained in the hands of Diaz. The Indian fell back, gave one glance of defiance, and then lay motionless upon the earth. Their chief fallen, the others soon shared the same fate, while their companions vainly tried to force the line a second time. Victims of their temerity, the Indians, without asking for a mercy which they never showed, fell like their chief facing the enemy, and surrounded by the corpses of those who had preceded them in their journey to the land of spirits. Of all the savages in the camp but one remained. He looked round him for a minute with eyes fierce as those of the hunted tiger; then, instead of seeking to hide his presence, he uttered anew his war-cry, but it was confounded with those from without--and profiting by a moment of confusion, during which the adventurers, attacked from without, left the breach almost clear--he caused his horse to leap over, and found himself once more among his own people. Pedro Diaz alone saw him, and regretted his prey, but the implacable enemy of the Indians never indulged in sterile regrets. He was mounted on the war-horse presented to him by Don Augustin Pena. From his left hand hung by the sword-knot a long Toledo rapier, with the Spanish device: Do not draw me without cause, Or sheathe me without honour. The blade was red with blood. Diaz shaded his eyes with his right hand, and tried to pierce the distant obscurity. All at once he perceived at the end of the luminous zone projected by the fires, the man he was seeking. He was making furious evolutions on his horse, and uttering shouts of defiance. Diaz remembered the speech of the haciendado about the horse he had given him--"The Indian whom you pursue must be mounted on the wings of the wind if you do not catch him," and he resolved to make the attempt. The noble animal, excited by the spur, leaped over the intrenchments overthrown by the Indians, and the two were soon side by side. The Indian brandished his hatchet, Diaz his sword, and for some seconds there was a trial of agility, courage, and address. Each sustained his country's reputation, but the Indian's hatchet broke to pieces the sword of the Mexican. The two combatants then seized one another round the body and tried to drag each other from their horses, but like centaurs, each seemed to form a part of the animal he bestrode. At last Diaz disengaged himself from his adversary's clasp, and backed his horse, still facing the Indian. Then, when he was a little way off, he caused his horse to rear so furiously that the animal seemed for a moment to be raised over the Indian. At the same moment Diaz lifted his right leg, and with a blow from the large heavy iron-bound stirrup, broke his adversary's skull, whom his horse carried away dead from the spot. This last magnificent exploit seemed to end the battle; some arrows flew harmlessly around Diaz, who was welcomed back with shouts of triumph by his companions. "Poor Benito!" cried Baraja; "may God rest his soul, I regret even his terrific histories." "What is still more to be regretted," interrupted Oroche, "is the death of the illustrious Cuchillo, the guide of the expedition." "Your ideas are still confused from the blow you received on your head," said Diaz, as he tried the flexibility of a new sword. "But for the illustrious Cuchillo, as you call him, we should not have lost to-night at least twenty brave comrades. Cuchillo unluckily died a day too late, and I cannot say `God rest _his_ soul.'" Meanwhile the Indians were deliberating. The last exploit of Diaz, the death that so many of their party had met with in the camp, and those killed by the filing, had thinned their ranks. The Indian never persists in a hopeless struggle: a singular mixture of prudence and contempt of life characterises this singular race, and prudence counselled them to retreat; they did so precipitately as they had attacked. But the tactics of the white men were different; they were anxious to profit by a victory the fame of which would penetrate to the furthest end of the desert, and render their future more secure. Therefore an order to pursue the fugitives given by Don Estevan was received with acclamations. Twenty cavaliers instantly rushed forward, Pedro Diaz among the foremost. Sword in one hand, and lasso and bridle in the other, he was soon out of sight. Those who remained behind, though nearly all more or less wounded, occupied themselves first with reconstructing the intrenchment in case of any new attack; then, overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, after clearing the camp of the dead bodies which encumbered it, they lay down on the earth, still wet with blood, to seek for repose. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. AFTER THE FIGHT. In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or bloody faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought. All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention, and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded. The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying man--in whom he immediately recognised Benito. "Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?" said he, with a look of profound pity. "Yes," replied the old shepherd, "it is old Benito, dying in the desert where he has nearly always lived. As for me--I know not who you are; my eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?" "I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I hope, to bid you a last adieu." "I doubt it," replied Benito; "I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?" "Not a word." "Ah! I must do without it," said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, "I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion--an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did." "A brother doubtless." "Better than that; my horse." "I shall remind him--do not fear." "Thank you," said the old man. "As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth--now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner. That--" he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech. "He was a brave man--peace be with him!" said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp. Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses' feet indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they entered the camp. The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his forehead. "Senor Don Estevan," said he, "we have not been lucky in our pursuit. We have but wounded one or two of the Indians, and have lost one of our own men. However I bring you a prisoner; do you wish to interrogate him?" So saying, Diaz detached his lasso from the saddle-bow, and pointed to a mass held in its noose. It was an Indian, who, pitilessly dragged along over the sand and stones, had left behind at every step pieces of flesh, and now scarcely retained any vestige of humanity. "He was alive when I took him, however," cried Diaz, "but it is just like these dogs of Indians, he must have died in order not to tell anything." Without replying to this ferocious jest, Don Estevan signed to Diaz to accompany him to a place where they might converse without being overheard. When the new-comers had lain down and silence reigned anew, Don Estevan began: "Diaz," said he, "we are close on the end of our expedition: to-morrow, as I told you, we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains; but in order that success may crown our efforts, treason must not throw obstacles in our way. It is on this subject that I wish to consult you to-night. You have known Cuchillo long, but not so long as I have; and certainly, not as thoroughly. From his earliest youth he has always betrayed those to whom he appeared most devoted. I know not which of all the vices with which he is endowed has the ascendant; but in a word, the sinister look of his face is but a feeble reflection of the blackness of his soul. It was he who sold to me the secret of the rich and mysterious placer to which I am leading you--and of this secret he had made himself the sole master by murdering the friend who had freely confided it to him, and who thought to find him a faithful companion in his dangers. "I have ever, therefore, kept a watchful eye over him. His disappearance for the last two days alarmed me, but it might have been the result of an accident common in these deserts. The attack, however, from which we have so narrowly escaped has confirmed my suspicions. He has advanced under our protection, until we have reached the place where he would, be able to seize a part of these immense treasures. He had need of auxiliaries in order to murder our sixty men, and the Indians who have attacked us were but his instruments." "Indeed," replied Diaz, "his report seemed to me suspicious. But the simplest method will be to hold a court-martial, interrogate him, and if he be convicted of treason, let us shoot him at once." "At the commencement of the attack, I assigned him a post near me, in order to watch him more easily. I saw him totter and then fall apparently mortally wounded, and I was glad to be rid of a traitor and a coward. But I have just turned over and examined all the dead, and Cuchillo is not amongst them. It is therefore urgent that without loss of time we should follow him; he cannot be far off. You are accustomed to this sort of expedition; we must, without delay, set off in pursuit of him, and execute prompt justice on a villain whose life must pay for his treachery." Diaz appeared to reflect for a moment, and then said, "To trace him can neither be tedious nor difficult. Cuchillo must have gone towards the Golden Valley--therefore in that direction we must seek him." "Go rest for an hour, for you must be worn out," said the chief. "Ah! Diaz, if all these men were like you, how easy our path would be--gold in one hand, and the sword in the other." "I have only done my duty," said Diaz, simply. "Say to our men that it is necessary for us to reconnoitre the environs of the camp, and tell the sentinels to keep strict watch until our return, and then we shall proceed towards the valley." "Cuchillo must certainly be there, and we shall catch him either going or returning." "We shall find him in the valley," said Don Estevan. "When you have seen it, you will find it a place that a man like Cuchillo could not make up his mind to leave." Diaz departed to execute his orders, and Don Estevan caused his tent to be pitched again, that even in his absence his starry banner might float over the camp as a sign of his protective authority. This done, he threw himself on his couch, and slept the sleep of a soldier after a day of fighting and fatigue. Little more than an hour after, Diaz stood before him, "Senor Don Estevan," said he, "all is prepared for starting." The chief rose and found his horse awaiting him ready saddled. "Diaz," said he, "ask the sentinels if Gayferos has returned." Diaz questioned one of the men, who replied, "The poor fellow will probably never return. The Indians must have surprised and killed him before attacking us, and that probably was the cause of the firing that we heard in the afternoon." "I fear it is but too certain that he has been murdered," replied Diaz; "but as for the firing that we heard, I believe that had a different origin." Don Estevan now mounted his horse, and the two set off in, the direction of the mountains. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE ISLET. While the Indians, united in council, were deliberating on the means of attacking the camp of the gold-seekers, let us see how the three men on the island were occupied. It was about four o'clock, and the fog was beginning to rise slowly from the water. Willows and aspens grew on the shores of the river Gila, within rifle-range of the little island, and so near the water that their roots were in the river. The spaces between the trees were filled up by vigorous osier and other shoots; but just in front of the island was a large open space. This had been made by the troops of wild horses and buffaloes, that came down to drink at the river; and through this opening any one on the island could see clearly over the plain. The little island had been formed originally by trees that had taken root in the bed of the river; other trees, some green and others without branches or foliage, had rested against these, and their roots had become interlaced. Since then, many summers and winters must have passed; and grasses and sedges, detached from the banks by the water, had filled up the interstices. Then the dust, brought there by the wind, had covered these with a crust of earth, and formed a kind of solid ground for the floating island. Plants had grown along the banks; the trunks of the willows had sent forth vigorous shoots, and, with the reeds, had surrounded the island with a fringe of verdure. The island was only a few feet in diameter; but a man lying, or even kneeling upon it, was completely hidden by the willow-shoots. The sun was going down, and a little shade was thrown by the leaves and trees; in this shade was stretched the form of Fabian asleep. Bois-Rose seemed to be watching over his sleep, hastily taken after the fatigues of a long march, while Pepe refreshed himself by plunging in the water. While Fabian slumbers, we shall raise the veil by which the young Count hid from the eyes of his two friends his most secret and dearest thoughts. After his fall into the torrent, Pepe had forgotten that the enemy on whom he had sworn vengeance was escaping, and both he and Bois-Rose had thought only of rendering prompt assistance to Fabian. On returning to consciousness, Fabian's first thought was to resume his interrupted pursuit. The acquisition of the Golden Valley, and even the remembrance of Dona Rosarita, were forgotten by the ardent wish of revenging his mother. Pepe, on his side, was not the man to draw back from his vow; and as for Bois-Rose, his whole affections were centred in his two companions, and he would have followed them to the end of the world. Their first failure, far from discouraging them, did but excite their ardour; in hatred as in love, obstacles are always a powerful stimulant to vigorous minds. The pursuit had gradually presented a double object to Fabian; it brought him near to the Golden Valley in the desert; and he nourished a vague hope that the place pointed out to him was not the same as that which the expedition led by Antonio de Mediana proposed to conquer. Fabian said to himself, that the daughter of Don Augustin doubtless only yielded obedience to the ambitious views of her father, and that it might yet be easy for him, noble and rich, to win the day against such a rival as Tragaduros. Still, discouragement often seized upon Fabian; he loved the daughter of the haciendado with his whole soul; and the thought of owing her love only to the treasures that he might possess, distressed him. Moreover, he felt that the ardent and jealous affection of the Canadian, had founded on him the sole aim of his life, and that, like the eagle who carries away his young one and places it in an eyrie, inaccessible to the hand of man, Bois-Rose, who had forever quitted civilised life, wished to make of him his inseparable companion in the desert; and that, to disappoint the old man would be to throw a shadow over his whole future life. As yet, no confidence as to their future had been exchanged between them; but in face of a love that he believed hopeless, and of the ardent, though secret wishes of the man who now acted as a father to him, and who would half break his heart at a separation, Fabian had generously and silently sacrificed his tastes and hopes that would not die. He who had but to hold out his hand to seize the things that the whole world desires--riches, titles, and honours--was like one whose life tortured by an unhappy love, disclaiming the future, seeks within the cloister forgetfulness of the past. For Fabian de Mediana, the desert was the cloister; and his mother once revenged, it only remained to him to bury himself in it forever. Sad and inefficacious, as a remedy, would be solitude, with its mysterious voice, and the ardent contemplations that it awakens, for a passion so fondly awakened in the young heart of Fabian. One single hope remained to him--that amidst the ever-renewed dangers of an adventurous life, the day was not far distant when his life would be cut short in some contest with the Indians, or in one of those desperate attempts that he meditated against the murderer of his mother. He had carefully hidden from the Canadian the love that he buried in the depths of his heart; and it was in the silence of the night that he dared to look into his own bosom. Then, like the light which shines in the horizon above great cities, and which the traveller contemplates with joy, a radiant and cherished image rose before his eyes in the desert, standing on that breach in the wall of the hacienda, where his last souvenirs carried him. But during the day, the heroic young man tried to hide under an apparent calm, the melancholy that devoured him. He smiled, with sad resignation, at those plans for the future which the Canadian sometimes enlarged on before him--he so happy in having found him, and who trembled to lose again his beloved Fabian, whose hand he hoped would one day close his eyes. The blind tenderness of Bois-Rose did not divine the abyss under the calm surface of the lake, but Pepe was rather more clear-sighted. "Well," said Pepe, after a long silence, "the inhabitants of Madrid would pay dearly for such a stream of water in the Manzanares; but we have not the less lost a day which might have brought us nearer to the Golden Valley, and from which we cannot now be far distant." "I allow that," replied Bois-Rose, "but the child," for so he called the vigorous young man before them, "is not so accustomed as we are to long marches, and though sixty leagues in twelve days is not very much for us, it begins to tell on him. But before he has been a year with us, he will be able to walk as far as ourselves." Pepe could not help smiling at this answer, but the Canadian did not perceive it. "See," said the Spaniard, pointing to Fabian, "how the poor lad has changed in a few days. For my part, at his age, I should have preferred the glance of a damsel and the Puerta del Sol at Madrid to all the magnificence of the desert. Fatigue alone has not produced this change in him. There is some secret which he does not tell us, but I will penetrate it one of these days," added Pepe mentally. At these words the Canadian turned his head quickly towards his beloved child, but a smile of joy from Fabian chased away the sudden cloud from the brow of his adoptive father. Fabian indeed smiled; he was dreaming that he was on his knees before Rosarita, listening to the sweet voice of the young girl, who was recounting her anguish during his long absence, and that Bois-Rose stood behind them leaning on his rifle and blessing them both. Ah! it was only a dream. The two hunters looked for a moment silently at the sleeper. "There lies the last descendant of the Medianas," said Pepe, with a sigh. "What care I for the Medianas and their powerful race?" replied the Canadian. "I know but Fabian. When I saved him, and attached myself to him as though he had been my own, did I ask about his ancestors?" "You will wake him if you talk so loud," said Pepe; "your voice roars like a cataract." "Why are you always recalling to me things that I do not wish to know, or rather wish to forget. I know that some years in the desert will accustom him--" "You deceive yourself strangely, Bois-Rose, if you imagine that with the prospects that await him in Spain, and the rights that he can claim, this young man will consent to pass his whole life in the desert. It is good for us, but not for him." "What! is not the desert preferable to cities?" cried the old sailor, who vainly tried to conceal from himself that Pepe was right. "I undertake to make him prefer a wandering life to a settled one. Is it not for movement, for fighting, and for the powerful emotions of the desert that man is born?" "Certainly," said Pepe, gravely, "and that is just why the towns are deserted and the deserts peopled!" "Do not jest, Pepe; I am speaking of serious things. While I leave Fabian free to follow his own inclinations, I shall make him love this captivating life. Is not this short sleep, snatched hastily between two dangers, preferable to what one tastes after a day of idle security in the towns. You yourself, Pepe--would _you_ wish to return to your own country, since you have known the charms of a wandering life?" "There is between the heir of the Medianas," replied Pepe, "and the old coast-guard man a great difference. To him will come a fine property, a great name, and a beautiful Gothic castle with towers like the cathedral at Burgos; while I should be sent to fish for mackerel at Ceuta--which is the most execrable life I know of and which I should have but one chance of escaping from--that of waking some fine morning, at Tunis or Tetuan, as a slave to our neighbours the Moors. I have here, it is true, the daily chance of being scalped or burnt alive by the Indians. Still the town is worse for me--but for Don Fabian--" "Fabian has always lived in solitude, and will, I trust, prefer the calm of the desert to the tumult of cities. How solemn and silent is all around us! See here!" and he pointed to Fabian, "how the child sleeps, softly lulled by the murmur of the waters, and by the breeze in the willows. Look there, in the horizon at those fogs just coloured by the sun, and that boundless space where man wanders in his primitive liberty, like the birds in the air!" The Spaniard shook his head doubtfully, although he partook the ideas of the Canadian, and like him felt the charm of this wandering life. "Look," continued the old hunter, "at that troop of wild horses coming down to drink before going for the night to their distant pasturage. See how they approach in all the proud beauty that God gives to free animals--ardent eyes, open nostrils, and floating manes! Ah! I should almost like to awake Fabian in order that he might see and admire them." "Let him sleep, Bois-Rose; perhaps his dreams show him more graceful forms than those horses of the desert--forms such as abound in our Spanish towns, in balconies or behind barred windows." Bois-Rose sighed, as he added-- "Yet this is fine sight--how these noble beasts bound with joy at their liberty!" "Yes, until they are chased by the Indians, and then they bound with terror!" "There! now they are gone like the cloud driven by the wind!" continued the Canadian. "Now the scene changes. Look at that stag, who shows from time to time his shining eyes and black nose through the trees; he snuffs the wind, he listens. Ah! now he also approaches to drink. He has heard a noise, he raises his head; do not the drops that fall from his mouth look like liquid gold? I will wake the lad!" "Let him sleep, I tell you; perhaps his dream now shows him black eyes and rosy lips, or some nymph sleeping on the banks of a clear stream." The old Canadian sighed again. "Is not the stag the emblem of independence?" said he. "Yes, until the time when the wolves assemble to pursue and tear him to pieces. Perhaps he would have more chance of life in our royal parks. Everything to its time, Bois-Rose; old age loves silence, youth noise." Bois-Rose still fought against the truth. It was the drop of gall that is found at the bottom of every cup of happiness; it is not permitted that there should be perfect felicity, for it would then be too painful to die; neither is unmixed misery allowed to mortals, or it would be painful to live. The Canadian hung his head and looked sad as he glanced at the sleeping youth, while Pepe put on his buffalo-skin buskins. "Well! what did I tell you?" said he, presently; "do you not hear from afar those howlings--I mean those barkings, for the wolves have voices like dogs when they hunt the stags. Poor stag! he is, as you said, the emblem of life in the desert." "Shall I wake Fabian now?" said Bois-Rose. "Yes, certainly; for after a love dream a stag hunt is the thing most worthy of a nobleman like him, and he will rarely see such a one as this." "He will see nothing like it in the towns," cried the Canadian, enchanted; "such scenes must make him love the desert." And he shook the young man gently. With head thrown back, to inhale more freely the air necessary to his lungs, the stag flew like an arrow along the plain. Behind him a hungry pack of wolves, a few white, but the greater number black, pursued him at full speed. The stag had an immense start, but on the sand heaps, almost lost in the horizon, the piercing eye of the hunter might distinguish other wolves watching. The noble animal either did not see, or else disdained them, for he flew straight towards them. As he neared them he halted a moment. Indeed, he found himself shut in by a circle of enemies, who constantly advanced upon him as he stopped to take breath. All at once he turned round, faced the other wolves, and tried one last effort to escape. But he could not now clear the solid masses that had formed around him, and he fell in the midst of them. Some rolled under his feet, and two or three were tossed in the air. Then, with a wolf hanging to his flanks, bleeding and with tongue protruding, the poor animal advanced to the edge of the water, in front of the three spectators of the strange chase. "It is magnificent!" cried Fabian clapping his hands, and carried away by the hunter's enthusiasm, which for the time silences humanity in the heart of men. "Is it not fine?" cried Bois-Rose, doubly pleased, happy at Fabian's pleasure, and at his own. "And we shall witness many such fine sights, my Fabian! here you see only the worst side of these American solitudes, but when you go with Pepe and me to the great rivers, and the great lakes of the north--" "The animal has got rid of his enemy," interrupted Fabian, "he is about to spring into the river!" The water bubbled after the leap of the stag, then a dozen times more as the wolves followed; then amidst the foam were visible the head of the stag, and those of the wolves who were pursuing him, howling with hunger, while the more timid ones ran along the banks uttering their lamentable howls. The stag had neared the island, when the wolves on the bank suddenly ceased their cries and fled precipitately away. "What is that?" cried Pepe; "what causes this sudden panic?" but no sooner had he spoken than he cried again, "Hide yourselves, in God's name! the Indians are in chase also." Other and more formidable hunters now appeared in their turn upon the arena. A dozen of the wild horses, which they had seen before, were now seen galloping wildly over the plain, while some Indians, mounted bareback on their horses (having taken their saddles off for greater speed), with their knees almost up to their chins, were pursuing the terrified animals. At first there were but three Indians visible; but one by one about twenty appeared, some armed with lances, and others brandishing their lassoes of plaited leather--all uttering those cries by which they express their joy or anger. Pepe glanced at the Canadian as though to ask whether he had calculated these terrible chances when he wished to make Fabian share their adventurous career. For the first time, at such a crisis, the intrepid hunter looked deadly pale. An eloquent but sad glance was his reply to the Spaniard's mute interrogation. "A too great affection in the heart of the bravest man," thought Pepe, "makes him tremble for him who he loves more than life; and adventurers like us should have no ties. There is Bois-Rose trembling like a woman!" However, they felt almost certain that even the practiced eyes of the Indians could not discover them in their retreat; and the three men, after their first alarm had passed over, watched coolly the manoeuvres of the Indians. These continued to pursue the flying horses; the numberless obstacles so thickly strewn over the plain--the ravines, the hillocks, and the sharp-pointed cacti--could not stop them. Without slackening the impetuosity of their pace or turning aside from any obstacle, these horsemen cleared them with wonderful address. Bold rider as he was himself, Fabian looked with enthusiasm on the astonishing agility of these wild hunters, but the precautions which they were forced to take, in order to conceal themselves, made the three friends lose a part of this imposing spectacle. The vast savannahs, late so deserted, were suddenly changed into a scene of tumult and confusion. The stag, returning to the bank, continued to fly, with the wolves still after him. The wild horses galloped before the Indians--whose howlings equalled that of the wolves--and described great circles to avoid the lance or the lasso, while numerous echoes repeated these various sounds. The sight of Fabian, who followed with an ardent eye all these tumultuous evolutions, not appearing to disquiet himself about a danger which he now braved for the first time, deprived Bois-Rose of that confidence in himself which had brought him safe and sound out of perils apparently greater than this. "Ah!" muttered he, "these are scenes which the inhabitants of cities can never see, it is only in the desert one can meet with them." But his voice trembled in spite of himself; and he stopped, for he felt that he would have given a year of his life that Fabian had not been present. At this moment a new subject of apprehension added to his anguish. The scene became more solemn; for a new actor, whose _role_ was to be short though terrible, now appeared upon it. It was a man, whom by his dress the three recognised with terror as a white man like themselves. The unlucky man suddenly discovered in one of the evolutions of the chase, had become in his turn the exclusive object of pursuit. Wild horses, wolves, the stag, had all disappeared in the distant fog. There remained only the twenty Indians scattered over a circle, of which the white man occupied the centre. For an instant the friends could see him cast around him a glance of despair and anguish. But, excepting on the river-side, the Indians were everywhere. It was, therefore, in this direction that he must fly; and he turned his horse towards the opening opposite to the island. But his single moment of indecision had sufficed for the Indians to get near him. "The unhappy man is lost, and no help for it," said Bois-Rose; "he is too late now to cross the river." "But," said Fabian, "if we can save a Christian, shall we let him be murdered before our eyes?" Pepe looked at Bois-Rose. "I answer for your life before God," said the Canadian, solemnly, "if we are discovered we are but three against twenty. The life of three men-- yours especially, Fabian--is more precious than that of one; we must let this unhappy man meet his fate." "But intrenched as we are?" persisted Fabian. "Intrenched! Do you call this frail rampart of osiers and reeds an intrenchment? Do you think these leaves are ball proof? And these Indians are but twenty now; but let one of our shots be fired at them, and you will soon see one hundred instead of twenty. May God pardon me if I am unfeeling, but it is necessary." Fabian said no more; this last reason seemed conclusive, for, like his companions, he was ignorant that the rest of the Indians were at the camp of Don Estevan. Meanwhile the white fled like a man the speed of whose horse is his last resource. Already they could see the terror depicted on his face, but just as he was about twenty feet from the river, the lasso of an Indian caught him, and the unlucky wretch, thrown violently from his saddle fell upon the sand. CHAPTER FORTY. AN INDIAN DIPLOMAT. After the cries of triumph which announced the capture of the unlucky white man, there was a moment of profound silence. The men on the island exchanged looks of consternation and pity. "Thank God! they have not killed him!" said Fabian. The prisoner indeed arose, although bruised with his fall, and one of the Indians disengaged him from the lasso. Bois-Rose and Pepe shook their heads. "So much the worse for him, for his sufferings would now be over," said Pepe; "the silence of the Indians shows that each is considering what punishment to inflict. The capture of one white is more precious in their eyes than that of a whole troop of horses." The Indians, still on horseback, surrounded the prisoner, who, casting around him a despairing glance, saw on every side only bronzed and hardened faces. Then the Indians began to deliberate. Meanwhile, one who appeared to be the chief, and who was distinguished by his black plumes, jumped off his horse, and, throwing the bridle to one of the men, advanced towards the island. Having reached the bank, he seemed to seek for footsteps on the sand. Bois-Rose's heart beat violently, for this movement appeared to show some suspicion as to their presence. "Can this wretch," whispered he to Pepe, "smell flesh like the ogres in the fairy tales?" "_Quien sabe_--who knows?" replied the Spaniard, in the phrase which is the common answer of his native country. But the sand trampled over by the wild horses who had come to drink, showed no traces of a human foot, and the Indian walked up the stream, still apparently seeking. "The demon has some suspicion," said Bois-Rose; "and he will discover the traces that we left half-a-mile off when we entered the bed of the river to get at this island. I told you," added he, "that we should have entered two miles higher up; but neither you nor Fabian wished it, and like a fool, I yielded to you." The deliberation as to the fate of the prisoner was now doubtless over; for cries of joy welcomed some proposition made by one of the Indians. But it was necessary to await the return and approbation of the chief, who was the man already known to us as the "Blackbird." He had continued his researches, and having reached the place where they had left the sand to enter the river, no longer doubted that the report brought to them had been correct; and having his own private objects, he determined to follow it. Once assured of the presence of the three whites, he returned to his men, listened gravely to the result of their deliberations, answered in a few words, and then advanced slowly towards the river--after having given an order to five of his men who set off at full gallop to execute it. The aquatic plants were open in the sunshine; the breeze agitated the leaves of the osiers on the banks of the island, which was to all appearance as uninhabited as when the stream flowed only for the birds of heaven, and the buffaloes and wild horses of the plains. But an Indian could not be deceived by this apparent calm. The "Blackbird" made a speaking-trumpet of his hand, and cried in a language half Indian, half-Spanish-- "The white warriors of the north may show themselves; the `Blackbird' is their friend. So, too, are the warriors he commands." At these words, borne to them distinctly by the wind, the Canadian pressed the arm of Pepe; both understood the mixed dialect of the Indian. "What shall we reply?" said he. "Nothing," answered Pepe. The breeze which murmured through the reeds was the only answer the Indian could hear. He went on-- "The eagle may hide his track in the air from the eye of an Apache; the salmon in the stream leaves no trace behind him; but a white man who crosses the desert is neither a salmon nor an eagle." "Nor a gosling," murmured Pepe; "and a gosling only betrays himself by trying to sing." The Indian listened again, but hearing no sound, continued, without showing any signs of being discouraged, "The white warriors of the north are but three against twenty, and the red warriors engage their word to be friends and allies to them." "Wagh!" said Bois-Rose, "for what perfidy has he need of us?" "Let him go on, and we shall hear; he has not yet finished, or I am much mistaken!" "When the white warriors know the intentions of the Blackbird, they will leave their hiding-place," continued he, "but they shall hear them. The white men of the north are the enemies of those of the south--their language, their religion is different. The Apaches hold in their toils a whole camp of southern warriors." "So much the worse for the gold-seekers," said Bois-Rose. "If the warriors of the north will join the Indians with their long rifles, they shall share the horses and the treasures of the men of the south; the Indians and the whites will dance together round the corpses of their enemies, and the ashes of their camp." Bois-Rose and Pepe looked at each other in astonishment, and explained to Fabian the proposal made to them, but the fire of their eyes and their disdainful looks, showed that the noble trio had but one opinion on the subject--that of perishing rather than aiding the Indians to triumph even over their mortal enemies. "Do you hear the miscreant," cried Bois-Rose, using in indignation an image fit for the Indians, "he takes jaguars far jackals. Ah! if Fabian were not here, a bullet would be my answer." Meanwhile, the Indian feeling certain of the presence of the hunters in the island, began to lose patience--for the orders of the chiefs had been peremptory to attack the whites--but he, having his own opinions, wished to prove them right. He knew that the American or Canadian rifle never misses its aim, and three such allies seemed to him not to be despised. He therefore continued to speak: "The buffalo of the prairies is not more easy to follow than the white man; the track of the buffalo tells the Indian his age, his size, and the time of his passing. There are behind the reeds of the floating island a man as strong as a bison, and taller than the tallest rifle, a warrior of mingled north and south blood, and a young warrior of the pure south, but the alliance of these two with the first, indicates that they are enemies of the southern whites--for the weakest ever seek the friendship of the strongest and espouse their cause." "The sagacity of these dogs is admirable," said Bois-Rose. "Because they flatter you," said Pepe, who seemed somewhat annoyed at what the Indian had said. "I await for the answer of the whites," continued the Blackbird. "I hear only the sound of the river, and the wind which says to me, `the whites imagine a thousand errors; they believe that the Indian has eyes behind his back, that the track of the bison is invisible, and that reeds are ball proof.' The Blackbird laughs at the words of the wind." "Ah!" said Bois-Rose, "if we had entered but two miles higher up the river!" "A friend disdained becomes a terrible enemy," continued the chief. "We say something similar among us," muttered Pepe. The Blackbird now signed to the captive to approach. The latter advanced, and the chief pointed out to him the little island, and said, "Can the rifle of the pale-face send a ball into the space between those bushes?" But the prisoner had understood only the little Spanish mixed with the Indian dialect, and he remained mute and trembling. Then the Blackbird spoke to one of his warriors, who placed in the hands of the prisoner the rifle that he had taken from him, and by gestures made him understand what was wanted of him. The unlucky man tried to take aim, but terror caused him to shake in such a fashion that his rifle was unsteady in his hands. "If the Indian has no better way than that to make us speak," said Pepe, "I will not say a word until to-morrow!" The white man fired indeed, but the ball, directed by his trembling hands, fell into the water some distance from the island. The Blackbird glanced contemptuously at him, and then looked around him. "Yes," said Pepe; "seek for balls and powder among the lances and lassoes of your warriors." But as he finished this consoling reflection, the five men who had gone away, returned armed for combat, with rifles and quivers full of arrows. They had been to fetch the arms which they had laid down, in order to follow the wild horses more freely. Five others now went off. "This looks bad," said Bois-Rose. "Shall we attack them while they are but fifteen," said Pepe. "No, let us remain silent; he still doubts whether we are here." "As you like." The Indian chief now took a rifle and advanced again to the bank. "The hands of the Blackbird do not tremble like a leaf shaken by the wind," said he, pointing his rifle steadily towards the island. "But before firing, he will wait while he counts one hundred, for the answer of the whites who are hidden in the island." "Get behind me, Fabian," said Bois-Rose. "No, I stay here," said Fabian, decidedly. "I am younger, and it is my place to expose myself for you." "Child! do you not see that my body exceeds yours six inches on every side, and your remaining in front is but presenting a double mark." And without shaking a single one of the reeds around the island, he advanced and knelt before Fabian. "Let him do it, Fabian," said Pepe. "Never had man a more noble buckler, than the heart of the giant which beats in fear for you." The Indian chief, rifle in hand, listened as he counted, but excepting the murmur of the water, a profound silence reigned everywhere. He fired at length, and the leaves of the trees flew into the air; but as the three hunters knelt in a row they did not present a large aim, and the ball passed at some little distance from them. The Blackbird waited a minute and cried again: "The Indian was wrong, he acknowledges his error, he will seek for the white warriors elsewhere." "Who believes that?" said Pepe; "he is more sure than ever. He is about to leave us alone for a few minutes, until he has finished with that poor devil yonder, which will not belong--since the death of a white is a spectacle which an Indian is always in a hurry to enjoy." "But had we better not make some effort in favour of the unlucky man?" said Fabian. "Some unexpected circumstances may come to our assistance," replied Bois-Rose. "Whatever Pepe says, the Indians may still doubt, but if we show ourselves, all is over. To accept an alliance with these Indians, even against Don Estevan de Arechiza, would be an unworthy cowardice. What can we do?" added he, sadly. One fear tormented him; he had seen Fabian in danger when his blood was boiling with passion, but had he the calm courage which meets death coolly? Had he the stoical resignation of which he himself had given so many proofs? The Canadian took a sudden resolution. "Listen, Fabian," said he; "can I speak to you the language of a man? Will the words which your ears will transmit to your heart not freeze it with terror?" "Why doubt my courage?" replied Fabian in a tone of gentle reproach. "Whatever you say, I will hear without growing pale; whatever you do, I will do also, without trembling." "Don Fabian speaks truly, Pepe; look at his eye," said the Canadian, pressing Fabian in his arms; then he continued solemnly: "Never were three men in greater peril than we are now; our enemies are seven times our number; when each of us has killed six of them, there would still remain a number equal to our own." "We have done it before," said Pepe. "And we shall do it again," cried Fabian. "Good, my child," said Bois-Rose, "but whatever happens, these demons must not take us alive. See, Fabian!" added the old man, in a voice that he tried to keep firm while unsheathing a long knife, "if we were left without powder or ammunition at the mercy of these dogs, about to fall into their hands, and this poignard in my hand was our only chance, what would you say?" "I would say, strike, father, and let us die together!" "Yes, yes," cried the Canadian, looking with indescribable tenderness at him who called him father, "it will be one means of never being separated." And he held out to Fabian his hand trembling with emotion, which the latter kissed respectfully. "Now," said Bois-Rose, "whatever happens we shall not be separated. God will do the rest, and we shall try to save this unlucky man." "To work then!" said Fabian. "Not yet, my child; let us see what these red demons are about to do." Meanwhile the Indians had ranged themselves in two lines, and the white man was placed a little in advance of them. "I see what they are going to do," said Bois-Rose, "they are going to try if the poor wretch's legs are better than his arms. They are about to chase him." "How so?" said Fabian. "They will place their captive a little in advance, then at a given signal he will run. Then all the Indians will run after him, lance and hatchet in hand. If the white is quick enough to reach the river before them, we will call to him to swim to us. Some shots will protect him, and he may reach here safe and sound. But if terror paralyses his limbs, as it did his hands just now, the foremost Indian will break his head with a blow from a hatchet. In any case we shall do our best." At this moment the five other Indians returned armed from head to foot, and now joined the rest. Fabian looked with profound compassion at the unlucky white man, who with haggard eye, and features distorted by terror, waited in horrible anguish until the signal was given. But the Blackbird pointed to the bare feet of his warriors, and then to the leather buskins which protected the feet of the white man. They then saw the latter sit down and take them off slowly, as if to gain a few seconds. "The demons!" cried Fabian. "Hush!" said Bois-Rose, "do not by discovering yourself destroy the last chance of life for the poor wretch!" Fabian shut his eyes so as not to witness the horrible scene about to take place. At length the white man rose to his feet, and the Indians stood devouring him with their looks, until the Blackbird clapped his hands together, and then the howlings which followed could only be compared to those of a troop of jaguars in pursuit of a deer. The unlucky captive ran with great swiftness, but his pursuers bounded after him like tigers. Thanks to the start which he had had, he cleared safely a part of the distance which separated him from the river, but the stones which cut his feet and the sharp thorns of the nopals soon caused him to slacken his pace, and one of the Indians rushed up and made a furious thrust at him with his lance. It passed between his arm and his body, and the Indian losing his equilibrium, fell on the sand. Gayferos, for it was he, appeared to hesitate a moment whether he should pick up the lance which the Indian had let fall, but then rapidly continued his course. That instant's hesitation was fatal to him. All at once, amidst the cloud of dust raised by his feet, a hatchet shone over the head of the unfortunate Mexican, who was seen falling to the earth. Bois-Rose was about to fire, but the fear of killing him whom he wished to defend, stopped his hand. For a single moment the wind cleared away the dust, and he fired, but it was too late, the Indian who fell under his ball was brandishing in his hand the scalp of the unhappy man. To this unexpected shot, the savages replied with howls, and then rushed away from what they believed to be only a corpse. Soon, however, they saw the man rise, with his head laid bare, who after straggling a few paces, fell again, while the blood flowed in torrents from his wounds. "Ah!" cried Bois-Rose, "if there remains in him a spark of life--and people do not die only from scalping--we shall save him yet; I swear we shall!" CHAPTER FORTY ONE. INDIAN CUNNING. As the Canadian uttered the generous oath, wrung from him by indignation, it seemed to him that a supplicating voice reached him. "Is not the poor wretch calling for aid?" And he raised his head from behind its shelter. At sight of the fox-skin cap which covered the head of the giant, and of the long and heavy rifle which he raised like a willow wand, the Indians recognised one of their formidable northern enemies, and recoiled in astonishment--for the Blackbird alone had been instructed as to whom they were seeking. Bois-Rose, looking towards the shore now perceived the unlucky Gayferos stretching out his arms towards him, and feebly calling for help. The dying Indian still held the scalp in his clenched hand. At this terrible spectacle the Canadian drew himself up to his full height. "Fire on these dogs!" cried he, "and remember--never let them take you alive." So saying, he resolutely entered the water, and any other man would have had it up to his head, but the Canadian had all his shoulders above the surface. "Do not fire till after me," said Pepe to Fabian; "my hand is surer than yours, and my Kentucky rifle carries twice as far as your Liege gun." And he held his rifle ready to fire at the slightest sign of hostility from the Indians. Meanwhile, Bois-Rose still advanced, the water growing gradually shallower, when an Indian raised his rifle ready to fire on the intrepid hunter; but a bullet from Pepe stopped him, and he fell forward on his face. "Now you, Don Fabian!" said Pepe, throwing himself on the ground to reload, after the American custom in such cases. Fabian fired, but his rifle having a shorter range, the shot only drew from the Indian at whom he aimed a cry of rage. But Pepe had reloaded, and stood ready to fire again. There was a moment's hesitation among the Indians, by which Bois-Rose profited to draw towards him the body of the unlucky Gayferos. He, clinging to his shoulders, had the presence of mind to leave his preserver's arms free; who, with his burden, again entered the water, going backwards. Then his rifle was heard, and an Indian's death-cry immediately followed. This valiant retreat, protected by Pepe and Fabian, awed the Indians, and some minutes after, Bois-Rose triumphantly placed the fainting Gayferos on the island. "There are three of them settled for," said he, "and now we shall have a few minutes' truce. Well, Fabian, do you see the advantage of firing in file? You did not do badly for a beginner, and I can assure you that when you have a Kentucky rifle like us, you will be a good marksman." Then to Gayferos, "We came too late to save the skin of your head, my poor fellow, but console yourself, it is no such dreadful thing. I have many friends in the same condition, who are none the worse for it. Your life is saved--that is the great thing--and we shall endeavour to bind up your wounds." Some strips torn from the shirt of Gayferos served to bind around his head a large mass of willow leaves crushed together and steeped in water, and concealed the hideous wound. The blood was then washed from his face. "You see," said Bois-Rose, still clinging to the idea of keeping Fabian near him, "you must learn to know the habits of the desert, and of the Indians. The villains, who see, by the loss of three of their men, what stuff we are made of, have retired to concoct some stratagem. You hear how silent all is after so much noise?" The desert, indeed, had recovered its silence, the leaves only trembled in the evening breeze, and the water began to display brilliant colours in the setting sun. "Well, Pepe, they are but seventeen now!" continued Bois-Rose, in a tone of triumph. "Oh! we may succeed, if they do not get reinforcements." "That is a chance and a terrible one; but our lives are in God's hands," replied Bois-Rose. "Tell me, friend!" said he to Gayferos, "you probably belong to the camp of Don Estevan?" "Do you know him then?" said the wounded man, in a feeble voice. "Yes; and by what chance are you so far from the camp?" The wounded man recounted how, by Don Estevan's orders, he had set off to seek for their lost guide, and that his evil star had brought him in contact with the Indians as they were hunting the wild horses. "What is the name of your guide?" "Cuchillo." Fabian and Bois-Rose glanced at each other. "Yes," said the latter, "there is some probability that your suspicions about that white demon were correct, and that he is conducting the expedition to the Golden Valley; but, my child, if we escape these Indians, we are close to it; and once we are installed there, were they a hundred, we should succeed in defending ourselves." This was whispered in Fabian's ear. "One word more," said Bois-Rose to the wounded man, "and then we shall leave you to repose. How many men has Don Estevan with him?" "Sixty." Bois-Rose now again bathed the head of the wounded Gayferos with cold water: and the unhappy man, refreshed for the moment, and weakened by loss of blood, fell into a lethargic sleep. "Now," continued Bois-Rose, "let us endeavour to build up a rampart which shall be a little more ball and arrow-proof than this fringe of moving leaves and reeds. Did you count how many rifles the Indians had?" "Seven, I believe," said Pepe. "Then ten of them are less to be feared. They cannot attack us either on the right or the left--but perhaps they have made a detour to cross the river, and are about to place us between two fires." The side of the islet opposite the shore on which the Indians had shown themselves was sufficiently defended by enormous roots, bristling like chevaux-de-frise; but the side where the attack was probably about to recommence was defended only by a thick row of reeds and osier-shoots. Thanks to his great strength, Bois-Rose, aided by Pepe, succeeded in dragging from the end of the islet which faced the course of the stream, some large dry branches and fallen trunks of trees. A few minutes sufficed for the two skilful hunters to protect the feeble side with a rough but solid entrenchment, which would form a very good defence to the little garrison of the island. "Do you see, Fabian," said Bois-Rose, "you'll be as safe behind these trunks of trees as in a stone fortress. You'll be exposed only to the balls that may be fired from the tops of the trees, but I shall take care that none of these redskins climb so high." And quite happy at having raised a barrier between Fabian and death, he assigned him his post in the place most sheltered from the enemy. "Did you remark," said he to Pepe, "how at every effort that we made to break a branch or disengage a block of wood, the island trembled to its foundation?" "Yes," said Pepe, "one might think that it was about to be torn from its base and follow the course of the stream." The Canadian then cautioned his two companions to be careful of their ammunition, gave Fabian some instructions as to taking aim, pressed him to his heart, squeezed the hand of his old comrade, and then the three stationed themselves at their several posts. The surface of the river, the tops of the aspens growing on the banks, the banks themselves and the reeds, were all objects of examination for the hunters, as the night was fast coming on. "This is the hour when the demons of darkness lay their snares," said Bois-Rose, "when these human jaguars seek for their prey. It was of them that the Scriptures spoke." No one replied to this speech, which was uttered rather as a soliloquy. Meanwhile, the darkness was creeping on little by little, and the bushes which grew on the bank began to assume the fantastic forms given to objects by the uncertain twilight. The green of the trees began to look black; but habit had given to Bois-Rose and to Pepe eyes as piercing as those of the Indians themselves, and nothing, with the vigilance they were exerting, could have deceived them. "Pepe," whispered Bois-Rose, pointing to a tuft of osiers, "does it not seem to you that that bush has changed its form and grown larger?" "Yes; it has changed its form!" "See, Fabian! you have the piercing sight that I had at your age; does it not appear to you that at the left-hand side of that tuft of osiers the leaves no longer look natural?" The young man pushed the reeds on one side, and gazed for a while attentively. "I could swear it," said he, "but--" He stopped, and looked in another direction. "Well! do you see anything?" "I see, between that willow and the aspen, about ten feet from the tuft of osiers, a bush which certainly was not there just now." "Ah! see what it is to live far from towns;--the least points of the landscape fix themselves in the memory, and become precious indications. You are born to live the life of a hunter, Fabian!" Pepe levelled his rifle at the bush indicated by Fabian. "Pepe understands it at once," said Bois-Rose; "he knows, like me, that the Indians have employed their time in cutting down branches to form a temporary shelter; but I think two of us at least may teach them a few stratagems that they do not yet know. Leave that bush to Fabian, it will be an easy mark for him; fire at the branches whose leaves are beginning to wither--there is an Indian behind them. Fire in the centre, Fabian!" The two rifles were heard simultaneously, and the false bush fell, displaying a red body behind the leaves, while the branches which had been added were convulsively agitated. All three then threw themselves on the ground, and a discharge of balls immediately flew over their heads, covering them with leaves and broken branches, while the war-cry of the Indians sounded in their ears. "If I do not deceive myself, they are now but fifteen," said Bois-Rose, as he quitted his horizontal posture, and knelt on the ground. "Be still!" added he. "I see the leaves of an aspen trembling more than the wind alone could cause them to do. It is doubtless one of those fellows who has climbed up into the tree." As he spoke, a bullet struck one of the trunks of which the islet was composed, and proved that he had guessed rightly. "Wagh!" said the Canadian, "I must resort to a trick that will force him to show himself." So saying, he took off his cap and coat, and placed them between the branches, where they could be seen. "Now," said he, "if I were fighting a white soldier, I would place myself by the side of my coat, for he would fire at the coat; with an Indian I shall stand behind it, for he will not be deceived in the same manner, and will aim to one side of it. Lie down, Fabian and Pepe, and in a minute you shall hear a bullet whistle either to the right or the left of the mark I have set up." As Bois-Rose said this, he knelt down behind his coat, ready to fire at the aspen. He was not wrong in his conjectures; in a moment, the balls of the Indians cut the leaves on each side of the coat, but without touching either of the three companions, who had placed themselves in a line. "Ah," cried the Canadian, "there are whites who can fight the Indians with their own weapons; we shall presently have an enemy the less." And saying this he fired into the aspen, out of which the body of an Indian was seen to fall, rolling from branch to branch like a fruit knocked from its stem. At this feat of the Canadian, the savage howlings resounded with so much fury, that it required nerves of iron not to shudder at them. Gayferos himself, whom the firing had not roused, shook off his lethargy and murmured, in a trembling voice, "Virgen de los Dolores! Would not one say it was a band of tigers howling in the darkness?--Holy Virgin! have pity on me!" "Thank her rather," interrupted the Canadian; "the knaves might deceive a novice like you, but not an old hunter like me. You have heard the jackals of an evening in the forest howl and answer each other as though there were hundreds of them, when there were but three or four. The Indians imitate the jackals, and I will answer for it there are not more that a dozen now behind those trees. Ah! if I could but get them to cross the water, not one of them should return to carry the news of their disaster." Then, as if a sudden thought had flashed across his mind, he directed his companions to lie down on their backs--in which position they were protected by the trunks of the trees. "We are in safety as long as we lie thus," said he, "only keep your eye on the tops of the trees; it is from these only they can reach us. Fire only if you see them climb up, but otherwise remain motionless. The knaves will not willingly depart without our scalps, and must make up their minds at last to attack us." This resolution of the hunter seemed to have been inspired by heaven, for scarcely had they laid down before a shower of balls and arrows tore to pieces the border of reeds, and broke the branches behind which they had been kneeling a minute before. Bois-Rose pulled down his coat and hat, as though he himself had fallen, and then the most profound silence reigned in the island, after this apparently murderous fire. Cries of triumph followed this silence, and then a second discharge of bullets and arrows. "Is not that an Indian mounting the willow?" whispered Pepe. "Yes, but let us risk his fire without stirring; lie all of us as if we were dead. Then he will go and tell his companions that he has counted the corpses of the palefaces." In spite of the danger incurred by this stratagem, the proposition of Bois-Rose was accepted, and each remained motionless, watching, not without anxiety, the manoeuvres of the Indian. With extreme precaution the red warrior climbed from branch to branch, until he had reached a point from which he could overlook the whole islet. There remained just sufficient daylight to observe his movements when the foliage itself did not hide them. When he had reached the desired height, the Indian, resting on a thick branch, advanced his head with precaution. The sight of the bodies extended on the ground appeared not to surprise him, and he now openly pointed his rifle towards them. This he did several times, apparently taking aim, but not one of the hunters stirred. Then the Indian uttered a cry of triumph. "The shark takes the bait," muttered Bois-Rose. "I shall recognise this son of a dog," rejoined Pepe, "and if I do not repay him for the anxiety he has caused me, it is because the bullet he is about to send will prevent me." "It is the Blackbird," said Bois-Rose, "he is both brave and dexterous-- lie close!" The Indian once more took aim, and then fired; a branch knocked from a tree just above Pepe, fell upon him and hurt his forehead. He stirred no more than the dead wood against which he leaned, but said, "Rascal of a redskin, I'll pay you for this before long." Some drops of blood fell upon the face of the Canadian. "Is any one wounded?" said he, with a shudder. "A scratch, nothing more," said Pepe, "God be praised!" Just then the Indian uttered a cry of joy, as he descended from the tree on which he had mounted, and the three friends again breathed freely. And yet some doubt seemed to remain in the minds of the Indians, for a long and solemn silence followed the manoeuvre of their chief. The sun had now set, the short twilight had passed away, night had come on, and the moon shone on the river, yet still the Indians did not stir. "Our scalps tempt them, but they still hesitate to come and take them," said Pepe, who was becoming very tired of doing nothing. "Patience!" whispered Bois-Rose, "the Indians are like the vultures, who dare not attack a body until it begins to decay. We may look out for them by-and-bye. Let us resume our position behind the reeds." The hunters again quickly knelt down and continued to watch their enemies. Before long an Indian showed himself very cautiously, another then joined him, and both approached with increasing confidence, followed by others, until Bois-Rose counted ten in the moonlight. "They will cross the river in file, I expect," said he. "Fabian, you fire at the first, Pepe will aim at the centre, and I at the last but one. In that way they cannot all attack together. It will be a hand-to-hand struggle, but you, Fabian, while Pepe and I wait for them knife in hand, shall load our rifles and pass them to us. By the memory of your mother, I forbid you to fight with these wretches." As the Canadian uttered these words, a tall Indian entered the river, followed by nine others. All advanced with the utmost caution; they might have been taken for the shades of warriors returned from the land of spirits. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. THE BLACKBIRD. Death seemed to the eyes of the Indians to reign over the island--for the hunters held even their breath--and yet they advanced with the utmost care. The foremost man, who was the "Blackbird" himself, had reached a place where the water began to be deep, as the last man was just leaving the bank. But just as Fabian was about to take aim against the chief, to the great regret of Pepe, the "Blackbird," either fearful of danger, or because a ray of moonlight gleaming on the rifles told him his enemy still lived dived suddenly under the water. "Fire!" cried Bois-Rose, and immediately the last Indian of the file fell to rise no more, and two others appeared struggling in the water, and were quickly borne off by the stream. Pepe and Bois-Rose then threw their rifles behind them as agreed upon, for Fabian to reload, while they themselves stood upon the bank, knives in hand. "The Apaches are still seven," shouted Bois-Rose, in a voice of thunder, anxious to finish the struggle, and feeling all his hatred of the Indians awakened within him, "will they dare to come and take the scalps of the whites?" But the disappearance of their chief and the death of their comrades had disconcerted the Indians; they did not fly, but they remained undecided and motionless, as black rocks bathed by the shining waters of the river. "Can the red warriors only scalp dead bodies?" added Pepe with a contemptuous laugh. "Are the Apaches like vultures who only attack the dead? Advance then, dogs, vultures, women without courage!" shouted he, at the sight of their enemies, who were now rapidly regaining the bank. Suddenly, however, he noticed a body floating on its back, whose bright eyes showed that it was not a corpse, as the extended arms and motionless body seemed to indicate. "Don Fabian, my rifle! there is the `Blackbird' pretending to be dead and floating down the stream." Pepe took the rifle from Fabian, and aimed at the floating body, but not a muscle stirred. The hunter lowered his rifle. "I was wrong," said he, aloud, "the white men do not, like the Indians, waste their powder on dead bodies." The body still floated, with outspread legs and extended arms. Pepe again raised his rifle and again lowered it. Then, when he thought that he had paid off anguish for anguish to the Indian chief, he fired, and the body floated no longer. "Have you killed him?" asked Bois-Rose. "No, I only wished to break his shoulder bone, that he may always have cause to remember the shudder he gave, and the treason he proposed to me. If he were dead, he would still float." "You might have done better to have killed him. But what is to be done now? I hoped to finish with these demons, and now our work is still to be done. We cannot cross the river to attack them." "It is the best thing we can do." "With Fabian, I cannot decide to do it, or I should be now on the bank opposite, where you know as well as I do they still are breathing their infernal vengeance." The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders with stoical resignation. "Doubtless," said he, "but we must decide either to fly or to stay." "Carramba!" continued he, "if we two were alone we would gain the opposite bank in a minute; the seven who are left would catch us no doubt, but we should come out of it, as we have out of more difficult situations." "It would be better than to stay here like foxes in their hole." "I agree: but Fabian! and the unlucky scalped man, whom we cannot abandon thus to the mercy of the wretches who have already treated him so cruelly. Let us wait at least until the moon has set, and darkness comes on." And the old man hung his head with an air of discouragement--which made a painful impression on the Spaniard--raising it only to glance anxiously at the sky; where the moon held on her ordinary course over the starry blue. "So be it," said Pepe; "but, stay! we killed first five Indians, then three, that makes eight; there should have been twelve left; why did we only count ten in the water? Depend upon it, the Blackbird has sent the two others to seek for reinforcements." "It is possible: to remain here or to fly are both terrible." For some time the hunters thus continued to deliberate; meanwhile the moonbeams began to fall more obliquely, and already a part of the tops of the trees were in shadow. More than an hour had elapsed since the attempt of the Indians, and Pepe, less absorbed than Bois-Rose, was watching anxiously. "That cursed moon will never go down," said he, "and it seems to me that I hear something like the noise of feet in the water; the buffaloes do not come down to drink at this time of night." So saying, he rose and leaning right and left, looked up and down the stream, but on each side extended an impenetrable veil of fog. The coolness of the American nights which succeeds the burning heat of the day, condenses thus in thick clouds the exhalations of the ground, and of the waters heated by the sun. "I can see nothing but fog," said he. Little by little the vague sounds died away, and the air recovered its habitual cairn and silence. The moon was fast going down, and all nature seemed sleeping, when the occupants of the island started up in terror. From both sides of the river rose shouts so piercing that the banks echoed them long after the mouths that uttered them were closed. Henceforth flight was impossible; the Indians had encompassed the island. "The moon may go down now," cried Pepe with rage. "Ah! with reason I feared the two absent men, and the noises that I heard; it was the Indians who were gaining the opposite bank. Who knows how many enemies we have around us now?" "What matter," replied Bois-Rose gloomily, "whether there are one hundred vultures to tear our bodies, or a hundred Indians to howl round us when we are dead?" "It is true that the number matters little in such circumstances, but it will be a day of triumph for them." "Are you going to sing your death-song like them, who, when tied to the stake, recall the number of scalps they have taken?" "And why not? it is a very good custom, it helps one to die like a hero, and to remember that you have lived like a man." "Let us rather try to die like Christians," replied Bois-Rose. Then drawing Fabian towards him, he said: "I scarcely know, my beloved child, what I had dreamed of for you; I am half savage and half civilised, and my dreams partook of both. Sometimes I wished to restore you to the honours of this world--to your honours, your titles--and to add to them all the treasures of the Golden Valley. Then I dreamed only of the splendour of the desert, and its majestic harmonies, which lull a man to his rest, and entrance him at his waking. But I can truly say that the dominant idea in my mind was that of never quitting you. Must that be accomplished in death? So young, so brave, so handsome, must you meet the same fate as a man who would soon be useless in the world?" "Who would love me when you were gone?" replied Fabian, in a voice which their terrible situation deprived neither of its sweetness nor firmness. "Before I met you, the grave had closed upon all I loved, and the sole living being who could replace them was--you. What have I to regret in this world?" "The future, my child; the future into which youth longs to plunge, like the thirsty stag into the lake." Distant firing now interrupted the melancholy reflections of the old hunter; the Indians were attacking the camp of Don Estevan. The reader knows the result. Suddenly they heard a voice from the bank, saying, "Let the white men open their ears!" "It is the `Blackbird' again," cried Pepe. It was indeed he, supported by two Indians. "Why should they open their ears?" answered Pepe. "The whites laugh at the menaces of the `Blackbird,' and despise his promises." "Good!" said the Indian; "the whites are brave, and they will need all their bravery. The white men of the south are being attacked now; why are the men of the north not against them?" "Because you are a bird of doleful plumage! because lions do not hunt with jackals, for jackals can only howl while the lion devours. Apply the compliment; it is a fine flower of Indian rhetoric," cried Pepe, exasperated. "Good! the whites are like the conquered Indians, insulting his conqueror. But the eagle laughs at the words of the mocking-bird, and it is not to him that the eagle deigns to address himself." "To whom then?" cried Pepe. "To the giant, his brother, the eagle of the snowy mountains, who disdains to imitate the language of other birds." "What do you want of him?" said Bois-Rose. "The Indian would hear the northern warrior ask for life," replied the Blackbird. "I have a different demand to make," said the Canadian. "I listen," replied the Indian. "If you will swear on the honour of a warrior, and on your father's bones, that you will spare my companions' lives, I shall cross the river alone without arms, and bring you my scalp on my head. That will tempt him," added Bois-Rose. "Are you mad, Bois-Rose?" cried Pepe. Fabian flew towards the Canadian: "At the first step you make towards the Indian, I shall kill you," cried he. The old hunter felt his heart melt at the sound of the two voices that he loved so much. A short silence followed, then came the answer from the bank. "The Blackbird wishes the white man to ask for life, and he asks for death. My wish is this, let the white man of the north quit his companions, and I swear on my father's bones, that his life shall be saved, but his alone; the other three must die." Bois-Rose disdained to reply to this offer, and the Indian chief waited vainly for a refusal or an acceptance. Then he continued: "Until the hour of their death, the whites hear the voice of the Indian chief for the last time. My warriors surround the island and the river. Indian blood has been spilled and must be revenged; white blood must flow. But the Indian does not wish for this blood warmed by the ardour of the combat, he wishes for it frozen by terror, impoverished by hunger. He will take the whites living; then, when he holds them in his clutches, when they are like hungry dogs howling after a bone, he will see what men are like after fear and privation; he will make of their skin a saddle for his war-horse, and each of their scalps shall be suspended to his saddle, as a trophy of vengeance. My warriors shall surround the island for fifteen days and nights if necessary, in order to make capture of the white men." After these terrible menaces the Indian disappeared behind the trees. But Pepe not willing that he should believe he had intimidated them, cried as coldly as anger would permit, "Dog, who can do nothing but bark, the whites despise your vain bravados. Jackal, unclean polecat, I despise you--I--I"--but rage prevented him from saying more, and he finished off by a gesture of contempt; then with a loud laugh he sat down, satisfied at having had the last word. As for Bois-Rose he saw in it all only the refusal of his heroic sacrifice. "Ah!" sighed the generous old man, "I could have arranged it all; now it is too late." The moon had gone down; the sound of distant firing had ceased, and the darkness made the three friends feel still more forcibly how easy it would have been to gain the opposite bank, carrying in their arms the wounded man. He, insensible to all that was passing, still slept heavily. "Thus," said Pepe, first breaking silence, "we have fifteen days to live; it is true we have not much provision, but carramba! we shall fish for food and for amusement." "Let us think," said Bois-Rose, "of employing usefully the hours before daylight." "In what?" "Parbleu! in escaping!" "But how?" "That is the question. You can swim, Fabian?" "How else should. I have escaped from the Salto de Agua?" "True! I believe that fear confuses my brain. Well! it would not be impossible, perhaps, to dig a hole in the middle of this island, and to slip through this opening into the water. The night is so dark, that if the Indians do not see us throw ourselves into the water, we might gain a place some way off with safety. Stay, I shall try an experiment." So saying, he detached, with some trouble, one of the trunks from the little island; and its knotty end looked not unlike a human head. This he placed carefully on the water, and soon it floated gently down the stream. The three friends followed its course anxiously; then, when it had disappeared, Bois-Rose said: "You see, a prudent swimmer might pass in the same manner; not an Indian has noticed it." "That is true; but who knows that their eyes cannot distinguish a man from a piece of wood?" said Pepe. "Besides, we have with with us a man who cannot swim." "Whom?" The Spaniard pointed to the wounded man; who groaned in his sleep, as though his guardian angel warned him that there was a question of abandoning him to his enemies. "What matter?" said Bois-Rose; "is his life worth that of the last of the Medianas?" "No," replied the Spaniard; "and I, who half wanted a short time ago to abandon the poor wretch, think now I would be cowardly." "Perhaps," added Fabian, "he has children, who would weep for their father." "It would be a bad action, and would bring us ill luck," added Pepe. All the superstitious tenderness of the Canadian awoke at these words, and he said-- "Well, then, Fabian, you are a good swimmer, follow this plan: Pepe and I will stay here and guard this man, and if we die here, it will be in the discharge of our duty, and with the joy of knowing you to be safe." But Fabian shook his head. "I care not for life without you; I shall stay," said he. "What can be done then?" "Let us think," said Pepe. But it was unluckily one of those cases in which all human resources are vain, for it was one of those desperate situations from which a higher power alone could extricate them. In vain the fog thickened and the night grew darker; the resolution not to abandon the wounded man opposed an insurmountable obstacle to their escape, and before long the fires lighted by the Indians along each bank, threw a red light over the stream, and rendered this plan impracticable. Except for these fires, the most complete calm reigned, for no enemy was visible, no human voice troubled the silence of the night. However, the fog grew more and more dense, the stream disappeared from view, and even the fires looked only like pale and indistinct lights under the shadowy outline of the trees. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A FEAT OF HERCULEAN STRENGTH. Let us now glance at the spot occupied by the Blackbird. The fires lighted on the banks threw at first so strong a light that nothing could escape the eyes of the Indians, and a sentinel placed near each fire was charged to observe carefully all that passed on the island. Seated and leaning against the trunk of a tree, his broken shoulder bound up with strips of leather, the Blackbird only showed on his face an expression of satisfied ferocity; as for the suffering he was undergoing, he would have thought it unworthy of him to betray the least indication of it. His ardent eye was fixed continually on the spot where were the three men, whom he pictured to himself as full of anguish. But as the fog grew thicker, first the opposite bank and then the island itself, became totally invisible. The Indian chief felt that it was necessary to redouble his surveillance. He ordered one man to cross the river, and another to walk along the bank, and exhorted every one to watchfulness. "Go," said he, "and tell those of my warriors who are ordered to watch these Christians--whose skins and scalps shall serve as ornaments to our horses--that they must each have four ears, to replace the eyes that the fog has rendered useless. Tell them that their vigilance will merit their chief's gratitude; but that if they allow sleep to deaden their senses, the hatchet of the Blackbird will send them to sleep in the land of spirits." The two messengers set off, and soon returned to tell the chief that he might rest satisfied that attention would be paid to his orders. Indeed, stimulated at once by their own hatred of the whites, and by the hope of a recompense--fearing if sleep surprised them, not so much the threatened punishment as the idea of awaking in the hunting-grounds of the land of spirits, bearing on their foreheads the mark of shame which accompanies the sentinel who gives way to sleep--the sentinels had redoubled their vigilance. There are few sounds that can escape the marvellous ears of an Indian, but on this occasion the fog made it difficult to hear as well as to see, and the strictest attention was necessary. With closed eyes and open ears, and standing up to chase away the heaviness that the silence of nature caused them to feel, the Indian warriors stood motionless near their fires, throwing on on from time to time some fagots to keep them ablaze. Some time passed thus, during which the only sound heard was that of a distant fall in the river. The Blackbird remained on the left bank, and the night air, as it inflamed his wounds, only excited his hatred the more. His face covered with hideous paint, and contracted by the pain--of which he disdained to make complaint--and his brilliant eyes, made him resemble one of the sanguinary idols of barbarous times. Little by little, however, in spite of himself, his eyes were weighed down by sleep, and an invincible drowsiness took possession of his spirit. Before long his sleep became so profound, that he did not hear the dry branches crackle under a moccasin, as an Indian of his tribe advanced towards him. Straight and motionless as a bamboo stem, an Indian runner covered with blood and panting for breath, waited for some time until the chief, before whom he stood, should open his eyes and interrogate him. As the latter showed no signs of awaking, the runner resolved to announce his presence, and in a hollow, guttural voice, said-- "When the Blackbird shall open his eyes, he will hear from my mouth words which will chase sleep far from him." The chief opened his eyes at the voice, and shook off his drowsiness with a violent effort. Ashamed at having been surprised asleep, he muttered: "The Blackbird has lost much blood; he has lost so much that the next sun will not dry it on the ground, and his body is more feeble than his will." "Man is made thus," rejoined the messenger, sententiously. The Blackbird continued without noticing the reflection: "It is some very important message doubtless, since the Spotted Cat has chosen the fleetest of his runners to carry it?" "The Spotted Cat will send no more messengers," replied the Indian. "The lance of a white man has pierced his breast, and the chief now hunts with his fathers in the land of spirits." "What matter! he died a conqueror? he saw, before he died, the white dogs dispersed over the plain?" "He died conquered; and the Apaches had to fly after losing their chief and fifty of their renowned warriors." In spite of his wound, and of the empire that an Indian should exercise over himself, the Blackbird started up at these words. However, he restrained himself, and replied gravely, though with trembling lips-- "Who, then, sends you to me, messenger of ill?" "The warriors, who want a chief to repair their defeat. The Blackbird was but the chief of a tribe, he is now the chief of a whole people." Satisfied pride shone in the eye of the Indian, at his augmented authority. "If the rifles of the north had been joined to ours, the whites of the south would have been conquered." But as he recalled to mind the insulting manner in which the two hunters had rejected his proposal, his eyes darted forth flames of hatred, and pointing to his wound, he said, "What can a wounded chief do? His limbs refuse to carry him, and he can scarcely sit on his horse." "We can tie him on; a chief is at once a head and an arm--if the arm be powerless the head will act, and the sight of their chief's blood will animate our warriors. The council fire was lighted anew after the defeat, and the warriors wait for the Blackbird to make his voice heard; his battle-horse is ready--let us go!" "No," replied the Blackbird, "my warriors encompass, on each bank, the white hunters whom I wished to have for allies; now they are enemies; the ball of one of them has rendered useless for six moons, the arm that was so strong in combat; and were I offered the command of ten nations, I would refuse it, to await here the hour when the blood that I thirst for shall flow before my eyes." The chief then recounted briefly the captivity of Gayferos, his deliverance by the Canadian, the rejection of his proposals and the vow of vengeance he had made. The messenger listened gravely; he felt all the importance of making a new attack on the gold-seekers, at the moment when, delighted at their victory, they believed themselves safe, and he proposed to the Blackbird to leave some one behind in his place to watch the island; but the Blackbird was immovable. "Well!" said the runner, "before long the sun will begin to rise; I shall wait until daylight to report to the Apaches that the Blackbird prefers his personal vengeance to the honour of the entire nation. By deferring my departure, I shall have retarded the moment when our warriors will have to regret the loss of the bravest among them." "So be it," said the chief, in a grave tone, although much pleased by this adroit flattery, "but a messenger has need of repose after a battle followed by a long journey. Meanwhile, I would listen to the account of the combat in which the Spotted Cat lost his life." The messenger sat down near the fire, with crossed legs, and with one elbow on his knee and his head leaning on his hand, after a few minutes' rest, gave a circumstantial account of the attack on the white camp-- omitting no fact which might awaken the hatred of the Blackbird against the Mexican invaders. This over, he laid down and slept, or seemed to sleep. But the tumultuous and contrary passions which struggled in the heart of the Blackbird--ambition on the one hand, and thirst for vengeance on the other--kept him awake without effort. In about an hour the runner half rose, and pushing back the cloak of skin which he had drawn over his head he perceived the Blackbird still sitting in the same attitude. "The silence of the night has spoken to me," said he, "and I thought that a renowned chief like the Blackbird might, before the rising sun, have his enemies in his power and hear their death-song." "My warriors cannot walk on the water as on the warpath," replied he; "the men of the north do not resemble those of the south, whose rifles are like reeds in their hands." "The blood that the Blackbird has lost deceives his intellect and obscures his vision; if he shall permit it, I shall act for him, and to-morrow his vengeance will be complete." "Do as you like; from whatever side vengeance comes, it will be agreeable to me." "Enough. I shall soon bring here the three hunters, and him whose scalp they could not save." So saying the messenger rose and was soon hidden by the fog from the eyes of the Blackbird. On the island more generous emotions were felt. From the eyes of its occupants sleep had also fled--for if there be a moment in life, when the hearts of the bravest may fail them, it is when danger is terrible and inevitable, and when not even the last consolation of selling life dearly is possible to them. Watched by enemies whom they could not see, the hunters could not satisfy their rage by making their foes fall beneath their bullets as they had done the evening before. Besides, both Bois-Rose and Pepe knew too well the implacable obstinacy of the Indians to suppose that the Blackbird would permit his warriors to reply to their attacks; a soldier's death would have seemed too easy to him. Oppressed by these sad thoughts, the three hunters spoke no more, but resigned themselves to their fate, rather than abandon the unlucky stranger by attempting to escape. Fabian was as determined to die as the others. The habitual sadness of his spirit robbed death of its terrors, but still the ardour of his mind would have caused him to prefer a quicker death, weapon in hand, to the slow and ignominious one reserved for them. He was the first to break silence. The profound tranquillity that reigned on the banks was to the experienced eyes of the Canadian and Pepe only a certain indication of the invincible resolution of their enemies; but to Fabian it appeared reassuring--a blessing by which they ought to profit. "All sleeps now around us," said he, "not only the Indians on the banks, but all that has life in the woods and in the desert--the river itself seems to be running slower! See! the reflections of the fires die away! would it not be the time to attempt a descent on the bank?" "The Indians sleep!" interrupted Pepe, bitterly, "yes, like the water which seems stagnant, but none the less pursues its course. You could not take three steps in the river before the Indians would rush after you as you have often seen wolves rush after a stag. Have _you_ nothing better to propose, Bois-Rose?" "No," replied he as his hand sought that of Fabian, while with the other he pointed to the sick man, tossing restlessly on his couch of pain. "But, in default of all other chance," said Fabian, "we should at least have that of dying with honour, side by side as we would wish. If we are victorious, we can then return to the aid of this unfortunate man. If we fall, God himself, when we appear before him, cannot reproach us with the sacrifice of his life, since we risked our own for the common good." "No," replied Bois-Rose; "but let us still hope in that God, who re-united us by a miracle; what does not happen to-day, may to-morrow; we have time before us before our provisions fail. To attempt to take the bank now, would be to march to certain death. To die would be nothing, and we always hold that last resource in our own hands; but we might perhaps be made prisoners, and then I shudder to think of what would be our fate. Oh! my beloved Fabian, these Indians in their determination to take us alive give me at least the happiness of being yet a few days beside you." Silence again resumed its reign; but as Bois-Rose thought of the terrible denouement he clutched convulsively at some of the trunks of the dead trees, and under his powerful grasp the islet trembled as though about to be torn from its base. "Ah! the wretches! the demons!" cried Pepe, with a sudden explosion of rage. "Look yonder!" A red light was piercing gradually through the veil of vapour which hung over the river, and seemed to advance and grow larger; but, strange to say, the fire floated on the water, and, intense as was the fog, the mass of flames dissipated it as the sun disperses the clouds. The three hunters had barely time to be astonished at this apparition, before they guessed its cause. A long course of life in the desert and its dangers had imparted to the Canadian a firmness which Pepe had not attained; therefore, instead of giving way to surprise, he remained perfectly calm. He knew that this was the only way to surmount any difficulty. "Yes," said he, "I understand what it is as well as if the Indians had told me. You spoke once of foxes smoked out of their holes; now they want to burn us in ours." The globe of fire which floated on the river advanced with alarming rapidity, and confirmed the words of Bois-Rose. Already amidst the water, reddened by the flame, the twigs of the willows were becoming distinct. "It is a fire-ship," cried Pepe, "with which they want to set fire to our island." "So much the better," cried Fabian; "better to fight against the fire than wait quietly for death." "Yes," said Bois-Rose; "but fire is a terrible adversary and it fights for these demons." The besieged could oppose nothing to the advancing flames; and they would soon devour the little island, leaving to its inmates no other chance of escape but by throwing themselves into the water--where the Indians could either kill them by rifle-shots, or take them alive, as they pleased. Such had been the idea of the Indian messenger. By his order, the Apaches had cut down a tree with its leaves on, and a thick mass of wet grass interlaced in its branches formed a sort of foundation, on which they placed the branches of a pine tree; and after setting fire to this construction, they had sent it floating down the stream. As it approached, the crackling of the wood could be heard; and out of the black smoke which mixed with the fog arose a bright, clear flame. Not far from the bank they could distinguish the form of an Indian. Pepe could not resist a sudden temptation. "Yon demon," cried he, "shall at least not live to exult over our death." So saying, he fired and the plume of the Indian was seen to go down. "Sad and tardy vengeance," remarked Bois-Rose; and as if, indeed, the Apaches disdained the efforts of a vanquished foe, the shore preserved its gloomy solitude, and not a single howl accompanied the last groans of the warrior. "Never mind," cried Pepe, stamping his foot in his impotent fury; "I shall die more calmly, the greater number of those demons I have sent before me." And he looked round for some other victim. Meanwhile Bois-Rose was calmly reconnoitring the burning mass, which, if it touched the island, would set fire to the dried trees which composed it. "Well," cried Pepe, whose rage blinded his judgment, "it is useless to look at the fire; have you any method of making it deviate from its course?" "Perhaps," replied the Canadian. Pepe began to whistle with an affected indifference. "I see something that proves to me that the reasonings of the Indians are not always infallible; and if it were not that we shall receive a shower of balls, to force us to stay hidden while the islet takes fire, I should care as little for that burning raft as for a fire-fly in the air." In constructing the floating fire, the Indians had calculated its thickness, so that the wet grass might be dried by the fire and become kindled about the time when it should touch the island. But the grass had been soaked in the water, and this had retarded its combustion; besides the large branches had not had time to inflame; it was only the smaller boughs and the leaves that were burning. This had not escaped the quick eye of the Canadian, who, advancing with a long stick in his hand, resolved to push it underwater; but just as he was about to risk this attempt, what he had predicted took place. A shower of balls and arrows flew towards them; though these shots seemed rather intended to terrify than to kill them. "They are determined," said Bois-Rose, "only to take us alive!" The fire almost touched the island, a few minutes and it would be alight, when with the rapidity of lightning, Bois-Rose glided into the water and disappeared. Shouts rose from each side of the river, when the Indians, as well as Fabian and Pepe, saw the floating mass tremble under his powerful grasp. The fire blazed up brightly for a moment, then the water hissed and the mass of flame was extinguished in foam, until darkness and fog once more spread their sombre covering over the river. The blackened tree, turned from its course, passed by the island, while, amidst the howls of the Indians Bois-Rose rejoined his friends. The whole island shook under his efforts to get back upon it. "Howl at your ease," cried he, "you have not captured as yet; but," he added, in a more serious tone, "shall we be always as lucky?" Indeed, although this danger was surmounted, how many remained to be conquered! Who could foresee what new stratagems the Indians might employ against them? These reflections damped their first feeling of triumph. All at once Pepe started up, crying out as he did so: "Bois-Rose, Fabian, we are saved!" "Saved!" said Bois-Rose, "what do you mean?" "Did you not remark how a few hours ago the whole islet trembled under our hands when we tore away some branches to fortify ourselves with, and how you yourself made it shake just now? well, I thought once of making a raft, but now I believe we three can uproot the whole island and set it floating. The fog is thick, the night dark and to-morrow--" "We shall be far from here!" cried Bois-Rose. "To work! to work! we have no time to spare, for the rising wind indicates the approach of morning, and the river does not run more than three knots an hour." "So much the better, the movement will be less visible." The brave Canadian grasped the hands of his comrades as he rose to his feet. "What are you going to do?" said Fabian, "cannot we three uproot the island, as Pepe said?" "Doubtless, Fabian, but we risk breaking, it in pieces, and our safety depends upon keeping it together. It is, perhaps, some large branch or root which holds it in its place. Many years must have elapsed since these trees were first driven here, and the water has probably rendered this branch or root very rotten--that is what I wish to find out." At that moment the doleful screech of an owl interrupted them, and those plaintive cries troubling the silence of night, just as they were about to entertain some hope, sounded ominous in the ears of Pepe. "Ah!" said he, sadly, all his superstition reviving, "the voice of the owl at this moment seems to me to announce no good fortune to us." "The imitation is perfect, I allow," said Bois-Rose, "but you must not be thus deceived. It is an Indian sentinel who calls to his companions either to warn them to be watchful, or what is more like their diabolical spirit, to remind us that they are watching us. It is a kind of death-song with which they wish to regale us." As he spoke, the same sound was repeated from the opposite bank with different modulations, confirming his words, but it sounded none the less terrible as it revealed all the perils and ambushes hidden by the darkness of the night. "I have a great mind to call to them to roar more like tigers that they are." "Do not; it would only enable them to know our exact position." So saying, the Canadian entered the water with extreme care, while his comrades followed his movements with anxious eyes. "Well," said Pepe, when Bois-Rose came to the surface to take breath, "are we firmly fixed?" "All is well, I think," replied Bois-Rose, "I see at present but one thing that keeps the islet at anchor. Have patience a while." "Take care not to get too far under," said Fabian, "or you may be caught in the roots and branches." "Have no fear, child; a whale may sooner remain fixed to a fishing-boat which it can toss twenty feet into the air, than I under an islet that I could break to pieces with a blow." The river closed again over his head, and a tolerably long space of time elapsed during which the presence of Bois-Rose was indicated only by the eddies formed round the islet, which now tottered on its foundation. His comrades felt that the giant was making a powerful effort, and Fabian's heart sank as he thought that he might be struggling with death; when a crash was heard under their feet, like that of a ship's timbers striking against a rock, and Bois-Rose reappeared above the surface, his hair streaming with water. With one bound he regained the island, which began to move slowly down the river. An enormous root, some depth in the water, had given way to the vigorous strength of the colossus, and the islet was set free. "God be praised!" cried he, "the last obstacle is vanquished and we are afloat." As he spoke the island could be perceived advancing down stream, slowly it is true, but surely. "Now," continued he, "our life rests in the hands of God. If the island floats down the middle of the stream we shall soon, thanks to the fog, be out of sight or reach of the Indians. Oh! my God," added he, fervently, "a few hours more of darkness and your creatures will be saved." CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. THE FLOATING ISLET. The three men kept silence as they followed with anxious eyes the movement of the floating island. Day would soon break, but the freshness of the night, which always increases an hour or two before sunrise, had condensed more and more the vapours which rose from the water. The fires on the bank appeared only like stars, which grow pale in the heavens at the approach of dawn. From this source, therefore, they had little to fear; but another danger menaced the three hunters. The island followed the stream, but turned round as it went, and they feared that in this continual rotation it might deviate from the centre of the liver and strike on one of the banks on which the Indians were encamped. Like the sailor who, with a heart full of anguish, follows the movements of his ship, almost disabled by the storm, and contemplates with terror the breakers into which he is perhaps destined to be driven, thus the three hunters--a prey to the most cruel anxiety--regarded in silence the uncertain progress of their island. When sometimes the border of osiers and reeds which surrounded the island trembled in the breeze which proceeded from one of the banks, it seemed then to be driven towards the opposite side. Sometimes it went straight along with the current, but in any event, the efforts of those who were on it could do nothing to direct it. Luckily the fog was so thick that the very trees which bordered the river were invisible. "Courage," muttered Pepe; "as long as we cannot see the trees it is a sign that we are going on rightly. Ah! if God but favour us, many a howl will resound along these banks, now so peaceful, when at daybreak the Indians find neither the island nor those it sheltered." "Yes," replied Bois-Rose, "it was a grand idea, Pepe; in the trouble of my mind I should not have thought of it, and yet it was such a simple thing." "Simple ideas are always the last to present themselves," rejoined Pepe. "But do you know, Bois-Rose," added he, in a low voice, "it proves that in the desert it is imprudent to venture with one whom you love more than life, since fear for him takes away a man's senses. I tell you frankly, Bois-Rose, you have not been like yourself." "It is true; I scarcely recognise myself," replied the Canadian, simply; "and yet--" He did not finish, but fell into a profound reverie, during which, like a man whose body only is present, and his soul absent, he appeared no longer to watch the movements of the island. For the hunter who, during twenty years has lived the free life of the desert, to renounce this life seemed like death; but to renounce the society of Fabian, and the consolation of having his eyes closed by his adopted son, was still worse than death. Fabian and the desert were the two dominant affections of his life, and to abandon either seemed impossible. His reverie, however, was soon interrupted by Pepe, who had for some minutes been casting uneasy glances towards one of the banks. Through the fog he fancied he could perceive the fantastic forms which trees appear to take in a mist. They looked like indistinct phantoms, covered with long draperies, hanging over the river. "We are going wrong, Bois-Rose," said he, "are not those the tops of the willows on the bank?" "It is true," cried Bois-Rose, rousing himself; "and by the fires being still visible it is evident how little progress we have made in the last half hour." At that moment the island began to move more rapidly, and the trees became more distinct. The hunters looked anxiously at each other. One of the fires was more clearly seen, and they could even distinguish an Indian sentinel in his frightful battle-costume. The long mane of a bison covered his head, and above that waved a plume of feathers. Bois-Rose pointed him out to Pepe, but luckily the fog was so thick that the Indian, rendered himself visible by the fire, near which he stood, could not yet see the island. However, as if an instinct had warned him to be watchful, he raised his head and shook back the flowing hair which ornamented it. "Can he have any suspicion?" said Bois-Rose. "Ah! if a rifle made no more noise than an arrow, with what pleasure I should send that human buffalo to mount guard in another world," replied Pepe. Just then they saw the Indian stick his lance in the ground, and leaning forward, shade his eyes with his hands so as to concentrate their power. A keen anxiety was in their hearts as they watched him. The ferocious warrior bending down like a wild beast ready to spring, his face half covered with the straggling hair, was hideous and terrible to look upon; but the fugitives would only have laughed at the spectacle had they not had so much to dread. All at once, the Apache after remaining a few minutes in this attentive attitude, walked towards the bank and disappeared from sight--for nothing was visible except in the circle of light thrown by the fire. It was a moment of intense anxiety for the fugitives, as the island continued to glide silently on. "Has he seen us?" murmured Pepe. "I fear so." A doleful cry now caused them to start. It was repeated from the opposite side; it was the signal of the sentinels one to the other, but all became again silent. Bois-Rose uttered a murmur of relief, as he saw the man return to his former place and attitude. It was a false alarm. Still the island continued to approach the bank. "At this rate," said Bois-Rose, "in ten minutes we shall fall into the hands of the Indians. If we could but paddle a little with that great branch, we should soon be in the right direction again, but the noise, I fear, would betray us." "Nevertheless," replied Pepe, "it is what we must do, it is better to run the chance of betraying ourselves, than be drifted into the hands of our enemies. But first, let us see if the current in which we now are, runs towards the bank. If it does, we must hesitate no longer, and although the branch of a tree is more noisy in the water than an oar, we must do our best to paddle in silence." Pepe then gently broke off a piece of wood and placed it on the water, and leaning over the edge, he and Bois-Rose watched it anxiously. There was in that place a violent eddy, caused by some deep hole in the bed of the river. For a moment the wood turned round as though going to sink, then it took a direction opposite to the bank, towards which they were driving. Both uttered a stifled exclamation of joy, as their island also, after a moment's stoppage, began to float away from the shore, and the increasing thickness of the fog assured them that they were taking the right course. About an hour passed thus, amidst poignant alternatives of fear and hope; then the bivouac fires were lost in the distance, and the fugitives perceived that they were nearly out of danger. Reassured by this belief Bois-Rose placed himself at one end of the islet, and paddled vigorously, until the raft, ceasing to gyrate, advanced more swiftly down the current, like a horse long abandoned to his own caprices, who feels at last the hand and spur of an able rider. Keeping where the water was deepest, they now proceeded at a considerable rate of speed, and began to think themselves entirely out of danger. "Daylight will not be long in appearing," said Bois-Rose, "and we must now land and endeavour to get on faster; we shall go twice as fast on foot as on this island, which sails slower than a Dutch lugger." "Well! land where you like, Bois-Rose, and we will follow. Let us wade down the stream a bit, so as to hide our traces from the Indians; and even if we have to carry the wounded man, we can manage two leagues an hour. Do you think, Don Fabian, that the Golden Valley is far off?" "You saw the sun go down behind the foggy mountains which shut in this valley," replied Fabian. "It lies at their foot--we cannot be many hours' march from it." Bois-Rose now gave to the island an oblique direction, and in about a quarter of an hour, it struck violently against the bank. While Pepe and Fabian jumped ashore, the Canadian took the wounded man in his arms, and laid him gently down. This awoke him, and opening his eyes and throwing round him an astonished glance, he murmured, "Virgen Santa! shall I again hear those frightful howls which troubled my sleep?" "No, my lad, the Indians are far off now, and we are in safety. Thank God, who has permitted me to save all that are dear to me--my child Fabian and my old friend." They then prepared to continue their course. "If you are not able to walk," said Pepe to Gayferos, "we shall construct a kind of litter to carry you on. We have no time to lose if we wish to escape these wretches, who, as soon as daylight appears, will begin to chase us as eagerly as ever they chased a white enemy." So great was the desire of Gayferos to escape, that he almost forgot the pain he was enduring, and declaring that he would follow his liberators as quickly as they could go themselves, he begged them to set off at once. "We have some precautions to take first," said Bois-Rose; "rest a few minutes while we break to pieces and commit to the current this raft, which has been so useful to us. It is important the Indians should not trace us." All three set to work, and already disjointed by the breaking of the root which held it, and by the shock it had received on touching the shore, the floating island opposed no great resistance to their efforts. The trunks of the trees which composed it, were torn asunder and pushed into the current--which carried them quickly away--and there soon remained no vestige of what it had taken years to construct. When the last branch had disappeared from their eyes, Bois-Rose and Pepe busied themselves in raising up the stalks of the plants, to efface the marks of their feet, and then all prepared to start. They first entered the water and walked along the edge, so as to leave no footmarks, and to lead the Indians to suppose that they had remained on the island. It was too fatiguing for them to walk very quickly; but, in about an hour, just as their wounded feet were about to force them to make halt, they arrived at the fork of two rivers which formed a delta. In this delta lay the Golden Valley. Daylight was just beginning to appear in the horizon, and a grey tint upon the sky was taking the place of darkness. Luckily the arm of the river that they had to cross was not deep, the mass of the water flowing in the opposite direction. This was fortunate, for the wounded man could not swim. Bois-Rose lifted him on his shoulders, and all three waded through the water, which scarcely reached to their knees. The chain of mountains was only about a league off, and after a short rest, all resumed their way with renewed ardour. Soon the country changed its aspect. To the fine sand--for the triangle formed by the junction of the two rivers was inundated during part of the year--succeeded deep ruts, and then dry beds of streams, hollowed out by the torrents in the rainy season. Instead of the narrow border of willows and cotton-trees which shaded the deserted banks, green oaks rose up, and the landscape terminated in the line of the foggy mountains. All looked strange and imposing, and rarely had the foot of a white man pressed this desert clothed in its virgin wildness. Perhaps Marcos Arellanos and Cuchillo were the only white men who had ever wandered to this remote place. A vague sentiment of awe caused the hunters involuntarily to lower their voices before the supernatural charm of this austere landscape. Those hills, enveloped in mist--even when the plains shone with the blazing rays of the sun--seemed to hide some impenetrable mystery. It might be fancied that the invisible guardians of the treasures, the lords of the mountains according to Indian superstition, were hidden under this veil of eternal vapour. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. THE FINGER OF GOD. After a short journey, fatigue and suffering overcame the wounded man; and as it was imperative that he should not become acquainted with the situation of the Golden Valley, or even be made aware of its existence, Bois-Rose and Pepe resolved, now that he was in safety, to leave him for some hours and employ the time in reconnoitring the places described to Fabian by his adopted mother. "Listen, my lad!" said Bois-Rose to Gayferos, "we have given you quite sufficient proofs of devotion, and now we must leave you for half or perhaps a whole day. We have some business in hand which requires three determined men; if this evening or to-morrow morning we are still alive, you shall see us return; if not, you know it will not be our fault. Here is water and dried meat, and twenty-four hours will soon pass." It was not without regret that Gayferos consented to this separation; however, reassured by a new promise from the generous hunters, to whom he owed so much, he resigned himself to being left behind. "I have one last word to say to you," said Bois-Rose. "If chance bring here any of the companions from whom you so unluckily separated, I exact from you, as the sole return for the service which we have rendered to you, that you will reveal to none of them our presence here. As for your own, you can account for it in any way you like." Gayferos made the required promise, and they then took leave of him. On the point of accomplishing one of his most ardent desires, that of enriching the child of his affection and adding immense treasures to his future fortune, Bois-Rose seemed to forget that it would raise an additional barrier between Fabian and himself. Pepe, anxious to repair as far as possible the involuntary injury that he had caused to the Mediana family, walked along with an elastic step. Fabian alone did not seem happy, and after a quarter of an hour he stopped, saying that he needed rest. All three sat down on a little hillock, and Pepe, pointing to the mountains, cried, in a tone of gay reproach, "What! Don Fabian! does not the neighbourhood of those places, so fertile in gold, give new vigour to your limbs?" "No," replied Fabian, "for I shall not go a step further in that direction till sunrise." "Ah!" said Bois-Rose, "and why not?" "Why? Because this is a cursed place--a place where he--whom before you I loved as a father--was assassinated; because a thousand dangers surround you, and I have already exposed you too much by making you espouse my cause." "What are these dangers that we three together cannot brave? Can they be greater than what we have just passed through? And if it please Pepe and I to incur them for you, what then?" "These dangers are of all kinds," replied Fabian, "why deceive oneself longer? Does not everything prove that Don Estevan knows also of the existence of the Golden Valley?" "Well, and what do you conclude from that?" "That three men cannot prevail against sixty." "Listen, my child," replied Bois-Rose with some impatience, "it was before engaging in this enterprise that we should have made these reflections; now they are too late, and why do you not think to-day as you did yesterday?" "Because yesterday I was blinded by passion; because affection has now taken its place; because I do not hope to-day what I hoped yesterday." The contradictory passions which agitated his heart did not permit Fabian to explain more clearly to the Canadian the alternations of his wishes. "Fabian," said Bois-Rose solemnly, "you have a holy but terrible duty to perform, and duty must be done; but who tells you that the expedition commanded by Don Estevan will take the same path as ourselves? And, if it does, so much the better; the murderer of your mother will fall into your hands." "The guide conducting them," replied Fabian, seeking to hide his real sentiments, "can only be that miserable Cuchillo. Now, if I am not wrong, the valley must be known to him; in any case, we should await the return of daylight before entangling ourselves in a country we know nothing about, and in which these adventurers may prove enemies as formidable as the Indians. Do you not think so, Pepe?" "Nearly all night, the wind has brought to our ears," replied he, "the sound of filing, which proves that the troop has been engaged with the Indians; it is not therefore probable that any one can be in advance of us. I must say that my opinion is, that we should without loss of time gain some place in the mountains where we may engage in a last inevitable struggle with our enemies; some well chosen spot where we can defend ourselves with a chance of success." "It is this unequal struggle that I wish to avoid," replied Fabian, warmly. "As long as I could hope to overtake, before they readied Tubac, those whom Providence seemed to point out for my vengeance, and attack them while they were only five against three, I pursued them without reflection; as long as I could believe that this expedition had, like so many others, entered the desert only in search of some unknown spot, I followed them. But what has happened? After four days in which we took a different path, do we not find them near these mountains? Their aim is therefore the same as ours. Three men cannot fight against sixty; therefore God forbid that to further either my vengeance or my cupidity, I should sacrifice two generous friends whose lives are more precious to me than my own!" "Child," cried Bois-Rose, "do you not see that every one is here for himself, and yet that our three interests are but one? When for the second time, God sent you to my arms, were we not already pursuing the man who was ruining your hopes, and had already assassinated your mother, and stolen your name? For ten years Pepe and I have been but one; the friends of one have been the friends of the other, and you are Pepe's son, because you are mine, Fabian my child; and thanks be to God that in serving our own cause we are also serving yours. Whatever happens, then we shall not take a step backwards." "Besides," said Pepe, "do you count for nothing, Don Fabian, heaps of gold, and a whole life of abundance for an imaginary peril? for I repeat we must reach the valley first, and a day--an hour--in advance may enrich us forever; you see then that _we_ are egotists trying to sacrifice _you_ to our personal interest." "Pepe is right," said Bois-Rose, "we want gold." "What will you do with it?" asked Fabian, smiling. "What will I do with it? the child asks what I will do with it!" cried Bois-Rose. "Yes, I wish to know." "What will I do with it?" replied the honest Canadian, whom this question embarrassed much, "parbleu--I will do--many things, I will give my rifle a golden barrel," cried he, triumphantly. Pepe smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "You laugh," said Bois-Rose. "Do you think that when you finish off an Apache, a Sioux, or a Pawnee with a blow of your knife, it would not be grand to say to him, `Dog, the ball that broke your head came from a rifle of solid gold!' Few hunters can say as much." "I agree to that," said Fabian; then added he seriously, "No, my friends! Don Estevan escapes my vengeance, and the gold that I believe would be mine escapes me also, for it is surrounded by soldiers. What matters? have I not still, if I should become ambitious, the name and fortunes of my forefathers to reclaim? Are there not in Spain tribunals which dispense justice to all? God will do the rest, but I will not madly expose two noble lives. I do not speak of mine; young as I am, I have drunk the cup of bitterness to the dregs. You have done enough, and your generous subterfuges cannot impose upon me." So saying, Fabian held out his hands to the two hunters, who pressed them in an affectionate grasp. The Canadian looked silently for a minute at the noble face of him whom he was proud to call his son, and then said: "Fabian, my child, all my life has been passed on the sea or in deserts, but I have preserved sufficient remembrance of cities and their customs to know that justice is rather sold than given. This gold we shall employ in making of you what you were intended to be; this gold, will smooth all the obstacles against which your rightful cause might break down. Pepe can tell you, like me, that we shall gladly expose our lives in the hope of restoring to you the property of your ancestors, and the illustrious name that you are so worthy to bear." "Yes," said Pepe, "I have told you that the early part of my life was not such as I should wish. It was a little the fault of the Spanish Government, which never paid me for my services; still it is a weight upon my heart. Often, I think sadly of my past life, but God always pardons the repentant sinner, and gives him opportunity of repentance. That day has arrived; my pardon is near, and it is but justice that I should assist in restoring to you what I helped to take away." "Let us go on then!" said Bois-Rose, "God has hitherto shown us our path and will continue to aid us. If you stay, Fabian, we shall go alone." So saying, the Canadian rose, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder began his march. Fabian was forced to yield, and all proceeded towards the mountains. Daylight had not yet quite appeared when a new actor advanced in his turn towards the same scenes. He came alone; his horse in its impetuous course made the sand fly under his feet, and the rider, who was no other than Cuchillo, showed symptoms on his sinister countenance of some secret terror. His flight might not have been unobserved even in the tumult of action, or some of the Indians might have noticed his desertion, and hence his fears. But Cuchillo was not a man to undertake a bold stroke without calculating the chances. As a hunter wishing to take the lion's whelps, throws him some bait to distract his attention, so Cuchillo had delivered to the lords of the desert his companions as a prey. He had calculated that the struggle would last a great part of the night, and that conquered or conquering, the adventurers would not dare, during the following day, to leave their intrenchments. He would therefore have long hours before him in which to seize on some of the treasures of the Golden Valley, with which he would afterwards return to the protection of his companions, and when they all reached the place he could still claim his share as soldier and as guide. Pretexts would not fail him for this second absence, but he had forgotten to calculate on Don Estevan's suspicions concerning him. To conclude his bargain with him he had been forced to give such a precise account of the situation of the valley that Don Estevan could scarcely miss the right road. After Cuchillo, followed by his horse, had glided out from the camp he had ridden straight towards the mountains, and cupidity, the most blinding of passions, had closed his eyes to the danger of his plan. His heart palpitating with alternate hopes and fears, he had advanced rapidly, and only stopped occasionally to listen to the vague murmurs of the desert. Then recognising the groundlessness of his apprehensions, he had continued his road with renewed ardour. Sometimes also the aspect of the places he had seen before, awakened gloomy souvenirs. On that hillock, he had rested with Marcos Arellanos; that nopal had furnished them with refreshing fruit; they had both contemplated with mysterious terror the strange aspect of the Misty Mountains, and his horse in its rapid course carried the murderer to the spot where his victim had fallen beneath his blows! Then to the fear of enemies succeeded that inspired by conscience, which while it often sleeps by day, awakes and resumes its empire during the night. The bushes--the thorny nopals--rose before him like accusing phantoms, opposing his advance with extended arms; a cold perspiration stood on his brow, but cupidity, stronger than fear, spurred him on towards the valley, and he began to laugh at his own apprehensions. "Phantoms," said he, "are like alcaldes, who never address poor devils like me; but let me only get one or two arrobas of gold, and I shall have so many masses said for the soul of Arellanos, that he will be glad to have met his death in such generous hands." He laughed at this quaint conceit, and then rode on quickly. In a few minutes he stopped and listened again, but heard no noise save the loud breathing of his horse. "I am alone," thought he; "those brutes whom I have guided are fighting to give me leisure to despoil the sands of some of that precious gold. Who is to prevent me presently, when daylight appears, from picking up as much as I can carry without betraying my secret? This time, it will not be as when along with Arellanos; I shall not have to fly from the Indians: they are busy. Afterwards I can come back with such of my companions as escape the Apaches. How many will remain to partake with me? Oh! the thought of these treasures makes the blood boil in my veins. Is it not gold that gives glory, pleasure, and every good of this world? our priests say its power extends even beyond the tomb!" While Cuchillo was advancing blindly to where his destiny led him, Don Estevan and Pedro Diaz were also on their way. Although the hills were but six leagues from the camp, yet, uncertain of the time of his absence, Don Estevan had left orders to his people to await his return. The two advanced silently, full of desire for the gold, but equally desirous of intercepting the traitor. Two hours' quick riding had produced no result. Thanks to his advance, Cuchillo was invisible; and the darkness would have hidden his track even from the eye of an Indian. "There is no doubt," said Pedro Diaz, breaking silence, "that the knave must have profited by the confusion to fly towards the valley, and seize on a part of the treasures which he has sold to us." "That is not what I fear most," said Don Estevan. "If Cuchillo has not exaggerated the riches of the place, there will be plenty left for all of us. But now so near attaining that for which I have crossed the desert--after having left a position envied by all, to brave the dangers of an expedition like this--a vague fear of failing agitates me. The desert is like the sea, abounding in pirates, and the soul of Cuchillo is full of treason: it seems to me that the villain will be fatal to us." Suddenly Diaz dismounted, and picked up off the sand a dark object; it was a kind of valise, which Diaz at once recognised as belonging to Cuchillo. "This shows you, Senor," said he, "that we are in the right path, and that the coming day will bring us into the presence of the traitor." "It shall then be his last treason," said Don Estevan; and they now rode silently on with the certainty that Cuchillo was before them. Strange chain of coincidences! When the sun appeared in the horizon, the different actors in this drama, apparently drawn together by accident, but in truth impelled onwards by the hand of God, had met in the most inaccessible part of the great American desert. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. THE GOLDEN VALLEY. The darkness was no longer that of midnight--the outlines of the different objects began to be visible, and the peaks of the hills looked like domes or fantastic turrets in the half-light. Detached from the mass of the mountains, a rock in the form of a truncated cone towered up like an outwork. A cascade fell noisily from an adjacent hill into a deep gulf below, and in front of the rock a row of willows and cotton-trees indicated the neighbourhood of a stream. Then the immense plain of the delta formed by the two arms of the Rio Gila (which from east to west cuts for itself a double passage through the chain of the Misty Mountains) displayed itself in all its sombre majesty. Such were the striking points of the landscape which opened before the travellers. Soon the blue light of morning replaced the darkness, and the summits of the hills one by one became visible. On the top of the rock two pines could now be seen, their bending stems and dark foliage extending over the abyss. At their foot the skeleton of a horse, held up by hidden fastenings, showed upon his whitened bones the savage ornaments with which he had been embellished, and fragments of the saddle still rested upon his back. The increasing light soon shone on more sinister emblems: on posts raised in different places, and human scalps floating on them. These hideous trophies indicated the burial-place of an Indian warrior. In fact a renowned chief reposed there; and his spirit overlooked, like the genius of plunder, those plains where his war-cry had so often resounded, and which he had ridden over on that battle-horse whose bones were whitening by his tomb. Birds of prey flew over his grave, uttering their shrill cries, as if they would awaken him who slept there forever, and whose cold hand would no longer prepare for them their bloody feasts. A few minutes later the horizon became tinted with pale rose-coloured clouds, and soon after, like the first spark of a fire, a ray of sunlight struck like a golden arrow on the thick fog, and floods of light inundated the depths of the valley. Day had come in all its glory, but wreaths of vapour still hung capriciously on the leaves of the trees or clung around the trunks. Soon were displayed wild precipices, with falls of water foaming down their sides; then deep defiles, at the entrance of which fantastic offerings of Indian superstition were suspended. Above the tomb of the Indian chief rose the spray of the cascade, in which was reflected the colours of the rainbow; and lastly, a valley was visible, closed on one side by peaked rocks, from which hung long draperies of verdure, and on the other by a lake, whose waters were half-hidden by the aquatic plants on its surface: this was the Golden Valley. At the first glance the whole scene only offered the sombre features of a wild nature; but the scrutinising eye would soon have divined the treasures concealed there. Nothing betrayed the presence of living things in that deserted place, when the three hunters made their appearance on the spot. "If the devil has an abode anywhere on the earth," said Pepe, pointing to the mountains, "it must surely be among those wild denies! "But if it be true," continued he, "that it is gold which is the cause of most crimes, it is more probable that the old fellow has chosen the Golden Valley for his abode, which contains, according to you, Don Fabian, enough to ruin an entire generation." "You are right," said Fabian, who looked pale and grave, "it was here perhaps that the unlucky Marcos Arellanos was assassinated. Ah! if this place could speak, I should know the name of him whom I have sworn to pursue: but the wind and the rain have effaced the traces of the victim as well as those of the murderer." "Patience, my child!" replied Bois-Rose; "I have never in the course of a long life known crime to go unpunished. Often we recover the traces that were believed to have been long effaced, and even solitude sometimes raises its voice against the guilty. If the assassin be not dead, cupidity will doubtless bring him again to this place, and before long; for no doubt he is one of those in the Mexican camp. Now, Fabian, shall we wait for the enemy here, or shall we fill our pockets with gold and return?" "I know not what to decide," replied Fabian; "I came here almost against my will. I obey your wishes, or else a will stronger than either yours or mine. I feel that an invisible hand impels me on--as it did on that evening when, scarcely knowing what I did, I came and sat down by your fire. Why should I, who do not know what to do with this gold, risk my life to obtain it? I know not. I know only that here I am, with a sad heart and a soul filled with cruel uncertainty." "Man is but the plaything of Providence, it is true," said Bois-Rose; "but as for the sadness you feel, the aspect of these places sufficiently accounts for it; and as for--" A hoarse cry, that scarcely appeared human, interrupted the Canadian. It seemed to come from the Indian tomb, as if it were an accusing voice against the invaders of this abode of the dead. The three hunters glanced simultaneously towards the tomb, but no living creature was visible there. The eye of one of the birds of prey, that were sailing above the rock, could alone have told where the cry came from. The imposing solemnity of the place, the bloody souvenirs evoked by it in Fabian's mind, and the superstitious ones in that of Pepe, joined to the strange and mysterious sound, inspired in both a feeling akin to terror. There was something so inexplicable in the sound, that for a moment they doubted having heard it. "Is it really the voice of a man?" said Bois-Rose, "or only one of those singular echoes which resound in these mountains?" "If it were a human voice," asked Fabian, "where did it come from? it seemed to be above us, and yet I see no one on the top of the hill!" "God send," said Pepe, crossing himself, "that in these mountains which abound in inexplicable noises, and where lightning shines under a calm sky, we have only men to fight against! But if the fog contained a legion of devils--if the valley really contains, as you say, several years' income of the king of Spain, please, Senor Don Fabian, to recall your recollections, and tell us if we are still far off it." Fabian threw a glance around him; the landscape was just what had been so minutely described to him. "We must be close to the spot," said he, "for it should be at the foot of the tomb of the Indian chief--and these ornaments indicate that the rock is the tomb. We have no time to lose. You and Bois-Rose walk around the rock, while I go and examine those cotton-trees and willows." "I am suspicious of everything in this mysterious place," said Bois-Rose; "that cry indicates the presence of a human being; and whether white or red, he is to be feared. Before we separate, let me examine the _sign_." All three bent on the ground eyes accustomed to read there as in an open book. The prints of a man's feet were visible on the sand, and one of them had trodden down the plants, whose stems were still gently rising up again one after the other. "What did I tell you?" cried Bois-Rose. "Here are the tracks of a white man's feet, and I swear it is not ten minutes since he was here. These footmarks lead towards yonder cotton-trees." "In any case he is alone," suggested Fabian. All three were advancing towards the trees, when Bois-Rose halted. "Let me go first," said he; "this hedge may hide the enemy. But no, the man who has left these footprints has only pulled open the vines and glanced through--he has not gone further in that direction." So saying, Bois-Rose, in his turn, pulled aside the branches and the climbing network which was interwoven with them, and after a short examination, which had no particular result, he retired and left the branches to reclose of themselves. He then tried to follow the tracks but further on the ground became stony, and all traces disappeared. "Let us go round this conical rock," suggested Bois-Rose. "Come, Pepe; Fabian will wait here for us." The two hunters strode off, and Fabian remained alone and pensive. This Golden Valley, of whose possession he had dreamt at that time when his heart nourished sweet hopes, was now near to him. What had been a dream was now a reality, and still he was more unhappy than at the time when hopeful love caused him to scoff at poverty. It is thus that happiness flies just as we are about to seize it. Sometimes in the silence of the forest, the traveller lends a greedy ear to the notes of the mocking-bird, and advances with precaution towards the place where, hidden under the foliage, the bird of the solitudes utters its sweet song. Vain hope! he advances, and the singer flies, his voice still as distant and himself as invisible as ever! Thus man often hears in the distance voices which sing to him of happiness; seduced by their charm he rushes toward them; but they fly at his approach; and his whole life is passed in pursuing, without ever reaching, the happiness promised by these delusive sounds. For Fabian, happiness lay no longer in the Golden Valley. It existed nowhere. No voice now sang for him; he had no aim to pursue; no flying but charming image which he hoped to overtake. He was in one of those moods that God in His mercy makes rare in our lives--during which all is dark, as when at sea the light that guides the sailor becomes suddenly obscured. He advanced mechanically towards the thick row of trees that formed an almost impenetrable hedge before him, but scarcely had he made a passage for himself when he stopped motionless with surprise. The sunlight shone on the stones thick as those on a beach, and discovered innumerable glancing objects. Any other than a gold-seeker might have been deceived by these stones, which looked like vitrifications at the foot of a volcano; but the practised eye of Fabian instantly recognised the virgin gold under its clayey envelope, as it is brought down by the torrents from the gold-producing mountains. Before his eyes lay the richest treasure that was ever displayed to the view of man. If the breeze could have brought to the ears of the young Count of Mediana the accents of Rosarita's voice, when she recalled him back to the hacienda, he would gladly have quitted all these treasures to run towards her. But the breeze was mute, and there is in gold so irresistible an attraction that Fabian, in spite of his sadness, was for the moment fascinated. However, the soul of Fabian was not one to be intoxicated by success; and after a few minutes of this enthusiasm, he called his two companions. They came at his call. "Have you found him?" said Pepe. "The treasure, but not the man. See!" added he, pushing aside the trees. "What! those shining stones!" "Are pure gold--treasures which God has hidden during centuries." "My God!" exclaimed Pepe. And with ardent eyes fixed upon the mass of riches before him, the ex-carabinier fell upon his knees. Passions long kept under seemed to rush back into his heart; a complete transformation took place in him, and the sinister expression of his face recalled to mind the hour of crime, when twenty years before he had bargained for the price of blood. "Now," said Fabian, looking sadly at the gold, as he thought that all these riches were not worth to him a smile or look from her who had disdained him, "I understand how these two rivers, in their annual rise, and by their torrents that descend from the Misty Mountains, covering this narrow valley, bring down gold with them; the position of this valley is perhaps unique in all the world." But the Spaniard heard him not. Riches--which the rough lesson he had received, and the life of independence and the savage happiness he had enjoyed, had taught him during the last ten years to disdain--suddenly resumed their terrible influence over his soul. "You could not have imagined, could you, Pepe?" continued Fabian, "that so much gold could be collected in one place? I, who have been so long a gold-seeker, could not have imagined it, even after all I had heard." Pepe did not reply; his eye wandered eagerly over the blocks of gold, and cast a strange glance on Fabian and on Bois-Rose. The hitter, standing in his favourite attitude, his arm resting on his rifle, amidst all these treasures, looked only at what was dearest to him--the young man restored to him by heaven. Pepe had before him, on one side, his old companion in danger--in a hundred different battles they had uttered their war-cry together, like those brothers in arms in ancient chivalric times, who fought always under the same banner--who shared cold, hunger, and thirst together. On the other side, the young man, partly orphaned by his crime--a crime which had occasioned him remorse through so many years--the love and sole thought of his only friend in the world; and the demon of cupidity at his heart effaced all these souvenirs, and he already began to think-- A shudder passed through his frame as strange thoughts crossed his mind. A struggle took place within him, a struggle of the feelings of youth with the more noble ones developed by the life of nature, where man seems brought near to God; but this struggle was short: the old outlaw disappeared, and there remained only the man purified by repentance and solitude. Still kneeling on the ground, Pepe had closed his eyes, and a furtive tear, unperceived by his companions, stole from his eyes, and rolled down his bronzed cheeks. "Senor Don Fabian de Mediana!" cried he, starting up, "you are now a rich and powerful lord, for all this gold belongs to you alone." So saying, he advanced and bowed respectfully to Fabian, who appeared somewhat surprised by the manner of his salutation. "God forbid," cried Fabian, "that you, who have shared the peril, should not share the treasure. What do you say, Bois-Rose? do you not rejoice to become in your old age rich and powerful?" But Bois-Rose, unmoved before all the riches, contented himself with shaking his head, while a smile of tenderness for Fabian testified to the only interest that he took in that marvellous spectacle! "I think like Pepe," said he, after a pause, "what could I do with this gold that the world covets? If it has for us an inestimable value, it is because it is to belong to you; the possession of the least of these stones would take away in our eyes from the value of the service we have rendered you. But the time for action has arrived; for certainly we are not alone in these solitudes." Pepe now began to pull aside the branches, but scarcely had he entered the valley when the sound of a gun was distinctly heard. In a moment his voice reassured his anxious comrades. "It is the devil," cried he, "forbidding us to encroach on his domains; but at all events it is a devil whose aim is not infallible." Before entering the valley Bois-Rose and Fabian raised their eyes to the top of the hill, whence the shot as well as the voice had proceeded. But the remains of the fog at that moment covered the top of the rock, and all three rushed simultaneously towards the isolated mass where they believed their enemy to be hidden. The sides, although steep, were covered with brushwood, which rendered them easier to climb; but it was a dangerous attempt, for the fog prevented them from seeing what enemies were above. Fabian wished to go first, but the vigorous arm of the Canadian held him back, and meanwhile Pepe was half-way towards the summit. Bois-Rose followed, begging Fabian to keep behind him. Pepe mounted boldly, undismayed by the foes that might be concealed behind that mass of vapour, and soon disappeared under the mist. A cry of triumph soon warned his friends that he had arrived in safety. Both hastened to join him, but found no one on the rock except Pepe himself! Just as, disappointed at their want of success, they were preparing to descend again, a sudden gust of wind drove off the fog, and allowed them to see to a distance. To the right and left the plain presented the most complete picture of the desert in its dreary sadness. They beheld arid steppes over which whirled clouds of sand, a burnt and sterile ground, everywhere silence, everywhere solitude. At some distance off two men on horseback were seen advancing towards the rock, but at the distance at which they were, it was impossible to distinguish either their dress or the colour of their skin. "Must we sustain a new siege here?" said Bois-Rose. "Are these white men or Indians?" "White or red, they are enemies," said Pepe. While the three friends bent down, so as not to be observed, a man, until then invisible, cautiously entered the lake. He lifted with care the floating leaves of the water lilies, and forming of them a shelter over its head, remained motionless, and the surface of the lake soon after appeared as if undisturbed. This man was Cuchillo, the jackal, who, led by his evil destiny, had ventured to hunt on the ground of the lion. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. THE PUNISHMENT OF TANTALUS. Cuchillo, after reaching the mountains, had halted. He had not forgotten the appearance of the place, and his heart trembled with fear and joy. After a few minutes he looked around him more calmly. It was then dark, and when he arrived at the rock, the damp vapours from the lake enveloped with a thick veil both the valley and the tomb. The sound of the waterfall put an end to his uncertainties; he remembered that it fell into a gulf close by the golden placer. He had dismounted his horse, and sat down to wait for daylight; but scarcely had he done so when he bounded up as though bitten by a serpent. A fatal chance had led him to sit down on the very spot where he had struck Marcos Arellanos, and quick as lightning, every detail of the mortal struggle passed through his mind. However this feeling of terror was of short duration. In that part of America, superstition has not established its empire as in the old countries of Europe, where the evening mists give to objects fantastic aspects, and tend naturally to reflections upon the supernatural. From this arises the sombre poesy of the north, which has peopled our land with ghosts and phantoms. In the American solitude people fear the living more than the dead, and Cuchillo had too much to fear from men to waste many thoughts upon the ghost of Arellanos, and he had soon quite banished the thought from his mind. Although he felt nearly certain that no one had seen him leave the camp, or had followed him, he resolved to climb the rock and look out over the desert. The two pines, whose sombre verdure crowned the summit, appeared marvellously fit to shelter him from the eyes of the Indians should any be near. As he advanced, however, he could not resist taking a glance at the valley; for a sudden fear took possession of his mind: was it still untouched as he had left it? One glance reassured him. Nothing was changed in the valley; there were still the heaps of the shining metal. The traveller, devoured with thirst in the sandy desert, does not more gladly catch sight of the oasis at whose waters he desires to drink than did Cuchillo the sight of the gold gleaming through the leaves of the trees. Any other man would have hastened to seize as much of it as he could carry, and make off with his booty. But with Cuchillo, cupidity was a passion carried to its utmost limits; and before seizing it, the outlaw wished to feast his eyes on the treasure of which he had dreamed for two years, and for which he would not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of all his companions. After some moments of ecstatic contemplation, Cuchillo led his horse forward by the bridle, and having tied him to a tree, in a defile where the animal would be hidden from all eyes, he himself mounted the rock. Arrived there, he looked around to assure himself that he was alone. He was soon satisfied, for at that moment neither of the other two parties were visible. Assured by the silence that reigned around, he looked towards the cascade. The water, which seemed as it fell to form a curve of running silver, opened at one place, and displayed a block of gold, sparkling in the rays of the sun. The most enormous cocoanut that ever hung on a tree did not surpass this block in size. Continually washed by the spray of the cascade, this gold appeared in all its brilliance, as if ready to escape from the silica which held it, and thus perhaps for centuries this king's ransom had hung menacingly over the abyss! At the sight of this block, which looked as though it might be seized by stretching out his hands, a thrill of joy passed through Cuchillo's heart; and hanging over the precipice with extended arms, he gave utterance to the cry which had been heard by the three hunters below. Soon, however, a spectacle, that Cuchillo was far from expecting to witness, drew from him another cry, but this time of rage. He had seen a man, possessor like himself of the secret of the valley, treading with profane foot on the treasure that he had believed wholly his. Bois-Rose and Fabian were hidden behind the trees; and thinking that Pepe was alone, Cuchillo had fired at him, without taking time for a proper aim, and thus Pepe had escaped the ball that whistled past him. It would be impossible to paint his rage and stupefaction, when hidden behind the pine trees, he saw two men join Pepe, especially when in one of them he recognised the terrible hunter whom he had seen engaged with the tigers at Poza, and in the other, Fabian, who had already twice escaped his vengeance. A mortal fear chilled his heart; he almost fell to the ground. Must he again fly from that Golden Valley, from which fate seemed always to drive him? Lucky for Cuchillo, the fog had hidden him from his enemies, and by the time they had reached the top he had descended on the opposite side-- after having just caught a glance of Don Estevan and his companion in the distance. Here was a fresh subject of fear and surprise for Cuchillo who, gliding like a serpent along the rocks, hid himself, as we have seen, amid the leaves of the water lilies, to await the denouement of this strange adventure. Hidden from all eyes, he held himself in readiness to profit by the approaching conflict between Don Estevan and Fabian, and a shudder of diabolical joy mingled with that caused by the gold; he was like the rapacious bird which awaits the issue of the battle to seize upon its prey. If the three hunters were victorious he had little he thought to fear from Fabian, who was still in his eyes Tiburcio Arellanos. The lower class of Mexicans think little of a blow with the dagger, and he hoped that the one he had given might be pardoned, if he were to throw the blame upon Don Estevan. If this last remained master of the field, he trusted to find some plausible excuse for his desertion. He decided therefore upon letting them begin the struggle, and then, at the decisive moment, should come to the assistance of the strongest. While Cuchillo was endeavouring to console himself by these reasonings, Bois-Rose was able to distinguish the complexion of the new-comers. "They are from the Mexican camp," said he. "I foresaw," said Fabian, "that we should have the whole troop on our hands, and be caught like wild horses in a stockade." "Hush!" said Bois-Rose, "and trust to me to protect you. Nothing yet shows that there are any others behind, and in any case we could not be better placed than on this rock; from here we might defy a whole tribe of savages. Besides, we do not yet know that they will stop here. Both of you crouch down. I shall watch them." So saying, he lay flat down, hiding his head behind the stones which surrounded the top like turrets, but without losing sight of the horsemen. They began now to hear the sound of the horses' feet on the plain. The old hunter saw them stop and converse, but could not hear what they were saying. "Why this halt, Diaz?" said Don Estevan, impatiently, "we have lost time enough already." "Prudence exacts that we should look about us before proceeding. The knave may be hidden about here, as we have tracked him up to the rock; he may not be alone, and we have everything to fear from him." Don Estevan made a gesture of disdain. "Ah!" said Bois-Rose, in a low voice, "I recognise Don Estevan, or rather Don Antonio de Mediana, who is at last in our power." "Don Antonio de Mediana! Is it possible? Are you sure?" cried Fabian. "It is he, I tell you." "Ah! now I see that it was the hand of God which brought me here. Shade of my mother, rejoice!" cried Fabian. Pepe kept silence, but at the name of Don Antonio, hatred shone also in his glance. He raised his head, and his eye seemed to measure the distance between him and the object of his vengeance, but even the long rifle of Bois-Rose could scarcely reach them at such a range. "Do not rise up, Pepe!" cautioned the Canadian; "you will be seen." "Do you observe any others behind?" inquired Fabian. "No one; from the point where the river divides to this place I see no living being; if," added he, after an instant's pause, "that black mass that I see floating on the river be only the trunk of a tree--but at any rate it is floating away from us." "Never mind that," said Fabian, "describe to me the man who accompanies Don Antonio; perhaps I shall recognise him." "He is tall and straight as a cane; and what a beautiful horse he rides!" "A bay horse? and has he gold lace on his hat, and a fine face?" "Precisely." "It is Pedro Diaz. Now it would be a cowardice not to show ourselves, when heaven sends us Don Antonio almost alone." "Patience," said Pepe; "I am as interested as you are in not letting him escape, but haste may ruin all. When one has waited for twenty years, one may easily wait a few minutes longer. Are you sure they are alone, Bois-Rose?" "The sand whirls down there, but it is only the wind that is stirring it. They are alone, and now they stop and look about them." So saying, Bois-Rose rose slowly, like the eagle who agitates before completely unfolding his wings--those powerful wings the rapid flight of which will soon bring him down to the plain. "Senor Don Estevan," said Pedro Diaz, "I think we should return to the camp." Don Antonio hesitated a moment. The counsel was good, but it was too late to follow it. From the top of the rock the three hunters watched their every movement. "It is time," said Bois-Rose. "I must take Don Antonio alive," said Fabian. "Arrange that, and I care for nothing else." Bois-Rose now rose to his fall height, and uttered a cry which struck on the ears of the new-comers. They uttered an exclamation of surprise, which surprise was still further increased at sight of the gigantic Canadian upon the rock. "Who are you, and what do you want?" cried a voice, which Fabian recognised as that of Don Antonio. "I shall tell you," replied the hunter; "it will recall to you a truth-- never contested either in my country or in the desert--that the ground belongs to the first occupants; we were here before you, and are the sole masters of this place. We therefore wish one of you to retire with a good grace, and the other to surrender himself, that we may teach him a second law of the desert, `blood for blood.'" "It is some anchorite whose brain is turned by solitude," said Pedro Diaz; "I shall terminate the conference with a bullet from my rifle." "No!" cried Don Estevan, stopping him, "let us see first how far this folly will go. And which of us is it, friend," continued he, with an ironical air, "to whom you wish to teach this law?" "To you," cried Fabian, rising. "What! you here!" cried Don Estevan with mingled rage and surprise. Fabian bowed. "And here am I, who have been following you for the last fortnight," said Pepe, "and who thanks God for the opportunity of paying off a debt of twenty years' standing." "Who are you?" asked Don Estevan, trying to remember who it was, for years and difference of costume had altered the aspect of the old coast-guardsman. "Pepe the Sleeper, who has not forgotten his residence at Ceuta." At this name, which explained Fabian's words at the bridge of Salto de Agua, Don Estevan lost his air of contempt. A sudden presentiment seemed to warn him that his fortunes were waning, and he cast around him an anxious glance. The high rocks, which on one side shut in the valley, might protect him from the fire of his enemies; a short space only separated him from their foot, and prudence counselled him to fly there, but his pride forbade him. "Well then!" cried he proudly after a pause, "revenge yourself on an enemy who disdains to fly." "Have we not said that we wish to take you alive?" replied Pepe, coldly. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. THE KING-MAKER A CAPTIVE. In the whole course of his adventurous life, Don Estevan had never been in such danger. The plain offered him no protection against the rifles of his enemies--two at least of whom had an infallible eye and steady aim--and who had also the advantage of an impregnable position, and turrets of rock behind which to intrench themselves. Don Estevan did not conceal from himself the extent of his danger; but neither did his courage give way. "Let us have done with this trifling," cried the sonorous voice of Bois-Rose, whose generosity made him averse to profit by his advantages, and who scrupled always to shed blood if he could avoid it. "You have heard that we wish no harm to any but your chief, and you must make up your mind to let us take him. Retire then willingly, if you do not wish us to treat you as we intend to treat him." "Never!" cried Diaz, "shall I commit such a cowardice? You are the first comers; so be it; we will yield the ground to you, but Don Estevan must be allowed to go with me." "_We_ refuse," cried Pepe; "we particularly want the man you call Don Estevan." "Do not oppose the justice of God," added Fabian; "your cause is only that of man. We give you five minutes to reflect, after which our rifles and our good cause shall decide between us." "You have but two minutes to decide," said Bois-Rose; "listen to me and avoid needless bloodshed." Mediana kept silence and preserved his haughty air. Unshakable in his notions of chivalric honour, Pedro Diaz resolved to die with the chief, whose life he believed to be so precious to his country. He consulted Don Estevan by a look. "Return to the camp," said the latter; "abandon to his fate a man henceforth useless to your cause, and come back to avenge my death." Diaz was not to be moved, but gradually drew his horse close to Don Estevan, and when their knees touched, with his face still turned toward his enemies, he murmured, with scarcely a movement of his lips: "Keep steady in your stirrups, have your horse ready, and let me act." Don Estevan made signs with his hand as though to demand a truce; but he had taken a desperate determination. "Bend down, Fabian; he is going to fire," cried Bois-Rose. "Before my mother's murderer? Never!" cried Fabian. Quick as thought, the hand of the Canadian giant on his shoulder, forced him down. Don Estevan vainly sought for an aim for his double-barrelled piece. He could see nothing but the formidable rifle of Bois-Rose directed towards him, although in obedience to Fabian's wishes, Bois-Rose would not finish the combat by striking his foe to the ground. With as much courage as agility, Diaz now jumped up behind Don Estevan on his horse, and throwing his arms around him to steady him after the shock, seized the bridle, turned the animal round, and galloped off, covering with his body, as with a buckler, the chief whose life he was willing to save at the expense of his own. While Fabian and Pepe rushed down the rock, at the risk of breaking their necks, Bois-Rose followed the movements of the horse glancing along the barrel of his rifle. The two men appeared to make but one body: the back of the horse and the shoulders of Diaz were the only objects at which Bois-Rose could aim; only now and then the head of the animal was visible. To sacrifice Diaz would be a useless murder; and Don Estevan would still escape. A moment more and the fugitives would be out of range; but the Canadian was of that class of marksmen who lodge a ball in the eye of a beaver, that he may not injure its skin; and it was the horse he wished to aim at. For a single moment the head of the noble animal showed itself entirely--but that moment was sufficient; a shot was heard, and the two men and the death-stricken horse rolled over together on the ground. Bruised by the violence of their fall, both men rose with difficulty; while, their poignards in their teeth, and their rifles in their hands, Fabian and Pepe advanced upon them. Bois-Rose followed with great gigantic strides, loading his rifle as he went. When he had finished, he again stopped. Pedro Diaz, devoted to the last, rushed towards the gun which had fallen from Don Estevan's hands, picked it up, and returned it to him. "Let us defend ourselves to the last!" cried he, drawing his long knife. Don Estevan steadied himself and raised his piece, undecided for a moment whether to aim at Fabian or at Pepe; but Bois-Rose was watching, and a bullet from his rifle broke the weapon of the chief in his hands, just where the barrel joins the stock, and Don Estevan himself, losing his balance, fell forward on the sand. "At last, after twenty years!" cried Pepe, rushing towards him, and placing his knee upon his breast. Don Estevan vainly tried to resist; his arm, benumbed by the violence of the blow which had broken his gun, refused its service. In an instant Pepe had untied the woollen scarf which was wound several times round his body, and bound with it the limbs of his enemy. Diaz could offer no assistance, for he had himself to defend against the attacks of Fabian. Fabian scarcely knew the Indian fighter; he had seen him only for a few hours at the Hacienda del Venado; but the generosity of his conduct had awakened in the heart of the young man a warm sympathy, and he wished to spare his life. "Surrender, Diaz!" cried he, parrying a dagger blow slimed at him; but Diaz resolved not to yield, and for the few minutes during which Pepe was engaged in binding Don Estevan, there was a contest of skill and ability between him and Fabian. Too generous to use his rifle against a man who had but a dagger to defend himself with, Fabian tried only to disarm his adversary; but Diaz, blinded by rage, did not perceive the generous efforts of the young man, who, holding his rifle by the barrel, and using it as a club, tried to strike the arm which menaced him. But Fabian had to deal with an antagonist not less active and vigorous than himself. Bounding from right to left, Diaz avoided his blows, and just as Fabian believed he was about to succeed, he found himself striking in the air, and the knife menacing him afresh. Bois-Rose without waiting to reload, ran up to put an end to the struggle--in which Fabian's generosity placed him at a disadvantage--and Pepe, having fast bound his enemy, advanced also. Thus menaced by three men, Diaz determined not to die without vengeance. He drew his arm back, and made a rapid thrust at Fabian; but the latter had been carefully watching the movement, and his rifle met the murdering weapon on its way. The dagger fell to the ground; and Pepe, seizing Diaz round the body just as Fabian struck him, cried, "Fool! must we kill you, then? If not, what shall we do with you?" "What you have done to that noble gentleman," replied Diaz, pointing to Don Estevan. "Do not ask to share his fate," said Pepe; "that man's days are numbered." "Whatever his fate is to be, I wish to share it," cried Diaz, vainly trying to free himself. "I accept from you neither quarter nor mercy." "Do not play with our anger!" said Pepe, whose passions were roused; "I am not in the habit of offering mercy twice." "I know how to make him accept it," said Fabian, picking up the fallen knife. "Let him go, Pepe; with a man like Diaz, one can always come to terms." Fabian's tone was so firm, that Pepe opened his arms and loosened the iron grasp in which the Mexican was bound. "Here, Diaz," said Fabian, "take your weapon, and listen to me." So saying, Fabian advanced and offered him his knife without any attempt at guarding himself. Diaz took the weapon, but his adversary had not presumed too far; at the heroic simplicity of Fabian his anger vanished on the instant. "I listen," said he, flinging his knife to the ground. "I knew it would be so," replied Fabian, with a smile. "You interposed unknowingly between crime and the just vengeance which pursued it. Do you know who is the man for whom you wish to expose your life? and who are those who have spared it? Do you know whether or not we have the right to demand from him, whom you doubtless know only as Don Estevan, a terrible account of the past? Reply honestly to the questions that I shall put to you, and then decide on which side justice lies." Astonished at these words, Diaz listened in silence, and Fabian went on: "If you had been born in a privileged class, heir to a great fortune; if a man had taken from you your fortune and your name, and reduced you to the rank of those who have to work for their daily bread, should you be the friend of that man?" "No, I should be his enemy." "If that man, to destroy the last souvenir of your birth, had murdered your mother, what would he deserve from you?" "Blow for blow--blood for blood." "If, after a long and difficult pursuit, fate had at last delivered the spoiler into your hands, what would you do?" "I should think myself guilty towards God and man if I spared him." "Well, then, Diaz," cried Fabian, "there is a man who has taken from me my name, my fortune, and murdered my mother; I have pursued this murderer and spoiler--fate has delivered him into my hands, and there he lies!" A cloud passed over the eyes of Diaz at the sight of the chief whose doom was thus pronounced, for the sentiment of inexorable justice that God has implanted in the heart of man told him that Don Estevan merited his fate, if Fabian spoke truly. He sighed, but offered no reply. While these events were taking place in the midst of the plain, the actors of the scene might have observed Cuchillo raise with precaution the leaves which covered his head, cast an eager glance on the Golden Valley, and then glide out of the lake. Covered with mud, and his garments streaming with water, they might have mistaken him for one of the evil spirits whom the Indians believed to dwell in these solitudes. But their attention was completely absorbed by what was taking place among themselves. CHAPTER FORTY NINE. THE TWO MEDIANAS FACE TO FACE. Pedro Diaz speedily roused himself from the deep depression and astonishment which had for a moment overpowered him. "According to the rules of war, I am your prisoner," said he, raising his head, "and I am anxious to know your decision concerning me." "You are free, Diaz," replied Fabian, "free without conditions." "Not so! not so!" said the Canadian, quickly interrupting him. "We must, on the contrary, impose a rigorous condition upon your liberty." "What is it?" asked the adventurer. "You have now, in common with us," replied Bois-Rose, "become possessed of a secret which we have long since known. I have my reasons for wishing that the knowledge of this secret should expire with those whose evil destiny makes them acquainted with it. You only," added the Canadian, "will be an exception to the rule, because a brave man like yourself should be a slave to his word. I demand, then, before restoring you your liberty, a promise upon your honour, never to reveal to human being, the existence of the Golden Valley." "I never indulged any hope in acquiring this treasure," replied the noble adventurer, in a melancholy tone, "beyond that of the freedom and aggrandisement of my country. The sad fate which threatens the man, to whom I looked for the realisation of my hopes, proves to me that in both cases I have entertained a delusive dream. Even should all the riches of the Golden Valley remain forever buried in these deserts, what would it avail me now? I swear then, and you may rely upon my honour, that I shall never reveal its existence to a living soul. I shall try to forget that I have ever, for an instant, beheld it." "It is well," said Bois-Rose, "you are now free to go." "Not yet, with your permission," replied the prisoner. "In all that has taken place, there is a mystery which I do not seek to penetrate--but--" "Carramba! it is very simple," answered Pepe. "This young man," said he, pointing to Fabian-- "Not yet, Pepe," replied the latter solemnly, making a sign to the hunter to postpone his explanations. "In the court of justice which is about to be convened--in the presence of the Supreme Judge (Fabian pointed to heaven), by the accusation as well as the defence, all will become clear to Diaz, if he will remain a short while with us. In the desert, time is precious; and we must prepare ourselves, by meditation and silence, for the terrible deed which we are now compelled to accomplish." "I am most anxious to obtain permission to stay. I do not know if this man be innocent or guilty; but, I do know that he is the chief whom I have freely chosen; and I will remain with him to the last, ready to defend him against you at the cost of my own life, if he is innocent-- ready to bow before the sentence which condemns him, if he is guilty." "Be it so," rejoined Fabian. "You shall hear and judge for yourself." "This man is of noble birth," continued Diaz, sadly, "and he lies yonder in the dust, bound like the meanest criminal." "Unloose him, Diaz!" replied Fabian, "but do not endeavour to shield him from the vengeance which a son must claim for his mother's murderer. Require from him a promise that he will not attempt to escape; we shall rely upon you in this matter." "I pledge my honour that he will not do so," said the adventurer, "nor would I assist him in the attempt." And Diaz, as he said this, proceeded towards Don Estevan. In the mean time Fabian, oppressed by sad and anxious thoughts, seated himself at some distance, and appeared to deplore his unfortunate victory. Pepe turned away his head, and for a while stood as if attentively observing the mists as they floated above the crests of the mountains. Bois-Rose reclined in his usual attitude of repose, while his eyes, expressive of deep anxiety, were centred upon the young man, and his noble physiognomy seemed to reflect the clouds which gathered upon the brow of his beloved protege. Meanwhile Diaz had rejoined the prostrate captive. Who can guess how many conflicting thoughts crowded upon the mind of the Spanish nobleman, as he lay upon the ground? His expression retained as much pride as when in his more prosperous days he had imagined the possibility of conquering, and bestowing, a throne upon the deposed heir of the Spanish monarchy. At the sight of Diaz, who, he believed had abandoned his cause, an expression of deep melancholy came over his countenance. "Do you come as an enemy, or a friend, Diaz?" said he. "Are you one of those who take a secret pleasure in contemplating the humiliation of the man whom, in the days of his prosperity, you, like others, would have flattered?" "I am one of those who flatter only the fallen," replied Diaz, "and who are not offended by the bitterness of speech which is dictated by great misfortune." As he uttered these words, which were confirmed by the dejection of his manner, Diaz hastened to remove the cords with which the captive's arms were bound. "I have given my word that you will not endeavour to escape the fate, whatever it may be, which awaits you at the hands of these men, into whose power we have fallen by an unlucky chance. I believe you have not even thought of flight." "And you are right, Diaz," replied Don Estevan; "but can you guess what fate these fellows have reserved for me?" "They talk of a murder to be avenged, of an accusation, and a judgment." "A judgment!" replied Don Antonio with a haughty and bitter smile, "they may assassinate, but they shall never judge me." "In the former case, I shall die with you," said Diaz, simply, "in the latter--but of what use is it to speak of that which cannot be? you are innocent of the crime of which they accuse you?" "I have a presentiment of the fate which awaits me," replied Don Estevan without answering the adventurer's interrogation. "A faithful subject will be lost to his king--Don Carlos the First. But you will carry on my work? you will restore the prosperity of Sonora. You will return to the Senator Tragaduros--he knows what he has to do, and you will support him?" "Ah!" cried Diaz, sadly, "such a work cannot be attempted but by you. In your hands I might have proved a powerful instrument; without you I shall sink into insignificant obscurity. The hope of my country expires with you." During this interval, Fabian and Bois-Rose had quitted the spot where the preceding scenes had so rapidly taken place. They had reached the base of the pyramid. It was there that the solemn assizes were to be held, in which Fabian and the Duke de Armada were about to act the parts of judge and criminal. Pepe made a sign to Diaz; Don Estevan saw and understood it. "It is not enough to have remained a prisoner," said Diaz, "you must meet your fate; the conquered must obey the conqueror--come!" As Diaz ceased speaking, the Spanish nobleman, armed with the pride which never deserted him, approached the pyramid with a firm step. Pepe had rejoined his two companions. Don Estevan's looks, as he advanced, displayed a dauntless composure equally removed from bravado or weakness--which won a glance of admiration from his three enemies--all of them excellent judges of courage. Fabian rose and stepped forward to meet his noble prisoner. A few paces behind, Diaz also advanced--his head bowed low, and his mind oppressed by gloomy thoughts. Everything in the manner of the conquerors convinced him that, on this occasion, right would be on the side of power. "My Lord of Mediana," said Fabian, as, with head uncovered, he paused a few steps in advance of the noble Spaniard who had approached him, "you perceive that I recognise you, and you also know who I am." The Duke de Armada remained upright and motionless without responding to his nephew's courtesy. "I am entitled to keep my head covered in the presence of the King of Spain; I shall use that privilege with you," he replied; "also I claim the right of remaining silent when I think proper, and shall now exercise that right if it please you." Notwithstanding this haughty reply, the younger son of the Medianas could not but remember how he, a trembling and weeping child, had, twenty years before, in the castle of Elanchovi quailed beneath the glance of the man whom he now presumed to judge. The timid eaglet had now become the eagle, which, in its turn, held the prey in its powerful talons. The glances of the two Medianas crossed like two swords, and Diaz contemplated, with mingled astonishment and respect, the adopted son of the gambusino Arellanos, suddenly transformed and raised above the humble sphere in which he had for an instant known him. The adventurer awaited the solution of this enigma. Fabian armed himself with a pride which equalled that of the Duke de Armada. "As you will," said he, "yet it might be prudent to remember, that here the right claimed by power is not an empty boast." "It is true," replied Don Antonio, who, notwithstanding his apparent resignation, trembled with rage and despair at the total failure of his hopes. "I ought not to forget that you are doubtless inclined to profit by this right. I shall answer your question then when I tell you that I am aware of but one fact concerning you, which is that some demon has inspired you continually to cast some impediment in the way of the object I pursue--I know--" Here rage stifled his utterance. The impetuous young man listened with a changing countenance to the words uttered by the assassin of his mother, and whom he even now suspected was the murderer of his adopted father. Truly it is the heroism of moderation, at which those who do not know the slight value attached to human life in the deserts, cannot be sufficiently astonished--for here law cannot touch the offender--but the short space of time which had elapsed since Fabian joined Bois-Rose was sufficient, under the gentle influence of the old hunter, to calm his feelings immeasurably. He was no longer the young man whose fiery passions were the instruments of a vengeance to which he yielded blindly. He had learnt that power should go hand in hand with justice, and may often be combined with mercy. This was the secret of a moderation, hitherto so opposed to his temperament. It was not, however, difficult to trace, in the changing expression of his countenance, the efforts he had been compelled to make to impose a restraint upon his anger. On his side, the Spanish noble concealed his passion under the mask of silence. "So then," resumed Fabian, "you know nothing more of me? You are not acquainted either with my name or rank? I am nothing more to you than what I seem?" "An assassin, perhaps!" replied Mediana, turning his back to Fabian to show that he did not wish to reply to his question. During the dialogue which had taken place between these two men of the same blood, and of equally unconquerable nature, the wood-rangers had remained at some distance. "Approach," said Fabian to the ex-carabinier, "and say," added he, with forced calmness, "what you know of me to this man whose lips have dared to apply to me a name which he only deserves." If any doubt could still have remained upon Don Estevan's mind with regard to the intentions of those into whose hands he had fallen, that doubt must have disappeared when he beheld the gloomy air with which Pepe came forward in obedience to Fabian's command. The visible exertion he made to repress the rancorous feelings which the sight of the Spanish noble aroused in him, filled the latter with a sad presentiment. A shudder passed through the frame of Don Estevan, but he did not lower his eyes, and by the aid of his invincible pride, he waited with apparent calmness until Pepe began to speak. "Carramba!" exclaimed the latter in a tone which he tried in vain to render agreeable. "It was certainly worth while to send me to catch sea-fish upon the borders of the Mediterranean, so that, at the end of my journey, I might, three thousand leagues from Spain, fall in with the nephew whose mother you murdered. I don't know whether Don Fabian de Mediana is inclined to pardon you, but for my part," added he, striking the ground with the butt end of his rifle, "I have sworn that I will not do so." Fabian directed a haughty glance towards Pepe, as though to command his submission; then addressing himself to the Spaniard: "My Lord of Mediana, you are not now in the presence of assassins, but of judges, and Pepe will not forget it." "Before judges!" cried Don Antonio; "my peers only possess the right of judgment, and I do not recognise as such a malefactor escaped from jail and a beggarly usurper who has assumed a title to which he has no right. I do not acknowledge here any other Mediana than myself, and have therefore no reply to make." "Nevertheless I must constitute myself your judge," said Fabian, "yet believe me I shall be an impartial one, since I take as a witness that God whose sun shines upon us, when I swear that I no longer entertain any feelings of animosity or hatred against you." There was so much truth in the manner with which Fabian pronounced these words, that, for an instant, Don Estevan's countenance lost its expression of gloomy defiance, and was even lit up by a ray of hope, for the Duke de Armada recollected that he stood face to face with the heir for whom, in his pride, he had once mourned. It was therefore in a less severe tone that he asked-- "Of what crime am I then accused?" "You are about to hear," replied Fabian. CHAPTER FIFTY. LYNCH LAW. On the frontiers of the America there exists a terrible law, yet it is not this clause alone which renders it so--"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for blood." The application of this law is evident in all the ways of Providence, to those who observe the course of events here below. "He who kills by the sword shall perish by the sword," says the gospel. But the law of the desert is terrible by reason of the majesty with which it is invested, or claims to be invested. This law is terrible in common with all laws of blood, and the more so, since those who have recourse to it usurp a power which does not belong to them, inasmuch as the injured party constitutes himself judge of his own cause, and executes the sentence which he himself has pronounced. Such is the so-called "Lynch law." In the central parts of America, white men as well as Indians execute this law with cruel severity against each other. Civilised communities adopt it in a mitigated form as applied to capital punishment, but the untutored inhabitants of the desert continue to practise it with the same rigour which belonged to the first ages of mankind. And may we not here make the remark, that the similitude of feeling on this point, between the white man and the savages, casts a stain upon the former which for his own honour he should endeavour to wipe out? Society has provided laws for the protection of all men. The man who amongst us should assume the right of judgment, and take the law into his own hands, would thus violate it, and fall under the jurisdiction of those whom society has appointed to try, and to condemn. We are not without a hope that at some future time, as civilisation advances, men will allow that they who deprive a culprit of that life which none can recall, commit an act of sacrilege in defiance of those divine laws which govern the universe and take precedence of all human decrees. A time will come, we would fain believe, when our laws may spare the life of a guilty man, and suffer him to atone for his errors or his crimes by repentance. Such a law would respect the life which can never be restored; and while another exists which casts an irretrievable stain upon our honour, there would be a law of restoration capable of raising the man sanctified by repentance to the dignity which punishment would have prevented his attaining. "There is more joy in heaven," says the gospel, "over a sinner who repents, than a righteous man made perfect." Why then are not human laws a counterpart of these divine decrees? Now, however, liberty is the only boon which society confers upon him whose misfortunes or whose crimes have deprived him of it. Misfortunes did we not say? Is there not in truth a law which assimilates the criminal with the upright though insolvent debtor, and compels him to the same fate in prison? So much for this subject. Let us now return to the lynch law of the desert. It was before a tribunal without appeal, and in the presence of self-constituted judges, that Don Antonio de Mediana was about to appear. A court assembled in a city, with all its imposing adjuncts, could not have surpassed in solemnity the assizes which at this moment were convoked in the desert, where three men represented human justice armed with all its terrors! We have described the singular and fantastic aspect presented by the spot, in which this scene was to be enacted. In truth, the sombre mountains, veiled in mist, the mysterious subterranean sounds, the long tufts of human hair agitated by every breath of wind, the skeleton of the Indian horse exposed to view, all combined to endue the place with a strange unearthly appearance in the eyes of the prisoner, so that he almost believed himself under the influence of some horrible dream. One might have imagined himself suddenly transported into the middle ages, in the midst of some secret society, where previous to the admission of the candidate, were displayed all the terrors of the earth, as a means of proving his courage. All this however was here a fearful reality. Fabian pointed out to the Duke de Armada, one of the flat stones, resembling tombstones, which were strewed over the plain, and seated himself upon another so as to form with the Canadian and his companion a triangle, in which he occupied the most prominent position. "It is not becoming for the criminal to sit in the presence of the judges," said the Spanish noble, with a bitter smile, "I shall therefore remain standing." Fabian made no reply. He waited until Diaz, the only disinterested witness in this court of justice, had chosen a convenient place. The adventurer remained at some distance from the actors in the scene, yet sufficiently near to see and hear all that passed. Fabian began: "You are about to be told," said he, "of what crime you are accused. You are to look upon me as the judge who presides at your trial, and who will either condemn or acquit you." Having thus spoken he paused to consider. "It will first be necessary to establish the identity of the criminal. Are you in truth," he continued, "that Don Antonio, whom men here call the Count de Mediana?" "No," replied the Spaniard in a firm voice. "Who are you then?" continued Fabian, in a mingled tone of astonishment and regret, for he repudiated the idea that a Mediana would have recourse to a cowardly subterfuge. "I _was_ the Count de Mediana," replied the prisoner, with a haughty smile, "until by my sword I acquired other titles. At present I am known in Spain as the Duke de Armada. It is the name I shall transmit to the descendant of my line, whom I may choose as my adopted son." The latter phrase, incidentally spoken by the prisoner, proved in the sequel his sole means of defence. "Right," said Fabian, "the Duke de Armada shall hear of what crime Don Antonio de Mediana is accused. Speak Bois-Rose! tell us what you know, and nothing more." The rough and energetic countenance of the gigantic descendant of the Norman race, as he stood motionless beside them, his carbine supported on his broad shoulder, was expressive of such calm integrity, that his appearance alone banished all idea of perjury. Bois-Rose drew himself up, slowly removed his fur cap, and in doing so discovered his fine open brow to the gaze of all. "I will only speak of what I know," said he. "On a foggy night, in the month of November, 1808, I was a sailor on board a French smuggling-vessel called the Albatros. "We had landed according to a plan formed with the captain of the carabiniers of Elanchovi, on the coast of the Bay of Biscay. I will not relate to you," and here Pepe could not repress a smile, "how we were fired upon, and repulsed from the shore where we had landed as friends. It is sufficient for you to know that when we again reached our vessel, I was attracted by the screams of a child, which seemed to come from the depths of the ocean. "These cries proceeded from a boat which had been abandoned. "I pushed out towards it at the risk of my own life, since a brisk fire was opened upon our ship. "In this boat I found a lady murdered, and lying in her blood. She was quite dead, and close to her was a little child who appeared to be dying. "I picked up the child--that child is now the man before us; his name is Fabian. "I took the child with me, and left the murdered lady in the boat. I do not know who committed the crime, and have nothing further to say." As he finished speaking, Bois-Rose again covered his head, and seated himself in silence. A mournful silence followed this declaration. Fabian lowered his flashing eyes for an instant to the ground, then raised them, calm and cold, to the face of the ex-carabinier, whose turn had now come to speak. Fabian was prepared to act his terrible part, and the countenance as well as the attitude of the young man, though clothed in rags, expressed the nobility which characterised an ancient race, as well as the collected coolness of a judge. He cast an authoritative glance towards Pepe, and the half savage trapper was compelled to submit to it in silence. Pepe at length rose, and advanced a few paces, by his manner showing a determination only to utter that which his conscience approved. "I understand you, Count Mediana," said he, addressing himself to Fabian, who alone in his eyes had the right to assume this title. "I will try to forget that the man here present is the same who caused me to spend so many long years among the refuse of mankind at Ceuta. When I appear before God He may require of me the words I have spoken, but I should again repeat them, nor regret that they had ever been uttered." Fabian made a gesture of approbation. "One night in the month of November, 1808," said he, "when I belonged to the Royal Carabiniers in the service of Spain, I was on duty upon the coast of Elanchovi, where three men disembarked from the open sea upon the beach. "Our captain had sold to one of them the right of landing in a forbidden spot. "I reproach myself with having been this man's accomplice, and receiving from him the price of culpable neglect of my duty. "The following day it was discovered that the Countess Mediana and her young son had left the castle during the night. "The Countess was murdered--the young Count was never seen again. "A short time after, his uncle appeared at Elanchovi and claimed his nephew's fortune and titles. All was given up to him, and I, who believed that I had only sold my services to favour an intrigue or an affair of smuggling, found that I had been the accomplice of a murderer. "I upbraided the present Count Mediana before witnesses, and accused him of this crime. Five years' imprisonment at Ceuta was the reward of my presumption. "Here before another and more righteous tribunal, and in the presence of God who is my witness, I again accuse the man before me. I declare him to be the murderer of the Countess, and the usurper of her son's titles. He was one of the three men, who, during the night entered by escalade the chateau which Don Fabian's mother never again beheld. "Let the murderer refute the charge. I have done." "You hear him?" said Fabian, "what have you to say in your defence?" A violent struggle between his conscience and his pride took place in Mediana's breast. Pride however triumphed. "Nothing," replied Don Antonio. "Nothing!" answered Fabian, "but you do not perhaps know what a terrible duty I have to fulfil?" "I can imagine it." "And I," cried Fabian passionately, "shall not flinch in accomplishing it. Yet, though my mother's blood cries out for vengeance, should you refute the charge, I would bless you still. Swear to me then, in the name of Mediana, which we bear in common, by your honour and the salvation of your soul, that you are innocent, and I shall be too happy to believe you." Then, oppressed with an intolerable anguish, Fabian awaited his reply. But, gloomy and inflexible as the fallen archangel, Mediana was silent. At this moment Diaz advanced towards the judges and the prisoner. "I have listened," said he, "with the utmost attention to your accusation again Don Estevan de Arechiza, whom I also know to be the Duke de Armada; may I express my thoughts freely?" "Speak!" said Fabian. "One point seems to me doubtful. I do not know whether the crime you attribute to this noble cavalier was committed by him; but, admitting that to be the case, have you any right to condemn him? In accordance with the laws of our frontier, where no court may be held, it is only the nearest relatives of the victim who are entitled to claim the blood of the murderer. "Don Tiburcio's youth was passed in this country. I knew him as the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos. "Who can prove that Tiburcio Arellanos is the son of the murdered lady? "How, after so many years, can it be possible for this hunter, formerly a sailor, to recognise in the midst of these solitudes, the young man, whom as a child he beheld only for an instant on a foggy night?" "Answer, Bois-Rose," said Fabian, coldly. The Canadian again rose. "I ought, in the first place, to state," said the old hunter, "that it was not only for a few moments on a foggy night that I saw the child in question. During the space of two years, after having saved him from certain death, I kept him on board the vessel in which I was a sailor. "The features of his son could not be more deeply impressed upon the memory of a father than those of that child were on mine. "How then can you affirm that it is impossible I should recognise him? "When you are travelling in the desert, where there is no beaten track, are you not guided by the course of streams, by the character of the trees, by the conformation of their trunks, by the growth of the moss which clothes them, and by the stars of heaven? and when at another season, or even twenty years afterwards, should the rains have swelled the streams, or the sun have dried them up, should the once naked trees be clothed with leaves, should their trunks have expanded, and moss covered their roots, even should the north star have changed its position in the heavens, and you again beheld it, would you not recognise both star and stream?" "Doubtless," replied Diaz, "the man who has experience in the desert, is seldom deceived." "When you meet a stranger in the forest, who answers you with the cry of a bird or the voice of an animal, which is to serve as a rallying signal to you or your friends, do you not immediately say, `This man is one of us'?" "Assuredly." "Well, then; I recognise the child in the grown man, just as you recognise the small shrub in the tall tree; or the stream that once murmured softly in the roaring and swollen torrent of to-day. I know this child again by a mode of speech, which twenty years have scarcely altered." "Is not this meeting a somewhat strange coincidence?" interrupted Diaz, now almost convinced of the Canadian's veracity. "God," cried Bois-Rose, solemnly, "who commands the breeze to waft across the desert the fertilising seeds of the male palm to the female date-tree--God, who confides to the wind which destroys, to the devastating torrent, or to the bird of passage, the grain which is to be deposited a thousand miles from the plant that produced it--is he not also able to send upon the same path two human beings made in his image?" Diaz was silent a moment; then having nothing more to advance in contradiction to the Canadian's truthful words whose honest manner of speech carried with it an irresistible conviction, he turned towards Pepe: "Did you," said he, "also recognise in Arellanos' adopted child, the Countess de Mediana's son!" "It would be impossible for any one who ever saw his mother long to mistake him. Enough! let the Duke de Armada contradict me." Don Antonio, too proud to utter a falsehood, could not deny the truth without degrading himself in the eyes of his accusers, unless he destroyed the only means of defence to which his pride and the secret wish of his heart allowed him to have recourse. "It is true," said he, "that this man is of my own blood. I cannot deny it without polluting my lips with a lie, and an untruth is the offspring of cowardice." Diaz inclined his head, regained his seat, and was silent. "You have heard," said Fabian, "that I am indeed the son of the woman, whom this man murdered; therefore I claim the right of avenging her. What then do the laws of the desert decree?" "Eye for eye," said Bois-Rose. "Tooth for tooth," added Pepe. "Blood for blood," continued Fabian; "a death for a death!" Then he rose, and addressing Don Antonio in measured accents, said: "You have shed blood and committed murder. It shall therefore be done to you as you have done to others. God commanded it to be so." Fabian drew his poignard from its sheath. The sun was shedding his first rays upon the scene, and every object cast a long shadow upon the ground. A bright flash shot from the naked blade which the younger Mediana held in his hand. Fabian buried its point in the sand. The shadow of the poignard far exceeded its length. "The sun," he said, "shall determine how many moments you have to live. When the shadow disappears you shall appear before God, and my mother will be avenged." A deathlike silence succeeded Fabian's last words, who, overcome with long suppressed emotions, fell, rather than seated himself upon the stone. Bois-Rose and Pepe both retained their seats. The judges and the criminal were alike motionless. Diaz perceived that all was over, but he did not wish, to take any part in the execution of the sentence. He approached the Duke de Armada, knelt down before him, took his hand and raised it to his lips. "I will pray for the salvation of your soul," said he in a low tone. "Do you release me from my oath?" "Yes," replied Don Antonio, in a firm voice; "go, and may God bless you for your fidelity!" The noble adventurer retired in silence. His horse had remained at some short distance. Diaz soon reached it, and holding the bridle in his hands, walked slowly towards the spot where the river forked. In the mean time the sun followed its eternal course--the shadows gradually contracted--the black vultures flew in circles above the heads of the four actors in the terrible drama the last scene of which was now drawing near. From the depths of the Misty Mountains, shrouded in vapour, might be heard, at intervals, dull rumbling sounds, like thunder, followed by distant explosions. Pale, but resigned, the unfortunate Count de Mediana remained standing. Buried in deep reverie, he did not appear to notice the continually decreasing shadow. All exterior objects vanished from his sight. His thoughts were divided between the past which no longer concerned him, and the future he was about to enter. However, pride still struggled within him, and he maintained an obstinate silence. "My Lord Count," said Fabian, who was willing to try a last chance, "in five minutes the poignard will have ceased to cast a shadow." "I have nothing to say of the past," replied Don Antonio. "I must now think only of the future of my race. Do not, therefore, misjudge the sense of the words I am about to speak. Whatever may be the form in which it may come, death has no power to terrify me." "I am listening," said Fabian gently. "You are very young, Fabian," continued Mediana, "and the thought of the blood that has been shed will therefore be so much the longer a burthen to you." Fabian's countenance revealed the anguish of his feelings. "Why then so soon pollute a life which is scarcely begun? Why refuse to follow a course which the unlooked-for favour of Providence opens to you? Here you are poor, and without connections. God restores you to your family, and, at the same moment, confers wealth upon you. The inheritance of your race has not been squandered by me. I have for twenty years borne the name of Mediana, at the head of the Spanish nobles, and I am ready to restore it to you with all the honours I have conferred upon it. Accept then a fortune which I joyfully restore to you, for the isolation of my life is burthensome to me; but do not purchase it by a crime, for which an imaginary act of justice cannot absolve you, and which you will repent to your last hour." Fabian replied, "A judge who presides at his tribunal must not listen to the voice of nature. Supported by his conscience, and the service he renders to society, he may pity the criminal, though his duty requires that he shall condemn him. In this solitude, these two men and myself represent human justice. Refute the crime attributed to you, Don Antonio, and I shall be the happiest of us two; for though I shudder to accuse you, I cannot escape the fatal mission which heaven has imposed upon me." "Consider well, Fabian, and remember that it not pardon, but oblivion, for which I sue. Thanks to that oblivion, it rests with you to become, in my adopted son, the princely heir of the house of Mediana. After my death my title will expire." As he listened to these words the young man became deadly pale; but spurning in his heart the temptation held out to him, Fabian closed his ears to that voice which offered him so large a share of the riches of this world, as though he had but heard the light whispers of the breeze amid the foliage of the trees. "Oh, Count Mediana, why did you kill my mother?" cried Fabian, covering his face with his hands; then, glancing towards the poignard planted in the sand, "My lord of Armada," he added, solemnly, "the poignard is without a shadow!" Don Antonio trembled in spite of himself, as he then recalled the prophetic threat, which twenty years before the Countess de Mediana had compelled him to hear. "Perhaps," she had said, "the God whom you blaspheme will ordain, that in the heart of a desert, untrodden by the foot of man, you shall find an accuser, a witness, a judge, and an executioner." Accuser, witness, and judge were all before him, but who was to be the executioner? However, nothing was wanting for the accomplishment of the dreadful prophecy. A noise of branches, suddenly torn apart, was heard at this moment. The moment after, a man emerged from the brushwood, his habiliments dripping with water and soiled with mud. It was Cuchillo. The bandit advanced with an air of imperturbable coolness, though he appeared to limp slightly. Not one of the four men, so deeply absorbed in their own terrible reflections, showed any astonishment at his presence. "Carramba! you expected me then?" he cried; "and yet I persisted in prolonging the most disagreeable bath I have ever taken, for fear of causing you all a surprise, for which my self-love might have suffered," (Cuchillo did not allude to his excursion in the mountains); "but the water of this lake is so icy that rather than perish with cold, I would have run a greater risk than meeting with old friends." "Added to this I felt a wound in my leg reopen. It was received some time since, in fact, long ago, in my youth. "Senor Don Estevan, Don Tiburcio, I am your very humble servant." A profound silence succeeded these words. Cuchillo began to feel that he was acting the part of the hare, who takes refuge in the teeth of the hounds; but he endeavoured by a great show of assurance to make the best of a position which was more than precarious. The old hunter alone glanced towards Fabian, as though to ask what motive this man, with his impudent and sinister manner, and his beard covered with greenish mud, could offer for thus intruding himself upon them. "It is Cuchillo," said Fabian, answering Bois-Rose's look. "Cuchillo, your unworthy servant," continued the bandit, "who has been a witness to your prowess, most worthy hunter of tigers. Decidedly," thought Cuchillo, "my presence, is not so obnoxious to them as I should have supposed." Then feeling his assurance redoubled at the reception he had met with, which though cold and silent as that with which every new-comer is received in the house of death, still gave him courage to say, observing the severe expression on every face: "Pardon me, gentlemen! I observe you have business in hand, and I am perhaps intruding; I will retire. There are moments when one does not like to be disturbed: I know it by experience." Saying these words, Cuchillo showed his intention of crossing a second time the green inclosure of the valley of gold, when Bois-Rose's rough voice arrested him. "Stay here, as you value the salvation of your soul, master Cuchillo," said the hunter. "The giant may have heard of my intellectual resources," thought Cuchillo. "They have need of me. After all, I would rather go shares with them than get nothing; but without doubt this Golden Valley is bewitched. You allow, master hunter," he continued, addressing the Canadian, and feigning a surprise he did not feel at the aspect of his chief, "I have a--" An imperious gesture from Fabian cut short Cuchillo's demand. "Silence!" he said, "do not distract the last thought of a Christian who is about to die." We have said that a poignard planted in the ground no longer cast a shadow. "My lord of Mediana," added Fabian, "I ask you once again, by the name we bear, by your honour, and the salvation of your soul, are you innocent of my mother's murder?" To this lofty interrogation, Don Antonio replied without relaxing his haughty demeanour-- "I have nothing to say, to my peers alone I allow the right of judgment. Let my fate and yours be accomplished." "God sees and hears me," said Fabian. Then taking Cuchillo aside: "A solemn sentence has been passed upon this man," said he to him. "We, as the instruments of human justice in this desert, command you to be his executioner. The treasures contained in this valley will remunerate you for undertaking this terrible duty. May you never commit a more iniquitous act!" "One cannot live through forty years without having a few little peccadilloes on one's conscience, Don Tiburcio. However, I shall not the less object to being an executioner; and I am proud to know that my talents are estimated at their real value. You promise, then, that all the gold of this valley shall be mine?" "All--without excepting the smallest particle." "Carramba! notwithstanding my well-known scruples, it is a good price, therefore I shall not hesitate; and if at the same time there is any other little favour you require of me, do not distress yourself--it shall be done cheaply." That which has been previously said explains Cuchillo's unexpected appearance. The outlaw, concealed upon the borders of the neighbouring lake, had escaped through the prologue which preceded the fearful drama in which he was about to perform a part. Taking all things into consideration, he saw that matters were turning out better than he had expected. However he could not disguise from himself the fact that there was a certain amount of danger in his becoming the executioner of a man who was aware of all his crimes, and who could, by a single word, surrender him him to the implacable justice enforced in these solitudes. He was aware that to gain the promised recompense, and to prevent Don Antonio from speaking, it would be necessary first to deceive him, and he found means to whisper in the ear of the prisoner-- "Fear nothing--I am on your side." The spectators of this terrible scene maintained a profound silence, under a feeling of awe experienced by each of them. A deep dejection of spirit had, in Don Fabian's case, succeeded the energetic exercise of his will, and his face, bowed towards the earth, was as pale and as livid as that of the man upon whom he had pronounced sentence of death. Bois-Rose--whom the frequent dangers which belonged to the life of a sailor and a hunter, had rendered callous to the physical horror with which one man looks upon the destruction of his fellow--appeared completely absorbed in the contemplations of this young man, whom he loved as a son, and whose dejected attitude showed the depth of his grief. Pepe, on his side, endeavoured to conceal under an impenetrable mask the tumultuous feeling resulting from his now satisfied vengeance. He, as well as his two companions, remained silent. Cuchillo alone--whose sanguinary and vindictive nature would have led him to accept gratuitously the odious office of executor--could scarcely conceal his delight at the thoughts of the enormous sum he was to receive for the wicked service. But in this case, for once in his life, Cuchillo was to assist in an apparently legal proceeding. "Carramba!" he ejaculated, taking Pepe's carbine from him, and at the same time making a sign to Don Antonio; "this is an affair for which even the judge of Arispe himself would be sorry to grant me absolution." He advanced towards Don Antonio. Pale, but with flashing eyes; uncertain whether in Cuchillo he beheld a saviour or an executioner, Don Estevan did not stir. "It was foretold that I should die in a desert; I am, what you are pleased to call, convicted and condemned. God has reserved forme the infinite disgrace of dying by the hand of this man. I forgive you, Fabian; but may not this bandit prove as fatal to your life, as he will be to that of your father's brother, as he was--" A cry from Cuchillo--a cry of alarm, here interrupted the Duke de Armada. "To arms! To arms! yonder come the Indians!" cried he. Fabian, Bois-Rose, and Pepe rushed to seize their rifles. Cuchillo took advantage of this short instant, and sprang towards Don Antonio. The latter with his neck stretched forward, was also examining the wide extent of the plain, when Cuchillo twice plunged the poignard into his throat. The unfortunate Mediana fell to the ground, vomiting forth torrents of blood. A smile relaxed Cuchillo's lips: Don Antonio had carried out of the world the secret which he dreaded. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. THE JUDGMENT OF GOD. An instant of stupor succeeded to the murder so suddenly accomplished. Don Antonio did not stir; Fabian seemed to forget that the bandit had only hastened the execution of the sentence which he himself had pronounced. "Wretch!" cried he, rushing towards Cuchillo, with the barrel of his carbine in his hand, as though he did not deign to raise its butt against the executioner. "There, there!" said Cuchillo, drawing back, whilst Pepe, more ready to acquit Don Antonio's murderer, interposed between them; "you are as quick and passionate as a fighting-cock, and ready every instant to sport your horns, like a young bull. The Indians are too busy elsewhere to trouble themselves about us. It was a stratagem of war, to enable me more speedily to render you the signal service required of me. Do not therefore be ungrateful; for, why not admit it? you were just now a nephew, most unsufferably encumbered with an uncle; you are noble, you are generous; you would have regretted all your life that you had not pardoned that uncle? By cutting the matter short for you, I have taken the remorse upon myself; and so the affair is ended." "The rascal knows what he is about, undoubtedly," remarked the ex-carabinier. "Yes," replied Cuchillo, evidently flattered, "I pride myself upon being no fool, and upon having some notion of the scruples of conscience. I have taken your doubts upon mine. When I take a fancy to people, I sacrifice myself for them. It is a fault of mine. When I saw, Don Tiburcio, that you had so generously pardoned me the blow--the scratch I inflicted upon you--I did my best to deserve it: the rest must be settled between me and my conscience." "Ah!" sighed Fabian, "I hoped yet to have been able to pardon _him_." "Why trouble yourself about it?" said the ex-carabinier. "Pardon your mother's murderer, Don Fabian! it would have been cowardice! To kill a man who cannot defend himself, is, I grant, almost a crime, even after five years' imprisonment. Our friend Cuchillo has saved us the embarrassment of choosing: that is his affair. What do you say, Bois-Rose?" "With proofs such as those we possess, the tribunal of a city would have condemned the assassin to atone for his crime; and Indian justice could not have done less. It was God's will that you should be spared the necessity of shedding the blood of a white man. I say as you do, Pepe, it is Cuchillo's affair." Fabian inclined his head, without speaking, in acquiescence to the old hunter's verdict--as though in his own heart he could not determine, amidst such conflicting thoughts, whether he ought to rejoice, or to grieve over this unexpected catastrophe. Nevertheless, a shade of bitter regret overspread his countenance; but accustomed, as well as his two companions, to scenes of blood, he assented, though with a sigh, to their inexorable logic. In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were turning out well for him. He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could never more speak, and muttered in a low voice: "Why trouble one's self about human destiny?--for twenty years past, my life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree." Then addressing himself to Fabian: "It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah! Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid--for the first time, let me tell you--to come to an open rupture with his conscience." Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made--to satisfy his cupidity by the possession of the gold,--knew that to make a promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply with anxiety. "It is true; the price of blood is yours," said Fabian to the bandit. Cuchillo assumed an indignant air. "Well, you will be magnificently recompensed," continued the young man, contemptuously; "but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:-- the gold of this place is yours." "All?" cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears. "Have I not said so?" "You are mad!" exclaimed Pepe and Bois-Rose, simultaneously, "the fellow would have killed him for nothing!" "You are a god!" cried Cuchillo; "and you estimate my scruples at their real value. What! all this gold?" "All, including the smallest particle," answered Fabian, solemnly: "I shall have nothing in common with you--not even this gold." And he made a sign to Cuchillo to leave the ground. The bandit, instead of passing through the hedge of cotton-trees, took the road to the Misty Mountains, towards the spot where his horse was fastened. A few minutes afterwards he returned with his serape in his hand. He drew aside the interlacing branches which shut in the valley, and soon disappeared from Fabian's sight. The sun, in the midst of his course, poured down a flood of light, causing the gold spread over the surface of the valley to shoot forth innumerable rays. A shudder passed though Cuchillo's veins, as he once more beheld it. His heart beat quick at the sight of this mass of wealth. He resembled the tiger which falling upon a sheepfold cannot determine which victim to choose. He encompassed with a haggard glance the treasures spread at his feet; and little was wanting to induce him, in his transports of joy, to roll himself in these floods of gold. Soon, however, restored to calmer thoughts, he spread his mantle on the sand; and as he saw the impossibility of carrying away all the riches exposed to his view, he cast around him a glance of observation. In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene. He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit's cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him. Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed. Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them. He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become. His arm was passed through his horse's bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards. The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride. "I do not blame you," said he; "in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!" "It is holy bread," interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. "Pepe and I can say that, for our part--" "I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him." "He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!" A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian's breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada's funeral oration. "He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot--" "We know it," interrupted Fabian. "Well," continued Diaz, "I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust." This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz. "We have failed at the onset," continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, "and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice--not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom." "What do you say?" cried Fabian; "is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?" "The traitor who twice attempted your life--the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest--is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold." "It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it--but are you also certain?" "As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it. "And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it." As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse's girths, and prepared to depart. "One word more!" cried Fabian, "has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?" "More than two years, from what I have heard." This last scene had escaped the bandit's observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them. Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serape all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation. "Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day," said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. "What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepe--Bois-Rose--advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day." "Does the vile wretch, who cut your father's throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?" answered the Canadian, resolutely. "Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death," added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, "and I abandon him to your justice." "It is with regret that I see you depart," said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, "a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated." "My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan's unhappy star," replied the adventurer, "but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley." As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death. The three friends speedily lost sight of him. The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him. Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose's advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier. "You have taken," said the latter, in his turn, "a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband's murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it." Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian's countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; "But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo's expect to be hung every day." As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepe approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw. The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him--dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun's light over the surface of the valley--had heard and seen nothing. With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse. "Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please," cried Pepe, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; "Master Cuchillo!" But Cuchillo did not hear. It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier--after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected. "Master Cuchillo," resumed Pepe, "I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character." "Come!" said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely." Then aloud: "A philosophical maxim?" said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. "What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point." Pepe, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbable _sangfroid_, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together. No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile. "You spoke truth," replied Pepe. "What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?" "It is true," affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, "for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees." "Indeed!" "And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences." "True. And now I think of it," added Pepe, carelessly, "there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety." "I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants." "Indeed!" "Indeed!" repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. "So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?" "Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba--enough to build a church to your patron saint." Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him. "It is certainly my intention not to employ this gold to any other purpose than a godly one," said he, concealing his anguish as well as he could. "As to the knowledge of this wonderful valley, it is to--it is to chance that I owe it." "Chance always comes to the assistance of virtue," replied Pepe, coldly. "Well, in your place, I should not, nevertheless, be without anxiety touching the vicinity of those two pine trees." "What do you mean?" cried Cuchillo, turning pale. "Nothing--unless this may prove to you one of those trifling inconveniences, about which you just now said a man should not trouble himself. Por Dios! you have enough booty to render a king jealous." "But I acquired this gold legitimately--I committed no murder to obtain it. What I did was not worthless. The devil! I am not in the habit of killing for nothing," cried Cuchillo, exasperated, and who, mistaking the carabinier's intentions, saw only in his alarming innuendoes regret at his defrauded cupidity. Like the sailor, who, overtaken by a storm, throws a part of his cargo overboard to save the rest, Cuchillo resolved with a sigh, to shun, by means of a sacrifice, the danger with which he was threatened. "I again repeat to you," said he, in a low voice, "chance alone gave me a knowledge of this treasure; but I don't wish to be selfish. It is my intention to give you a share. Listen," he continued, "there is in a certain place, a block of gold of inestimable value; honest fellows should understand one another, and this block shall be yours. Ah! your share will be better than mine." "I hope so," said Pepe; "and in what place have you reserved me my portion?" "Up yonder!" said Cuchillo, indicating the summit of the pyramid. "Up yonder, near the pine trees? Ah, master Cuchillo, how glad I am to find that you have not taken my foolish little joke amiss, and that these trees do not affect you any more than if they were cactus plants! Between ourselves, Don Tiburcio, whom you perceive to be deeply absorbed, is only regretting in reality the enormous sum he has given you, for a service which he could equally well have performed himself." "An enormous sum! it was but a very fair price, and at any rate I should have lost it," cried Cuchillo, recovering all his habitual impudence of manner, on seeing the change that had taken place in the conduct and tone of the ex-carabinier. "Agreed," continued the latter; "but in truth, he may have repented of the bargain; and I must avow that if he commanded me to blow your brains out, in order to get rid of you, I should be compelled to obey him. Allow me, then, to call him here so as to restore his confidence; or, better still, come and show me the portion, which your munificence destines for me. Afterwards we each go our own way; and notwithstanding all you have said about it, the share assigned to you will surpass all your expectations." "Let us set off then," resumed Cuchillo, happy to see a negotiation--the probable result of which began to cause him serious uneasiness-- terminate so satisfactorily for him and, casting a glance of passionate tenderness upon a heap of gold which he had piled up upon his wrapper, he set off towards the summit of the pyramid. He had scarcely reached it, when, upon Pepe's invitation, Fabian and Bois-Rose began to ascend the steep on the other side. "No one can escape his fate," said Pepe to Fabian, "and I had already proved to you that the rascal would testify no astonishment. Be that as it may remember that you have sworn to avenge the death of your adopted father, and that in these deserts you ought to shame the justice of cities, where such crimes go unpunished. To show mercy towards such a knave is an outrage to society! Bois-Rose! I shall need the assistance of your arm." The Canadian hunter, by a glance, interrogated him, for whom his blind devotion knew no bounds. "Marcos Arellanos craved pardon and did not obtain it," said Fabian, no longer undecided, "and as this man did to others, so let it be done to him." And these three inexorable men seated themselves solemnly upon the summit of the pyramid, where Cuchillo already awaited them. At sight of the severe aspect of those whom he had inwardly so many reasons to dread, Cuchillo felt all his apprehensions renewed. He endeavoured, however, to recover his assurance. "Do you see," said he, pointing out behind the sheet of water, whose majestic torrent foamed beside them, "the spot where the block of gold sheds forth its dazzling rays?" But the eyes of his judges did not turn in the direction he indicated. Fabian rose slowly; his look caused the blood to curdle in the veins of the outlaw. "Cuchillo!" said he, "you saved me from dying of thirst, and you have not done this for one who is ungrateful. I have forgiven you the stab with which you wounded me at the Hacienda del Venado. I have pardoned another attempt you made near El Salto de Agua; also the shot which you only could have fired upon us from the summit of this pyramid. I might, in short, have forgiven every attempt you have made to take away a life you once saved; and with having pardoned you, I have even recompensed you, as a king does not recompense the executioner of his justice." "I do not deny it; but this worthy hunter, who has informed me with a great deal of circumspection upon the delicate subject you wish to touch upon, ought also to inform you how reasonable he found me in the matter." "I have forgiven you," continued Fabian, "but there is one crime, amongst others, from which your own conscience ought not to absolve you." "There is a perfect understanding between my conscience and myself," resumed Cuchillo, with a graciously sinister smile, "but it seems to me that we are getting away from our subject." "That friend whom you assassinated in such a cowardly manner--" "Disputed with me the profits of a booty, and faith, the consumption of brandy was very considerable," interrupted Cuchillo. "But permit me--" "Do not pretend to misunderstand me!" cried Fabian, irritated by the knave's impudence. Cuchillo collected his thoughts. "If you allude to Tio Tomas, it is an affair which was never very well understood, but--" Fabian opened his lips to form a distinct accusation with reference to the assassination of Arellanos, when Pepe broke in-- "I should be curious," he said, "to learn the real facts concerning Tio Tomas: perhaps Master Cuchillo has not sufficient leisure to recollect himself, which would be a pity." "I hold it necessary," continued Cuchillo, flattered at the compliment, "to prove that men own such a susceptible conscience as mine; here then are the facts--My friend Tio Tomas had a nephew impatient to inherit his uncle's fortune; I received a hundred dollars from the nephew to hasten the moment of his inheritance. It was very little for such a capital will. "It was so little that I gave Tio Tomas warning, and received _two_ hundred dollars to prevent his nephew becoming his heir. I committed a fault in--despatching the nephew without giving him warning, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It was then I felt how inconvenient a quarrelsome conscience like mine may become. I seized upon the only means of composition which was left me. The nephew's money was a continual remorse to me, and I resolved to get rid of it." "Of the money?" "Not so." "And you despatched the uncle as well?" cried Pepe. Cuchillo assented. "From that time my conscience had but little to reproach me with. I had gained three hundred dollars by the most ingenious integrity." Cuchillo was yet smiling, when Fabian exclaimed-- "Were you paid for assassinating Marcos Arellanos?" At this astounding accusation a livid paleness overspread Cuchillo's features. He could no longer disguise from himself the fate that awaited him. The bandage which covered his eyes fell suddenly; and to the flattering delusions with which he had deceived himself succeeded a formidable reality. "Marcos Arellanos!" he stammered out in a weak voice, "who told you that? I did not kill him!" Fabian smiled bitterly. "Who tells the shepherd," he cried, "where the den of the jaguar is to be found that devours his sheep? "Who tells the vaquero where the horse that he pursues has taken refuge? "To the Indian, the enemy he seeks? "To the gold-seeker the ore, concealed by God? "The surface of the lake only does not preserve the trace of the bird which flies over its waters, nor the form of the cloud which it reflects; but the earth, with its herbs and mosses, reveals to us sons of the desert, the print of the jaguar's foot as well as the horse's hoof and the Indian's track; do you not know it, even as I do?" "I did not kill Arellanos," repeated the assassin. "You did kill him; you cut his throat near to our common country; you threw his corpse into the river; the earth revealed it to me--since I noticed the defect in the horse you rode, as well as the wound in your leg, which you received in the struggle." "Pardon, Don Tiburcio?" cried Cuchillo, overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of these facts, to which God alone had been witness. "Take back all the gold you gave me, but spare my life; and to show my gratitude, I will kill all your enemies everywhere, and always at a sign from you--for nothing--even my father, if you command me; but in the name of the all-powerful God, spare my life--spare me my life!" he continued, crawling forward and clutching at Fabian's knees. "Arellanos also craved for mercy; did you listen to him?" said Fabian, turning away. "But when I killed him, it was that I might possess all this gold myself. Now I restore it all for my life--what can you want more?" he continued, while he resisted Pepe's efforts, who was trying to prevent him from kissing Fabian's feet. With features distorted by excess of terror, a whitish foam upon his lips, his eyes starting from his head, yet seeing nothing, Cuchillo still sued for mercy, as he endeavoured to crawl towards Fabian. He had by continued efforts reached the edge of the platform. Behind his head, the sheet of water fell foaming downwards. "Mercy, mercy!" he cried, "in the name of your mother--for Dona Rosarita's sake, who loves you, for I know that she loves you--I heard--" "What?" cried Fabian, in his turn rushing towards Cuchillo, but the question expired upon his lips. Spurned along the earth by the carabinier's foot Cuchillo with head and arms stretched back was hurled into the abyss! "What have you done, Pepe?" exclaimed Fabian. "The wretch," said the ex-carabinier, "was not worth the cord which might have hung him, nor the bullet that would have sent him out of the world." A piercing cry,--a cry which rose from the abyss--which drowned their voices and was heard above the roar of the cascade, caused Fabian to stretch his head forward and withdraw it again in horror. Hanging to the branches of a shrub which bent beneath his weight, and which scarce adhering to the sides of the rock, was fast giving way, Cuchillo hung over the abyss, howling forth his terror and anguish. "Help!" he shouted, in a voice despairing as the damned. "Help! if you are human beings--help!" The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow. Suddenly the bandit's voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips. A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert. The abyss had swallowed up him whose life had been a long tissue of crime. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. THE MAN OF THE RED KERCHIEF. Six months have elapsed since the three hunters, without deigning to carry with them a single grain of the treasures of the valley of gold, directed their steps, following the course of the Rio Gila, to the plains of Texas. The rainy had succeeded to the dry season, without anything being known of their fate, or of the expedition commanded by Don Estevan de Arechiza. Diaz was no more, having carried with him to the tomb the secret of the wonderful valley--and Gayferos had followed his three liberators. What had become of these intrepid hunters who had willingly encountered fatigues, privations and dangers, instead of returning to civilised life? Were they as rich and powerful as they might have been? Had the desert claimed these three noble spirits, as it has done so many others? Like the monk, who seeks in the silence of cloister forgetfulness of the world's vain show, had Fabian in the sublimity of solitude been able to forget the woman who loved him, and who secretly hoped for and expected his return? What we are about to relate will answer these questions. One sultry afternoon, two men, mounted and armed to the teeth, pursued the lonely road which leads from the utmost confines of the province of Sonora to the Presidio of Tubac. Their costume, the coarse equipment of their steeds, and the beauty of the latter, formed on the whole a striking contrast and seemed to indicate subalterns despatched by some rich proprietor, either to carry or to seek information. The first was clothed in leather from head to foot, like the vaquero of some noble hacienda. The second, dark and bearded like a Moor, though less simply attired than his companion, did not appear to be of much greater consideration. At the end of a journey of some days the white houses of the Presidio began to appear in the distance. The two cavaliers had probably exhausted every subject of conversation, for they trotted on in silence. The scanty vegetation which covered the plains they were crossing was again becoming parched by the sun, after the winter rains; and the dry grass harboured innumerable grasshoppers whose shrill note was heard incessantly, mingled with the scorching breath of the south wind. The foliage of the Peruvian trees drooped languidly over the burning sand, like the willows upon the banks of a stream. The two cavaliers arrived at the entrance of the Presidio just as the church clock sounded the evening _angelus_. Tubac was then a village with two cross streets, its houses built of cement, with only a few windows in the front, as is the custom in places exposed to the sudden excursions of the Indians. Strong movable barriers, formed by trunks of trees, protected the four approaches to the village; and a piece of the artillery of the country, raised upon its carriage, was erected behind each of these barriers. Previous to following the new-comers into the Presidio, we must relate an incident which, insignificant in itself, nevertheless acquired some importance in the heart of a solitary village of Tubac. During the space of a fortnight a mysterious personage--inasmuch as he was unknown to the inhabitants of the Presidio--had frequently, and for a short time, appeared there. He was a man of about forty years of age, thin, but rough and vigorous in appearance, whose countenance seemed to tell of dangers overcome, but whose speech was as rare as his physiognomy was expressive. He replied shortly to any questions addressed to him; but, on the other hand, he asked a great many, and appeared particularly anxious to know what was passing at the Hacienda del Venado. Some of the inhabitants of the Presidency knew the rich proprietor very well by repute, but few amongst them--or, one might rather say, none of them--were so thoroughly acquainted with Don Augustin Pena, as to be capable of answering the questions of the stranger. Everybody in Tubac remembered the gold-seekers' expedition which had set out six months previously; and according to some vague replies given by the mysterious personage, it was suspected that he knew more upon the matter than he chose to reveal. He had, he pretended, encountered in the deserts of the Apache country, a troop commanded by Don Estevan in a very critical position, and he had reason for believing that they must have fought a last and terrible engagement with the Indians, from the result of which he augured no good. The evening before the arrival of the two travellers, he had inquired what direction he ought to take to reach Don Augustin's house; and, above all, he had testified a great wish to learn whether Dona Rosarita was still unmarried. The unknown always wore on his head a red checkered handkerchief, the folds of which hung down over his eyes; and in consequence of this head-dress he always went by the name of the "man with the red kerchief." This being explained, let us now return to our two travellers. The new-comers--whose arrival created some sensation--on entering the presidency, directed their steps towards one of the houses of the village, at the door of which sat a man, who was soothing his leisure hours by playing upon the guitar. One of the cavaliers, addressing him, said-- "_Santas tardes_! my master; will you afford hospitality to two strangers for a day and a night?" The musician rose and bowed courteously. "Pray dismount, noble cavaliers," he answered, "this dwelling is at your service as long as you please to remain." Such is the simple ceremonial of hospitality still in vogue in these distant countries. The cavaliers dismounted from their horses, in the midst of an idle group who had collected around them, and who observed the two strangers with considerable curiosity--for in the Presidio of Tubac an arrival is a rare event. The host silently assisted his guests to unsaddle their horses, but the more inquisitive of the crowd did not exercise so much discretion, and without scruple addressed a multitude of questions to the travellers. "Good people," said one of the cavaliers, "let us first attend to our horses, and afterwards, when we have taken a mouthful of food, we shall have a chat. My comrade and myself have come here for that very purpose." Thus saying, the bearded cavalier unfastened his gigantic spurs, threw them across his horse's saddle, which he deposited, together with its woollen covering carefully folded, in the piazza attached to the house. The two strangers did not dwell long over their repast. They soon rejoined their host upon the threshold, and sat down beside him. Their questioners had not yet departed from the house. "I am the more inclined," resumed the bearded traveller, "to inform you all of the object of our visit to the Presidio, since we are sent by our master to ask you a few questions. Will that be agreeable to you?" "Perfectly," replied several voices, "and first, may we know who your master is?" "He is Don Augustin Pena; you are not without some knowledge of his name?" "The proprietor of the great Hacienda del Venado--a man worth three millions! Who does not know him?" replied one of the bystanders. "He is the same. This cavalier, whom you see, is a vaquero, entrusted with the care of the beasts of the hacienda; for myself, I am a major-domo attached to the service of the proprietor. Would you have the kindness, my dear friend, to give me a light for my cigar?" continued the bearded major-domo. He paused to light his cigar of maize husk, and then resumed: "Six months ago an expedition set out from here in search of gold dust. This expedition was headed by one named--let me see--_carrai_! I have heard him called by so many names that I cannot remember any!" "Don Estevan Arechiza!" replied one of the interlocutors, "a Spaniard, and one such as we do not often see in this country; one who seemed, by his noble deportment and majestic countenance, to have commanded all his life." "Don Estevan Arechiza: the very same," said the major-domo, "a man who as far exceeds all others in generosity as a gamester who has just won a fortune. But let me return to the expedition; about how many men composed it, do you guess?" "More than eighty started out with it." "More than a hundred," suggested another. "You are mistaken--the number was not a hundred in all," interrupted a third. "That matters little to Don Augustin, my master. It is far more important to know how many returned." Upon this point also there were two different opinions. "Not a single one," remarked a voice. "Yes; there was one, and but one," continued another. The major-domo rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction. "Good!" said he, "then at least one is saved, provided this gentleman, who declares that all the gold-seekers are not dead, be rightly informed, as I hope he is." "Do you not think," said the last who had spoken, "that the man of the red handkerchief may not be one of those whose departure we witnessed six months ago? I would swear to it by the cross and Gospel." "No! not so!" cried another, "that man never set foot in the Presidio before the other day." "In any case," interrupted a third, "the man of the red handkerchief has doubtless something of interest in store for Don Augustin Pena, since he has so often inquired about him. With these gentlemen, he will probably be more communicative than with us." "That will be just what we desire," resumed the major-domo. "You must know, then, and I may without indiscretion inform you," continued he, "that Don Augustin Pena, whom God preserve, was the intimate friend of Senor Arechiza, and that he has had no news of him for six months past, which would be natural enough if he has been massacred by the Indians with all the rest. But my master is anxious for his return, that he may marry his daughter, Dona Rosarita, a beautiful and charming person, to the Senator Don Vicente Tragaduros. Months have elapsed, and since the hacienda is not on the main road from Arispe to Tubac, and that we cannot gain information from any one upon the subject of this deplorable expedition, Don Augustin determined upon sending us here to inquire about it. When he shall have established the fact that Don Estevan's return is impossible--and as young girls do not readily meet with Senators in the heart of the desert--nor do the latter often find there girls whose marriage portion is worth two hundred thousand piastres--" "Carramba! that is a high figure." "True, friend," continued the major-domo, "then the projected marriage will take place to the mutual satisfaction of all parties. Such is the object of our journey to Tubac. If, therefore, you can conduct me to him whom you describe as the sole survivor of this expedition, we shall perhaps learn from him what we wish to discover." The conversation had reached this stage, when, at some distance from the house where it was taking place, a man was seen passing, with his head bent downwards. "See!" said one of the party, pointing to the man in question; "there goes your sole survivor." "In truth, it is a person whose conduct is sufficiently mysterious," added the host. "For some days past he has done nothing but come and go, from one place to another, without informing any one of the object of his journeyings." "If it please you, we shall question him?" proposed one. "Hola! friend!" cried another of the party; "come this way; here is a gentleman who is anxious to see and speak with you." The mysterious unknown approached at the summons. "Senor cavalier," said the major-domo, courteously addressing him, "it is not to gratify an idle curiosity that I now address you; but the master whom I serve feels a natural anxiety at the disappearance of a friend, whose death he would greatly deplore. What do you know of Don Estevan de Arechiza?" "Many things. But, pray what is the name of the master of whom you speak?" "Don Augustin Pena--proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado." A ray of joy lit up the countenance of the unknown. "I am able," he said, "to furnish Don Augustin with all the information he may desire. How many days' journey is it from hence to the hacienda?" "Three days' journey, with a good horse." "I possess a capital one; and if you can wait for me until to-morrow evening, I shall accompany you, and communicate with Don Augustin in person." "Be it so," answered the major-domo. "Very well," added the man of the red handkerchief; "to-morrow at this same hour we will start, so that we may travel by night, and so escape the heat." Saying this, he took his departure, when the major-domo remarked: "It must be agreed, gentlemen, that nothing can exceed the complaisance of this cavalier of the red handkerchief." The arrangement did not satisfy the bystanders, who were thoroughly disappointed; but their interest was renewed, on seeing the man of the red handkerchief pass by on horseback, and depart at full speed towards the north. The unknown kept his promise: and on the day following he returned at the hour of the evening _angelus_. Don Augustin's two envoys took leave of their host, assuring him of a kind welcome, if ever his affairs led him in the direction of the Hacienda del Venado. Even the poorest in this primitive country, would blush to receive any other reward for hospitality than sincere thanks, and a promise that they in their turn should receive it. The three horsemen set off at full speed; the horse of the unknown equalled in strength and mettle those of Don Augustin's envoys. The journey was rapidly accomplished; and at dawn of the third day, they could trace in the distance the clock-tower of the Hacienda del Venado, and an hour afterwards they dismounted in the court-yard. Although it was at that early hour when the sun sheds its most enlivening rays, everything which surrounded this habitation bore the stamp of melancholy. One might have supposed that the gloomy nature of the inmates was reflected upon its exterior. Dona Rosarita was dying of grief; and this filled the haciendado with the deepest anxiety. Don Augustin's daughter could not help the belief that Fabian yet lived. But why, then, had not Tiburcio, as she always called him, returned to the hacienda? Either he was dead, or he no longer loved her? It was this uncertainty that gave rise to Dona Rosarita's deep dejection. Another source of anxiety to the haciendado, was the absence of all news from the Duke de Armada; and to this anxiety was added impatience. The projected marriage between Rosarita and the Senator had been devised by Don Estevan. Tragaduros had urged its fulfilment. Don Augustin had laid the proposal before his daughter, but she replied only by tears; and her father still hesitated. However, at the expiration of six months, it was determined to put an end to the uncertainty by sending to the Presidio for information concerning the expedition commanded by Don Estevan. It was the last respite that poor Rosarita had ventured to demand. The Senator had absented himself for some days from the hacienda, when the major-domo returned, and Don Augustin was informed of the arrival of a stranger who could remove his uncertainty. He ordered the stranger to be introduced into the chamber already known to the reader; and Dona Rosarita, who had been sent for, speedily joined her father. In a few moments the stranger presented himself. A wide felt hat, to which on entering he raised his hand without removing it, shaded his face, upon which a keen anxiety was visible. From beneath the broad brim of his hat a red handkerchief fell so low upon his forehead as almost to conceal his eyebrows, and from beneath its shadow he gazed with a singular interest upon the pale countenance of the young girl. CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. THE STRANGER'S STORY. Her head veiled by a silk scarf which partly concealed the luxuriant tresses of her dark hair as they fell in luxuriant clusters upon her bosom, Dona Rosarita's countenance gave evidence of long and secret suffering. As she seated herself, a look of deep disquietude increased her paleness. It seemed as though the young girl feared the approach of a moment, in which she might be required to renounce those sweet dreams of the past, for the reality of a future she dared not contemplate. When the stranger was also seated the haciendado addressed him. "We are indebted to you, my friend," he said, "for travelling thus far to bring us news which I have been forewarned may prove of a very sad nature; nevertheless we must hear all. God's will be done!" "My news is in truth sad; but as you say, it is necessary," and the stranger, laying a stress upon these last words, seemed to address himself more particularly to Dona Rosarita, "that you should hear all. I have been witness to many things yonder; and the desert does not conceal so many secrets as one might suppose." The young girl trembled slightly, while she fixed upon the man of the red handkerchief, a deep and searching glance. "Go on, friend," said she, in her melodious voice, "we shall have courage to hear all." "What do you know of Don Estevan?" resumed the haciendado. "He is dead, Senor." A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands. "Who killed him?" he asked. "I know not, but he is dead." "And Pedro Diaz--that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?" "He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world." "And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?" "Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except--but with your leave, Senor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all." "We shall listen to you patiently." "I need not detail," resumed the narrator, "the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully." "Poor Don Estevan!" murmured the haciendado. "During the last halt in which I was present, a report spread through the camp that we were in the vicinity of an immense treasure of gold. Cuchillo, our guide, deserted us; he was absent two days. It was doubtless God's will that I should be saved, since it inspired Don Estevan with the idea of sending me in search of him. He therefore commanded me to scour the country in the environs of the camp. "I obeyed him, notwithstanding the danger of the mission, and went in search of our guide's footsteps. After some time I was fortunate enough to find his traces; when all at once I perceived in the distance a party of Apaches engaged in a hunt of wild horses. I turned my horse's head round as quickly as possible, but the ferocious yells which burst out on every side told me that I was discovered." The stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless recognised Gayferos, the unfortunate man who had been scalped, paused an instant as though overcome by horrible recollections. Then in continuation, he related the manner in which he was captured by the Indians, his anguish when he thought of the torments they were preparing for him, the desperate struggle by which he kept up in his race against them with naked feet, and the inexpressible sufferings he endured. "Seized by one of them," said he, "I was struck by a blow which felled me to the earth; then I felt the keen edge of a knife trace, as it were, a circle of fire around my head. I heard a gun fired, a ball hissed close to my ears, and I lost all consciousness. I cannot tell how many minutes passed thus. The sound of a second shot caused me to open my eyes, but the blood which covered my face blinded me; I raised my hand to my head, which felt both burning and frozen. My skull was bare, the Indian had torn off the hair with the scalp attached to it. In short, they had scalped me! That is the reason, Senor, that I now wear this red handkerchief both by day and by night." During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator's countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror. After a momentary pause, he continued: "I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details." Gayferos then related to his auditors the unexpected assistance he had obtained from the three hunters who had taken refuge upon the little island, and was describing the moment in which Bois-Rose carried him off in the presence of the Indians, when this heroic action drew from Don Augustin's lips a cry of admiration. "But there were then a score on this little island?" interrupted he. "Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three," continued the narrator. "_Santa Virgen_! they were trusty men then--but continue." The adventurer resumed: "The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age--that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Senorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son--such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation." Dona Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name. Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted. "Alas, Senorita," he continued, "the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions." At this part of the narrative, Dona Rosarita's cheek became deadly pale. "Well, and the young man," interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, "what became of him?" Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest. "Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child." "Heaven be praised!" exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief. Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator. "Continue!" said the haciendado; "but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan's death." "I am ignorant of them," continued Gayferos, "and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject." "He is dead," said the young man to me, "you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country--for," added he, with a sigh, "you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence--they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting--as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends." "Poor Don Estevan!" exclaimed the haciendado. "And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?" asked Dona Rosarita. "Not at the moment," continued Gayferos; "only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly." A pang shot through Dona Rosarita's heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of the _datura_, but she still remained silent. "I draw towards the close of my recital," continued Gayferos. "After having recovered the brave warrior's son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion. "When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of. "Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter--`Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.' But the giant only sighed without replying. "Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened. "One night while the young man and I were watching, I recalled a name which six months before he had uttered in his sleep. I then learned the secret of that grief which was slowly consuming him. He loved, and solitude had but increased a passion which he vainly sought to stifle." Gayferos paused an instant to cast a searching glance upon the countenances of his auditors, especially upon that of Dona Rosarita. He appeared to take a secret pleasure in exciting the young girl by the recital of all the circumstances best calculated to touch the heart of a woman. As a warrior and a hunter, the haciendado did not attempt to conceal the interest with which the stranger's narrative was inspiring him. Rosarita, on the contrary, endeavoured, under a mask of studied coldness, to conceal the charm she experienced on listening to this romance of heart and action, whose most stirring pages were so considerately opened to her by the intelligent narrator. But her heightened colour and the fire in her large dark eyes completely belied her efforts. "Ah!" cried Don Augustin, "if these three brave men had been under Don Estevan's command, the fate of the expedition might have been far different." "I am of the same opinion," replied Gayferos, "but God had ordained it otherwise. Meanwhile," he continued, "I felt a great longing again to see my native land, but gratitude required that I should conceal it. But the old warrior divined my thoughts, and one day addressed me on this subject. "Too generous to suffer me alone to brave the dangers of my homeward journey, the giant hunter resolved to accompany me as far as Tubac. His companion did not oppose his resolution, and we set out for the frontier. The young man alone seemed, to follow us reluctantly in this direction. "I shall not describe our fatigues and the various difficulties we surmounted, in the course of our long and perilous journey. I wish, however, to speak of one of our last encounters with the Indians. "In order to reach the Presidio we were obliged to cross the chain of the Rocky Mountains. It was towards the approach of night that we found ourselves amongst their gloomy solitudes, and we were obliged to halt. "This is a spot much frequented by the Indians, and we could not encamp without the greatest precaution. "Nothing, as it seems to me, can better resemble the abode of condemned souls than these mountains, where we spent the night. At every moment strange sounds, which appeared to proceed from the cavities of the rocks, broke upon our ears. At one time it was a volcano, which rumbled with dull and heavy noise beneath us, or the distant roar of a cataract: sometimes resembling the howling of wolves or plaintive cries; and from time to time dreadful flashes of lightning tore aside the veil of mist which eternally covers these mountains. "For fear of a surprise we had encamped upon a rock which projected, in the form of a table, above a wide open valley about fifty feet below us. The two elder hunters were asleep; the youngest alone kept watch. It was his turn, and as usual he had been compelled to insist upon it--for his companions seemed unwilling thus to allow him to share their toils. "As for myself, sick and suffering, I was stretched upon the ground. After many vain efforts to obtain a little rest, at length I slept, when a frightful dream awoke me with a start. "`Did you hear nothing?' I asked of the young man, in a low voice. `Nothing,' he replied, `except the rumbling of the subterranean volcanoes in the mountains.' `Say, rather, that we are here in an accursed spot,' I continued, and then I related my dream to him. "`It is, perhaps a warning,' he said gravely. `I remember one night to have had just such a dream, when--' "The young man paused. He had advanced to the edge of the rock. I crawled after him mechanically. The same object arrested our attention at the same moment. "One of those spirits of darkness which might have inhabited such a spot, appeared suddenly to have acquired a visible form. It was a kind of phantom, with the head and skin of a wolf, but erect upon its legs like a human being. I made the sign of the cross, and murmured a prayer, but the phantom did not stir. "`It is the devil,' I whispered. "`It is an Indian,' replied the young man; `there are his companions at some distance.' "In short, our eyes, well practised in making out objects in the dark, could distinguish about twenty Indians, stretched upon the ground, and who, in truth, had no idea of our vicinity. "Ah, Senorita!" added the narrator, addressing himself to Dona Rosarita, "it was one of those opportunities fraught with danger, which the poor young man sought with so much avidity; and your heart, like mine, would have been torn at beholding the sad joy which sparkled in his eyes; for the further we travelled in this direction the more his melancholy seemed to increase. "`Let us wake our friends,' I suggested. "`No; let me go alone. These two men have done enough for me. It is now my turn to run a risk for them and, if I die, I shall forget--' "As he spoke these words the young man quitted me, made a detour, and I lost sight of him--without, however, ceasing to behold the frightful apparition which continued immovable in the same spot. "All at once I saw another dusky shape, which rushed towards the phantom and seized it by the throat. The two forms grappled with one another. The struggle was short and noiseless, and one might have believed them two spirits. I prayed to God in behalf of the poor young man who thus exposed his life with so much indifference and intrepidity. A short time afterwards I saw him return; the blood was flowing over his face from a large wound on his head. "`Oh, Heavens!' I cried; `you are wounded.' "`It is nothing,' he said; `I will now wake our companions.' "What do you think, Senorita?" continued the narrator. "Was not my dream a warning from God? A party of Indians, whom we had put to flight on the other side of the mountains--had followed our track in order to revenge the blood of their companions, which had been spilt upon the banks of the Gila--at the place where we had rescued the young man. "But the Indians had to contend with terrible adversaries. Their sentinel was the phantom who had been killed by the courageous hunter before he had time to utter a cry of alarm, and the rest, surprised in their sleep, were nearly all stabbed; a few sought safety in flight. "The night had not passed before this new exploit was accomplished. "The tall hunter hastened to dress the wound of the young man, whom he loved as a son; and the latter, overcome with fatigue, stretched himself upon the ground and slept. "In the mean time his two friends watched by his side to guide his sleep, whilst I in sadness contemplated his altered countenance, his reduced figure, and the bloodstained bandage with which his head was bound." "Poor youth," interrupted Dona Rosarita, gently, "still so young, and yet compelled to lead a life of incessant danger. And his father, also, he must have trembled for the life of a beloved son?" "Beloved, as you say, Senorita," continued the narrator. "During a period of six months I was a daily witness to the infinite tenderness of this father for his child. "The young man slept tranquilly, and his lips softly murmured a name-- that of a woman--the same which had lately been revealed to me in his slumber." Rosarita's dark eyes seemed to question the narrator, but her words expired upon her parted lips; she dared not utter the name her heart was whispering in her ears. "But I encroach upon your time," continued Gayferos, without appearing to notice the young girl's agitation. "I draw towards the close of my narrative. "The young man woke just as day began to dawn. `Comrade,' said the giant to me, `go down yonder and count the dead which these dogs have left behind them.' "Eleven corpses stretched upon the ground," continued Gayferos, "and two captured horses, attested the victory of these intrepid hunters." "Let all due honour be given to these formidable men," cried Don Augustin, with enthusiasm, whilst his daughter, clapping her little hands together, exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, and an enthusiasm which equalled that of her father-- "That is splendid! that is sublime! so young, and yet so brave." Rosarita only lavished her praises upon the young unknown--though perhaps the acute perception which belongs to a woman, and which almost resembles a second sight, may have revealed to her his name. The narrator seemed to appreciate the praises bestowed upon his friends. "But did you not learn their names?" asked Dona Rosarita, timidly. "The elder was called Bois-Rose, the second Pepe. As to the young man--" Gayferos appeared vainly endeavouring to recall the name without remarking the anguish which was depicted in the young girl's agitated frame, and visible in her anxious eyes. By the similarity of position between Tiburcio and the unknown, she could not doubt but that it was he; and the poor child was collecting all her strength to listen to his name, and not to utter, on hearing it, a cry of happiness and love. "As to the young man," continued the narrator, "he was called Fabian." At this name, which was unknown to the young girl, and which at once destroyed her pleasant delusions, she pressed her hand upon her heart, her lips became white, and the colour which hope had revived in her cheek faded away. She could only repeat mechanically. "Fabian!" At this moment the recital was interrupted by the entrance of a servant. The Chaplain begged the haciendado to come to him for an instant, upon some business he had to communicate to him. Don Augustin quitted the apartment, saying that he should speedily return. Gayferos and the young girl were now left alone; the former observed her some moments in silence, and with a delight he could scarcely conceal, saw that Rosarita trembled beneath the folds of her silk scarf. By a secret feeling the poor child divined that Gayferos had not yet finished. At length the latter said gently, "Fabian bore another name, Senorita; do you wish to hear it, while we are alone and without witnesses?" Rosarita turned pale. "Another name! oh, speak it?" she cried, in a trembling voice. "He was long known as Tiburcio Arellanos." A cry of joy escaped the young girl, who rose from her seat, and approaching the bearer of this good news, seized his hand. "Thanks! thanks!" she exclaimed, "if my heart has not already spoken them." Then she tottered across the chamber, and knelt at the feet of a Madonna, which, framed in gold, hung against the wall. "Tiburcio Arellanos," continued the narrator, "is now Fabian, and Fabian is the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana--a noble and powerful Spanish family." The young girl continued on her knees in prayer without appearing to listen to Gayferos' words. "Immense possessions, a lofty name, titles and honours. All these he will lay at the feet of the woman who shall accept his hand." The young girl continued her fervent prayer without turning her head. "And, moreover," resumed the narrator, "the heart of Don Fabian de Mediana still retains a feeling which was dear to the heart of Tiburcio Arellanos." Rosarita paused in her prayer. "Tiburcio Arellanos will be here to-night." This time the young girl no longer prayed. It was Tiburcio and not Fabian, Count of Mediana. Tiburcio, poor, and unknown, for whom she had wept. At the sound of this name, she listened. Honours, titles, wealth. What were they to her? Fabian lived, and loved her still, what more could she desire? "If you will come to the breach in the wall, where, full of despair, he parted from you, you will find him there this very evening. Do you remember the place?" "Oh! my God!" she murmured, softly, "do I not visit it every evening?" And once more bending before the image of the Virgin, Rosarita resumed her interrupted prayer. The adventurer contemplated for some instants this enthusiastic and beautiful creature, her scarf partly concealing her figure, her nude shoulders caressed by the long tresses of her dark hair, which fell in soft rings upon their surface; then without interrupting her devotion, he rose from his seat and silently fitted the chamber. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. THE RETURN. When Don Augustin Pena returned, he found his daughter alone, and still kneeling; he waited until her prayer was finished. The news of Don Estevan's death so entirely occupied the haciendado's mind that he naturally attributed Dona Rosarita's pious action to another motive than the true one. He believed that she was offering up to Heaven a fervent prayer for the repose of his spirit, whose mysterious end they had just been made acquainted with. "Every day," said he, "during the following year, the Chaplain will, by my orders, say a mass for Don Estevan's soul, for this man spake of the justice of God, which was accomplished in the desert. These words are serious, and the manner with which they were pronounced, leaves no doubt as to their veracity." "May God pardon him!" replied Rosarita, rising from her knees, "and grant him the mercy he requires." "May God pardon him!" repeated Don Augustin, earnestly, "the noble Don Estevan was no ordinary man, or rather, that you may now know it, Rosarita, Don Antonia de Mediana, who, in his lifetime, was Knight of the Grand Cross, and Duke de Armada." "Mediana, did you say, my father?" cried the young girl, "what! he must then be his son?" "Of whom do you speak?" asked Don Augustin, in astonishment, "Don Antonio was never married. What can you mean?" "Nothing, my father, unless it be that your daughter is to-day very happy." As she said these words, Dona Rosarita threw her arms round her father's neck, and leaning her head upon his breast burst into a passion of tears; but in these tears there was no bitterness, they flowed softly, like the dew which the American jasmine sheds in the morning from its purple flowers. The haciendado, but little versed in the knowledge of the female heart, misconstrued the tears, which are sometimes a luxury to women; and he could conceive nothing of the happiness which was drawing them from his daughter's eyes. He questioned her anew, but she contented herself with answering, while her lips were parted by a smile, and her eyes were still moist. "To-morrow I shall tell you all, my father." The good haciendado did indeed require the explanation of this mystery, when he was left in ignorance of the chief fact concerning it. "We have another duty to fulfil," continued he; "the last wish expressed by Don Antonio, on parting from me, was that you should be united to the Senator Tragaduros. It will be in compliance with the request of one who is now no more, that this marriage should no longer be delayed. Do you see any obstacle to it, Rosarita?" The young girl started at these words, which reminded her of the fatal engagement she had sought to banish from memory. Her bosom swelled, and her tears flowed afresh. "Well," said the haciendado, smiling, "this is another proof of happiness, is it not?" "Of happiness!" repeated Rosarita, bitterly. "Oh! no, no, my father!" Don Augustin was now more puzzled than ever; for, as he himself alleged, his life had been spent more in studying the artifices of Indians, with whom he had long disputed his domain, than in diving into the hearts of women. "Oh, my father!" cried Rosarita, "this marriage would now prove a sentence of death to your poor child!" At this sudden declaration, which he had not expected, Don Augustin was quite stupefied, and it was with difficulty he subdued the anger to which it had given rise. "What!" he cried with some warmth, "did you not yourself consent to this marriage only a month ago? Did you not agree that it should be consummated when we knew that Don Estevan could not return? He is dead; what then do you wish?" "It is true, father; I did fix that period, but--" "Well!" "But I did not know that he still lived." "Don Antonio de Mediana?" "No; Don Fabian de Mediana," replied Rosarita, in a low voice. "Don Fabian? who is this Fabian of whom you speak?" "He whom we called Tiburcio Arellanos." Don Augustin remained mute with surprise: his daughter took advantage of his silence. "When I consented to this marriage," said she, "I believed that Don Fabian was forever lost to us. I did not know that he still loved me; and yet--consider whether I do not love you, my father; consider what a grievous sacrifice I made in my affection for you--I knew well--" As she spoke these words--her eyes moist with tears, yet shining with their own sweet lustre--the poor girl approached, and, by a sudden impulse, threw herself upon her father's shoulder to hide her rising blushes. "I knew then that I loved him only," she murmured. "But of whom do you speak?" "Of Tiburcio Arellanos--of the Count Fabian de Mediana--they are one and the same person." "Of the Count Mediana?" repeated Don Augustin. "Yes," cried Rosarita, passionately; "I still love in him Tiburcio Arellanos, however noble, powerful, and rich may be at this hour Count Fabian de Mediana." Noble, powerful, and rich, are words that sound well in the ear of an ambitious father, when applied to a young man whom he loves and esteems, but whom he believes to be poor. Tiburcio Arellanos would have met with a refusal from Don Augustin--softened, it is true, by affectionate words--but had not Fabian de Mediana a better chance of success? "Will you tell me how Tiburcio Arellanos can be Fabian de Mediana?" asked Don Augustin, with more curiosity than anger. "Who gave you this information?" "You were not present at the close of the stranger's narrative," replied Dona Rosarita, "or you would have heard that the young companion of the two brave hunters whose dangers he nobly shared, was no other than Tiburcio Arellanos, now become the Count Fabian de Mediana. To this day I am ignorant of how, alone and wounded, he quitted the hacienda, and by what circumstances he found these unexpected protectors--or what relationship exists between Tiburcio and the Duke de Armada. But this man, who knows, will tell you." "Let him be instantly sought," said Don Augustin, quickly; and he called an attendant to whom he gave the order. Don Augustin awaited with the greatest impatience, the return of Gayferos; but they sought him in vain. He had disappeared. We shall presently explain the motive of his departure. Almost at the same moment in which the haciendado and his daughter were informed of it, another attendant entered to announce that Tragaduros was dismounting in the court-yard of the hacienda. The coincidence of the Senator's return with the approaching arrival of Fabian, was one of those events in which chance, oftener than might be supposed, sports with the events of real life. Rosarita, in order to secure an ally in her father, hastened to embrace him tenderly, and to testify her astonishment at a miracle, which had converted the adopted son of a gambusino into the heir of one of the most powerful families in Spain. After having launched this twofold dart against the Senator, the young girl vanished from the apartment, leaving her father alone. Tragaduros entered like a man who feels that the announcement of his arrival is always welcome. His manner was that of a future kinsman, for he had obtained the father's promise and the daughter's consent, although that consent was only tacitly given. However, notwithstanding his self-satisfaction, and his confidence in the future, the Senator could not fail to remark the grave reserve of Don Augustin's manner. He thought himself at liberty to remark it. "Don Estevan de Arechiza, the Duke of Armada, is no more," said the haciendado; "both you and I have lost a dear and noble friend." "What, dead?" cried the Senator, hiding his face with an embroidered cambric handkerchief. "Poor Don Estevan! I do not think I shall ever be able to console myself." His future, nevertheless, might not have been obscured by perpetual grief, for the regret he expressed was far from being in harmony with his most secret thoughts. While he acknowledged the many obligations he owed to Don Estevan, he could not help remembering that had he lived, he would have been compelled to spend in political intrigues the half of his wife's marriage portion; half a million of money he must thus have thrown to the dogs. It is true, he said to himself, I shall neither be a count, marquis, or duke of any kind, but to my thinking, half a million of money is worth more than a title, and will multiply my pleasures considerably. This fatal event will besides hasten the period of my marriage. Perhaps after all Don Estevan's death is not a misfortune. "Poor Don Estevan," he continued aloud, "what an unexpected blow!" Tragaduros had yet to learn that it might have been better for him had Don Estevan lived. We will leave him with the haciendado, and follow Gayferos--for perhaps the reader will be glad to hear from him again. The adventurer had saddled his horse, and unseen by anybody had crossed the plain and again taken the road which led to the Presidio of Tubac. The route which he followed for some time brought him in contact with few travellers, and when by chance some horseman appeared in the distance, Gayferos, as he passed him, exchanged an impatient salutation, but failed to recognise the one he sought. The day was drawing towards a close, and it was at a late hour when Gayferos uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing three travellers advancing at a gallop. These travellers were no others than the Canadian, Pepe, and Fabian de Mediana. The giant was mounted upon a strong mule, larger and more vigorous than the Mexican horses. Nevertheless this animal was somewhat out of proportion with the gigantic stature of the rider. Fabian and Pepe rode two excellent coursers, which they had taken from the Indians. The young man was greatly changed since the day when he arrived for the first time at the Hacienda del Venado. Painful and indelible recollections had left their traces upon his pale and wasted cheeks, a few wrinkles furrowed his brow, though the brilliancy of his eye was heightened by the sorrowful reflection of the passion which consumed him. But perhaps in the eyes of a woman his pale and sickly appearance might render the young Count of Mediana still more handsome and interesting than was that of Tiburcio Arellanos. Would not that countenance, ennobled by toil and travel, remind Dona Rosarita of the love for which she had every reason to feel proud and happy? Would it not tell of dangers overcome, and surround itself with a double halo of sacrifice and suffering? As to the rough countenances of the hunters, sun, fatigue, and danger of every kind had left them unchanged. If the hot winds had bronzed their skin, six months more of the adventurous life to which they were accustomed left no trace upon their sunburnt features. They testified no surprise on seeing the gambusino, but a lively curiosity was depicted in the glance of each. A look from Gayferos, however, soon satisfied them. That look doubtless assured them that all was as they wished. Fabian alone expressed some astonishment on seeing his old companion so near the Hacienda del Venado. "Was if in order to precede us here that you came to take leave of us near Tubac?" asked Fabian. "Doubtless--did I not tell you so?" replied Gayferos. "I did not understand you thus," said Fabian, who, without seeming to attach much importance to that which was said or done around him, relapsed into the melancholy silence which had become habitual to him. Gayferos turned his horse's head round, and the four travellers continued their journey in silence. At the expiration of an hour, during which Gayferos and the Canadian only exchanged a few words in a low tone, and to which Fabian, always absorbed in thought, gave no attention, the recollections of a past, not very remote, crowded upon the memory of the three travellers. They were again crossing the plain which extends beyond El Salto de Agua, and a few minutes afterwards they reached the torrent itself which foams down perpetually between the rocks. A bridge, the same size as the former one, replaced that which had been precipitated into the gulf below by those men who now slept their last sleep in the valley of gold, the object of their ambition. The Canadian here dismounted. "Now, Fabian," said he, "here Don Estevan was found; the three bandits (I except, however, poor Diaz, the tenor of the Indians) were there. See, here are still the prints of your horse's hoofs--when he slipped from this rock, dragging you downwards in his fall. Ah! Fabian, my child, I can even now see the water foaming around you--even now hear the cry of anguish I uttered. What an impetuous young man you then were!" "That I no longer am," said Fabian, smiling sadly. "Oh, no! at the present time your manner is imbued with the firm stoicism of an Indian warrior who smiles at the tortures of the stake. In the midst of these scenes your face is calm, yet I am convinced the recollections they recall to you must be harrowing in the extreme; is it not so, Fabian?" "You are mistaken, my father," replied Fabian; "my heart resembles this rock, where, though you say so, I no longer trace my horse's hoofs; and my memory is mute as the echo of your own voice, which you seem still to hear. When, before suffering me to return and live forever removed from the inhabitants of yonder deserts, you required as a last trial that I should again behold a spot which might recall old recollections, I told you those recollections no longer existed." A tear dimmed the Canadian's eye, but he concealed it by turning his back to Fabian as he remounted his mule. The travellers then crossed the bridge formed of the trunks of trees. "Do you trace upon this moss which covers the ground the print of my horse's hoofs when I pursued Don Estevan and his troop?" asked Fabian of Bois-Rose. "No! the dead leaves of the past winter have obliterated them--the grass which sprung up after the rainy season has grown over them." "Ah! if I raised the leaves, if I tore up the grass, I should again discover their traces, Fabian; and if I searched the depth of your heart--" "You would find nothing, I tell you," interrupted Fabian with some impatience; "but I am mistaken," he added, gently, "you would find a reminiscence of childhood, one of those in which you are associated, my father." "I believe it, Fabian, I believe it--you who have been the delight of my whole life; but I have told you that I will not accept your sacrifice until to-morrow at this hour, when you shall have seen all, even the breach in the old wall, over which you once sprung, wounded in body and spirit." A shudder, like that of the condemned on seeing the last terrible instrument of torture, passed through Fabian's frame. The travellers halted at length, in that part of the forest situated between the Salto de Agua and the hacienda, in the open space where Fabian had found in the Canadian and his comrade, friends whom God seemed to have sent to him from the extreme ends of the earth. Now the shades of night no longer obscured the silent depths of the American forest--a silence in which there is something awful when the sun in its zenith sends forth burning rays like blades of crimson fire, when the flower of the lliana closes its chalice, when the stems of the grass drop languidly downwards, as though in search of nourishment, and the whole face of nature, silent and inanimate, appears buried in sleep. The distant roar of the cataract was the only sound which at this hour broke the stillness of the forest. The travellers unsaddled, and having removed their horses' bridles, fastened them at some distance off. As they had travelled all night to escape the heat of the sun, they determined to take their siesta under the shade of the trees. Gayferos was the first who fell asleep. His affection for Fabian was not disturbed by any fears for the future. Pepe was not long in following his example. The Canadian only and Fabian did not close their eyes. "You are not sleeping, Fabian," said Bois-Rose, in a low voice. "No, nor you. Why do you not take some rest, like our companions?" "One cannot sleep, Fabian, in a spot consecrated by so many sacred memories," replied the old hunter. "This place is rendered holy to me. Was it not here that, by the intervention of a miracle, I again found you in the heart of this forest, after having lost you upon the wide ocean? I should be ungrateful to the Almighty if I could forget this-- even to obtain the rest which He has appointed for us." "I think as you do, my father, and listen to your words," replied the young Count. "Thanks, Fabian; thanks also to that God who ordained that I should find you with a heart so noble and so loving. See! here are still the remains of the fire near which I sat; here are the brands, still black, though they have been washed by the rain of an entire season. Here is the tree against which I leant on the happiest evening of my life, since it restored you to me; for now that I can again call you my son, each day of my existence has been fraught with happiness, until I learnt what I should have understood, that my affection for you was not that to which the young heart aspires." "Why so frequently allude to this subject, my father?" said Fabian, with that gentle submission which is more cutting than the bitterest reproach. "As you will. Let us not again allude to that which may pain you; we shall speak of it after the trial to which I have submitted you." The father and son--for we may indeed call them so--now maintained a long silence, listening only to the voices of nature. The sun approached the horizon, a light breeze sprung up and rustled among the leaves; already hopping from branch to branch, the birds resumed their song, the insects swarmed in the grass, and the lowing of cattle was heard in the distance. It was the denizens of the forest who welcomed the return of evening. The two sleepers awoke. After a short and substantial repast, of which Gayferos had brought the materials from the Hacienda del Venado, the four travellers awaited in calm meditation the hour of their great trial. Some time passed away before the azure sky above the open clearing was overcast. Gradually, however, the light of day diminished on the approach of twilight, and then myriads of stars shone in the firmament, like sparks sown by the sun as he quitted the horizon. At length, as on that evening to which so many recollections belonged, when Fabian, wounded, reached the wood-rangers by their fire, the moon illumined the summits of the trees and the glades of the forest. "Can we light a fire?" inquired Pepe. "Certainly; for it may chance that we shall spend the night here," replied Bois-Rose. "Is not this your desire, Fabian?" "It matters little to me," replied the young man; "here or yonder, are we not always agreed?" Fabian, as we have said, had long felt that the Canadian could not live, even with him, in the heart of towns, without yearning for the liberty and free air of the desert. He knew also that to live without him would be still more impossible for his comrade; and he had generously offered himself as a sacrifice to the affection of the old hunter. Bois-Rose was aware of the full extent of the sacrifice, and the tear he had that morning shed by stealth, was one of gratitude. We shall by-and-by enter more fully into the Canadian's feelings. The position of the stars indicated eleven o'clock. "Go, my son," said Bois-Rose to Fabian. "When you have reached the spot where you parted from the woman who perhaps loved you, put your hand upon your heart. If you do not feel its pulses beat quicker, return, for you will then have overcome the past." "I shall return, then," replied Fabian, in a tone of melancholy firmness: "memory is to me like the breath of the wind which passes by without resting, and leaves no trace." He departed slowly. A fresh breeze tempered the hot exhalations which rose from the earth. A resplendent moon shone upon the landscape at the moment when Fabian, having quitted the shadow of the forest, reached the open space intervening between it and the wall inclosing the hacienda. Until that moment he proceeded with a slow but firm step, but when, through the silver vapours of the night, he perceived the white wall with the breach in the centre partly visible, his pace slackened, and his knees trembled under him. Did he dread his approaching defeat? for his conscience told him already that he would be vanquished--or was it rather those recollections which, now so painfully recalled, rose up before him like the floods of the sea? There was a deep silence, and the night, but for a slight vapour, was clear. All at once Fabian halted and stood still like the dismayed traveller, who sees a phantom rise up in his path. A white and airy form appeared distinctly visible above the breach in the old wall. It resembled one of the fairies in the old legends of the north, which to the eye of the Scandinavian idolaters floated amidst vapours and mists. To the eye of Fabian it bore the angel form of his first and only love! For one instant this lovely apparition appeared to Fabian to melt away; but his eyes deceived him, for in spite of himself they were obscured. The vision remained stationary. When he had strength to move, he advanced nearer, and still the vision did not disappear. The young man's heart felt as if it would burst, for at this moment a horrible idea crossed his mind. He believed that what he saw was Rosarita's spirit, and he would rather a thousand times have known her living, though pitiless and disdainful, than behold her dead, though she appeared in the form of a gentle and benignant apparition. A voice, whose sweet accents fell upon his ear like heavenly music, failed to dispel the illusion, though the voice spoke in human accents. "Is it you, Tiburcio? I expected you." Even the penetration of a spirit from the other world could not have divined that he would return from such a distance. "Is it you, Rosarita?" cried Fabian, in a scarcely perceptible voice, "or a delusive vision which will quickly disappear?" And Fabian stood motionless, fixed to the spot, so greatly did he fear that the beloved image would vanish from his sight. "It is I," said the voice; "I am indeed here." "O God! the trial will be more terrible than I dared to think," said Fabian, inwardly. And he advanced a step forward, then paused; the poor young man did not entertain a hope. "By what miracle of heaven do I find you here?" he cried. "I come every evening, Tiburcio," replied the young girl. This time Fabian began to tremble more with love than hope. We have seen that Rosarita, in her last interview with Fabian, chose rather to run the risk of death than confess that she loved him. Since then she had suffered so much, she had shed so many tears, that now love was stronger than virgin purity. A young girl may sometimes, by such courage, sanctify and enhance her modesty. "Come nearer, Tiburcio," she said; "see! here is my hand." Fabian rushed forward to her feet. He seized the hand she offered convulsively, but he tried in vain to speak. The young girl looked down with anxious tenderness upon his face. "Let me see if you are much changed, Tiburcio," she continued. "Ah! yes. Grief has left its traces on your brow, but honour has ennobled it. You are as brave as you are handsome, Tiburcio. I learned with pride that danger had never made your cheek turn pale." "You heard, did you say?" cried Fabian; "but what have you heard?" "All, Tiburcio; even to your most secret thoughts. I have heard all, even of your coming here this evening. Do you understand? and I am here!" "Before I dare to comprehend, Rosarita,--for this time a mistake would kill me," continued Fabian, whose heart was stirred to its very depths by the young girl's words, and the tenderness of her manner, "will you answer one question, that is if I dare to ask it?" "Dare, then, Tiburcio," said Rosarita, tenderly. "Ask what you wish. I came to-night to hear you--to deny you nothing." "Listen," said the young Count: "six months ago I had to avenge my mother's death, and that of the man who had stood in my father's place, Marcos Arellanos; for if you know all, you know that I am no longer--" "To me you are the same, Tiburcio; I never knew Don Fabian de Mediana." "The wretch who was about to expiate his crime--the assassin of Marcos Arellanos, in short, Cuchillo--begged for his life. I had no power to grant it; when he cried, `I ask it in the name of Dona Rosarita, who loves you, for I heard--,' the suppliant was upon the edge of a precipice. I would have pardoned him for love of you; when one of my companions precipitated him into the gulf below. A hundred times, in the silence of the night, I recalled that suppliant voice, and asked myself in anguish, What did he then hear? I ask it of you this evening, Rosarita." "Once, once only, did my lips betray the secret of my heart. It was here, in this very spot, when you had quitted our dwelling. I will repeat to you what I then said." The girl seemed to be collecting all her strength, before she dared tell the young man that she loved him, and that openly and passionately; then--her pure countenance shining with virgin innocence, which fears not, because it knows no ill, she turned towards Tiburcio. "I have suffered too much," she said, "from one mistake, to allow of any other; it is thus, then, with my hands in yours, and my eyes meeting yours, that I repeat to you what I then said. You had fled from me, Tiburcio. I knew you were far away, and I thought God alone heard me when I cried: `_Come back, Tiburcio, come back! I love only you_!'" Fabian, trembling with love and happiness, knelt humbly at the feet of this pure young girl, as he might have done before a Madonna, who had descended from her pedestal. At this moment he was lost to all the world,--Bois-Rose, the past, the future--all were forgotten like a dream on awaking, and he cried in a broken voice: "Rosarita! I am yours forever! I dedicate my future life to you only." Rosarita uttered a faint cry. Fabian turned, and remained mute with astonishment. Leaning quietly upon his long carbine, stood Bois-Rose, a few paces from them, contemplating, with a look of deep tenderness the two lovers. It was the realisation of his dream in the isle of Rio Gila. "Oh, my father!" cried Fabian sadly; "do you forgive me for suffering myself to be vanquished?" "Who would not have been, in your place, my beloved Fabian?" said the Canadian, smiling. "I have broken my oath, my father!" continued Fabian; "I had promised never to love any other but you. Pardon! pardon!" "Child, who implores pardon, when it is I who should ask it?" said Bois-Rose; "you were more generous than I, Fabian. Never did a lioness snatch her cub from the hands of the hunters, and carry it to her den, with a more savage love than I dragged you from the habitations of men to hide you in the desert. I was happy, because all my affections were centred in you; and I believed that you might also be so. You did not murmur; you sacrificed, unhesitatingly, all the treasures of your youth--a thousand times more precious than those of the Golden Valley. I did not intend it should be so, and it is I who have been selfish, and not generous, for if you had died of grief, I should have died also." "What do you mean?" cried Fabian. "What I say, child. Who watched over your slumbers during long nights, to hear from your lips the secret wishes of your heart? It was I, who determined to accompany to this spot, Gayferos, whom at your intercession I saved from the hands of the Apaches. Who sent him to seek this beautiful and gracious lady, and learn if in her heart, she still treasured your memory? It was I still, my child, for your happiness is a thousand times more precious than mine. Who persuaded you to make this last trial? It was still I, my child, who knew that you must succumb to it. To-morrow I had said to you, I will accept your sacrifice; but Gayferos had even then read the most secret pages of this lady's heart. Why do you ask my pardon, when I tell you it is I, who should ask yours?" The Canadian, as he finished these words, opened his arms to Fabian, who eagerly rushed into his embrace. "Oh, my father," cried he, "so much happiness frightens me, for never was man happier than I." "Grief will come when God wills it," said the Canadian, solemnly. "But you, what will become of you?" asked Fabian, anxiously. "Your loss will be to me the only bitterness in my full cup of joy." "As God wills, my child," answered the Canadian. "It is true, I cannot live in cities, but this dwelling, which will be yours, is on the borders of the desert. Does not infinity surround me here? I shall build with Pepe--Ho, Pepe," said the hunter in a loud voice, "come and ratify my promise." Pepe and Gayferos came forward at the hunter's summons. "I and Pepe," he continued, "will build a hut of the trunks and bark of trees upon the spot of ground where I found you again. We shall not always be at home, it is true, but perhaps some time hence should you wish to claim the name and fortune of your ancestors in Spain, you will find two friends ready to follow you to the end of the world. Come, my Fabian, I have no doubt that I shall be even happier than you, for I shall experience a double bliss in my happiness and yours." But why dwell longer upon such scenes? happiness is so transitory and impalpable that it will not bear either analysis or description. "There remains but one obstacle now," resumed the hunter. "This sweet lady's father." "To-morrow he will expect his son," interrupted Rosarita, who stood by, listening with singular interest to the dialogue. "Then let me bless mine," said the Canadian. Fabian knelt before the hunter. The latter removed his fur cap, and with moist eyes raised to the starry heavens, he said-- "Oh! my God! bless my son, and grant that his children may love him as he has been loved by old Bois-Rose." The following day the illustrious Senator returned in sadness to Arispe. "I was sure," he said, "that I should unceasingly mourn for poor Don Estevan. I might at least have possessed, besides my wife's marriage portion, a title of honour and half a million of money. It is certainly a great misfortune that poor Don Estevan is dead." Sometime afterwards a hut made of the bark and trunks of trees was built in the forest glade so well-known to the reader. Often Fabian de Mediana, accompanied by Rosarita, to whom he was now united by the holy ties of marriage, performed a pilgrimage to the dwellers in the hut. Perhaps at a later period one of those pilgrimages might be undertaken with the view of claiming the assistance of the two brave hunters in an expedition to the Golden Valley or to the coast of Spain; but that is a thing of the future. Let us for the present be content with saying, that if the happiness of this world is not a vain delusion, in truth it exists at the Hacienda del Venado, enjoyed by Fabian, Rosarita, and the brave _Wood-Rangers_--Pepe and Bois-Rose. THE END. 
7087	----	GAUT GURLEY; OR, THE TRAPPERS OF UMBAGOG. A TALE OF BORDER LIFE. BY D. P. THOMPSON, CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Town and Country contrasted, in relation to Vice and Crime.--A Display Party to avoid Bankruptcy.--Gaut Gurley, and other leading Characters, introduced as Actors in this scene of City Life. CHAPTER II. Retrospect of the life of the Country Merchant, in making Money, to become a "Solid Man of Boston."--Humble Beginnings.--Tempted into Smuggling from Canada in Embargo times, and makes a Fortune, by the aid of the desperate and daring Services of Gaut Gurley.--A Sketch of the Wild Scenes of Smuggling over the British line into Vermont and New Hampshire.--Removal to the City. CHAPTER III. Gambling (an allegory) invented by the Fiends, and is proclaimed the Premium Vice by Lucifer.--A Gambling Scene between Gaut Gurley and the merchant, Mark Elwood.--The Failure of the latter.--The Refusal of his brother, Arthur Elwood, to help him.--The Surprise and Distress of his Family. CHAPTER IV. The Downward Path of the Habitual Gambler.--His Family sharing in the Degradation, and becoming the suffering Victims of his Vices.--The Sudden Resolve to be a Man again, and remove to an unsettled Country, to begin Life anew in the Woods. CHAPTER V. The moral and intellectual Influences of Forest Life.--Scenery of Umbagog.--Description of Elwood's new Home in the Woods.--The Burning of his first _Slash_.--His House catches Fire, and he and his Wife engage in extinguishing it, praying for the return of their Son, Claud Elwood, to help them in their terrible strait. CHAPTER VI. Claud Elwood and his Forest Musings.--Dangerous Assault, and slaying of a Moose.--Rescue of Gaut's Daughter from the enraged animal.--Strange Developments.--Incipient Love Scene.--Trout-catching.--Return of Claud and Phillips (the Old Hunter here first introduced), to aid in saving the Elwood Cottage from the fire.--The Thunder-shower comes to complete the conquest of the fire.--The destruction of the King Pine by a Thunderbolt. CHAPTER VII. Journey up the Magalloway, to bring home the slaughtered Moose.--Love and its entanglements; its Sunshine now, its Storms in the distance. CHAPTER VIII. Jaunt of Claud and Phillips over the Rapids to the next Great Lake, for Deer-hunting and Trout-catching.--Rescue of Fluella, the Indian Chief's Daughter, from Drowning in the Rapids.--Her remarkable Character for Intellect and Beauty. CHAPTER IX. The Logging Bee.--The introduction of a New Character in Comical Codman, the Trapper.--The Woodmen's Banquet.--The forming of the Trapping and Hunting Company, to start on an Expedition to the Upper Lakes. CHAPTER X. Developments of the dark and designing character of Gaut Gurley.---Tomah, the college-learned Indian. CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Elwood's Bodings, on account of the connection of her Husband and Son with Gaut and his Daughter.--Her Interview with Fluella.--Claud's Interview with Fluella and her Father, the Chief.--The Chief's History of his Tribe. CHAPTER XII. Adventures of the Trappers the first day of their Expedition up the Lakes.--Bear-hunt, Trout-catching, etc.--Introduction of Carvil, an amateur Hunter from the Green Mountains. CHAPTER XIII. The Trappers' Central Camp on the Maguntic Lake.--Three Stories of most remarkable Adventures in the Woods, told at the Camp-fire by three Hunters and Trappers. CHAPTER XIV. The Voyage to Oquossah, the farthest large Lake.--The stationing of the Trappers at different points on the Lake.--The appointment of Gaut as Keeper of the Central Camp, on the Lake below.--The Results of their Fall's Operations, and Preparations to return Home. CHAPTER XV. The Trappers overtaken by a terrible Snow-storm.--Their Suffering before reaching Central Camp.--The discovery that this Camp had been Burnt, and Robbed of their whole Stock of Furs.--Their Providential Escape from Death. CHAPTER XVI. The Legal Prosecution to Recover their Furs, or punish Gaut, the supposed Criminal.--The unsatisfactory Result, and Gaut's dark menaces of Revenge. CHAPTER XVII. Gaut's Efforts to get the old Company off into the Forest, on a Spring Expedition.--All refuse but Elwood and Son, who conclude to go.--Love Entanglements, and the boding Fears of Mrs. Elwood. CHAPTER XVIII. Opening of Spring in the Settlement.--The Trappers fail to Return.--Gaut comes without them.--The Alarm and Suspicions of the Settlers that he has Murdered, the Elwoods.--The Circumstantial Evidence. CHAPTER XIX. The attempt to Arrest Gaut.--His retreat to a Cave in the Mountain.--His final Dislodgement and Capture, for Trial and Examination. CHAPTER XX. Retrospect of the Adventures of Gaut and the Elwoods.--The Murder of Mark Elwood, and the Wounding of Claud, by Gaut.--Claud's life saved by Fluella. CHAPTER XXI. Gaut's Trial, Sentence, and Imprisonment.--General Denouement of the Story.--Gaut breaks Jail, escapes, and becomes a desperate Pirate-leader. SEQUEL. Awful Fate of a Pirate Ship.--Gaut's Death. CHAPTER I. "God made the country and man made the town." So wrote the charming Cowper, giving us to understand, by the drift of the context, that he intended the remark as having a moral as well as a physical application; since, as he there intimates, in "gain-devoted cities," whither naturally flow "the dregs and feculence of every land," and where "foul example in most minds begets its likeness," the vices will ever find their favorite haunts; while the virtues, on the contrary, will always most abound in the country. So far as regards the virtues, if we are to take them untested, this is doubtless true. And so far, also, as regards the mere _vices_, or actual transgressions of morality, we need, perhaps, to have no hesitation in yielding our assent to the position of the poet. But, if he intends to include in the category those flagrant crimes which stand first in the gradation of human offences, we must be permitted to dissent from that part of the view; and not only dissent, but claim that truth will generally require the very reversal of the picture, for of such crimes we believe it will be found, on examination, that the country ever furnishes the greatest proportion. In cities, the frequent intercourse of men with their fellow-men, the constant interchange of the ordinary civilities of life, and the thousand amusements and calls on their attention that are daily occurring, have almost necessarily a tendency to soften or turn away the edge of malice and hatred, to divert the mind from the dark workings of revenge, and prevent it from settling into any of those fatal purposes which result in the wilful destruction of life, or some other gross outrage on humanity. But in the country, where, it will be remembered, the first blood ever spilled by the hand of a murderer cried up to Heaven from the ground, and where the meliorating circumstances we have named as incident to congregated life are almost wholly wanting, man is left to brood in solitude over his real or fancied wrongs, till all the fierce and stormy passions of his nature become aroused, and hurry him unchecked along to the fatal outbreak. In the city, the strong and bad passions of hate, envy, jealousy, and revenge, softened in action, as we have said, on finding a readier vent in some of the conditions of urban society, generally prove comparatively harmless. In the country, finding no such softening influences, and no such vent, and left to their own workings, they often become dangerously concentrated, and, growing more and more intensified as their self-fed fires are permitted to burn on, at length burst through every barrier of restraint, and set all law and reason alike at defiance. And if this view, as we believe, is correct in regard to the operation of this class of passions, why not in regard to the operation of those of an opposite character? Why should not the same principle apply to the operation of love as well as hate? It should, and does, though not in an equal degree, perhaps, apply to them both. It has been shown to be so in the experience of the past. It is illustrated in many a sad drama of real life, but never more strikingly than in the true and darkly romantic incidents which form the groundwork of the tale upon which we are about to enter. It was on a raw and gusty evening in the month of November, a few years subsequent to our last war with Great Britain, and the cold and vapor-laden winds, which form such a drawback to the coast-clime of New England, were fitfully wailing over the drear and frost-blackened landscape, and the wayfarers, as if keenly alive to the discomforts of all without, were seen everywhere hurrying forward to reach those comforts within which were heralded in the cheerful gleams that shot from many a window, when a showy and conspicuous mansion, in the environs of Boston, was observed to be lighted up to an extent, and with a brilliancy, that betokened the advent of some ambitious display on the part of the bustling inmates. Carriages from different parts of the city were successively arriving, discharging their loads of gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen at the door, and rattling off again at the crack of the whips of the pert and jauntily equipped drivers. Others on foot, and from the more immediate neighborhood, were, in couples and singly, for some time constantly dropping in to swell the crowd, witness, and perhaps add to, the attractions of the occasion, which was obviously one of those social gatherings that have been sometimes, in conventional phrase, not inaptly denominated a _jam_; where people go to be in the fashion, to see, be seen, and try as hard as they can to be happy; but where the aggregate of happiness enjoyed is probably far less, as a general rule, than would be enjoyed by the same company at home in the pursuit of their ordinary avocations. Meanwhile, as the guests were assembling and being conducted to the withdrawing rooms, through the cash-bought and obsequious politeness of some of the troop of waiters hired for the occasion, the master of the mansion had taken his station in the nook of a window commanding the common entrance, and was there stealthily noting, as the company, severally or one group after another, mounted the doorsteps, who had honored his cards of invitation whom he wished to see there, and who had come whom he wished to have stayed away. He was a well-favored man, somewhat past the middle age of life, with regular features, and a good general appearance, but with one of those unsettled, fluctuating countenances which are usually found in men who, while affecting, perhaps, a show of independence, lack self-reliance, fixed principles, or some other of the essential elements of character. And such indeed was Mark Elwood, the reputedly wealthy merchant whom we have thus introduced as one of the leading personages of our story. Though often moved with kind and generous impulses, he yet was governed by no settled principles of benevolence; though often shrewd and sagacious, he yet possessed no true wisdom; and, though often bold and resolute in action, he yet lacked the faith and firmness of true courage. In short, he might be regarded as a fair representative of the numerous class we are daily meeting with in life,--men who do many good things, but more questionable ones; who undertake much, accomplish little; bustle, agitate, and thus contrive to occupy the largest space in public attention; but who, when sifted, are found, as Pope maliciously says of women, to "have no character at all." After pursuing his observations a while, with an air of disappointment or indifference, Elwood was about to turn away, when his eye caught a glimpse of an approaching group of guests, whose appearance at once lighted up his countenance with a smile of satisfaction, and he half-ejaculated: "There they come!--the solid men of Boston. The presence of these, with the others who will all serve as trumpeters of the affair, will quell every suspicion of my credit till some new strike shall place me beyond danger. Yes, just as I calculated, the money spent will be the cunningest investment I have made these six months. But who is that tagging along alone after the rest?" he added, his countenance suddenly changing to a troubled look, and slowly, and with a strange emphasis, pronouncing the name, "GAUT GURLEY!" he hurried away from his post of observation. The person whose obviously unexpected appearance among the arriving guests had so much disturbed our host, having leisurely brought up the rear, now paused a few paces from the door, and took a deliberate survey of all that was visible through the windows of the scene passing within. He was a man of a personal appearance not likely to be forgotten. His strong, upright, well-proportioned frame, full, rounded head, and unexceptionable features, were unusually well calculated to arrest the attention, and, at a little distance especially, to secure the favorable impressions of others; but those impressions faded away, or gave place to opposite emotions, on a nearer approach, for then the beholder read something in the countenance that met his, which made him pause,--something which he could not fathom, but which at once disinclined him to any acquaintance with the man to whom that countenance belonged. Perhaps it should be viewed as one of the kindest provisions of Providence, made in aid of our rights and instincts of self-preservation, that man should not be able wholly to hide the secrets of his heart from his fellow-men,--that the human countenance should be so formed that no schooling, however severe, can prevent it from betraying the evil thoughts and purposes which may be lurking within. It is said that God alone can read the secrets of the heart; but we have often thought that He has imparted to us more of this attribute of His omniscience than that which is vouchsafed us in any one of our other faculties; or, in other words, that, to the skill we may acquire by practice in reading the countenance, He has added something of the light of intuition, to enable us to pierce into the otherwise impenetrable recesses of the bosom, and thus guard ourselves against the designs which may there be disclosed, and which, but for that, the deceptions of the tongue might forever conceal. All this, we are aware, may pass as a mere supposition; yet we think its correctness will be very generally attested by officers of justice, policemen, jailers, and all those who have had much experience in the detection of crime. But, whether the doctrine is applicable or not in the generality of cases, it was certainly so in that of the unbidden guest whose appearance we have attempted to describe. Unlike Elwood, he had character, but all those who closely noted him were made to feel that his character was a dark and dangerous one. After Gaut, for such he was called among his acquaintance, had leisurely run his eye from window to window of the many lighted apartments of the house, and scanned, as he did, with many a sneering smile, the appearances within, as long as suited his pleasure, he boldly walked in, and, with all the assurance of the most favored, proceeded to mingle with the company. On quitting his lookout, Elwood repaired to the reception-room, where Mrs. Elwood, the mistress of the mansion, was already in waiting, nerving herself to perform, as acceptably as she could, her part of the stereotyped ceremony of receiving the guests, and exchanging with them the salutations and commonplaces of the evening. Mrs. Elwood, though not beautiful, nor even handsome, was yet every way a comely woman; and the quiet dignity and the unpretending simplicity of her manner, together with a certain intelligent and appreciating cast of countenance, which always rested on her placid, features, seldom failed to impress those who approached her with feelings of kindness and respect. She looked pale and fatigued, from the labors and anxieties she had gone through in the preparations for the present occasion; and, in addition to this, which is ever the penalty to the mistress of the house in getting up a large party, there was an air of sadness in her looks that told of secret sorrows which were not much mitigated by all the show of wealth that surrounded her. By this time the company, having mostly arrived and divested themselves of hats, gloves, bonnets, shawls, together with all other of the loose etceteras of dress then in vogue, and carefully consulted the confidential mirrors to secure that adjustment of collars, curls, smirks, and smiles which are deemed most favorable for effect in public, were now shown into the suit of apartments where the host and hostess were waiting to receive them. But it is far from our purpose to attempt a detailed description of the thousand little nothings which go to make up the character of one of these great fashionable parties. Who ever came from one the wiser? Not one guest in ten, probably, is found engaged in a conversation in which the ordinary powers of the speaker are exercised. A forced glee and smartness seem everywhere to prevail among the company, who are continually sacrificing their common sense in their eager attempts to appear gay and witty. Who was ever made really happier by being in such an assemblage? Although the participants may exhibit to casual observation the semblance of enjoyment, yet a close inspection will show that they are only _acting_, and that, as we have already intimated, their apparent enjoyment is no more deserving the name of social happiness than that which is often represented as enjoyed by a company of stage actors, in the harassing performance of the fictitious scenes of some genteel comedy. Who was ever made any better? Any rational discussion tending to exalt or purify the mind would be deemed out of place; and any moral teachings would be ridiculed or find no listeners. And, finally, who was ever made healthier? In the bad air generated among so many breaths in confined apartments, the high nervous excitement that usually prevails among the company, and the exposure to cold or dampness to which their unprepared systems are often subjected in returning home, Death has marked many a victim for his own; while, at the best, lassitude and depression are sure to follow, from which it will require days to recover. In these strictures on overgrown parties, we would not, of course, be understood as intending to include the smaller social gatherings, where men and women do not, as they are prone to do in crowds, lose their sense of personal responsibility, in deporting themselves like rational beings; for such doubtless often lead to pleasing and instructive interchange of thought, and the cultivation of those little amenities of life which are scarcely less essential than the virtues themselves in the structure of good society. But it is time we had returned from this digression to the characters and incidents immediately connected with the action of our tale. A short time after the frosts of formality, which usually attend the introductory scenes of such assemblages, had melted away and given place to the noisy frivolities of the evening, and while the bustling host, and pale, anxious-looking hostess, were together taking their rounds among their three hundred guests, bestowing their attentions on the more neglected, calling out the more modest, and exchanging civilities with all,--while this was passing, suddenly there arose from without a confused noise, as of quick movements and mingling voices, which, from its character and the direction whence it came, obviously indicated some altercation, or other disturbance, at the outer door. This attracting the quickened attention of Mr. and Mrs. Elwood, the former left his companion, and was threading his way through the throng, when he was met by a servant, who in a flurried under-tone said: "There is out here at the door, Mr. Elwood, a sort of a countryfied, odd-looking old fellow, in rusty brown clothes, that has been insisting on coming in, without being invited here to-night, and without telling his business or even giving his name. And he pressed so hard that we had to drive him back off the steps; but he refused to go away, even then, and kept asking where Mark was." "Mark! why, that is my given name: didn't you know it?" said Elwood, rebukingly. "No, sir, I didn't," replied the fashionable _pro tempore_ lackey. "And if I had, my orders has always been on sech occasions not to admit any but the invited, who won't send in their names, or tell their business. And I generally calculate to go by Gunter, and do the thing up genteel." "Well, well," said Elwood, impatiently cutting short the other in the defence of his professional character, and leading the way to the door, "well, well, we had better see who he is, perhaps." When they reached the front entrance, they caught, by means of the reflected light of the entry and chambers, an imperfect view of the object of their proposed scrutiny, walking up and down the bricked pathway leading to the house. But, not being able to identify the new-comer with any one of his acquaintances, at that distance, Elwood walked down and confronted him; when, after a momentary pause, he siezed the supposed intruder by the hand, and, in a surprised and agitated tone, exclaimed: "My brother Arthur! How came you here?" "By steam and stage." "Not what I meant: but no matter. We were not expecting you; and I fear the waiters have made a sad mistake." "As bad an one as I did, perhaps, in declining to be catechized at my brother's door." "No, _you_ were right enough; but the waiters, being only here for the extra occasion,--the bit of flare-up you see we have here to-night,--and not knowing you, thought they must do as others do at such times. So overlook the blunder, if you will, and walk in." Mark Elwood, much chagrined and discomposed at the discovery of such an untoward first reception of his brother, now ushered him into the brilliantly-lighted hall, where the two stood in such singular contrast that no stranger would have ever taken them for brothers,--Mark being, as we have before described him, a good-sized, and, in the main, a good-looking man; while the other, whom we have introduced as Arthur Elwood, was of a diminutive size, with commonplace features, and a severe, forbidding countenance, made so, perhaps, by intense application to business, together with the unfavorable effect caused by a blemished and sightless eye. "Well, brother," said Mark, after a hesitating and awkward pause, "shall I look you up a private room, or will you go in among the company,--that is, if you consider yourself in trim to join them?" "Your rooms must all be in use, and I should make less trouble to go in and be lost in the crowd. My trim will not kill anybody, probably," was the dry reply to the indirect hint of the other. In all this Mark's better judgment coincided; but he had no moral courage, and, fearing the cut and color of his somewhat outre-looking brother's garments might excite the remarks of his fashionable guests, he would have gladly disposed of him in some private manner till the company had departed. Finding him, however, totally insensible to all such considerations, he concluded to make the best of it, and accordingly at once led the way into the guest-crowded apartments. Here, contrary to his doubting brother's expectation, Arthur Elwood, whose character appeared to be known to several of the wealthier guests, was soon treated with much respect, for, in addition to what a previous knowledge of him secured, Mrs. Elwood had promptly come forward to greet him, and be cordially greeted in return, and, unlike her husband, had not hesitated to bestow on him publicly the most marked attentions. As soon, however, as she had thus testified her sense of the superiority of worth over outward appearance, and thus, by her delicate tact, given him the consideration with the company which she thought belonged to the brother of her husband, she gracefully relinquished him to the latter; when the two, by tacit mutual consent, sought a secluded corner, and seated themselves for a private conversation. "As I said, I did not expect you, Arthur," commenced Mark Elwood, in the unsteady and hesitating tone of one about to broach a matter in which he felt a deep interest. "I was not looking for you here at all, these days; but presumed, when I wrote you, that, if you concluded to grant the favor I asked, you would transact the business through the mail." "Loans of money are not always favors, Mark," responded the other, thoughtfully; "and when I make them, I like to know whether they promise any real benefit. I could, as you say, have transacted the business through the mail, but I confess, Mark, I have lately had some misgivings and doubts whether your commercial fabric here in Boston was not too big and broad for the foundation; and I thought I would come, see, and judge for myself." "But I only asked for the loan of a few thousands," said Mark, meekly. "The fact is, Arthur, that, owing to some bad luck and disappointments in money matters, I am, just now, a little embarrassed about meeting some of my engagements; and I trust you will not refuse to give me a lift. What say you, Arthur?" "I don't say, but will see and decide," replied the other. "But, Mark," he added, after a pause, "Mark, what will this useless parade here to-night cost you?" "O, a mere trifle,--a few hundreds, perhaps." "And you think hundreds well spent, when you are wanting thousands to pay your debts, do you?" "O, you know, Arthur, a man, to keep up his credit, must _display_ a little once in a while." "No, I did not know that, Mark. I did not know that the throwing away of hundreds would help a man's credit in thousands, especially with those whose opinion would be of any use to him. But go," added the speaker, rising, "go and see to your company: I can take care of myself." The brothers, rising from an interview in which they had felt, perhaps, nearly an equal degree of secret embarrassment,--the one believing that his last hope hung on the result, and the other feeling conscious of entering on a most ungracious duty,--now separated, and mingled with the gay throng, who, swaying hither and thither, and, seemingly without end or aim, moving round and round their limited range of apartments, like the froth in the circling eddies of a whirlpool, continued to laugh, flirt, and chatter on, till the advent of the last act of the social farce,--the throwing open of a suit of hitherto sealed apartments, and the welcome disclosure of the varied and costly delicacies of the loaded refreshment tables, which the company, by their strong and simultaneous rush thitherward, the rattling of knives and forks, spoons and glasses, the rapid popping of champagne corks, and the low, eager hum of gratified voices that followed, evidently deemed the best, as well as the closing, act of the evening's entertainment. While this scene was in progress, Gaut Gurley, who had been for some time in vain watching the opportunity, caught Mark Elwood unoccupied in one of the vacated apartments, and abruptly approached and confronted him. "Well, what now, Gaut?" exclaimed Elwood, with an assumed air of pettishness, after finding there was no further chance of escaping an interview which he had evidently been trying to avoid; "what would you have now?" "I would just know whether you intend to keep your engagement," replied Gurley, fixing his black, quivering eyes keenly on the other. "What engagement?" "To give me a chance to win back that money." "Which you demand when you have taken from me an hundred to one!" "And who had a better right? Through whose means did you make your fortune? Besides this, haven't I always given you a fair chance to win back all you could?" "I want no more of such chances," "But you promised; and I want to know whether you mean to keep that promise or not." "Supposing I do, you would not have me leave home to-night, would you?" "Yes, to-night." "But my brother, as you have already discovered, I presume, has just arrived on a visit; and you know I can't decently leave him." "And what do _I_ care for that? Say whether you will meet me at the old room, or not, as soon as your company have cleared out?" "You are unreasonable, cruel, Gaut." "Then say you will _not_ go, and see what will come of it, Mark Elwood!" "I must go--I _will_ go, Gaut," replied Elwood, turning pale at the last intimation. "As soon as I get rid of the company, I will start directly for the place." "Well, just as you can afford," said Gaut, doggedly, as he turned on his heel, and made his way out of the house. Mark Elwood drew a long breath as he was thus relieved of the other's presence, and was leaving the room, when Mrs. Elwood, who had felt much disturbed at discovering among her guests one of whose questionable character and connection with her husband she was already apprised, and who, from an adjoining apartment, had caught a slight glimpse of the meeting just described, and enough of the conversation to enable her to guess at its import, hurriedly came forward, and, in a voice tremulous from suppressed emotion, said: "You surely are not going out to-night, Mr. Elwood?" "No--that is--only for a short time," he said, hesitating, and a little confused at the discovery of his design, which a second thought told him she had made; "only for a short time. But don't stop me to talk now; you see the company are retiring. I must see the gentlemen off." "Mr. Elwood, I must be heard," persisted the troubled and anxious wife. "I cannot bear to have you go off, and leave your only brother, whom you have not seen for years, and for such company! O Mr. Elwood, how can you let that bad man--" "Hush! don't get into such a stew. I shall soon be back," interrupted the other. "You can excuse my absence. There, I hear them inquiring for me. I must go," he added, abruptly breaking away, and leaving his grieved companion to hide her emotions as she best could from the guests who were now seen approaching for their parting salutations. In a few minutes the company had dispersed for their respective homes, and with them, also, had unnoticed slipped away their infatuated host. CHAPTER II. "At first, he, busy, plodding poor, Earned, saved, and daily swelled his store; But soon Ambition's summits rose, And Avarice dug his mine of woes." For the better understanding of some of the allusions of the preceding chapter, and of others that may yet appear in different parts of our tale, as well, indeed, as for a better appreciation of the whole, we will here turn aside from the thread of the narrative just commenced, to take a brief retrospect of the leading events and circumstances with which the previous lives of the several personages we have introduced had been connected, and among which their characters had been shaped and their destinies determined. Some twenty two or three years previous to the juncture we have been describing, Arthur and Mark Elwood, by the fruits of their unremitting industry as laborers on a farm in summers, and as pedlars of what they could best buy and sell in winters, added to the few hundred dollars patrimony they each inherited, were enabled, in a few years, to realize the object of their early ambition, in the opening of a small retail store, in one of the little outskirt villages of northern New-Hampshire. Such, like that of hundreds of others among us who now count their wealth by half millions, was the slender beginning of these two brothers. And, although they were from the first, as we have seen them at the last, as different in their general characters as they were in their persons, they yet got on very well together; for, however they might disagree respecting the modes and means of acquisition, they were always as one in regard to the great result each alike had in view, and that was to make money and be rich. And, by a sort of tacit understanding, falling into the departments of business best suited to their different tastes and capacities, the quiet, cautious, calculating, and systematic Arthur confined himself to the store, kept the books, contrived the _ways and means_, and, in short, did the principal head-work of the establishment; while Mark, being of a more stirring turn, and, from his brisk _bon homme_ manner and less scrupulous disposition, better calculated for drumming up customers and securing bargains for the store, did most of the outdoor business, riding about the country, contracting for produce, securing barter deal, and making himself, in all things, the runner and trumpeter of the company. At night they usually met together to compare notes and report progress; and they were never happier than when they sat down in their small store-room, hemmed in and surrounded by casks of nails, quintals of codfish, farming tools, etc., on one side, and narrow shelves of cheap calicos, India cottons, and flaunting ribbons, on the other, and recounted to each other the business and bargains of the day. Thus the two, working on, like the spring and balance-wheel of some piece of mechanism, in harmony together, soon placed themselves beyond all fears of failure, and seemed happy and contented with their situation and prospects. This situation of affairs, however, was not destined to be of very long continuance. Not long after finding themselves safely on the highway to independence, they very naturally began to think of selecting, from among the fair young customers of their store, the ones who might make them eligible companions for life. And, as the wayward love-fates would have it, they both secretly fixed their affections on one and the same girl,--the pretty and sensible Alice Gregg, who, though a plain farmer's daughter, was, to the vexation and envy of her numerous rustic suitors, to be won by nothing short of one of the village merchants. Alice was not long in discovering her advantage, nor in deciding to avail herself of it, so far as to confine her election to one of these, her two undeclared lovers. And, after balancing a while in her mind the account between her judgment, which would have declared for the reserved but sterling Arthur, and her fancy, which clamored hard for the manly-looking and more social Mark, she finally yielded the reins to the latter, and took measures accordingly. After this, Arthur's taste in selecting a piece of goods did not, as before, seem to be appreciated. Her handkerchief was never dropped where he had any chance to pick it up; and she was never quite ready to go till Mark was nearest at hand to help her into her wagon or side-saddle. By this delicate system of female tactics, common with girls of more pretensions than Alice, she effectually repressed the advances of the one, and as effectually encouraged those of the other; and the result, as she had anticipated, was a declaration from Mark, an acceptance on her part, and a speedy marriage between them. Arthur's heart bled at the event; but it bled inwardly; and he had at least the consolation of believing that no one suspected the state of his feelings, except, perhaps, Alice, and he was not unwilling that _she_ should know them. He therefore put the best face on the matter he could,--appeared wholly unconcerned,--attended the wedding, and with forced gayety _openly_ wished the new married couple the happiness which he _secretly_ wished was his own. The tender passion had been a new thing to the money-loving Arthur. By its elevating influences, he, who had looked for enjoyment only in wealth, had been enabled to raise his vision to a higher sphere of happiness. And thus to lose the bright glimpses, and be thrown back to earth again, was, in reality, however he might disguise the fact from others, a serious blow to his feelings, and one, indeed, which soon mainly led to a movement on his part that gave a new turn to his apparent destinies, and a no less one, probably, to those of his then almost envied brother Mark. For, finding it impossible to feel his former interest in business, in a place whose associations had become painful to him, he secretly resolved to leave it as soon as he believed he could do so without leading to any surmises respecting the true cause of the change he contemplated. Accordingly, in a few months, he began to suggest his own unfitness for making a profitable partner in country trade, and finally came out with a direct proposition to his brother to buy him out at a sum which he knew would be a temptingly low one. And the result was, that the proposition was accepted, "the partnership dissolved by mutual consent," and the released Arthur, with his portion, soon on his way to one of the eastern seaports, to set up business, as he soon did, for himself alone. The withdrawal of Arthur Elwood deprived this little establishment of its only really valuable guidance, and left it to the chance fortunes of greater gains or greater losses than would have been likely to occur under the cautious and hazard-excluding system of business which he had adopted for its control. But, nothing for a year or two occurring to induce Mark Elwood to depart from the system under which the business had been conducted, and Arthur's prudent maxims of trade, to which he had been accustomed to defer, remaining fresh in his mind, he naturally kept on in the old routine, which he was the more willing to follow, as by it he found himself clearly on the advance. He was blessed in his family; for his wife, who had no undue aspirations for wealth or show, had not only proved an efficient helper by her economy and good counsels, but added still more to his gratification by bringing him a promising boy. Being the only trader of the village, or hamlet it might more properly be called, he was conscious of being the object of that peculiar kind of favor and respect which was then--more freely than at the present day, perhaps--accorded to the country merchant by the masses among whom he resided. And, finding his still comparatively moderate expectations thus every day fully realized, he was satisfied with his condition in the present, and hopeful and happy in the prospects it presented in the future; for the demon of unlawful gain had not then tempted him into forbidden paths by the lure of sudden riches. But that demon at length came in the shape of Gaut Gurley. From what part of the country this singular and questionable personage originally came, was unknown, even in the neighboring village (which was within the borders of Maine) where he had recently located himself with a young wife and child. And, as he very rarely made any allusions to his own personal affairs, every thing relating to his origin, life, and employments, previous to his appearance in this region, was a matter of mere conjecture, and many a dark surmise, also, we should add, respecting his true character. For the last few years, however, he was known to have followed, at the appropriate seasons of the year, the business of trapping, or trading for furs with the Indians, around the northern lakes. He had several times passed through the village on his returns from his northern tours, and called on the Elwoods, whose contrasted characters he seemed soon to understand. But he pressed no bargains upon them for his peltries; for, disliking the close questionings and scrutinizing glances of Arthur, and finding he could make no final trade with Mark without the assent of the former, he gave up all attempts of the kind, and did not call again during the continuance of the partnership, nor till this time; when, finding that Mark was in trade alone, he announced his intention of spending some time in the village, to see what arrangements could be made, as he at first held out to Elwood, for establishing this as his place for the regular sales or deposit of his furs. But the fur traffic, whatever it might have been formerly, was now not the main, if any part of the object he had in view. The times had changed, closing many of the old avenues of trade, but opening new ones to tempt the ever restless spirit of gain. And, although the fur trade was still profitable, there was yet another springing up, which, for those who, like him, had no scruples about engaging in it, promised to become far more so. The restrictions which it had been the policy of our government to throw around commerce, in the incipient stages of our last national quarrel with Great Britain, had caused an unprecedented rise in the prices of silks and other fine fabrics of foreign import. This had put whatever there was of the two alleged leading traits of Yankee character, acquisitiveness and ingenuity, on the _qui vive_ to obtain those goods at the former prices, for the purpose of home speculation. And Canada, being separated by a land boundary only from the States, presented to the greedy eyes of hundreds of village mammonists, who, like Elwood, were plodding along at the slow jog of twenty per cent profits, opportunities of so purchasing as to quadruple their gains; which were quite too severe a test for their slender stock of patriotism to withstand. It was but a natural consequence, therefore, that all of them whose love of gain was not overcome by their fear of loss by detection and the forfeiture of their goods, should soon be found, in spite of all the vigilance and activity of the host of custom-house officers by whom the government had manned the Canadian lines, secretly engaged in that contraband traffic. The history of smuggling as carried on between the Northern States and Canada, from the enactment of the embargo at the close of 1807, and especially from the enactment of the more stringent non-intercourse law of 1810, to the declaration of war in 1812, and even, to a greater or less extent, to the proclamation of peace in 1815, is a portion of our annals that yet remains almost wholly unwritten. Although the contraband trade in question was doubtless more or less followed along the entire extent of our northern boundaries, from east to west, yet along no portions of them half so extensively, probably, as those, of Vermont and New Hampshire, which, from their close contiguity to Montreal and Quebec, the only importing cities of the Canadas, afforded the most tempting facilities and the best chances for success. Along these borders, indeed, it was for years one almost continuous scene of wild warfare between the custom-house officers and their assistants, and the smugglers and their abettors, both parties carrying arms, and the smugglers, especially, going armed to the teeth. In these skirmishes many were, at different times, killed outright; many more were missing, even on the side of the officials, for whom dark fates were naturally conjectured; while hundreds, on both sides, were crippled or otherwise seriously wounded. Sometimes, when a double sleigh, or wagon, deeply laden with smuggled goods, in charge of three or four stout and resolute fellows aboard, who, with as many more, perhaps, of their confederates on horseback or in light teams, before and behind, were making their way, at full speed, with their prize, from the line to some secret and safe depository in the interior, was suddenly beset and brought to a stand by an equal or greater number of government officials, deeply intent on a seizure, a most furious conflict would ensue, in which the combatants, growing desperate for the seizure or defence of the prize, would ply their hard yeoman fists, clubs, loaded whipstocks, or whatever was at hand, with terrible effect, and often prolong the melee till the snow or ground was encrimsoned with blood, and scarcely an uninjured man remained on the ground. Sometimes the besetting officials were made prisoners, and marched off at the cocked pistol's mouth into the deep woods, and, after being led forward and backward through the labyrinths of the forest till bewildered and lost, were suddenly left to find their way out as they best could,--a feat which there was no danger of their accomplishing till long after both the smugglers and their goods were beyond the reach of pursuers. And sometimes the smugglers, when closely pressed and seeing no hope of rescue if taken, as their last resort, drew their dirks and pistols; and wo to the official who then persisted in attempting a seizure. But the system of tactics more generally practiced by the smugglers was that of craft and concealment, carried out by some ingenious measure to prevent all suspicion of the times and places of their movements, by travelling in the night or in stormy weather, or in the most unfrequented routes, and, when pursued, by putting the pursuers on false scents, or by feints of running away with loads of empty boxes to mislead pursuit, till the goods, which had been previously taken to some place of temporary concealment, could be removed from the vicinity of the search and sent on their destination. Such were the general features of the illicit traffic which characterized the period of which we are treating,--a traffic which laid the foundations of many a village fortune, whose dashing heirs would not probably be very willing to acknowledge the true source from which the wealth and position they may now be enjoying was derived,--and finally a traffic which, in its attending homicides and desperate affrays, its hot pursuits and marvellous escapes, its curious concealments and artful subterfuges, and, lastly, in the family and neighborhood feuds which it left behind, would furnish materials for a series of tales as wild and romantic, if not always as creditable to the actors, as any thing ever yet spread before the public. It was this questionable business which was then occupying the thoughts of Gaut Gurley, and in which it was his aim to involve Mark Elwood, whom he had pitched on for the purpose, as not only a man of sufficient means, with no scruples which could not be overcome, but a man whom he believed he could make dependent on him, when once enlisted, and to whom he could dictate terms for his own services. And it is no wonder that a man of his dark cunning, working on one of the obtuse moral sense, the love of money, and the thoughtlessness of consequences, of Elwood, should, as he did, soon completely succeed in his objects. For, after having kindled Elwood's political prejudices against the embargo law, which was held up to be such an outrage on the commercial rights of the North that it were almost a merit to violate it, Gaut proceeded to show how enormous were the profits to be made in this trade, and how safely the goods might be smuggled in, through the back roads and forest routes with which he was familiar, by employing Frenchmen, as he could, at a cheap rate, to bring them in large panniers on the backs of their Canadian ponies, or by engaging Indians, who could be enlisted for even less wages, to bring them in knapsacks through the woods. And so clearly did he demonstrate all this to the mind of Elwood, that the latter, being unable any longer to resist the temptation of thus securing the gains of a traffic, by the side of which the small profits of his store at home dwindled into contempt, soon resolved to engage in it. From this time Gaut was in high favor with Elwood. The two, indeed, seemed to have suddenly become inseparable. They were always found together, and always engaged in some closely private conversation, the purport of which no others were permitted to know, or were enabled to conjecture, except from the new business movement which was observed soon to follow the forming of their mysterious connection. And that movement was that Elwood put his store in charge of a clerk, and, giving out that he was about to engage more extensively in the fur trade, which would require him to be often absent, went off with a strong and fleet double team, in a northerly direction, with Gaut for his only companion. With the advent of this new era in the life of Elwood, every thing became changed about his establishment. His bustling presence, with his bantering, off-hand, and communicative talk, no longer enlivened the store and neighborhood; and people, who before seemed to know every thing about his business and plans, now knew nothing. For he was now most of the time absent in conducting his operations at the north, or in his stealthy journeyings thence to the cities, to receive and dispose of the valuable packages which he had put on their passage. He generally came and departed in the night, and, even during his brief stays at home, he kept himself secluded, seeming to wish to be seen as little as possible. All this, of course, led to considerable talk and various speculations; but he so well shrouded his movements from the public, and kept afloat so many plausible stories to account for his change of business, that he prevented suspicions from taking any definite shape about home, or spreading abroad to any extent that endangered his operations, although those operations were constantly continued for years, and, from cautious and small beginnings, at length became more bold, extensive, and successful, perhaps, than any thing of the kind ever carried on in the interior of New England. But there was one whose suspicions of the true character of the business in which he was engaged, notwithstanding his denials and evasions, even to her, and whose fears and anxieties on account of the dangers she believed he was constantly incurring, not only from seizure of his property and the personal violence to which he was exposed in trying to defend it, but from his association of reckless confederates, especially Gaut Gurley, of whose dark character, as little as she had seen of him, she was already filled with an instinctive dread,--there was one whose suspicions, and consequent anxieties, he could never succeed in quieting; and that was his discreet and faithful wife. She had, during the first year or two of his new career, often expostulated with him on the doubtful character of his business; but he, by always making light of her fears, by telling her some truth and withholding more, and disclosing as great a part of his astonishing gains as he supposed would pass with her for honest acquisitions, generally silenced, if he did not convince, her; and she, finding him always light-hearted and satisfied with himself, when he came home, finally ceased her remonstrances, having concluded she would try to conquer her doubts and fears, or at least say no more on the subject. At length, however, after a prolonged absence on a tour, in which he had a large venture at stake, he came home in a greatly altered mood. His usual buoyancy of spirits was gone; he appeared gloomy and abstracted; and, although, in reply to the anxious inquiries of his wife, he represented himself to have been entire successful,--even to a greater extent than ever before,--yet it was quite obvious that something very untoward, to say the least, must have happened to him. He would not leave his house after dark, he placed loaded pistols within the reach of his hand when he went to bed, and he would often start up wildly from his sleep. His whole conduct, indeed, was such as to excite the deeper concern of his perplexed wife, for she feared it betokened his connection with something very wrong,--something that had brought him into deadly peril,--something, perhaps, done to others, which made her tremble to think of, but something, at all events, which made her more than ever dread to have him go back again to the scene of his operations. But of the last-named of her fears she was shortly relieved; for, to her agreeable surprise, he soon assured her of his determination to break off entirely from the business he had been pursuing, and, as much to her gratification as to the evident vexation of Gaut Gurley, who had come on to look his employer up, he firmly persisted in carrying out his resolution. Nor was this all. He rapidly drew his business to a close, broke off his old associations, privately left the place, and, in a few weeks, sent for his family to join him in Boston, where it appeared he had been for some time secretly transferring his capital, and where he had now established himself in business, with all the means required, even there, of doing it to the best advantage. And for some years he _did_ engage in business to advantage, the same strangely good luck attending him, and prospering wonderfully in all he undertook, till he gained the reputation of being among the wealthiest of the city. But the spoiler came in a second appearance of Gaut Gurley, who, having squandered in the country the bounteous sums of money which Elwood had paid him for his services, now followed the latter to the city. And, with the coming of that personage, together with the foolish ambition that had, about that time, seized Elwood, to outshine some of his city competitors in display and expensive living, commenced the wane of a fortune which, as large as it was, it had required but two short years to bring to the verge on which we represented its unhappy master as standing in the opening scene of our story. Having now related all we designed in this retrospect of events, we will return from the somewhat long but necessary digression, and take up the thread of the narrative where we left it. CHAPTER III. "I strive in vain to set the evil forth. The words that should sufficiently accurse And execrate the thing, hath need Come glowing from the lips of eldest hell. Among the saddest in the den of woe, Most sad; among the damn'd, most deeply damn'd." Once on a time, before the dark catalogue of vices was made complete by the wicked inventions of men, or the evil made to counterbalance the good in the world, the Arch Enemy of mankind, deeply sensible of the vantage-ground occupied by the antagonistic Being, and anxiously casting about him for the means of securing an equilibrium of power, called around him a small company, consisting of those of his Infernal subjects whom he had previously noted for their excellence, in subtility and devilish invention, and, after fully explaining his wants and wishes to his keenly appreciating auditory, made proclamation among them, that the Demon who should invent a new vice, which, under the name and guise of Pastime, should be best calculated to seduce men from the paths of virtue, pervert their hearts, ruin them for earth and educate them for hell, should be awarded a crown of honor, with rank and prerogative second only to his own. He then, with many a gracious and encouraging word to incite in them a spirit of emulation, and nerve them for exertion in the important enterprise thus set before them, dismissed them, to go forth among men, observe, study, and come again before him on a designated time, to report the results of their respective doings, and submit them to his decision. Eager to do the will of their lord and Lucifer; as well as to gain the tempting distinctions involved in his award, the commissioned, fiend-group dispersed, and scattered themselves over the earth, which was understood to be their field of operations. And, after noting, as long as they chose, all the different phases of human society, the secret inclinations of those composing it, their follies, weaknesses, and points most vulnerable to temptation, they each returned to the dark dominions whence they came, to cogitate in retirement, concoct and reduce to form those schemes for securing the great object in view, which their observations and discoveries on earth had suggested. At the time appointed for the hearing and decision, the demoniac competitors again assembled before their imperial arbiter; not this time in secret conclave, but in the presence of thousands of congregated fiends, who, having been apprised of the new plan about to be presented for peopling the Commonwealth of Hell with recruits from earth, had come up in all directions from their dismal abodes, to hear those plans reported, and witness the awarding of the prize for the one judged most worthy of adoption. Lucifer then mounted his throne, commanded silence, and ordered the competitors to advance and present, in succession, such plans as they would lay before him for his consideration and decision. They did so; and one of them, a young and genteel-looking devil, to whom, from a suppose congeniality of tastes and feelings with the objects of his care, had been especially assigned the duty of supervising the fashionable walks of society, now stepped confidently forward and said: "I present for your consideration, most honored Lucifer, I present FASHION as one of those social institutions of men which might the most easily become, with a little fostering at our hands, to us the most productive of vices, under a name least calculated to alarm. It already holds an almost omnipotent sway over the wealthier, or what they call the higher, classes of society, who hesitate at no sins that can be committed with its sanction; and the disposition is every day growing stronger and stronger, among all classes, to fall in with its behests. Encourage its progress, make its rule absolute with all, and the world's boasted morality would trouble us, devils, no more. This would be the direct and natural result among the most wealthy, who would leave no vice unpracticed, no sin uncommitted, provided they could excuse themselves under plea that it was fashionable. With those of more limited means the effect would be still better; for devotion to Fashion would beget extravagance--extravagance, poverty--poverty, desperation--desperation, crime; so with all classes, the result, for our purpose, would be equally favorable and _much the same_. The new vice I therefore propose is the one to be made out of, and go under the name of, FASHION." "There may be something in this conception," said Lucifer, thoughtfully, after the speaker had closed; "but is it safe against all contingencies? What if the world should take it into their heads to make it fashionable to be good?" "Not the least danger of that," rejoined the other, promptly. "That is a contingency about as likely to happen as that your highness should turn Christian," he added, with a sardonic grin. "You are right," responded Lucifer; "and, as your scheme comes within the rule, on the score of originality, we will reserve it for consideration." "My plan," said the next demon who spoke, "consists in inciting man to the general use of intoxicating drinks, under the plea of taking a social glass; for, let the use of these become general, and all men were devils ready made, and---" "True, most true!" interrupted Lucifer; "but that is not new. That is a vice I invented myself, as long ago as the time Noah was floating about in the ark, and the first man I caught with it was the old patriarch himself. Since then it has been my most profitable agent in the earth, bringing more recruits to my kingdom than all the other vices put together. But our present movement was to insure something new. The plan, therefore, does not come within the rule, and must be set aside." "The new vice which I propose," said the third demon who came forward, "is involved in the general cultivation of music, which I contend would render men effeminate, indolent, voluptuous, and finally vicious and corrupt, so that whole nations might eventually be kept out of heaven and secured for hell through its deteriorating influences." "I am not a little dubious about trying to make a vice out of music, which would be all reliable for our purposes," remarked Lucifer, with a negative shake of the head. "I fear it might prove a sword which would cut both ways. It may, it is true, be doing a pretty fair business just now in some localities; but methinks I already see, in the dim vista of the earth's future, a cunning Wesley springing up, and exhorting his brethren 'Not to let the Devil have all the good tunes, but appropriate them to the service of the Lord.' Now if the religious world should have wit enough, as I greatly fear me they would, to follow the sagacious hint of such a leader, they might make music an agency which would enlist two followers for the white banner of Heaven where it would one for the red banner of Hell. The experiment would be one of too doubtful expediency to warrant the trial. The proposition, therefore, cannot be entertained." Many other methods of creating an efficient new vice were then successively proposed by the different competitors; but they were all, for some deficiency, or want of originality, in turn, rejected, till one more only remained to be announced; when its author, an old, dark-eyed demon, who was much noted for his infernal cunning, and who, conscious perhaps of the superiority of his device, had contrived to defer its announcement till the last, now came forward, and said: "The scheme I have devised for the accomplishment of the common object of the patriotic enterprise which your Highness has put afoot, proposes a new vice, which, passing under the guise of innocent pastime, will not only, by itself, be fully equal to any other of the many vices now known among men, for its certainty to lure them to its embrace, fascinate, infatuate, deprave, and destroy them, but will insure the exercise and combine the powers of them all. It addresses itself to the intellectual by the implied challenge it holds out to them to make a trial of their skill; it appears to the unfortunate in business as a welcome friend, which is rarely turned away; it presents to pride and vanity the means of gratification that are not to be rejected; it holds out to avarice an irresistible temptation; it begets habits of drunkenness; and thus insures all the fruits of that desolating vice; it engenders envy, hatred, and the spirit of revenge; in short, it brings into play every evil thought and passion that ever entered the head and heart of man, while it the most securely holds its victims, and most speedily hunts them down to ruin and death." "The name? the name?" eagerly shouted an hundred voices from the excited fiend-throng around. "The name," resumed the speaker, in reply, "the name by which I propose to christen this new and terrible device of mine, to counteract the power of virtue, and curtail the dominions of Heaven, is GAMBLING!" "Gambling! Gambling!" responded all hell, in thunders of applause; "and Gambling let it be," shouted Lucifer, as the prize was thus awarded by acclamation to the distinguished inventor of Gambling. From this supposable scene among the demons, we pass, by no unnatural transition, to a kindred one among men. In a back, secluded room, in the third story of a public house in Boston, of questionable respectability, there might have been found, a few hours after the dispersion of the party before described, a small band of men sitting around a table, intently engaged in games of chance, in which money was at stake; while on a sideboard stood several bottles of different kinds of liquors, with a liberal supply of crackers and cigars. Of this company, two, who have been already introduced to the reader,--Mark Elwood and Gaut Gurley,--seemed to be especially pitted against each other in the game. It was now deep into the night, and Elwood said something about going home. But his remark being received only with jeers by the company, he sank into an abashed silence and played on. Another hour elapsed, and he spoke of it again, but less decidedly. Another passed, and he seemed wholly to have forgotten his purpose; for he, as well as all the rest of the company, had, by this time, become intensely absorbed in the play, allowing themselves no respite or intermission, except to snatch occasionally a glass of liquor from the sideboard, in the entrancing business before them. And, as the sport proceeded, deeper and deeper grew the excitement among the infatuated participants, till every sense and feeling seemed lost to every thing save the result of each rapidly succeeding game; and the heat of concentrated thought and passion gleamed fiercely from every eye, and found vent, in repeated exclamations of triumph or despair, from every tongue, according to the varying fortunes of the parties engaged. On one side was heard the loud and exultant shout of the winner at his success, and on the other, the low bitter curse of the loser at his disappointment; the countenance of the one, in his joy and exultation, assuming the self-satisfied and domineering air of the victor and master, and the countenance of the other, in his grief and envy, darkening into the mingled look of the demon and the slave. And thus played on this desperate band of gamesters till morning light, which, now stealing through the shutters of their darkened room, came and joined its voiceless monitions with those which their consciences had long since given them, in warning them to break up and return to their families, made wretched by their absence. So completely, however, had they abandoned themselves to the fatal witcheries of the play, that they heeded not even this significant admonition; but, with uneasy glances towards the windows, to note the progress of the unwelcome intrusions of day, turned with the redoubled eagerness often shown by those who know their time is limited to their hellish engagement. Through the whole night, Fortune seemed to have held nearly an even scale between Elwood and his special adversary, Gaut Gurley, contrary to the evident anticipations of the latter, and despite all his attempts to secure an advantage. Thus far, however, he had signally failed in his purpose; and, at the last game, Elwood had even won of him the largest sum that had as yet been put at stake between them. This seemed to drive him almost to madness; and in his desperation he loudly demanded that the stakes should be doubled for the next trial. It was done. The game was played, and Gurley was again the loser. "I will now stay no longer," said Elwood, rising. "I was forced here to-night, as you well know, Gurley, against my will, and against all reason, to stop your clamor for a chance to win back what you absurdly called your money lost at our last sitting; though Heaven knows that what I then won was but a pitiful fraction of the amount you have taken from me, within the last two years, in the same or in a worse way. I have now given you your chance,--yes, chance upon chance, all night,--till your claim has been a dozen times cancelled; and, I repeat I will stay no longer." "You shall!" fiercely cried Gurley, with an oath. "You shall stay to give me another chance, or I will brand you as a trickster and a sneak!" "Gentlemen," said Elwood, turning to the company, in an expostulating tone, "gentlemen, I appeal to you all if I have not--" "I will have no appeal," interrupted Gurley, in a voice trembling with rage. "I say I _will_ have another chance, or--" "Take it, then," hastily interposed Elwood, as if unwilling to let the other finish the sentence; "take it: what will you have the stakes?" "Double the last." "Double?" "Yes, double!" "Have your own way, then," said Elwood, with forced composure, taking up and shuffling the cards for the important game. The stake was for a thousand; and the trembling antagonists played as if life and death hung on the event. And the whole company, indeed, forgetful of their own comparatively slight interest, in the momentous one thus put at stake, at once turned their eyes on the two players, and watched the result with breathless interest. That result was soon disclosed; when, to the surprise of all, and the dismay of Gaut Gurley, the victory once more strangely fell to the lot of Mark Elwood, who, gathering up the stakes with trembling eagerness, hastily rose from the table, as if to depart. "What in the name of Tophet does all this mean?" fiercely exclaimed Gurley, throwing an angry and suspicious look round the table upon those who had doubtless been, at other sittings, his confederates in fleecing Elwood. "Yes, what is the meaning of this? I ask _you_, and _you_, sir?" "Better ask your own partner," said one of the men addressed, with a defiant look. "Elwood? Pooh!" exclaimed Gaut, with a bitter sneer. "And why not?" responded the former. "He may have as good luck as the best of us, as it appears he has had. And hark ye, Gaut, you look things at us that it might not be safe for you to say in this room." "Gentlemen, you will all bear me out in leaving, now," here interposed Elwood, beginning to make towards the door. "Stop, sir!" thundered Gaut. "You are not a-going to sneak off with all that money in your pocket, by a d--d sight!" "Why not, sir?" replied Elwood; "why not, for all you can say?" "Because I have lost, sir!" shouted Gurley, hoarse with rage. "I have lost three games running,--lost all I have. I demand a fair chance to win it back; and that chance I will have, or I'll make you, Mark Elwood, curse the hour you refused it." "Gaut Gurley, you insatiate fiend!" exclaimed Elwood, in a tone of mingled anger and distress; "you it was who first led me into this accursed habit of play, by which you have robbed me of untold thousands yourself, and been the means of my being robbed of thousands more by others. You have brought me to the door of ruin before, and would now take all I have to save me from absolute bankruptcy." "Whining hypocrite!" cried Gurley, starting up in rage. "Do you tell that story when you have my last dollar in your pocket? But your pitiful whining shall not avail you. If you leave this room alive, you leave that money behind you." "Stop, stop!" here interposed one of the company, who had noted what had inadvertently fallen from Elwood, in his warmth, respecting his apprehended bankruptcy; "stop, no such recriminations and threatenings here! I can show Elwood a way to dispose of a part of his money, at least, without bringing on _any_ one the charge of robbing or being robbed. Here is a note of your signing, Mr. Elwood,--a debt of honor,--for a couple of hundreds, contracted in this very room, you will remember. You may as well pay it." "I have a similar bit of paper," said another, coming forward and presenting a note for a still larger sum. "And I, likewise," said a third, joining the group, with an additional piece of evidence of Elwood's folly, in the shape of a gambling note; "and I shall insist on payment with the rest, seeing the money cannot be disposed of between you and Gaut without a quarrel and danger of bloodshed." With a perplexed and troubled air Elwood paced the room a moment, without uttering a word in reply to the different demands that had so unexpectedly been made upon him. He glanced furtively towards the door, as if calculating the chances of escaping through it before any one could interpose to prevent him. He then glanced inquiringly at the company for such indications of sympathy or forbearance as might warrant the attempt; but in their countenances he read only that which should deter him from resorting to any such means of escaping the dilemma in which he now found himself. And, suddenly stopping short and turning to the new claimants for his money, he said: "Well, gentlemen, have your way, then. I had hoped to be permitted to carry away money enough to meet my bills and engagements of to-day,--at least, as much as I brought here. But, as I am not to be allowed that privilege, hand on your paper, every scrap of my signing, and you shall have your pay." A half-dozen notes of hand were instantly produced and thrown upon the table, and the holder of each was paid off in turn; the last of whom drew from Elwood nearly every dollar he had in his possession. "There, gentlemen," he exclaimed, with a sort of desperate calmness, "in this line of deal, at least, my accounts are all squared. I am quits with you all." "Not with me, by a d--d sight!" exclaimed Gurley, no longer able to restrain his rage at being thus baulked in his desperate purpose of getting hold of Elwood's money, by fair means or foul, before permitting him to leave the room. "Not with me, sir, till the amount of that last stake, which was just enough to make me whole, is again in my pocket; and I'll follow you to the gates of hell, but I'll have it!" Cowering and trembling beneath the threats and fiendish glances of the other, Elwood siezed his hat, and rushed from the room. On escaping from this "den of thieves," and gaining the street below, Elwood's first thought was of home and his shamefully neglected family, and he turned his steps in that direction. But, before proceeding far, he began to hesitate and falter in his course. He became oppressed with the feelings of a criminal. He was ashamed to meet his family; for, fully conscious that his looks must be haggard, his eyes red and bloodshot, and his whole appearance disordered, he knew his return in such a plight, at that hour in the morning, would betray the wretched employments of the night, especially to his keen-sighted brother, on whose assistance he now doubly depended to save him from ruin. He therefore changed his course, and was proceeding towards his store, when he met his confidential clerk, who was out in search of him, and who, in great agitation, informed him that his drafts of yesterday had all been returned dishonored; that bills were pouring in, and the holders clamorous for their pay. Struck dumb by the startling announcement, it was some moments before Elwood could collect his thoughts sufficiently to bid his clerk return, and put off his creditors till the next day, when he would try to satisfy them all. And, having done this, he turned suddenly into another street, wound his way back to the inn he had just left, took a private room, locked himself in, and for a while gave way to alternate paroxysms of grief, remorse, and self-reproaches. After exhausting himself by the violence of his emotions, he threw himself upon a bed, and, thinking an hour's repose might mend his appearance, so as to enable him the better to disguise the cause of his absence, on his return to his family, which he now concluded to defer till towards dinner-time, he fell into a slumber so profound and absorbing, that he did not awake till the shadows of approaching night had begun to darken his room. Leaping from his couch, in his surprise and vexation at having so overslept himself, he hastily made his toilet, and immediately set out for home,--a home which, for the first time in his life, he now dreaded to enter. To that wretched home we will now repair, preceding his arrival, to relate what had there occurred in his absence. CHAPTER IV. "Better is a poor and wise child than an old and foolish _father_, who will no more be admonished."--ECCL. After the breaking up of the party, as described in the former chapter, Arthur Elwood, on joining the family circle, and not meeting his host and brother there, as he naturally expected, expressed his surprise at the circumstance, and inquired the cause of his absence. But, perceiving that the subject gave pain to Mrs. Elwood, who deemed it prudent but to repeat, as she hesitatingly did, what her husband had told her, that he had gone out, soon to be back, the former forbore any further inquiries or comments, and soon retired to rest, wishing her a good-night and pleasant slumbers. "Good-night and pleasant slumbers!" slowly and murmuringly repeated the anxious and troubled wife, on whose ear the words, kindly meant as she knew them to be, fell as if in mockery to her feelings. "Pleasant slumbers for me! Heaven grant they may be made so by his speedy coming; but--" and, being now alone, and thus relieved of the restraining presence of others, she burst into tears, and wept long and bitterly. Woman was not created to act independently. The sphere in which she is formed to move, though different, is yet so immediately connected--with that of man, that her destiny is inseparable from his. Her happiness and prosperity are not in her own keeping. The welfare of the husband is the welfare of the wife; and, if poverty and disgrace, the concomitants of vice, fall on him, she must participate equally in the physical evil, and drink as much deeper of the cup of moral misery as her unblunted sensibilities are more lively, and her sense of right and wrong are more acute, than those of him who has become dead to the one and lost to the other. What wonder, then, that she should so agonize and weep in secret over his moral deviations, and all the more bitterly, because, with the most intense desire to do so, she has no power to remedy the evil? But, for that sorrow and suffering, who before high Heaven will be held responsible? Who, but the doubly-guilty husband whose conduct has caused them? Through the whole of that, to her, long and dreary night, Mrs. Elwood never once thought of retiring to rest, but kept up her vigils in waiting and watching for her husband: now listening pensively to the wind that seemed to moan round her solitary apartment in unison with her own feelings; now straining her senses to catch some sound of his approach; and now, perhaps, throwing herself upon a sofa, and falling, for a moment, into a troubled slumber, but only to start up at the first sound of the rattling windows, to listen again, and again to be disappointed. In this manner she wore away the lingering hours of the night, till the long prayed-for daylight, which she supposed, at the farthest, would bring back her truant husband, made its welcome appearance. But daylight came not this time to remove the cause of her anxieties. Elwood had several times before staid out nearly through the night, but the approach of daylight had always, till now, brought him home; and, not making his appearance, as she confidently expected, she became, as the morning advanced, really alarmed for his personal safety, and would have immediately sent out for him, but she knew not whom to send. She therefore concluded to put off the already long-delayed breakfast no longer; and, summoning her brother-in-law, who, with herself (her son, whom we have yet more particularly to introduce to the reader, being temporarily absent from town), now constituted all the family remaining to join in the repast. The two then sat down to the table, and partook the meal mostly in gloomy silence, one still hoping all might yet turn out well, and therefore repressing her twofold apprehensions; and the other, out of regard to her feelings, kindly forbearing to pain her with remarks and inquiries on a subject which they mutually felt conscious was oppressing the hearts of both. After the meal was over, Arthur Elwood arose, and, briefly announcing his intention of going out to look up his brother, who, he said, would be likely soon to be found at his store, left the house. At the usual dinner hour, Arthur Elwood returned to the house, and was met at the door by his anxious hostess, whose countenance quickly fell as she perceived him to be alone. "Have you not yet seen my husband?" she eagerly demanded. "No, but have heard of him. He is somewhere in the city, I believe," replied the other. "In the city and not return?" persisted the surprised and distressed wife. "How can this be?--what does it mean?" "I do not know," replied Arthur, with a thoughtful and perplexed air. Mrs. Elwood for a moment stood mute as a statue; for, but too well conjecturing what was passing in the mind of the other, she durst not ask his opinion. But, soon regaining her usual composure, she led the way to the dinner-table, where the meal that followed was partaken much as the one that preceded it,--in silence and mutual constraint, which was only relieved by an occasional forced, commonplace remark. "I shall again go to Mark's store," said Arthur, with stern gravity, as he rose from the table, after he had finished his repast, "and I shall also take the liberty of looking into the condition of his affairs. After that, I may return here again, though to remain only for a short time, as I leave for home in the evening." Towards night Arthur Elwood returned, and in his usual quiet way entered the room where Mrs. Elwood was sitting; when, shaking his head as if in reply to the question respecting her still absent husband, which he saw, by the painfully inquiring expression of her countenance, was rising to her lips, he took a seat by her side, and, with an air of concern and a slight tremor of voice, commenced: "I have been debating with myself, sister Alice, whether it were a greater kindness to go away without seeing you, and of course without apprising you of what I may have discovered respecting your husband and his affairs, or come here and tell you truths which would be painful,--too painful, perhaps, for you to bear." "'Tis better I should know all," rather gasped than uttered Mrs. Elwood. "You will tell me the truth,--_others_ may not. Go on." "Your husband," resumed the other, "wrote me for the help of a few thousands, which I would have freely loaned, but for my suspicions that all was not right with him; and, as I plainly told him, I came on to ascertain for myself whether such help would be thrown away, or really relieve him, as he represented, from a mere temporary embarrassment. I have now been into the painful investigation, and find matters, I grieve to say, tenfold worse than I suspected. He is, and must have been for a long time, the companion and the victim of blacklegs and cutthroats, and--" "I suspected,--I knew it," interrupted the eager and trembling listener; "and O Arthur, how I have tried and wept and prayed to induce him to break off from them; for I felt they would eventually ruin him." "_Eventually_ ruin him! Why, Alice, with his own miscalculations in business, folly and extravagance in every thing, they have done so already." "But the main part of his property," demanded the other, with a startled look, "you don't mean but what the main part of his property is still left?" "Yes, I do, Alice,--but I see you are not prepared for this. Still, you may as well know it now as ever. Yes, Alice, your husband is irretrievably bankrupt!" Mrs. Elwood was not _indeed_ prepared for this development. She had foreseen, it was true, the coming evil; but she supposed it was yet in the distance. She knew her husband's property had been a large one; and the announcement, from one she could not disbelieve, that it was all gone, struck her dumb with surprise and consternation. She uttered not a word. She could not speak, but sat pale and trembling, the very picture of distress. After pacing the room a few moments, with frequent commiserating glances at the face of the other, whose distress evidently deeply moved him, Arthur Elwood stopped short before her and said: "Sister Alice, my time is about up,--I must go." "Have you no word to leave for my husband when he comes?" asked Mrs. Elwood, with an effort to appear composed. "No,--none whatever to _him_; but with you, Alice," he added, drawing out a small package of bank notes and dropping them into her lap, "with you, and for you alone, against a day of necessity, I leave that trifle--no hesitation--keep it--put it out of sight--there, that is right. Now only one thing more,--what of your son?" "Claud?" "Yes. You know it has happened that I have never seen him." "I do know it, and have much regretted his absence; for I wished you to see him. But I am now looking for him every hour, and if you could delay--" "No, no, I must go. Tell him to forget, at once, that he was ever a rich man's only son and heir, and learn to profit by a rich man's errors; for, till he does this, which, if he is like others, will require some time, he will make no real advance in life." "Your impression may be natural, but it hardly does him justice. He is _not_ like most others. Claud is a man now." "So much the better, then, for you and himself. But you see with a mother's eyes, probably, and speak with a mother's heart. I will inquire about him, however, as indeed I will about you all. Good-by." Thus did the unimpassioned Arthur Elwood, with a seeming business-like roughness and want of feeling, assume to hide the emotions which he really felt in the discovery of his brother's ruin, and in witnessing the distress he had just caused in communicating it, hurry through the painful interview, and abruptly depart, leaving Mrs. Elwood to struggle in secret with the chaos of thoughts and emotions which Arthur's unexpected revelation had brought over her. She was not left long, however, to struggle with her feelings alone. In a short time the sound of a familiar footstep hastily entering the front hall of the magnificent mansion,--alas! now no longer her own,--suddenly caught her ear; when, with the exclamation, "Claud, O Claud!" she rushed forward to her advancing son, and, to use the expressive language of Scripture, "fell on his neck and wept." "I heard of father's failure," said the son, a fine looking youth of about twenty, with his mother's cleanly cut features and firm, thoughtful countenance, joined to his father's manly proportions. "I learned, as I came into the city, an hour ago, that father had just failed, his store been shut up, and all his property put into the hands of his creditors; and I hurried home to break the news to you. But I see you know it all." "Yes, that the blow was impending, but not that it had already fallen, as you now report; but it may as well come to-day as to-morrow or next week. Half my nights, for months, Claud, have been made sleepless by the bodings and fears of the evil day, which, as things were going, I felt must eventually come; but never, till within this very hour, did I dream that our misfortunes were so near. But, though the storm has burst so much sooner than I expected, I could bravely face it, could we say that it was caused by no fault of our own; but to be brought upon us in this manner, my son, it is hard, hard to bear." "But you have not been to blame, mother; and I did not suppose you thought enough of wealth to grieve so at its loss." "I do not, Claud. It is not that; still, I could not help thinking of your disappointment, even in that view of the misfortune." "Mine, mother? Why, I am no worse off than father was when he started in life; no worse off than thousands who begin with no other resources than what lie in clear heads and strong hearts. I can take care of myself; and, what is more, I can take care of you, dear mother. Surely, you won't doubt me?" "No, Claud, no. You have _always_ been my pride, latterly almost my only hope; and I know not now but that you must be my only staff, on which to lean as I pass down the decline of life." "And I will be one to you, mother; but come, cheer up, and let us go in and talk over these matters more calmly." The mother and son accordingly retired to her usual sitting-room; where, since her overcharged bosom had found relief in tears, and her sinking spirits had been raised by the kind and comforting words of her dutiful son, she told him all that had occurred during the two preceding days, which constituted the brief but eventful period of his absence. They then were beginning to counsel together on the prospects and probabilities of their gloomy future; but their conversation was suddenly cut short by the abrupt entrance of the wretched husband and father, who, on his way from the hotel where he had spent the day in sleeping off his debauch in concealment, having received an intimation of what was going on among his creditors, had hurried home, with a confidence and self-possession which he could not summon when he started; for, out of this movement among his creditors, which he still would not believe was any thing more than a sort of practical menace to enforce payment, he saw not only how he could frame a plausible excuse for his guilty absence, but make the circumstance an irresistible plea for forcing from his brother a loan sufficient to enable him to arrest his failure and continue business. On entering the room, therefore, after saluting his wife and son in a sort of brisk, unconcerned manner, and muttering that he "thought they would never let him get home again," he eagerly inquired for Arthur; and, on being informed that his brother had started for his home, without leaving any note or word for him, and especially on being told by his son--as he at length calmly and persistingly was, in despite of his multiplied prevarications and denials, what they all knew, and what he himself should have been the last to be ignorant of--that the question of his failure, for more than he could ever pay, had already been settled against him, he became frantic in the outpourings of his rage, disappointment, and chagrin; sometimes declaring that the world, grown envious of his prosperity, had all suddenly become his enemies, and grossly belied him; sometimes savagely charging his brother, wife, and son with conspiring together against him; and sometimes cursing his own blindness and folly. And thus he continued to rave, and walk the room for hours, till his wife and son, having partaken their evening meal before his unheeding eyes, and become sick and wearied in listening to his insane ravings,--to which they had wholly ceased making any reply,--retired to rest, leaving him to partake such food as was left on the table, to occupy, as he chose to do, the same sofa which his hapless wife had done the night before, to sleep down the wild commotion of his feelings, and awake a calmer and more humbled, but not yet a better or much wiser man. But we do not propose to describe in detail the rapid descent from opulence and station to poverty and insignificance, which now transpired to mark this era in the singular fortunes of Elwood and his family. Their history, for the next three months, was but the usual painful one which awaits the failed merchant everywhere in the cities. The crushing sense of misfortune which, for the first few days after the unexpected blow has fallen, weighs down the self-deceived or otherwise unprepared victims; the succeeding weeks of dejection and mortified pride; then the painful trial of parting with the showy equipage, the costly furniture, and the cherished mementoes, which had required, perhaps, the care of half a life in gathering; then the compulsory abdication of the great and conspicuous mansion for the small, obscure, hired cottage; then the saddening bodings and deep concern felt in seeing the means of living daily diminishing, with no prospect of ever being replenished; and, finally, the humiliating resort of the wife and children to the needle or menial employments, for the actual necessaries of life,--these, all these, are but the usual graduated vicissitudes of sorrow and trial which are allotted to those whose folly and extravagance have suddenly thrown them on the downward track of fortune, and which the Elwoods, in common with others, were now doomed to experience, and, on the part of Mrs. Elwood, especially, with aggravations not necessarily incident to such reverses. She would have borne all the deprivations and evils incident to her husband's failure without a murmur, could she have seen in him any amendment in those habits and vicious inclinations which had led to his downfall. But she could not. The hopes she had confidently entertained, that his misfortunes would humble and reform him, were doomed to disappointment. He still madly clung to his old associates of the gambling-table; and all the money he could get was lost or squandered among them, till he became too poor and desperate even for them, and they drove him from their society to join another and a lower set, who in turn compelled him to seek other still lower and more degraded associations. And so descended, step by step, along the path of degradation, the once princely merchant, till, despised and shunned by all respectable men, he became the fit companion of the meanest thimble-riggers of the cellars, and the lounging tipplers of the streets. His case, however, as hopeless as it might appear, was not permitted to become an irretrievable one. Through a seemingly accidental circumstance, a light one day broke on his beclouded and half-maddened brain, that led to a self-redemption as happy for himself and family as it was unexpected by all. A former friend, one morning, moved perhaps by his forlorn appearance, in passing him with a light carriage, invited him to ride a few miles into the country; where, being unexpectedly called off in another direction, he left Elwood to return on foot by a nearer route across the fields to his home. After travelling some distance, he reached an elevation which overlooked the city, and, feeling a little fatigued, he sat down on a mossy hillock to rest and enjoy the prospect. As he cast his eye over that busy haunt of men, with its numerous spires shooting upward, its long lines of princely dwellings, its encircling forest of masts, its lofty warehouses, and other evidences of wealth and business, his own former important participation in its busy scenes, and his present worse than insignificant position there, rose in vivid contrast in his awakening mind; and the thought of his past but squandered wealth came up only to add poignancy to the sense of his present poverty and humiliation, which thus, and for the first time, was brought home to his agitated bosom. Suddenly leaping from his seat, from the torturing force of the reflection, he exclaimed: "Must I bear this? Cannot I still be a man? I will! yes, before Heaven, I _will_!" And, resuming his seat, his mind became intently engaged in studying out ways and means for carrying the sudden but stern resolution into effect; when, after another hour thus employed, he again jumped up, and, with the air of one who has reached some unalterable conclusion, he rapidly made his way homeward. While the besotted Elwood was undergoing, so unexpectedly, even to himself, such a moral transformation in the solitude of the fields, an event occurred to his sorrowful wife at home, which was equally unexpected to _her_; which, though of a wholly different character, produced an equally great revulsion in her feelings as the one happening to her husband, about the same hour, was to him, or was producing in _his_ feelings, and which, by the singular coincidence, seemed to indicate that the angel of mercy was at length spreading his wings at the same time over both heads of this unfortunate family. She had been having one of her most disconsolate days, and was sitting alone in her little room, gloomily pondering over her disheartening trials, without being able to see one ray of light in the dark future, when she received a call from one of her husband's chief creditors; who announced that those creditors, at a recent meeting, having ascertained her meritorious conduct and needy situation, had voted her the sum of five hundred dollars, which, confiding in her discretion for a judicious outlay of the money, he now, he said, had the pleasure of presenting her. And, having placed the money in her hands, and taken the tear of gratitude--which, preventing the utterance of the word-thanks she attempted, had started to her cheek at the unexpected boon--as a sufficient acknowledgment, he kindly bade her adieu, and departed. That evening the husband and wife met as they had not for months before: each at first surprised at seeing the unclouded brow and hopeful countenance of the other, but each soon instinctively feeling that something had occurred to both, which was not only of present moment, but the harbinger of happier days to come. When confidence and hope are springing up in doubtful or despairing bosoms, the tongue is soon loosened from the frosts of reserve, however closely they may have before imprisoned it. Elwood, with many expressions of regret at his past conduct, and of wonder at the blindness and folly which had permitted him so long to persevere in it, told his gratified companion all that had that day passed through his mind,--his sudden sense of shame and degradation; his bitter self-reproaches, and succeeding determination to reform; to atone for the past, as far as he could, by future good conduct; to begin, in fine, the world anew, and, after placing himself beyond the reach of those temptations to which he had so fatally yielded, devote the remainder of his days to honest industry. And she, anxious to encourage and strengthen him, and fearing his total want of means might defeat his good resolutions,--she, also, as she believed it would be true wisdom to do, informed him of _her_ good fortune, and offered him a portion of her unexpected acquisition, to enable him to engage in such business as he should decide to follow. They then discussed, and soon mutually agreed on, the expediency of leaving the city, where, as they had once there enjoyed wealth and station, they must both ever be subjected to mortifying contrasts,--both constantly doomed "To see profusion which they must not share,"-- and he be exposed to temptations which he might not always have the firmness to withstand. "But I resolved," said Elwood, after a pause, "not only on going to the country, but on to a new lot of land in the very outskirts of civilization. You, however, should I succeed in getting up comfortable quarters, would not be content to make such a place your home?" "Anywhere, Mark; and the farther from the dangerous influences of this wicked city, the better. Yes, to the very depths of the wilderness, and I will not complain." "It is settled, then. I was once, in one of my early excursions, along the borders of the wild lakes lying on the northeastern line of New Hampshire, where a living may be obtained from the cultivation of the soil alone; but where more may be made, at particular seasons, in taking the valuable furs that there abound. There I will go, contract for a lot of land, and prepare a home, leaving you, and Claud, if he shall decide for a woodman's life, to come on and join me next summer." "That Claud will do; for he often declares himself disgusted with the trickery of trade, and to be longing for the country life of his boyhood. But here he comes, and can speak for himself." The son now joined in the family deliberations, and learning, with surprise and gratification, what had occurred during the eventful day, joyfully fell in with his father's proposition; when it was soon decided that the latter should take half the money that day given to Mrs. Elwood, to lay out in a lot of land and house, and immediately proceed on his journey. Whatever Mark Elwood had once firmly decided on, he was always prompt and energetic in executing. Before nine o'clock that evening, his knapsack of clothing was made up for a journey on foot, which, contrary to the wishes of his wife and son, he decided should be his mode of travelling. He then went to bed, slept six hours, rose, dressed, bade his family good-by, turned his back on the now loathed city, and, by sunrise next morning, was far on his way towards his designated home among the distant wilds of the North. CHAPTER V. "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture in the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes,-- I love not man the less, but nature more." Once more in the green wilderness! Welcome the wild scenes of our boyhood, which, as the checkered panorama of the past is unrolled at our bidding, rise on the mental vision in all their original freshness and beauty! It was here we first essayed to study the works of nature, and in them trace the Master-hand that moulded and perfected them. It was here we learned to recognize the voice of God in the rolling thunder, and his messengers in the swift-winged lightnings; to mark the forms of beauty and grandeur in every thing, from the humble lichen of the logs and rocks, to the high and towering pine of the plain and the mountain,--from the low murmurings of the quiet rivulet, to the loud thunderings of the headlong cataract,--and from the soft whisperings of the gentle breeze, to the angry roar of the desolating tornado; and, finally, it was here that our first and most enduring lessons of devotion were learned, here that our first and truest conceptions of the grand and beautiful were acquired, and here that the leading tone of our intellectual character, such as it may be, was generated and stamped on us for life. The second part of our story, to which the preceding chapters should be taken, perhaps, as merely introductory, opens about midsummer, and among that remarkable group of sylvan lakes--nearly a dozen in number--which, commencing on the wild borders of northerly New Hampshire, and shooting off in an irregular line some fifty miles northeasterly into the dark and unbroken forests of Maine, appear on the map, in their strangely shapeless forms and scattered locations, as if they must have been hurled, by the hand of some Borean giant, down from the North Pole in a volley of huge ice-blocks, which fell and melted where they now lie, sparkling, like rough gems, on the shaggy bosom of the wilderness. Near the centre of an opening of perhaps a dozen acres, about a mile from where the sinuous Androscoggin debouches full grown, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter, from its parent reservoir, the picturesque Umbagog, stood a newly rigged log house, of dimensions and finish which indicated more taste and enterprise than is usually exhibited in the rude habitations of the first settlers. It was a story and a half high, and the walls were built of solid pine timber, originally roughly hewed, but recently dressed down with broad axe over the whole outward and inner surfaces so smoothly that, at a little distance, they presented, with their still visible seams, more the appearance of the wainscoting of some costly cottage than the humble log cabin. The building had also been newly shingled, new doors supplied, the windows enlarged, the yard around leveled off, with other improvements, of a late date, betokening considerable ambition for appearance, and considerable outlay of means, for so new a place, to fit up a tidy and comfortable abode for the occupants. In the surrounding field were patches of growing maize, wheat, potatoes, and some of the common table vegetables; the hay crop for the winter sustenance of the only cow and yoke of oxen, the best friends of the new settler, having been just cut and stored in an adjoining log-building, as was evident from the fresh look of the stubble, and the stray straws hanging to the slivered stumps or bushes in the field, and from the fragrant and far-scenting locks protruding from the upper and lower windows of the well-crammed receptacle passing under the name of barn. Beyond this little opening, and bounding it on every side, stood the encircling wall of woods, through and over which gleamed the bright waters of the far-spreading Umbagog on the north; while all around, towering up in their green glories, rose, one above another, the amphitheatric hills, till their lessening individual forms were lost, or mingled in the vision with the lofty summits of the distant White Mountains in the south and west, and of the bold detached eminences which shot up from the dark wilderness and studded the horizon in all other directions. Such, and in such a locality, was, as the reader probably has already inferred, the residence which Mark Elwood had pitched upon for beginning life anew. On leaving the city, as represented in the last chapter, he had, under the goading remembrance of follies left behind, and the incitements of hope-constructed prospects before, perseveringly pushed on, till he reached this lone and wild terminus of civilized life; when, finding, a mile beyond the last of the scattered settlements of the vicinity, a place on which an opening had been made and the walls and roof of a spacious log house erected, the year before, he had succeeded in purchasing it, for ready money, at a price which was much below its value, and which left him nearly half his little fund to be expended in more thoroughly clearing the land, getting in crops, making the house habitable, and felling an additional tract of forest. And with so much energy and resolution had he pursued his object of seeing himself and family once more united at a comfortable home, that, within three months from the time he commenced operations, which was in the first of the spring months, he had accomplished it all; for his wife and son, rejoicing in the knowledge of his success which he had communicated to them, and promptly responding to his invitation to join him, had come on, with their little all of goods and money, in teams hired for the purpose; and they were now all together fully installed in their new home, pleased with the novelty and freshness of every thing around them, proud and secure in their conscious independence and exemption from the dangers and trials they had recently passed through, and contented and happy in their situation. The particular time we have taken for the reappearance of the family on this, their new stage of action, was a warm but breezy afternoon, on one of the last days of July. Elwood was engaged in his new-mown field, in cutting and grubbing up the bushes and sprouts which had sprung up during the season around the log-heaps and stumps, and could not easily or conveniently be cut by the common scythe while mowing the grass. He was no longer robed in the broadcloth and fine linen, in which, as the rich merchant, he might have been seen, perhaps, one year ago that day, sauntering about "on 'change" among the solid men of Boston. These had been mostly worn out or sold during the changing fortunes of the year, and their place was now wisely supplied by the long tow-frock and the other coarse garments in common use among the settlers. Nor had his physical appearance undergone a much less change. Instead of the pallid brow, leaden eye, fleshly look, and the red cheek of the wine-bibber and luxurist of the cities, he exhibited the embrowned, thin, but firm and healthy face, and the clear and cheerful complexion of the contented laborer of the country,--tell-tale looks both, which we always encounter with as much secret disgust in the former as we do with involuntary respect in the latter. He now paused in his labors, and stood for some time looking about the horizon, as if watching the signs of the weather; now noting the progress of the haze gathering in the south, and now turning his cheek first one way and then another, apparently to ascertain the doubtful direction of the wind, which, from a lively western breeze, had within the last hour lulled down into those small, fluctuating puffs usually observable when counter-currents are springing up, balancing, and beginning to strive for the mastery. After a while he moved slowly towards the house, continuing his observations as he went, till he came near the open window at which Mrs. Elwood was sitting at her needle-work, from which she occasionally lifted her eyes, and glanced somewhat anxiously along the path leading down through the woods to a landing-place on the lake; when, looking round and observing her husband standing near, giving token of being about to speak, she interposed and said: "You have seen nothing of Claud, I suppose? What can be the reason why he does not return? He was to have been at home long before this, was he not?" "Yes," carelessly replied Elwood, "unless he concluded to take a bout in the woods. He took his fowling-piece with him, to use in case the trout wouldn't bite, you know. Phillips, the old hunter, came into the field where we were last night, and said he was out of meat, and must skirt the lake to-day for a buck. I presume Claud may have joined him. There! hark! that sounded like Claud's piece," he added, as the distant report of a gun rose from the woods westward of the lake and died away in swelling echoes on the opposite shore. "And there, again!" he continued, as another and sharper report burst, the next moment, from the same locality,--"there goes another, but not his, as he could not have loaded so quick. That must have been Phillips' long rifle. They are doubtless together somewhere near the Magalloway,--some three miles distant, I should judge,--and are probably having fine sport with something." "That may be the case, perhaps," responded Mrs. Elwood. "I wish, however, he would come; for I cannot yet quite divest myself of the idea that there may be danger in these wild scenes of the lakes and the woods. But what was you about to say when I first spoke? You were going to say something, I thought." "O--yes--why, I was about to say that I had made up my mind to set fire to the _slash_. It is dry enough now to get a good burn; and it looks to me a good deal like rain. I wish to get the land cleared and ready to sow with winter wheat by the first of September; and I don't like to risk the chance of finding every thing in so good order again." "There is no danger that the fire will spread, or be blown to the buildings, is there?" "No, the wind is springing up in the south now, and will drive the fire only towards the lake in the direction of the landing." "But Claud may be there." "Well, if he should be, the fire won't burn up the lake, I think; and, if it besets the path in the woods, he can come round some other way," jocosely said Elwood, moving away to carry his purpose into execution. Having procured a parcel of splinters split from the dry and resinous roots of some old pine stub,--that never-failing and by no means contemptible substitute for lamp or candle among the pioneers of a pine-growing country,--he proceeded rapidly to the edge of the _slash_, as a tract of felled forest is generally denominated by the first settlers, especially of the northern States. Here, pausing a moment to mark with his eye the most favorable places to communicate the fire, he picked his way along the southern end to the farthest side of the tangled mass of trees of every description composing the slash, which was a piece of some four or five acres, lying on the western border and extending north and south the whole length of the opening. And, having reached his destination, and kindled all his splinters into a blaze, he threw one of them into the thickest nest of pine or other evergreen boughs at hand, and darted back to his next marked station, where he threw in another of his blazing torches, and so on till he reached the cleared ground, which was not one moment too soon for his safety. For so dry and inflammable had every thing there become, under the scorching sun of the preceding fortnight, which had been relieved by neither rain nor cloud, that, the instant the fire touched the tinder-like leaves, it flashed up as from a parcel of scattered gunpowder; and, bursting with almost explosive quickness all around, and swiftly leaping from bough to bough and treetop to treetop, it spread with such astonishing celerity that he found it hard on his heels, or whirling in a hot cloud over his head, at every pause he made to throw in a new but now unnecessary torch, in his rapid and constantly quickened run through the slash. And when, after running some distance into the open field, to escape the stifling smoke and heat by which he was even there assailed, he turned round to note more fully the surprising progress that the terrible element he had thus let loose was making, he beheld all that part of the slash which he had a moment before passed through already enveloped, from side to side, in a continuous blaze, whose red, curling crest, mounting every instant higher and higher, was advancing with the seeming speed of a race-horse on its fiery destination. Half-appalled by the sight of such a sudden and unexpected outburst of the fire he had kindled, Elwood hurried on to his house, and joined his startled wife in the yard; when the two took station on an adjoining knoll, and looked down upon the conflagration in progress with increasing wonder and uneasiness,--so comparatively new was the scene to them both, and so far did it promise to exceed all their previous conceptions, in magnitude and grandeur, of any thing of the kind to be met with in the new settlements. And it was, indeed, a grand and fearful spectacle: For, with constantly increasing fury, and with the rapidity of the wind before which it was driving, still raged and rolled on the red tempest of fire. Now surging aloft, and streaking with its winding jets of flame the fiercely whirling clouds of smoke that marked its advance, and now dying away in hoarse murmurs, as if to gather strength for the new and more furious outburst that the next moment followed, it kept on its terrific march till it reached the central elevation, which embraced the most tangled, densely covered, and combustible part of the slash, and on which had been left standing an enormous dry pine, that towered so up high above the surrounding forest as to have long served as a landmark for the hunters and fishermen, in setting their courses through the woods or over the lake. Here the fiery billow, as if governed by the human tactics of a military assault, paused, parted, and swept by on either side, till it had inclosed the elevation; when suddenly it shot up from every side in an hundred converging tongues of flame, which, soon meeting and expanding into one, quickly enveloped the whole hill in one broad, unbroken robe of sheeted fire, encompassed and mounted the veteran pine, and around its colossal trunk formed a huge, whirling pyramid of mingling smoke and flame that rose to the mid-heavens, shedding, in place of the darkened sun, a lurid glare over the forest, and sending forth the stormy roar of a belching volcano. The next moment a shower of cinders and the burning fragments of twigs, bark, and boughs which had been carried high up by the force of the ascending currents, fell hot and hissing to the earth over every part of the adjoining fields, to and even far beyond the spot where Elwood and his wife were standing. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Elwood, aroused from the mute amazement with which he and his more terrified companion had been beholding the scene, as soon as these indications of danger were thus brought to his very feet. "Good Heavens! this is more than I bargained for. See,--the fire is catching on the stumps all over the field!" "The house!" half-screamed Mrs. Elwood. "What is that rising from the shingles up there near the top of the roof?" "Smoke, as I am alive!" cried the other, in serious alarm, as he glanced up to the roof, where several slender threads of smoke were beginning to steal along the shingles. "Run, Alice, run with the pails for the brook, while I throw up the ladder against the gable. We must be lively, or within one hour we shall be as houseless as beggars." "O, where is Claud? where is Claud?" exclaimed the distressed wife and mother, as she flew to the house to do her husband's bidding. Yes, where was Claud? At the risk of the charge of purposely tantalizing the reader, we must break off here, to follow the young man just named, in the unexpected adventures which he also had experienced during that eventful day. But for this we will take a new chapter. CHAPTER VI. "To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely, been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean,-- This is not Solitude: 't is but to hold Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd." It was about the middle of the forenoon, on the day marked by the incidents narrated in the preceding chapter, when Claud Elwood, who had become pretty well initiated into the sports of the locality, entered his light canoe, with his fishing-tackle and fowling-piece, and pushed out upon the broad bosom of the forest-girt Umbagog. Having had the best success, when up on the lake the last time, on the western margin, he pulled away in that direction, and, after rowing a couple of miles up the lake, he laid down his oar, unrolled his elm-bark cable, and let down his stone anchor, at a station a furlong or so from the shore. It was a beautiful spot, and a beautiful day to enjoy it in. From the water's edge rose, deeply enshrouded in their bright green, flowing, and furbelowed robes of thickly interwoven pines, the undulating hills, back to the summit level of that long, narrow tongue of forest land, which, for many miles, only separates the Umbagog from the parallel Magalloway, the noble stream that here comes rushing down from the British highlands, to join the scarcely larger Androscoggin, almost at the very outset of its "varied journey to the deep." Turning from this magnificent swell on the west, the eye, as it wandered to the right over the bright expanse of intervening waters, next rested on the long, crescent-shaped mountain ridge, behind which slept, in their still deeper and wilder seclusion, the broad Mooseeluk-maguntic and the Molechunk-a-munk, which, with the Umbagog, make up the three principal links in this remarkable chain of lakes. Still farther to the right lay the seemingly boundless, rolling forests, forming the eastern and southern rim of this basin of the lakes; whose gradually sloping sides, like some old pinnacled city, were everywhere bristling with the giant forms of the heaven-aspiring pine, and whose nearer recesses were pierced, in the midst, by the long, lessening line of the gleaming Umbagog; while around the whole circle of the horizon, scattered here and there far back into the blue distance, rose mountain after mountain in misty grandeur to the heavens. After thus slowly sweeping the horizon, to note, for the tenth time, perhaps, the impressive character of the scenery, whose everywhere intermingling beauty and grandeur he was never tired of contemplating, Claud withdrew his gaze, and turned his attention to, the more immediate object of his excursion. After a few moments spent in regulating his hook and line, he strung his angle-rod, and threw out to see whether he could succeed in tempting, at that unfavorable hour, the fickle trout from their watery recesses. But all in vain the attempt. Not a trout was seen stirring the water at the surface, or manifesting his presence around the hook beneath; and all the endeavors which the tantalized angler made, by changing the bait, and throwing the line in different directions around him, proved, for the next hour, equally fruitless. While he was thus engaged, intently watching his line, each moment expecting that the next must bring him a bite, one of those peculiar, subdued, but far-reaching sounds, which are made by the grazing of the oar against the side of the boat in rowing, occasionally greeted his ear from some point to the south of him; though, for a while, nothing was to be seen to indicate by whom the sounds were produced. Soon, however, a man in a canoe, who had been coasting, unseen, along the indentures of the shore, and whom Claud instantly recognized as Phillips, the hunter already named, shot round a neighboring point, and, in a few minutes more, was at his side. "Well, what luck?" cheerily exclaimed Phillips, a keen, hawk-eyed, self-possessed looking man, with a round, compact, and sinewy frame. "What luck to-day, young man?" "None whatever," replied Claud, with an air of disappointment. "I suppose so, unless you began before ten o'clock." "But why did you suppose so?" "O, I knew it from my knowledge of human nature," said the hunter, humorously. "Trout are very much like other folks, only a great deal more sensitive to heat. Now, you don't see men, who are well fixed under a cool shade in a sweltering hot day, very anxious to run out bare-headed in the sun, when there is no call for it; much less, then, the trout, that can't bear the sun and heat at all. Though there are, probably, a ton of them within a stone's throw of us, not one will come out with this bright sun; they are lying behind the rocks and old logs at the bottom, and won't begin to circulate these three hours." "And are you not a-going to try them?" "I? No; I would as soon think of fishing now on the top of these hills. Besides this, I have a different object. I am bound to carry home something that will pass for fresh meat, if it is nothing but a coon. I shall haul up my canoe somewhere about here; follow up the lake-shore a mile or so, with the idea of catching a deer in the edge of the water, come there to keep off the flies; then, perhaps, cross over to the Magalloway, down that, and over to this place; when, by way of topping off, I will show you, by that time, if you are about here so long, how trout are taken." So saying, the hunter dipped his springy oar into the water, and, with a few vigorous strokes, sent his canoe to the shore, and, having moored it to a root, he glided into the thickets, and disappeared with a tread so noiseless as to leave Claud, for many minutes, wholly in doubt whether the man was standing still in the bushes or proceeding on his excursion. It was now noon, and Claud, seeing no prospect of any immediate success in his piscatory employment, which had been made to appear to him, by the remarks of the hunter, more discouraging than ever, drew up his anchor, and rowed to a point of the shore which was embowered by a group of magnificent pines. Here, finding a cool spring, as well as a refreshing shade, he drew out his lunch, and very leisurely proceeded to discuss it, with the ice-cold water of the spring by which he had seated himself for the purpose. His fare was coarse; but it was partaken with a relish of which those who have never experienced the effects of the air and exercise, incident to a life in the woods, can have no just conception; and to which the palled appetite of the "vain lords of luxury and ease, Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please," is poor in comparison, though all the king's banquets and metropolitan feasts in the world should vie together to make good the substitute. Claud's life had thus far been, in the main, a quiet and commonplace one; nothing having occurred to him to arouse those strong and over-mastering passions to which it is the lot of most of us, at some period of our lives, to become subjected. It had been checkered, however, by one bit of romance, which, to say the least, had greatly excited his imagination. About a year previous to the time of which we are now writing, and one day while he was walking the streets of Boston, a small, closely-enwrapped package was put in his hand by an unknown boy, who, with the simple announcement, "_For you, Sir_," turned quickly away, and made off with the air of one who has completed his mission, and would avoid being questioned. Glancing within the wrapper, and perceiving it inclosed a small encased picture, or likeness, of some female, which he thought must have been delivered to him through mistake, Claud looked hastily round for the messenger, and, not seeing him, he walked backward and forward along the street, and lingered some time in the vicinity, still expecting the boy would soon return to claim the package. But, being disappointed in this, he went home, and, retiring to his room, undid the wrapper, which he carefully but vainly examined for some name, mark, or other clue to the mystery; and then, with much interest, fell to inspecting the picture. It was, obviously, a well-painted miniature likeness of a fair, dark-eyed girl, but representing no remembered face, except in the peculiar expression of the strong and commanding countenance; which, he thought, either in man or woman, he must have somewhere before encountered. The whole likeness, indeed, together with the circumstances under which it came into his hands, made, at the time, a lively impression on his mind; and, keeping the affair wholly to himself, he often contemplated that fair face in private; and, for months afterwards, he never was in a public assembly, where the sex were present, without running his eye over it in search of the original. But, as he never found it, the impression gradually wore away, and, in the exciting changes that had occurred in the fortunes of his family, it had been nearly obliterated from his mind; when, that morning, while searching his trunk for some implement belonging to his gun, he came across the miniature, and put it in his pocket. And now, in the leisure that followed his repast, he bethought him of it; and, laying it before him on the bed of moss on which he was reclining, he contemplated it with renewed interest, and that sort of dreamy enthusiasm which the sudden revival of old associations in such solitudes is apt to awaken in the mind, especially when those associations are connected, as now, with a matter of mystery and romance. After indulging in his reveries a while, he put up his miniature, aroused himself from his day-dream, and rose to his feet when, feeling inclined for some kind of action, he decided on a short excursion in the woods, in the direction of the Magalloway, where probably he would fall in with Phillips, and return with him to the lake. Accordingly, after loading his gun with ball and buckshot, so as to be prepared for any large wild animals he might chance to encounter, he leisurely took his way through the heavy, ascending forest that lay in his course; here pausing to note the last night's bed of some solitary bear, and there to trace the marks of the death-struggle of a victim deer, that, with all its vigilance and wondrous agility, had been surprised and brought down by the stealthy and far-leaping catamount. The ever-varying tenants of the forest, also, were constantly presenting as he passed on, some novelty to attract his unaccustomed eye; now in the smooth, tall shaft of the fusiform fir--the dandy of the forest--standing up with its beautiful cone-shaped top among its rougher neighbors, trim and straight as the bonneted cavalier of the old pictures, among the slouchy forms of his homelier but worthier opponents; now in the low and stocky birch standing on its broad, staunch pedestal of strongly-braced roots below, and throwing out widely above its giant arms, as if striving to shoulder and stay up the weight of the superincumbent forest; and now in the imperial pine, proudly lifting its tall form an hundred feet over the tops of the plebeian trees around, to revel in the upper currents of the air, or bathe its crowning plumes of living green in the clouds of heaven. Proceeding in this manner, he at length found himself gradually descending the western slope of the hill; when he soon arrived in the vicinity of the river, a glimpse of which, together with a small clearing and a tidy-looking cottage on its banks, he now caught through the tops of the intervening trees. While still walking on, his attention was attracted to a comparatively open place in the woods, where, at some previous period, a severe fire had killed all the smaller trees, and consumed the underbrush, which had been replaced by scattering shrubs of the white poplar intermingled with a plentiful growth of the black-raspberry, whose luscious fruit--the first to reward the pioneer, and for which he has to contend sharply with the birds and bears to obtain his share--was now beginning to ripen. As he was entering this open space, which appeared to extend some distance round the point of a screening knoll, he was suddenly brought to a stand by a noise somewhere in the bushes or woods ahead, such as had never before saluted his ears. It was like nothing else, or _if any_ thing else, like the wild snorting of a frightened horse prolonged into the dying note of the steam whistle. Claud recoiled a step before the unaccustomed sound, and involuntarily cocked and raised his gun to his shoulder. But he was allowed no time to speculate. The next instant, the loud and piercing shriek of a female, nearer but in the same direction, rose and rang through the forest. With a speed quickened at every step by the rapidly repeated cry of distress, he bounded towards the spot, when, turning the point of the knoll, he suddenly found himself in full view of the object of his solicitude,--a girl, in the full bloom of youthful beauty, who, with bonnet thrown back and her loosened hair streaming in wild disorder over her shoulders, instantly rushed forward for his protection. Claud stopped short, in mute surprise at the unexpected apparition; for the first glance at her face told him that the original of his mysterious miniature was before him,--before him, here in the woods! Breathless and speechless in her wild affright, she pointed, with a glance over her shoulder, to a thick, high tangle of large, strongly limbed, knotty, windfallen trees, a short distance behind her, and fled past him to the rear. Looking in the indicated direction, the startled and perplexed young man distinguished the outlines of a monstrous moose madly plunging at the woody barrier, and trying to force his enormous antlers through the unyielding limbs preparatory to leaping it in pursuit of his victim, who had eluded the infuriated animal, and barely escaped the fatal blows of his uplifted hoofs, by creeping under the providentially placed obstruction. Claud instantly raised his piece, when, feeling uncertain of his aim, he withheld his fire, and stood waiting for a fairer view. But, before he could obtain it, the moose, tired of vain attempts to force his passage through the bristling barricade of logs and limbs before him, disappeared for one moment, but the next came crashing round the nearest end of it, and, with renewed demonstrations of rage and hostility, made directly for the new opponent he beheld in his way. Still unalarmed for his own safety, Claud waited with levelled gun till his formidable assailant was within forty yards of him, when he took a quick aim and fired. Reeling under the discharge of his heavily loaded piece, and blinded by the smoke, he could not, at first, see the effect of his fire; but when he did so, the next instant, it was only to behold the monster brute, maddened, not stopped, by the flesh wounds inflicted, rushing on him with a force and fury which compelled him to leap suddenly aside, to avoid being beat into the earth by those terrible hoofs, which he saw lifted higher and higher, at each approaching step, for his destruction. Mindful, in his peril, of the precautions already learned from the hunters, Claude, while the moose, whose tremendous impetus was driving him straight ahead, could break up, so as to turn in the pursuit,--Claud made, with all the speed of which he was master, for a huge hemlock, luckily standing at no great distance on his right; a course which he thought would divert the monster from pursuit of the maiden, and, at the same time, best insure his own safety. But, so prodigious was the rushing speed of the foiled and now doubly exasperated moose, that the imperilled huntsman had barely time to reach the sheltering tree and dodge behind it, before the hotly pursuing foe was at his heels, rasping and tearing with his spiked antlers the rough bark of the tree, in his attempts to follow round it near and fast enough to overtake and strike down his intended victim. Round and round then sped both pursuer and pursued, as fast as the frantic rage of the one, and the keen instinct of self-preservation in the other, could impel them. Although the moose, from the great width of his interfering horns, was compelled to sweep round the tree in a circle requiring him to go over double the distance travelled by Claude, yet so much greater was his speed, that it called for the utmost exertions of the latter to keep clear of the battle-axe blows which he heard falling every instant with fatal force behind him. His gun had already been struck, shivered, and beat from his hand; and, as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the fierce and glaring eyes of his ruthless pursuer, and his uplifted and forward-thrown hoofs striking closer and closer to his heels at every bound, a sense of his deadly peril flashed over his mind with that strange and paralyzing effect which the first full conviction of impending death often produces on the stoutest hearts. He felt his strength giving way, his brain beginning to whirl, and he was on the point of yielding himself to his fate; when a stream of smoke and flame accompanied the startling report of a rifle, shot out from the edge of a neighboring thicket. The moose gave a convulsive start, floundered forward on his knees, swayed backward and forward an instant, then fell over broad-side into the bushes with a heavy crash, straightened out, gasped, and died. "Dunno but you'll think I waited too long, young man," cried Phillips, now advancing with a quick, leaping step from his covert. "The fact was, I felt, on seeing you getting into such close quarters, that I had better be rather particular about my aim, so as to stop him at once; besides that, I was at first a little out of breath. I had heard the fellow blow when an hundred rods off,--then the woman scream,--then your gun; and, thinking like enough there would be trouble, I legged it for the spot, and got to my stand just as he treed you." "I feel very grateful to you, Mr. Phillips, for this timely rescue," responded Claud, recovering his composure. "This, I suppose, is the far-famed moose?" "Yes, and a bouncer at that," replied the hunter, going up and, placing his foot on the broad and still quivering flank of the huge animal. "Good twenty hands high, and weighs, well, not much short of fifteen hundred, I should say." "But are they often thus dangerous?" asked Claud. "Not very often, perhaps," rejoined the hunter. "But still the bull moose, at this season of the year, is sometimes, when wounded, about as ugly a customer as you meet with in the woods. This fellow I judge to have been _oncommon_ vicious, as he begun his tantrums before he was touched at all, it seems. I dunno but 'twas the woman put the devil into him, as women do into two-legged animals sometimes,--don't they, young man?" "The woman? O yes, the young lady," said Claud, reminded of his duty as a gallant by the remark, though unwilling to appropriate to himself the prophetic joke with which it was coupled. "Where is she? I must go and see to her." "She has already seen to herself, I guess," said the hunter. "As I was coming up, I glimpsed her cutting round and running, like a wild turkey, for the clearing, to which the moose had cut off her retreat. She has reached the house by this time, doubtless; for it is hard by, down on the river here, a hundred rods or such a matter." "Who is she? Do you know the family?" eagerly inquired the young man. "No," answered the hunter. "They are new-comers in these parts." "What could have brought her here so far into the woods?" persisted Claud. "The raspberries, very likely," said the other, indifferently, while taking out and examining the edge of his knife. "But come, we must get this moose into some condition, so that he will keep; then be off to let the settlers know of our luck. And early to-morrow morning, we will, all hands, come up the river in boats, and distribute him. He will make fresh meat enough to supply the whole settlement." The hunter now, with the assistance of his new pupil in the craft, proceeded to dressing the moose, the process of which, bleeding, disemboweling, and partially skinning, was soon completed; when, cutting some stout green skids with the hatchet he ever carried in his belt, and inserting the ends under the bulky carcass, the two contrived to raise it, by means of old logs rolled up for the purpose, several feet from the ground, so as to insure a free circulation of air beneath it. This being done, the hunter kindled two log fires, one on each side, to keep off, he said, the wolves and other carnivorous animals. They then, after cutting out the tongue and lip, which are esteemed the tidbits of this animal, took up their line of march for the lake, which, with the long, rapid lope of the woodsman, measured off, as usual, in Indian file, and with little or no interrupting conversation, they reached in a short time, and without further adventure. "Now," said the hunter, as he reached the spot where his canoe was tied, and turned round towards his lagging companion,--"now, sir, what say you to taking a five-pound trout?" "Perfectly willing," replied Claud, smiling; "and I would even take up with a smaller one." "Well, I won't,--that is, not much smaller; and I think I'll have one of at least the size I named." "What makes you so confident?" "Because, it being a hot, shiny morning, they took to their coverts early, and must be sharp-set, by this time. Besides that, it is just about the best time for them that could be got up: a deep cloud, as you see, is coming over the sun, and this wind is moving the water to the bottom. All sizes will now be coming out, and the big ones, like big folks, will make all the little ones stand back till their betters are served." Each now taking to his canoe, they pushed out some twenty or thirty rods into the lake, cast anchor, and threw out their lines. Claud, who baited with grubs, soon had drawn in two, weighing as many pounds a piece, and began to feel disposed to banter the hunter, who had baited with a flap of moose-skin, which he had brought along with him, and which, to Claud, seemed little likely to attract the fishes to his hook. But he soon found himself mistaken; for, turning to give utterance to what was passing in his mind, he beheld the other dallying with a trout, which he had hooked, and now held flapping on the surface of the water, evidently much larger than either of his own. "That is a fine one!" cried Claud. "Why don't you pull him in?" "Not big enough," said the hunter, in reply to the question; while he turned to the fish with an impatient "Pshaw! what work the cretur makes of it! Hop off, hop off, you fool! There," he added, as the trout at length broke away and disappeared, "there, that is right. Now be off with yourself till you grow bigger, and give me a chance at the fine fellow whose tail I saw swashing up round here just now." The hunter then carefully adjusted his bait, and threw out the whole lingth of his line. After alternately sinking his hook, and then drawing it to the surface, for two or three throws, the line suddenly straightened, moved slowly backward at first, then swept rapidly round and round, or darted off in sharp short angles, with downward and forward plunges so quick and powerful as to make the stout sapling pole sway and bend, like a whipstock, in the steadying hands of the hunter. For four or five minutes he made no attempt to draw in his prize, but let the fish have full play to the length of its tether, till its efforts had become comparatively feeble; when, slowly bringing it alongside, he took the line in his hand, and, with a quick jerk, landed the noble fellow safely on the bottom of the canoe. "There, sir!" exclaimed the hunter, seizing the trout by the gills, and triumphantly holding it up to view, "there is about what I bargained for: two feet long, not an inch shorter,--seven pounds weight, and not an ounce lighter! Now, being satisfied, I am done." "What, leave off with such luck?" asked Claud in surprise. "Yes, young man," said the other, "I hold it all but a downright sin to draw from God's storehouse a single pound more than is really needed. This will last my family as long as it will keep, this warm weather, with the plenty of moose-meat we shall have. Any thing more is a waste, which _I_ will not commit. And _you_, sir, who have just hauled in your third and largest one, I perceive, and have now nearly as many pounds as I have,--what can _you_ want of more? Come, let us pull up and off for our homes. It is nearly time, any way." Although loth to break off his sport, yet inwardly acknowledging the justness of the hunter's philosophy, Claud reluctantly drew in and wound up his line, hauled in his anchor, and, handling his oar, shot out abreast of the other, who had already got under way, into the heaving waters of the now agitated lake. Side by side, with the quick and easy dip of their elastic single oars, the rowers now sent their light, sharp canoes, dug out to the thinness of a board from the straight-grained dry pine, rapidly ahead over the broken and subdued waves of the cove, in which they had been stationed, till they rounded the intervening woody point which had cut off the view of the lower end of the lake. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Claud, starting back, with suspended oar, as now, coming out in view of the lake, his eye fell on the huge pillar of smoke, which, deeply enshrouding that part of the distant forest lying east of the outlet of the lake with its expanded base, was rolling upward its thousand dark, doubling folds; "good Heavens, Phillips, look yonder! Where and what is it? It looks like a burning city." "It is a fire, of course, and no small one, either; but where, I can't exactly make out," slowly responded the hunter, intently fixing his keen eyes on the magnificent spectacle which had thus unexpectedly burst on their view in the distance. "Let me see," he continued, running his eye along the border of the lake in search of his old landmarks: "there is the tall stub that stands half a mile down on the west bank of the river, and is now just visible in the edge of the smoke; but where is the king pine, that stands nearly against it, over in your slash? Young man," he added, with a startled air, "was your father calculating to burn that slash to-day?" "No, unless it looked likely to rain." "Well it _does_ look likely to rain, in the shape of a shower gathering yonder, which has already given out one or two grumbles of distant thunder, if my ears served me as well as usual." "Yes; but such a smoke and fire can't come from our slash. It must be a larger and more distant one." "So I thought at first; but I begin to think different. Do you see that perpendicular, broken line of light, occasionally flashing out from the smoke, and extending upward to a height that no ground fire ever reached? That is your king pine in a blaze from bottom to top. Hark! why, I can hear it roaring clear here, like a distant hurricane. It must be a prodigious hot fire to make all that show and noise." "Can it endanger our buildings?" asked Claud, in alarm. "I am afraid so," replied the other, with a dubious shake of the head. "But hark again! 'tis your father's horn blowing for help." "Let us row, then, as for our lives!" cried the now thoroughly aroused and agitated young man. "If any thing happens before I get there, I shall never forgive myself for my prolonged absence, to the last day of my life. You will join me in going there, will you not?" "Yes, and outstrip you by half a mile. But that won't be the best way. Throw your anchor into the stern of my canoe, and fall in behind. There; now keep the anchor-line slack between us, if you can," rapidly said the hunter, bending his sinewy form to the work, with a power that sent his canoe half out of the water at every stroke of his swiftly-falling oar. Leaving them to bound over the billowy waters of the lake towards their destination, with all the speed which strong arms and nerves made tense with excitement could impart, let us anticipate their arrival, to note what befell the objects of their anxieties, whom we so abruptly left in their perils from the fire, to bring up the other incidents of the day having an equal bearing on the story, with which we have thus far occupied the present somewhat extended chapter. The immediate danger to their house from the fire, with which we left the alarmed Elwood and his wife contending, was, indeed, easily overcome by dashing pails of water over the roof. But scarcely had they achieved this temporary triumph in one place over an element proverbially terrible when it becomes master, before it was seen kindling into flickering blazes on the roof of the barn and the locks of hay protruding from its windows and the crevices between the logs of which it was built. Here, also, they soon succeeded in extinguishing the fire in the same manner. They were not, however, allowed a moment's respite from either their labors or alarms. The fences were by this time on fire in numerous places; and the chips and wood in the door-yard were seen to be igniting from the sparks and cinders which, every instant, fell thicker and hotter around their seemingly devoted domicil. The fences, after a few vain attempts to save them, were given up a prey to the devouring element, and the whole exertions of the panting and exhausted sufferers were turned to saving their buildings; and even at that they had no time to spare; for, so hot had the air become from the burning slash, which, through its whole length, was now glowing with the red heat of a furnace, that every vestige of moisture had soon disappeared from the drenched roofs, and they were again on fire. "Is there no way of raising help?" exclaimed Mrs. Elwood, in her extremity, as she witnessed these increasing manifestations of danger. "I never thought of that," said Elwood. "Hand me the dinner-horn. If there are any within hearing, they will understand, with the appearance of this fire, that we are calling for assistance." With a few sharp, loud blasts, Elwood threw aside the horn, and again flew to the work of extinguishing the fires where they became most threatening. And thus, for nearly another hour, the distressed settler and his heroic wife, suffering deeply from heat and exhaustion, toiled on, without gaining the least on the fearful enemy by which they were so closely encompassed. And they were on the point of giving up in despair, when the welcome shout of "Help at hand!" from the ringing voice of the hunter, then just entering the opening, revived hope in their sinking hearts. The next moment that help was on the spot; but it was unnecessary. A mightier Hand was about to interpose. From the bold, black van of the hurrying and deeply-charged rack of cloud, that had now unheeded gained the zenith, a stream of fire, before which all other fires paled into nothing, at that instant descended on the top of the burning pine, and, rending it from top to bottom by the single explosion, sent its wide-flying fragments in blazing circles to the ground. A sharp, rattling sound, terminating in a cannon-like report, followed, shaking the rent and crashing heavens above, and the bounding earth beneath, in the awful concussion. Before the stunned and blinded settlers had recovered from the shock, or the deep roll of the echoing thunder had died away among the distant mountains, another and more welcome roar saluted their ears. It was that of the rapidly-approaching rain striking the foliage of the neighboring forest; and, scarcely had they time to gain the cover of the house, before the deluging torrents poured over it with a force and fury beneath which the quelled fires speedily sunk, hissing, into darkness and death. CHAPTER VII. "Wo is the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hands the reins." The morning of the next day, serene and beautiful as a bride decked in her fresh robes and redolent in her forest perfumery, came smiling over the wilderness hills of the east, to greet our little pioneer family on their deliverance from the perils of yesterday. The war of the elements, that had raged so fearfully round their seemingly devoted domicile, had all passed away; and, after sleeping off the fatigue and excitement of the previous day, they rose to look around them, to find themselves safe, and call themselves satisfied. Their buildings had been, after all, but very slightly injured, and their green crops but little damaged; their fences, indeed, were mostly consumed; but these could be replaced from the timber of the burnt slash, with little more labor than would be required to pile up and burn that timber where it lay. But, whatever such additional labor might be, it was more than compensated by the very intensity of the fire which caused it, and which, at the same time, had so utterly consumed all the underbrush, limbs of the trees, and even the smaller trees themselves, that weeks less than with ordinary burns would be required in the clearing. Elwood, therefore, came in from his morning survey happily disappointed in the supposed extent of his losses; and, joining his wife and son in the house, whom he found busily engaged in cutting up, mealing, and placing in the hissing pan over the fire the broad, red, and rich-looking pieces of trout, the fruit of yesterday's excursion on the lake, he told them, with a gratified air, the result of his observation, which, on a merchant-like calculation of loss and gain from the conflagration, he made out to show even a balance in his favor. Mrs. Elwood rejoiced with her husband on the happy turn of affairs, and wondered why her son did not manifest the same flow of spirits. But the latter, for some reason or other, appeared unusually abstracted during the whole morning; and, when asked to relate the particulars of his perilous adventure with the moose, which he had the evening before but briefly mentioned, he exhibited a hesitation, and a sort of shying of the question, in that part of the adventure relating to the rescued girl, which did not escape the quick eye of the mother. It was evident to her that something was kept back. But what that something was she was wholly unable to conjecture. It was so unusual for her son to show any lack of frankness that the circumstance disturbed her, and, though she knew not exactly why, sent a boding chill over her heart, which caused her also to become thoughtful and silent. And Mr. Elwood, who possessed none of those mental sympathies which, in some, will often be found unconsciously mingling with the thoughts of others, so far, at least, as to apprise them of the general character and drift of those thoughts, now, in his turn, wondered why his wife, as well as son, should all at once become so unsocial and taciturn. It will doubtless be generally said that this mental sympathy, or the intuitive perception of the main drift of what is passing in the minds of others, has an existence only in the fancy of fictionists. We, however, after years of close observation, have wholly ceased to doubt its reality. Scores of times have we been affected by thoughts and intentions which we knew must have a source other than in our own mind. Scores of times have we, in this manner, been put on our guard against the selfish designs which others were harboring to our disadvantage, of which no tongue had informed us, and of which, afterwards, we had tangible proof. And, on careful inquiry among persons of thought and sensibility, we have become convinced that the principle holds good to a very considerable extent among others; and that attention to the subject is only wanting to make it a generally received opinion. It was this principle that now affected Mrs. Elwood: not that she had the most distant idea that her son harbored aught of wrong intention toward any of his family, but she felt that his mind was somehow becoming subservient to schemes which existed somewhere in the minds of others, which concerned her or her family. But she _felt_ rather than thought this; and, knowing she could give no reason for her singular impression, prudently kept it to herself. "Good-morning, good-morning, gentlefolks," rang out the cheery voice of the hunter, who now looked in at the door as the Elwoods were rising from their breakfast. "Things look a little altered round here, this morning. I should hardly have known the place without the king pine, which, in its prime, was a tree of a thousand." "That tree was an old acquaintance of yours, I suppose," remarked Elwood. "Yes, of twenty years' standing; and I shall miss and mourn it as an old friend. But it died like a monarch, yielding only under the direct blow of the Almighty." "Then you consider the lightning more especially the instrument of Heaven than the wind, fire, and other elements, do you?" "To be sure I do. Wind, we know what it is; fire we know; water we also know; because we can see them, touch them, measure them. But who can see a piece of lightning when not in motion? who can find the least fragment of it after it has struck? It rends a tree, makes a smooth hole through a board, and ploughs up the ground. But go to the tree, and there is nothing there; look under the board, it is the same; and dig along the furrow it has ploughed to where it stopped, and it is not there, as it would be if it was any material thing, like a bullet, an axe, knife, or other instrument that produces such effects, in all other instances. No, 'tis not matter; it is the power of God; and your philosophers, who pretend to explain it, don't know what they are talking about. But enough of that. I came here to rally you out to go up the river with the rest of us, for the moose. You will both go, won't you?" "Claud will, doubtless," replied Mr. Elwood. "Indeed, I have half a mind to go myself." "Perhaps Claud, having had a fatiguing excursion yesterday, will stay at home, and let his father go, to-day," suggested Mrs. Elwood. "It was not at all fatiguing, mother," responded Claud. "The wind blows up the river to-day, ma'am," said the hunter, with a knowing look. Little more was said; but the result was that Claud and the hunter now soon went off together on the proposed excursion. On reaching the mouth of the Magalloway, they found four others waiting for them, with their canoes, when the whole party commenced their little voyage up the river. After leisurely rowing against the here slow and gentle current of the stream for an hour or two, they reached their destination, and hauled up at a point most convenient for gaining the spot where the slaughtered moose had been left the evening before. Led on by the hunter, all now started for the place just named, except Claud, who, under pretence of taking a short gunning bout in the woods, and of soon coming round to join his companions, proceeded, as soon as the latter were out of sight, with slow and hesitating steps, up the river, for the opening and supposed residence of the fair unknown who had so long been the object of his wondering fancies, and who had, notwithstanding the exciting scenes he had witnessed at home, been the especial subject of his dreams after he retired to rest the night before. But what a strange, wayward, timid, doubting, and inconsistent thing is the tender passion in its incipient stages, especially when that passion has principally been wrought up by the imagination! He soon came to the clearing of which he was in quest, and obtained a clear view of the, to him, charmed cottage. But, instead of entering the opening directly, he went nearly round it, frequently pausing and advancing nearly to the edge of the woods; but as often retreating, being unable quite to make up his mind to show himself at all to the inmates of the cottage. Once he gave it up entirely, and started off for his companions. But, after he had proceeded a dozen rods, he came again to a stand, hesitated a while, and, as if ashamed of his irresolution, wheeled rapidly about, proceeded, with a quick, firm step, to the border of the woods, struck directly for the house, and, with assumed unconcern, marched up to the door,--where he was met, not by the young lady he expected first to see, but by her father. But who was that father? To his utter surprise, it was _his_ father's old tempter and ruiner, the dark and inscrutable Gaut Gurley! With a manner, for him, unusually gracious, Gurley extended his hand to Claud; ushered him into the house; formally introduced him to his wife, an ordinary, abject-looking woman; and then to his daughter, the fair, dark-eyed, tall, shapely, and every way magnificent Avis Gurley, the girl who had so long, but unwittingly, been the object of the young man's dreamy fancies. "I have but very lately discovered," remarked Gurley, who seemed to feel himself called on to lead off in the conversation, after the usual commonplace remarks had been exchanged, "I have but lately discovered that I had, by a singular coincidence, again cast my lot in the same settlement with your family. Having made up my mind, a few months ago, to try a new country, and coming across the owner of this place, who was on a journey in New Hampshire, and who offered to sell and move off at once, I came on with him, struck a bargain, returned for my family, and brought them here about a fortnight ago. But, having been absent most of the time since, I didn't mistrust who my neighbors were." "And you probably perceived, sir," said Avis, turning to Claud, with a smile, "you probably perceived, in your yesterday's adventure up here in the woods, that I have been in as bad a predicament as my father." "How is that, Avis?" asked Gurley. "Why, father," responded the other, "Mr. Elwood will readily suppose that I should not have been straying into the wood for flowers and berries, had I known we had any such neighbors as the one from whose pursuit he so kindly rescued me last evening." "I was as much surprised at the ferocity of the animal as you were, I presume," said Claud, in reply. "And I was far more indebted to the hunter, Phillips, for my _own_ rescue, than _you_ were to _me_ for _yours_. I merely turned the furious brute aside. It was he who, coming up in the nick of time, brought him dead to the earth." "I supposed there were two of you," remarked Gurley. "I was half a mile up the river, yet I heard the firing plain enough; and, returning soon after, and hearing my daughter's story, I went to the place; but, by that time, you had dressed the animal and were gone. By the voices I heard in the woods, a short time ago, I concluded you came up, with others, for the beef." "We did. You here should certainly be entitled to a liberal share. Will you not go up there?" "Yes; I was thinking about it before you came in. I will go; but, as I wish to go a short distance into the woods, partly in another direction, I will now walk on and come round to the spot; and, if I don't meet you there, you may just tell your father how surprised I have been to find myself again in the same neighborhood with himself." "Umph!" half audibly exclaimed the hitherto mute wife, with a look that seemed to say, "What a bouncer he is telling now!" and she was evidently about to say something, comporting with the significant exclamation, but a glance from her husband, as he passed out of the door, quelled her into silence. On the departure of Gurley, his wife rose and left the room; when Claud, unexpectedly finding himself alone with his fair companion, instead of entering into the easy conversation with her which the dictates of common gallantry would seem to require, soon began to manifest signs of constraint and embarrassment, which did not escape the eye of the young lady, and which caused her no little surprise and perplexity. She knew nothing of what had been passing in his mind, nor once dreamed of the circumstance which had first impressed her image there. She had, indeed, known nothing of the Elwoods, except what she had heard her father say of them as a family, with whose head he had in some way been formerly connected in business. Had she been asked, she would doubtless have recalled the fact that her father had, the year before, employed an artist to paint a miniature likeness of her, which he subsequently pretended to have sent to a relative of his residing in Quebec, and she never entertained the least suspicion that it was not thus properly disposed of. She had never seen Claud till yesterday, when he so opportunely appeared for her rescue; and, even then, she had no idea who it was to whom she had thus become indebted. She, however, had been much prepossessed with his appearance and manly bearing, and felt a lively sense of gratitude for the voluntary service; and when, by the introduction of her father, she became apprised of the character of her deliverer, she felt doubly gratified that he had turned out to be one who, she believed, would not take any mean advantage of the obligation. For these reasons, she could not understand why he should appear so reserved, unless it was that she had failed to interest him; and, finally concluding that this must be the case, she did that which, with her maidenly pride and high spirit, she would otherwise have scorned to do, she exerted herself to the utmost to interest and please him; and, when he rose to return to his companions, she followed him into the yard, and smilingly said: "You are fond of gunning excursions, are you not, Mr. Elwood?" "Yes, O yes, quite so," replied Claud, with awkward hesitation. "And would not an occasional excursion in _this_ direction be as pleasant as any other?" she asked, with playful significance. But, instead of replying in the same spirit, the bewildered young man turned, and sent a gaze into the depths of her lustrous dark eyes, so serious and intense that it brought a blush to her cheek; when, stammering out his intention of often taking her house in his way in future, he hurriedly bade her good-by, and departed, leaving her more perplexed than ever. As for Claud, it would be difficult to describe his sensations on leaving the house, or make any thing definite out of the operations of his mind. Both heart and brain were working tumultuously, but not in unison. The train which his imagination had been laying was on the point of being kindled into, a blaze by the reality. He knew it; he felt it; but he knew also that it was the part of wisdom to smother the flame while it yet might be controlled. The unexpected and startling discovery which he had just made, that the girl who had so wrought upon his fancy, both when seen in the picture and met in the original, was the daughter of Gaut Gurley, raised difficulties and dangers in the path he found himself entering, which his judgment told him could only be avoided by his immediate desistance. For he was well aware how deeply rooted was his mother's aversion to this man, and how fatal had been his influence over his father, who had but a few months before escaped from his toils, and then only, perhaps, because there was no more to be gained by keeping him in them any longer. A connection with the daughter, therefore, however opposite in character from her father, would not only greatly mar his mother's happiness, but in all probability lead to a renewal of the intimacy between his father and Gurley; an event which he himself felt was to be deprecated. But the Demon of Sophistry, who first taught self-deceiving man how to make "the wish father to the thought," here interposing, whispered to the incipient lover that his father had reformed, and why not then Gaut Gurley? This reasoning, however, could not be made to satisfy his judgment; and again commenced the struggle between head and heart, one pulling one way and the other in another way,--too often an unequal struggle, too often like one of those contests between man and wife, where reason succumbs and will comes off triumphant. Such were the fluctuating thoughts and purposes which occupied the agitated bosom of Claud Elwood, in his solitary walk to the place where the boats had been left, and where the subject was now driven from his mind, for a while, by the appearance of his companions and the merry jokes of the hunter. They had cut up the moose meat, which they had found in good condition, and brought all they deemed worth saving down to the landing. And, being now ready to embark, they apportioned the meat among the different canoes, and rowed with the now favoring current rapidly down the river together till they reached its mouth, when they separated, and bore their allotted portions of the moose to their respective homes. For the two succeeding days and nights the hapless Claud was the prey of conflicting emotions,--the more oppressive because he carefully kept them pent up in his own bosom. He dared not make the least allusion before his parents to the lady whom they knew he had rescued, or his visit to her home, for he could not do so without revealing the fact that the dreaded Gaut Gurley, with his family, had found his way into the vicinity; while, if he did disclose this fact, he felt that he could not hold up his head before them till he had conquered his feelings towards the daughter. And sometimes he thought he had conquered them, and resolved that he would never see her again. But, brooding over his feelings in the solitudes of the woods, he only cherished and fanned the flame he was thinking to extinguish; and he again relapsed,--again paused,--again "resolved, re-resolved, and _did_ the same;" for, on the third day, under the excuse of taking another excursion on the lake, he was drawn, as surely as the vibrating needle to the pole, to the beautiful load-star of the Magalloway. Suspecting the state of young Elwood's feelings towards her, and fearing that she might have been too forward in her advances at their last interview, Avis Gurley, this time, received him with a dignity and maidenly reserve, which, when contrasted with her former sociability and cordiality of manner, seemed to him like studied coolness. This soon led him, in turn, to sue for favor. And so earnestly did he pursue his object, that, before he was aware of what he was saying, he had revealed the secret of his heart. She received his remarks in respectful silence, but gave no indication by which he could judge whether the inadvertent disclosure was pleasing or otherwise, except what might be gathered from her increased cordiality on other subjects, to which she now adroitly turned the conversation. This was just enough to encourage him, and at the same time leave him in that degree of doubt and suspense which generally operate as the greatest incentive to persevere in the pursuit of an object. It proved so in his case; and, to this natural incentive to persevere, was now added another, that of respect for her character,--a respect which every hour's conversation with her enhanced, and which he might accord to her with entire justice. Gaut Gurley, like many other bad men, was proud of having a good daughter. He early perceived that she inherited all that was comely and good in him, physically and morally, without any of his defects or faults of character. And, desirous so to rear her as to make the most of her natural endowments, and so, at the same time, that her character should not be marred by his example, he had been at considerable expense with her education, and had even deported himself with much circumspection in her presence. This, as will be readily inferred of one of his designing character, he did from a mixed motive: partly from parental pride and affection, and partly to make her, through some advantageous marriage, subservient to his own personal interests. In this state of affairs between Claud and Avis, closed this, their second interview. Another, and another, and yet another, succeeded at brief intervals. And so rapid is the course of love, when springing up in solitudes like these, where nothing occurs to divert the gathering current, but every thing conspires to increase it,--where to our young devotees all around them seemed to reflect their own feelings,--where the aeolian music of the whispering pines that embowered their solitary walks seemed but to give voice to the melody that filled their own hearts,--where to them the birds all sang of love,--where love smiled upon them in the pensive beams of the moon, glistened in the stars, and was stamped on all the expanse of blue sky above, and on all the forms of beauty on the green earth beneath,--so rapid, we repeat, is the course of love, thus born, and thus fostered, that a fortnight had scarcely elapsed before they had both yielded up heart and soul to the dominion of the well-named blind god, and uttered their mutual vows of love and constancy. This was the sunshine of their love; but the storms were already gathering in the distance. CHAPTER VIII. "The sigh that lifts her breastie comes. Like sad winds frae the sea, Wi' sic a dreary sough, as wad Bring tears into yer e'e." When Claud Elwood reached home, on the eventful visit to the Magalloway which resulted in the exchange of vows between him and Avis Gurley, as intimated at the close of the last chapter, he at once suspected, from the sad and troubled looks of his mother and the disturbed manner of his father, that the secret of his late visits abroad, as well as of the unexpected advent of the family visited, had, in some way, become known to them in his absence. A feeling of mingled delicacy and self-condemnation, however, prevented him from making any inquiries; and, with a commonplace remark, which was received in silence, he took a seat, and, with much inward trembling, awaited the expected _denouement_. But it did not come so soon nor in so harsh terms as he expected. There are occasions when we feel so deeply that we are reluctant to begin the task of unburdening our minds; and, when we do speak out, it is oftener in sorrow than in anger. It was so in the present instance. Mr. Elwood had that day been abroad among the settlers, and, for the first time, learned not only that Gaut Gurley had moved with his family into the settlement, but that Claud was courting his daughter, and a match already settled on between them. On his return home, Elwood felt almost as much reluctance in making known his discoveries to his wife as Claud had before him; for he well knew how deeply they would disquiet her. But, soon concluding there would be no wisdom in attempting concealment, he told her what he had heard. As he had anticipated, the news fell like a sudden thunderclap on her heart. She had experienced, indeed, many strange misgivings respecting her son's late mysterious absences; but she was not prepared for such a double portion of ill-omened news as she deemed this to be, and it struck her mute with dismay, for it at once brought a cloud over the future, which to her eye was dark with portents. Elwood himself was also obviously considerably disquieted by the news, showing no little uneasiness and excitement,--an excitement, perhaps, resembling that which is said to be manifested by a bird in the presence of the devouring reptile. He doubtless would gladly have been relieved from any further connection with Gaut. He doubtless would gladly have avoided even the slightest renewal of their former acquaintance. But, for reasons which he had never disclosed, he felt confident he should not long be suffered to enjoy any such exemption. And feeling, for the same reasons, how weak he should be in the hands of that man, he was troubled, far more troubled than he would have been willing to own, at the discoveries of the day, even if that part of it relating to the intimacy of his son and Gaut's daughter should prove, as he believed, a mere conjecture. It was at this juncture, and before a word of comment had been offered either by Mrs. Elwood or her husband on the news he had related, that Claud arrived and entered the room. "Well, God's will be done!" sadly uttered Mrs. Elwood, at length breaking the embarrassing silence, but without raising her eyes from her work, which lay neglected in her lap. "What does mother mean?" doubtfully asked Claud, turning to his father. "I have been telling her some unexpected news, which greatly disturbs her mind,--more than is necessary, perhaps," replied the other, with poorly assumed indifference. "What news?" rejoined the son, having made up his mind that, if his own secret was involved, as he supposed, the long dreaded _eclaircissement_ might as well come now as ever. "Why, that Gaut Gurley has moved with his family into the settlement. And that is not all; but the rest of it, which relates to a lately-formed intimacy between you and Gaut's daughter, I presume is mere guess-work." Mrs. Elwood turned a searching glance to the face of her son, and waited to hear his reply to the last remarks, but he was silent; and the last gleam of hope, which had for the moment lighted up the mother's countenance, faded like a moon-beam on the edge of an eclipsing cloud; and, after a long pause and silence which no one interrupted, she slowly and sadly said: "When I consented to leave the comforts and social blessings to which I had been accustomed, and come into this lone wilderness, with its well-known hardships and privations, my great and indeed only motive was, to see my family placed beyond the temptations of the city, and especially beyond the fatal, and to me always mysterious, influence of that wicked and dangerous man, Gaut Gurley. And with this object I came cheerfully, gladly. And when I reached this place, fondly hoping and believing we had escaped that man, and were forever secure from his wiles, I became happy,--happier than since I left my native hills in New-Hampshire. It soon became to _me_, lone and dreary as it might appear to others,--it soon became to _me_, in my fancied security from the evils we had fled, a second Paradise. But to me it is a Paradise no longer; the Serpent has found his way into our Eden; and, not content with having beguiled and ruined one, must now have the other so entangled in the toils that both will be kept in his power." "You are going a great ways to borrow trouble, it appears to me, Alice," remarked Elwood, after a pause. "It certainly seems so to me, also, mother," said Claud. "You cannot know but Gurley comes here with as honest purposes as father. But, were it otherwise, the daughter should not be held responsible for the faults of the father, nor, without good reason, be accused of favoring any sinister designs he may entertain." "Claud takes a just view of the case, on both points, I presume," rejoined Mr. Elwood. "As to Gurley, I know not how, or why, he came here; nor do I wish or expect to have any thing to do with him. And as to Claud, I trust he knows enough to take care of himself." "You have both evaded the spirit of my remarks," responded Mrs. Elwood. "When I speak of Gaut Gurley's motives and designs, you must know I judge from his past conduct. Have either of you as safe grounds of judging him? And when I allude to his daughter, I do so with no thought of holding her amenable for the faults of her father, or even of assuming the ground that she has inherited any of his objectionable traits of character. I intend nothing of the kind, for I know nothing of her. But I do say, that, whenever she marries, she becomes the connecting link between her husband and her father, the chain extending both ways, so as to bind their respective families together, and give one the power and means of evil which could in no other way be obtained. In view of all these circumstances, then, I feel that a calamity is in store for us. God grant that my fears and forebodings may prove groundless." The husband and son were saved the difficult and embarrassing task of replying, by the arrival of Philips, who, in his free and easy manner, entered and took a seat with the family. "I came, gentlefolks," said the hunter, after a few commonplace remarks had been exchanged,--"I came to see if you know what a 'bee' means?" "A bee? what, honey-bees?" asked Mr. Elwood, in surprise at the oddness of the question. "No, not a honey-bee, exactly, or a humble-bee, but a sort of work-meeting of men or women, to help a neighbor to husk his corn, for instance, build him a log house, or do off some other job for him in a day, which alone would take him perhaps weeks. These turn-outs we new settlers call 'bees.' Nothing is more common than for a man to get up a bee to knock off at once a pressing job he wants done. And, when a new-comer appears to be delicate about moving in the matter, the neighbors sometimes volunteer, and get up a bee for him, among themselves." "I may have heard of the custom; but why do you say you came to ask me if I know any thing about it?" "Well, I kinder thought I would. You have a pretty stiff-looking burnt piece here to be logged off soon, have you not?" "Why, yes." "And it would be a hard and heavy month's job for you and the young man to do it, would it not?" "The best part of a month, perhaps; but I was intending to go at it in season, that we might get it all cleared and sown by the middle of September; which must be done, if I join you and the rest of the usual company in the fall trapping and hunting expedition." "Of course you will join us. It is our main and almost only chance here of getting any money." "So I have always understood, and therefore made up my mind to go into it, if I can get ready. I have been down the river to-day and engaged my seed wheat. To-morrow I thought of going abroad again, to try to engage some help for clearing the piece." "Well, you need not go a rod for that purpose." "Why not?" "Because we have got up a bee for you in the settlement, large enough, we think, to log off your whole piece in a day." "Indeed! Who has been so kind as to start such a project?" "Several of us: Codman, that you may have seen, or at least heard of, as the best trapper in the settlement, took upon himself to enlist those round the southerly end of the lake, where he lives; and I have arranged matters a little in this section and on the river below. But, in justice, I should name, as the man who has taken the most interest in the movement, the new settler who has this summer come into the parts, and made his pitch over on the Magalloway. His name is Gurley." A dead silence of several minutes ensued, during which Mrs. Elwood looked sadly and meaningly from the husband to the son, both of whose countenances seemed to fall and shrink before her significant glances. "Well," at length resumed the hunter, perceiving no response was to be made to his last remark, "seeing we had got all arranged and ready, I came to notify you, so that you should not be taken by surprise. We propose to be on the ground, men and oxen, early day after to-morrow. There will be fifteen or twenty of us, perhaps, with five or six yoke of oxen, and like enough a stiff horse or two." "But how can I provision such a company on so short notice?" "No trouble about that. You have salt pork?" "A good supply." "Corn meal?" "Yes; and wheat flour, with fine new potatoes." "All right. I will take care of the rest. I will take the young man, here, into my largest canoe, to-morrow morning, if he be so disposed, and we will go up the lake, perhaps into the upper lake, and it will be a strange case if we don't return at night with fish, and I think flesh, enough to victual the company; and, in the mean time, my women will come up and be on hand to-morrow and next day, to help Mrs. Elwood do the baking and cooking." The friendly movement of the neighbors, thus announced, was not, of course, to be opposed or questioned by those for whose benefit it was intended, any further than Mr. Elwood had done in relation to his ability to entertain the company so well as their kindness deserved. Mr. Elwood and his son, indeed, who had been dreading the hard job of clearing off their land, were greatly gratified at the unexpected kindness. And even Mrs. Elwood, pained and annoyed as she was by the part taken by Gaut Gurley, whose only motive she believed was to gain some advantage for meditated evil, entered cheerfully into the affair, and joined her husband in handsome expressions of acknowledgment to the hunter, and assurances of doing their best to provide properly for the company. The matter was therefore considered as settled; and the hunter departed, to call, as he had proposed, early the next morning for Claud, for an excursion up the lake, to procure fresh provisions for the coming occasion. The family were early astir the next morning, intent on their respective duties in preparation for the appointed logging bee. They had scarcely dispatched their breakfast, before the hunter, as he had promised, called for Claud; when the two departed together, with their guns and fishing gear, for the lake, whither we propose to accompany them. "Well, now, let us settle the order of the day," said Phillips, after they had reached the landing and deposited their luggage in the canoe selected for the purpose. "I am a companion of the voyage, to-day, and, as you know, but a learner in these sports," responded Claud. "You have but to name your plan." "Well, my plan is this: to steer across and get up the lake to the inlet and rapids which connect this to the next upper lake, called by the Indians the Molechunk-a-munk; up these rapids into that lake, where we will take a row of a few hours, and home again by nightfall. In these rapids, going or returning, we may safely count, at this season, on a plenty of trout; and, on the borders of the lake beyond, I know of several favorite haunts of the deer, one of which I propose to take into the canoe as ballast to steady it for running the rapids, on our way back." "What is the whole distance?" "Four or five miles of this lake, as many of the river or rapids, and as far into the upper lake as we please." "You are laying out largely for one day, are you not?" "No, 'tis nothing. You see, I have brought round for our use my best birch bark canoe. I have rowed her fifty miles a day round the lakes many a time. We shall bound over the lake in almost no time, and the rapids, which are the only drawback, can soon be surmounted, by oar or setting-pole, or, what may be cheapest, carrying the canoe round those most difficult of passage. The boat does not weigh an hundred. I could travel with it a mile on my head, as fast as you would wish to walk without a pound of luggage. So, in with you, and I'll show you how it is done." Accordingly they launched forth in their primitive craft, which, as before intimated, was the once noted birch bark canoe built by the hunter agreeably to the exact rules of Indian art. Few, who have never seen and observed the process of constructing this canoe, which, for thousands of years before the advent of the white man, was the only craft used by the aborigines in navigating the interior waters, have any idea how, from such seemingly fragile materials, and with no other tools than a hatchet, knife, and perhaps a bone needle, the Indian can construct a canoe so extremely light and at the same time so tough and durable. In building his canoe, which is one of the greatest efforts of his mechanical skill, the Indian goes to work systematically. He first peels his bark from a middle-sized birch tree, and cuts it in strips five or six inches wide, and twelve, fifteen, or twenty feet long, according to the length and size of the designed canoe. He then dries them thoroughly in the sun, after which he nicely scrapes and smooths off the outside. He next proceeds to soak these strips, which are thus made to go through a sort of tanning process, to render them tough and pliable, as well as to obviate their liability to crack by exposure to the sun. After the materials are thus prepared, he smooths off a level piece of ground, and drives around the outside a line of strong stakes, so that the space within shall describe the exact form of the boat in contemplation. Inside of these stakes he places and braces up the wet and pliable pieces of bark, beginning at the bottom and building up and bending into form the sides and ends, till the structure has attained the required height. In this situation it is left till it is again thoroughly dried and all the pieces become fixed in shape. A light inside framework is then constructed, resembling the skeleton of a fish, and of dimensions to fit the canoe already put in form in the manner we have described. The pieces of cured material are then numbered and taken down; when the architect, beginning at the bottom, lapping and sewing together the different pieces, proceeds patiently in his work, till the sides are built, the ends closed nicely up, and each piece lashed firmly to the framework, which, though of surprising lightness, is made to serve as keel, knees, and ribs of the boat. Every seam and crevice is then filled with melted pitch. The Indian then has his canoe fit for use; and he may well boast of a boat, which, for combined strength and lightness, and especially for capacity of burden, no art of the shipbuilder has ever been able to surpass, and which, if it has not already, might serve for a model of the best lifeboat ever constructed, in these days of boasted perfection in marine arts and improvements. Bounding over the smooth waters like a seabird half on wing, our voyagers soon found themselves on the northerly side of the lake; when, rounding a point, they began to skirt the easterly shore of the bay that makes up to the inlet, at a more leisurely pace, for the purpose of being on the lookout for deer, which might be standing in the edge of the water round the coves, to cool themselves and keep off the flies. Not seeing any signs of game, however, they steered out so as to clear the various little capes or woody points of land inclosing the numerous coves scattered along the indented shore, and struck a line for the great inlet at the head of the lake, which they now soon reached, and commenced rowing against the at first gentle and then rapid current, which here pours down from, the upper lakes, through the rocky and picturesque defiles, in the form of a magnificent river, rivalling in its size the midway portions of the Connecticut or Hudson. "Now, young man," said the hunter, laying aside his paddle and taking up the strong, elastic setting-pole he had provided for the occasion, "now you must look out for your balance. The river, to be sure, is quite low, and the current, of course, at its feeblest point; but we shall find places enough within the next mile where the canoe, to go up at all, must go up like the jump of a catamount. So, down in the bottom of the boat, on your braced knees, with your haunches on your heels, and leave all to me." "What! do you expect to force the canoe up rapids like these?" asked Claud, in surprise, as he cast his eye over the long reach of eddying, tumbling waters, that looked like a lessening sheet of foam as it lay stretched upward in the distant perspective. "I expect to try," coolly replied the hunter; "and, if you lay asleep in the bottom of the canoe, I should expect to succeed. And, as it is, if you can keep cool and obey orders, we will see what can be done." Claud implicitly obeyed the directions of the hunter, without much faith, however, in the success of his bold attempt. But he soon perceived he had underrated the skill and strength of arm which had been relied on to accomplish the seemingly impossible feat. Standing upright and slightly bracing in the bottom of his canoe, the hunter first marked out with his eye his course through a given reach of the rock-broken and foaming waters above; then, nicely calculating the resisting force of each rapid to be overcome, and the required impetus, and the direction to be given to his canoe to effect it, he sharply bid Claud be on his guard, and sent the light craft like an arrow into the boiling eddies before him. And now, by sudden and powerful shoves, he was seen shooting obliquely up one rapid; tacking with the quickness of light, and darting off zigzag among the rocks and eddies towards another, which was in turn surmounted; while the boat was forced, surging and bounding forward, with increasing impetus, now up and now athwart the rushing currents, till he had gained a resting-place in the still water of some sheltering boulder in the stream, when he would mark off, with a rapid glance, another reach of falls, and shoot in among them as before. Thus, with the quick tacks and turns and sudden leaps of the ascending salmon, and almost with the celerity, he made his way up the long succession of rapids, until the last of the series was overcome, and he found himself safely emerging into the smooth waters of the beautiful lakelet or pond which divides, in the upper portion of its course, this remarkable stream. Another row of a mile or so now brought the voyagers where the water again took the form of a swift river, tumbling and foaming over the rocks, in the last series of rapids to be overcome. These also were surmounted in the same manner and with the same success as the former. But this part of the voyage was marked with an unexpected adventure, and one which seemed destined to lead to the operation of new and singular moral agencies, both in the near and more distant future, having an important bearing on the fate and fortunes of young Elwood. They had reached the last and most difficult of all the rapids yet encountered, and were resting, preparatory to the anticipated struggle, in a smooth piece of water under the lee of a huge rock, on either side of which the divided stream rushed in two foam-covered torrents, with the force and swiftness of a mill-race; when they were startled by the shrill exclamations of a female voice, in tones indicative of surprise and alarm. The sounds, which came from some unseen point not far above them in the stream, were evidently drawing near at a rapid rate. Presently a small Indian canoe, with a single female occupant, whose youth and beauty, even in the distance, were apparent, shot swiftly into view, and came tossing and whirling down the stream, unguided, and wholly at the mercy of the crooked and raging currents along which it was borne with the speed of the wind. The imperilled maiden uttered a cry of joy at the appearance of our voyagers, and held up the handle of a broken oar, to indicate to them at once the cause of her fearful dilemma and need of assistance. "I will throw her one of our paddles, and she will best take care of herself," hurriedly exclaimed the hunter, seizing the implement, and awaiting her nearest approach to throw it within her reach. The critical point was the next instant reached, but the hunter, in his nervous anxiety and haste, made his throw a little too soon and with too much force. The paddle struck directly under the prow of the canoe, and shot beyond, far out of reach of the expectant maiden's extended hands. Another oar was hurled after her, with no better effect; when, for the first time, a shade of despair passed over her agitated countenance; for she saw herself rapidly drifting directly into the jaws of a wild and fearful labyrinth of breakers not fifty yards below, where, in all probability, her fragile canoe would be dashed to pieces, and herself thrown against the slippery and jagged rock, drawn down, and lost. Claud, who had witnessed, with trembling anxiety, the hunter's vain attempts to place the means of self-preservation in the hands of the maiden, and who now perceived, in their full light, the perils of the path to which she was helplessly hastening, could restrain his generous impulses no longer; and, quickly throwing off his hat and coat, he leaped overboard, dashed headlong into the current, and struck boldly down it to overtake the receding canoe. "Hold! madness! They will both perish together!" rapidly exclaimed the hunter, surprised and alarmed at the rash attempt of his young companion. "But I will share in their dangers,--perhaps save them, yet." Accordingly he hastily headed round his canoe, and, hazardous as he knew must be the experiment, sent it surging down the current after his endangered young friends; for the one, as will soon appear, was no less his favorite than the other. In the mean time, Claud, in swimming over a sunken rock, luckily gained a foothold, which enabled him to rise and plunge forward again with redoubled speed; and, so well-timed and powerful were his exertions, that he came within reach of the stern of the fugitive canoe just as it was whirling round sideways in the reflux of the waves caused by the water dashing against a high rock standing partly in the current. It was a moment of life or death, both to the man and maiden; for the boat was on the point of going broadside over the first fall into the wild and seething waters, seen leaping and roaring in whirlpools and jets of foam among the intricate passes of the ragged rocks below. Making sure of his grasp on the end of the canoe that had been thus fortunately thrown within his reach, the struggling Claud made an effort to draw it from the edge of the abyss into which it was about to be precipitated; but, with his most desperate exertions, he was barely enabled to keep it in position, while his strength was rapidly giving way. The unequal contest was quickly noticed by the hapless girl; and, after watching a moment, with a troubled eye, the fruitless efforts and wasting strength of the young man, she calmly rose to her feet, exhibiting, as she stood upright in the boat, with the spray dashing over her marble forehead and long flowing hair, in the faultless symmetry of her person, the beautiful cast of her features, and the touching eloquence of her speaking countenance, a figure which might well serve as a subject for the pencil of the artist. "Let go, brave stranger," she cried, in clear, silvery tones, after throwing a grateful and admiring glance down upon her gallant rescuer; "let me go, and save yourself. I can die as befits a daughter of my people." "Hold on, there, Claud! Courage, girl! I see a way to save you both," at that critical instant rang above the roar of the waters the sharp voice of the hunter, who, with wonderful tact and celerity, had shot down obliquely across the main current, out of it through a narrow side pass, down that and round the intervening rocks, and was now driving with main strength up another pass, abreast of the objects of his anxiety. "There: now seize the head of my canoe, and hold on to both; and, on your life, be quick!" he continued, shouting to the exhausted young man, while he himself was struggling with all his might to get and keep his boat in the right position among the battling currents. After one or two ineffectual attempts, Claud, with a last desperate effort, fortunately succeeded in securing his grasp on the hunter's boat, without losing his hold on the other; when, with one mighty effort of the latter, they were all drawn out of the vortex together, and soon brought safely to shore. "Fluella, my fair young friend," said the hunter, taking a long breath, and respectfully turning to the rescued girl, as the party stepped on to the dry beach, "I have not often--no, never--felt more rejoiced than now, in seeing you stand here in safety." "I know the danger I have been in," responded the maiden, feelingly. "O yes, know to remember, and know to remember, also, those who made my escape. Mr. Phillips, I am grateful much." "Don't thank _me_," promptly replied the hunter. "I am ashamed not to have been the first in the rescue, when the chief's daughter was in danger." "But, Mr. Phillips," rejoined the other, with an expressive smile, "you have not told me who this stranger is, who seemed to measure the value of his own life by such a worthless thing as mine." "True, no," returned the hunter; "but this gentleman, Fluella, is young Mr. Claud Elwood, who, with his father and mother, has recently moved into the settlement; and they are now my nearest neighbors, at the foot of the lower lake. And to you, Claud, I have to say, that this young lady is the daughter of Wenongonet, the red chief, the original lord of these lakes, and still living on the one next above." Both the maiden and her gallant young preserver seemed equally surprised, at the announcement of each others' name and character: the former, because it suggested questions in the solution of which she felt an interest, but which, with the characteristic prudence of her race, she forbore to ask; and the latter, because he found it hard to realize that the fair-complexioned and every way beautiful girl, who stood before him, readily speaking his own language, and neatly and even richly arrayed in the usual female habiliments of the day, with the single exception of the gay, beaded moccasins, that enveloped her small feet and ankles,--found it extremely difficult to realize that one of such an exterior, and of so much evident culture, could possibly have descended from the tawny and uncultivated sons of the forest. "You two should hereafter be friends, should you not?" observed the hunter, perceiving their mutual restraint, of which he wished to relieve them. Rousing himself, with a prompt affirmative reply to the question, Claud gallantly advanced, and extended his hand to his fair companion, who, with evident emotion, and a slight suffusion of the cheek, gave him her own in return, as she said: "O yes. Mr. Phillips' friend is my friend, and, I--I--why, I can't thank him _now_; the words don't come; the thanks remain unshaped in my heart." "Excuse me," replied Claud, "excuse me if I say, Miss Fluella, as Mr. Phillips calls you, that you have already expressed, and in the finest terms, far more than I am entitled to; so let that pass, and tell us how your mishap occurred?" "O, naturally enough, though rather stupidly," responded the other, regaining her ease and usually animated manner. "You must know that I sometimes play the Indian girl, in doing my father's trouting. And, having rowed down to the rapids this morning for that purpose, I ran my canoe on to a rock, up here at the head of the falls, and threw into an eddy below, till I had taken a supply. But, like other folks, I must have the _one more_,--a large one I had seen playing round my hook; and, in my eagerness to take him, I did not notice that my canoe had slipped off the rock till I found it drifting down the current. I seized my oar, but, with the first blow in the water it snapt in my hands. You know the rest, unless, perhaps, the number of fish I caught," she added, pointing to a string of fine trout still lying safely in the bottom of her canoe. "Brave girl!" exclaimed the hunter, going up to the boat with Claud, to inspect the fish, which they had not before noticed. "A good ten pounds, and fine ones, too. Claud shall remain here while I go a piece up the lake for a deer, and follow your example, except the race down the rapids; but that he can't do, for I shall take our canoe with me, and make him fish from the shore, which will be just as well. Are you agreed to that arrangement, young man?" This proposition being accepted, and it being also settled by common consent that no further attempt should, at this time, be made to ascend the remaining rapids with either of the boats the hunter and Claud, accompanied by the light-footed Fluella, took up her canoe and set off with it, along shore, towards a convenient landing in the lake above, then not more than sixty or seventy rods distant. In a short time the proposed landing was reached, and the boat let down into the water. The maiden, with an easy and sprightly movement, then flung herself into her seat, and, with a paddle hastily whittled for her out of a piece of drift-wood, by the ever ready hunter, sent her little craft in a curving sweep into the lake; when, facing round to her preservers, while a sweet and grateful smile broke over her dimpling features, she bade and bowed them adieu, and went bounding over the undulating waves towards her home, on an island some miles distant, near the southeastern border of this romantic sheet of water. "Can it be," half-soliloquized Claud, as he stood rivetting his wondering gaze on the beauteous figure, which, gracefully bowing with the lightly-dipping oar, was receding from his rapt view, and gradually melting away in the distance; "can it be that she is but a mere Indian girl, one of those wild, untutored children of the forest?" "It is even so, young man," responded the hunter, rousing himself from the reverie into which he also seemed to have fallen at the departure of his fair favorite; "it is even so; but, for all that, the very flower of all the womankind, white or red, according to my ideas, that ever graced the borders of these lakes." "But how came she by those neatly-turned English features, and that clear, white complexion?" "Why, her mother, who is now dead, was an uncommon handsome woman for a squaw, and had, as I perhaps should have qualified when I answered so about this girl, some white blood in her veins; or rather had, as the old chief once told me, somewhere away back among the gone-by generations, a female ancestor, a pure white woman, who was made captive by the Indians, and married into their tribe, and who was as handsome as a picture. But the white blood seemed to have been pretty much lost among the descendants, till the appearance of this nonsuch of a girl, in whom every drop of it seemed to have again been collected." "Some might, perhaps, draw different conclusions in the case." "Yes, and draw them very wrongfully, too, as I have no doubt many people do in such cases; for I have often noticed it among families, and ascertained it as a fact, that where a person of particular looks and character once lived, his or her like, though not coming out visibly in any of the descendants for a long time, is sure sooner or later to appear, and so will frequently leap out in a child four or five generations off; a complete copy, in looks, blood, and character, of the original (as far as can be judged from family tradition), who may have been dead an hundred years. This is my notion; and I hold that every person is destined to be at least once reproduced among some of his descendants. I, or the exact like of me, will likely enough be seen in some of my blood descendants, fifty or an hundred years hence, building dams or mills on these very falls, or even riding in a carriage around these wild lakes, where I have spent nearly my whole life in hunting moose, and the other wild animals known only in the unbroken forest." "Your theory may be true, but it does not quite account, I think, for the evident intelligence and culture of this remarkable girl. To appear and converse as she does, she must have seen considerable of good society out of the forest, and, I should think, schools." "She has, both. Her father, one fall, when she was a girl of ten or eleven, took her along with him to a city on the coast, where he went to sell his furs and nice basket-work, and where she, some how, excited the lively interest of a good family, and particularly of a wealthy gentleman then living in the family. Well, the short of the matter is, that they persuaded the chief to leave her through the winter; and, she becoming a favorite with them all, they instructed her, sent her to school, and dressed her as they would an own daughter, and would only part with her in the spring on condition of her returning in the fall. And so it has gone on till now, she living with them winters, and here with her father summers; for, though they would like to take her entirely out of the woods, she would not desert her father, who loves her as his life, and calls her the light of his lodge,--no, not for all the gold in the cities." "You must then be well acquainted with this Indian family, and can give me their history." "As far as is proper for me to tell, as well as anybody, perhaps. When I was a young man, I at times used to live with the chief, who always made me welcome to his lodge, and gave me his confidence. He was then but little past his prime, and one of the smartest men, every way, I ever knew. He was then worth property, and lived with his first wife, this girl's mother, who, as I told you, was very good-looking and intelligent. But his second wife was as homely as his first was handsome. As to Wenongonet himself, who has now got to be, though still active, an old man, he claims to have been a direct descendant of Paugus,--a grandson, I believe, of that noted chief,--who was slain in Lovewell's bloody fight, and whose tribe, once known as the Sokokis or Saco Indians, who were great fighters, it is said, were then forever broken up, the most of them fleeing over the British highlands and joining the St. Francis Indians in Canada. The family of Paugus, however, with a few of the head men, who survived the battle, concluded to remain this side of the mountain, and try to keep up a show of the tribe on these lakes, where they lived till Paugus' son, who on the death of his father became their sagamore or chief, died, when they gradually drew off into Canada, leaving Wenongonet, the last chief's son, the only permanent Indian resident, after a while, on these lakes. But come, young man, enough of Indian matters for to-day: we must now be stirring, or our day's work may come short. Help me to take my canoe up here into the lake; and, within four hours, the time to which I will limit my absence, we will see what can be done by each, in our different undertakings." The employment of another half-hour fully sufficed to place the canoe of the hunter in the smooth water above the rapids; when the latter, with a cheery "heigh ho," at each light dip of his springy oar, struck off towards the foot of the pine-covered hills that lift their green summits from the western shores of the lake, leaving his young companion to proceed to his allotted portion of the sports or labors of the day. Preparing his long fishing-rod and tackle, according to the instructions which the hunter had given him for adapting his mode of fishing to the locality and season, Claud made his way along down the edge of the stream to a designated point, a short distance above the place where, on the occurrence of the incident before described, they had ceased to ascend the rapids in their canoes. He here found, as he had been told, below a traversing reach of bare breakers, a large, deep eddy of gently revolving water, in the centre of which lay tossing on the swell a broad spiral wreath of spotless foam. The hunter, in selecting these rapids, and especially this resting-spot of the ascending fish, as the place where he could safely warrant the taking of the needed supply of trout, had not spoken without knowledge; for it may well be doubted whether there could be found, in all the regions of the north, a reach of running water of equal length with this wild and singularly picturesque portion of the Androscoggin river, containing such quantities of this beautiful fish as are found about midsummer, swarming up the rapids on their way from the Umbagog to the upper lakes. So, at least, Claud then found it; for, having passed to the most outward point of rocks inclosing the eddy, he no sooner threw in and drew his _skip bait_ round the borders of the foam-island just named, than a dozen large trout shot up from beneath, and leaped splashing along the surface, in keen rivalry for the prize of the bait. With a second throw, he securely hooked one of a size which required all his strength to draw it, as he at length did, flapping and floundering to a safe landing. And for the next three hours he pursued the sport with a success which, notwithstanding the great number that broke away from his hook, well made good the augury of his beginning. By that time he had caught some dozens, of sizes varying from one to seven pounds, and enough, and more than he needed. But still he could not forego his exciting employment, and, insensible of the lapse of time, continued his drafts on the seemingly inexhaustible eddy, till roused by the long, shrill _halloo_ of the returned hunter, summoning him to the landing above. Throwing down his pole by the side of his proud display of fish, he hastened up to the lake, where he found the hunter complacently employed in removing, for lightness of carriage, the head and offal of a noble fat buck; when the two, with mutual congratulations on their success, took up canoe, and, with a stop only long enough to take in the trout, carried and launched their richly-freighted craft at a convenient place in the stream below. Seeing Claud securely seated in the bottom of the canoe, and the freight nicely balanced, the hunter took his paddle, instead of setting-pole, the better to restrain the speed of the boat at the most rapid and dangerous passes, and struck out into the current, adown which, under the quick and skilful strokes of its experienced oarsman, it was borne with almost the swiftness of a bird on the wing, till it reached the quiet waters of the pond; and, this being soon passed over, they entered and descended the next reach of rapids with equal speed and safety. All the dangers and difficulties were now over; and, leisurely rowing homeward, they were, by sunset, at the cottage of the Elwoods, displaying the fruits of their enterprise, and recounting their singular adventures to the surprised and gratified inmates. CHAPTER IX "Then came the woodman with his sturdy-team Of broad-horned oxen, to complete the toil Which axe and fire had left him, to redeem, For culture's hand, the cold and root-bound soil." The next morning, it being the day appointed for the "logging bee," the Elwoods were again up betimes, to be prepared for the reception of the expected visitants. On going out into the yard, while yet the coming sun was only beginning to flush the eastern horizon, Mr. Elwood perceived, early as it was, a man, whom he presumed, from the handspike and axe on his shoulder, to be one of the company, entering the opening and leisurely approaching, with an occasional glance backward along the road from the settlements below. Not recognizing the man as an acquaintance, Elwood noted his appearance closely as he was coming up. He was a rather young-looking man, of a short, compactly built figure, with quick motions, and that peculiar springy step which distinguishes men of active temperament and hopeful, buoyant spirits; while the fox like cut of his features, the lively gray eyes that beamed from them, and the evidently quick coming and going thoughts that seemed to flash from his thin-moving nostrils and play on his curling lips, served to indicate rapid perceptions, shrewdness, and a kind and perhaps fun-loving disposition. "Hillo, captain,--or captain of the house, as I suppose you must be," he sang out cheerily, as with slackening step he approached Elwood; "did you ever hear spoken of, a certain rough-and-ready talking sort of a chap they call Jonas Codman?" "I have heard of a Mr. Codman, and was told that he would probably be here to-day," doubtfully replied Elwood. "Well, I am he, such as he is, pushed forward as a sort of advanced guard,--no, herald must be the book-word,--to tell you that you are taken. Did you mistrust it?" "No, not exactly." "You _are_, nevertheless. But I'll tell you a story, which, if you can see the moral, may give you some hints to show you how to turn the affair to your advantage without suffering the least inconvenience yourself; and here it is: "There was once a curious sort of a fellow, whose land was so covered with stones, which had rolled down from a mountain, that little or nothing could grow among them; and the question was, how he should ever remove them. Well, one day, when he was thinking on the matter, he found in the field an old Black-Art book, on the cover of which he read, '_One chapter will bring one, two chapters two, and so on; but set and keep them at work, lest a worst thing befall_.' So, to see what would come of it, he read one chapter; when a great, stout, dubious-looking devil made his appearance, and asked what he should go about? 'Go to throwing these stones over the mountain,' said the man. The devil went at it. But the man, seeing the poor devil was having a hard job of it, read on till he had raised about a dozen of the same kind of chaps, and set them all at work. And so smashingly did they make the stones fly that, by sunset, the last were disappearing; and the man was about to set them to pulling up the stumps on his newly-cleared land. But they shook their heads at this, and, being pretty well tuckered out, agreed to quit even, if he would, and go off without the usual pay in such cases made and provided in devildom; when, he making no objections, they, with another squint at the green gnarly stumps, cut and run; and all the chapters he could read after that--for he began to like the fun of having his land cleared at so cheap a rate--would never bring them back again." So saying, the speaker turned; and, without the explanation or addition of a single word, retraced his steps and disappeared in the woods, leaving the puzzled Elwood to construe the meaning of his story as he best could. Very soon, however, sounds reached his ears which enabled him to form some conjecture what the man intended by his odd announcement. The mingling voices of ox-team drivers, with their loud and peculiarly modulated "_Haw Buck! gee! and up there, ye lazy loons_!" were now heard resounding through the woods, and evidently approaching along the road from the settlement. And soon an array of eight sturdy pair of oxen, each bearing a bundle of hay bound on the top of their yoke with a log chain, and each attended by a driver, with a handspike on his shoulder, marching by their side, emerged one after another from the woods, and came filing up the road towards the spot where he stood. As the long column approached, Elwood, with a flutter of the heart, recognized in the driver most in advance, the erect, stalwart figure and the proud and haughty bearing of Gaut Gurley. "Good-morning, good-morning, neighbor Elwood, as I have lately been pleased to find you," exclaimed Gurley, with an air of careless assurance, as he came within speaking distance. "We have come, as you see, to give you a lift at your logging. So show us right into your slash, and let us go at it, at once. We shall find time to talk afterwards." Elwood, with some general remark expressive of his obligation to the whole of the company at hand for their voluntary and unexpected kindness, led the way to the burned slash, and went back to meet and salute the rest of the company, as they severally came up. Having performed this ceremony with those having the immediate charge of the oxen, till the whole had passed on to their work, he turned to the rest of the company, whom, though before unnoticed by him, he now found following immediately behind the teams. These consisted of some half-dozen sturdy logmen, with their implements, appointed to pair off with the drivers of the teams, so as to provide two men to each yoke of oxen; the hunter, Phillips, with his brisk wife and buxom daughter, bearing a basket of plates, knives, forks, spoons, and extra frying-pans, to supply any deficiency Mrs. Elwood might find in furnishing her tables or in cooking for so large a company; and lastly, Comical Codman, as he was often called by the settlers, who, though the first to come forward to meet Elwood, was now bringing up the rear. "A merry morning to you," exclaimed the hunter, as the logmen turned off to the slash; "a merry morning to you, neighbor Elwood. This looks some like business to-day. You were not expecting us a very _great_ sight earlier than this, I conclude," he added, with a jocular smile. "Earlier? Why, it is hardly sunrise yet, and I am wholly at a loss to know how men living at such distances could get here at this hour." "Well, that is easily explained. They haven't had to travel so far this morning as you imagine. They came on as far as my place last night, mostly, and such as could be accommodated nestled with me in my house. The rest camped out near by in the bush, which is just as well generally with us woodsmen. But you, having no mistrust of this, as it seems, were taken, I suppose, by surprise at our appearance so early." "I should have been, wholly so, but for the coming ahead of this gentleman," replied Elwood, pointing to Codman; "and then, I was rather at loss to know what he intended by his queer way of announcing you." "Very likely. He never does or says any thing like other folks. Jonas," continued the hunter, turning to the odd genius of whom he was speaking, "you are a good trapper, but I fear you make a bad fore-runner." "Well, I am all right now here in the rear, I suppose," replied the other, with an oddly assumed air of abashment. "A man is generally good for one thing or t'other. If I ain't a good forerunner, it then follows that I am a good hind-runner." "You see he must have his fol-de-rol, Mr. Elwood," said the hunter. "But, for all that, he is a good fellow enough at the bottom, if you can ever find it: ain't all that so, Jonas?" "Sort of so and sort of not so; but a little more not than sorter, they may say, perhaps. And I don't think, myself, there is much either at the top or bottom to brag on," rejoined Codman, suddenly darting off to join his companions in the slash; and now whistling a tune, as he went, and now crowing like a cock, in notes and tones each of its kind so wondrous loud and shrill that the whole valley of the lake seemed wakened by the strange music. The operations of the day having been thus auspicuously commenced in the slash, Elwood, retaining the hunter with him at the house to advise and assist in such arrangements and preparations for breakfast as might render the meal most acceptable to the company, entered at once upon his duties as host; and, it being found that neither the room nor tables in the house were sufficient to seat all the company, it was decided, for the purpose of avoiding every appearance of invidious distinction, to prepare temporary tables and seat the whole of them, except the females, in the open air near the house. Accordingly the hunter, who, from his experience as a woodman, was ever ready at such contrivances, went to work; and, clearing and levelling off a smooth place, driving into the ground three sets of short stout crotches, laying cross-pieces in each, and then two new pine planks longitudinally over the whole, he soon erected a neat and substantial table, long enough to seat a score of guests. Seats on each side were then supplied by a similar process; when Mrs. Elwood, who had watched the operation with a housewife's interest, made her appearance with a roll of fine white tablecloths, the relics of her better days, and covered the whole with the snowy drapery, making a table which might vie in appearance with those of the most fashionable restaurants of the cities. Upon this table, plates, knives and forks, with all other of the usual accompaniments, were speedily arranged by the quick-footed females; while the sounds of boiling pots, and the hissing frying-pans spreading through the house and around the yard the savory fumes of the cooking trout, betokened the advanced progress of the culinary operations within, which were now soon completed; when the fact was announced by Mr. Elwood by several long and loud blasts on his "tin horn" to the expectant laborers in the field, who, while the meal was being borne smoking on to the table, chained their oxen to stumps and saplings about the field, parcelled out to them the hay, and repaired to their morning banquet. Banquet! A banquet among backwoodsmen? Yes; and why not? It is strange that a thousand generations of epicures should have lived, gluttonized, and passed away from the earth, without appearing to understand the chief requisite for that class of animal enjoyments which they seem to make the great end and aim of their lives,--without appearing to realize that it is the appetite, not the quality of the food, that makes the feast; that there can be no such thing as a feast, indeed, without a _real_ not factitious appetite; and that there can be no real appetite without toil or some prolonged and vigorous exercise. Nero ransacked his whole kingdom, and expended millions for delicacies; and yet he never experienced, probably, one-half the enjoyments of the palate that were experienced from the coarsest fare by his poorest laboring subject. No, the men of ease and idleness may have surfeits, the men of toil can only have banquets. And it is doubtless a part of that nicely balanced system of compensations which Providence applies to men, that the appetites of the industrious poor should make good the deficiencies in the quality of their food, so that it should always afford equal enjoyment in the consumption with that experienced by the idle rich over their sumptuous tables. The meal passed off pleasantly; and when finished, the gratified and chatty workmen, with their numbers now increased by the addition of the two Elwoods and the hunter, returned, with the eager alacrity of boys hurrying to an appointed game of football, to their voluntary labors in the field, in which they had already made surprising progress. The business of the day was now resumed in earnest. The teamsters having quickly scattered to their respective teams and brought them with a lively step on to the ground, and having there each received their allotted quota of log-rollers, to pile up the logs as fast as drawn, at once penetrated at different points into the thickest parts of the blackened masses of timber before them, awaiting their sturdy labors. Here the largest log in a given space, and the one the most difficult to be removed, was usually selected as the nucleus of the proposed pile. Then two logs of the next largest size were drawn up on each side, and placed at a little distance in a line parallel with the first, when the intermediate spaces were filled with limbs, knots, and the smallest timber at hand; so that a fire, when the process of burning the piles should be commenced, communicated at the centre thus prepared, would spread through the whole, and not be likely to go out till all the logs were consumed. When this foundation was laid, the next nearest surrounding logs were drawn alongside and rolled up on skids, by the logmen stationed there with their handspikes for the purpose. Then generally commenced a keen strife between the teamster and the log-rollers, to see which should first do their part and keep the others the most closely employed. And the result was that in a very short time a large pile of logs was completed, and a space of ten or fifteen square rods was completely cleared around it. This done, an adjoining thicket of timber was sought out, another pile started, and another space cleared off in the same manner. And thus proceeded the work, with each team and its attendants, in every part of the slash; while the same spirit of rivalry which had thus began to be exhibited between the members of each gang soon took the form of a competition between one gang and another, who were now everywhere seen vieing with each other in the strife to do the most or to build up the largest and greatest number of log-heaps in the shortest space of time. The whole field, indeed, was thus soon made to exhibit the animated but singular spectacle of men, engaged in a wholly voluntary labor, putting forth all the unstinted applications of strength and displaying all the alertness and zeal of men at work for a wager. But, among all the participants in the labors of the day, no one manifested so much interest in advancing the work, no one was so active and laborious, as Gaut Gurley. Not only was he continually inciting and pressing up all others to the labor, but was ever foremost in the heaviest work himself, generally selecting the most difficult parts for himself, and often performing feats of strength that scarcely any two men on the ground were able to perform. Nor was the Herculean strength which he so often displayed before the eyes of the astonished workmen, ever made useless, as is sometimes the case with men of great physical powers, by any misapplication of his efforts. He seemed perfectly to understand the business in which they were engaged; and, while all wondered, though no one knew, where he had received his training for such work, it was soon, by common consent, decided that he was much the most efficient hand on the ground, many even going so far as to declare that his equal was never before seen in that part of the country. "You see that, don't you, captain?" said Codman, coming up close to Elwood, and speaking in a half whisper, as he pointed to Gaut Gurley, who, having noticed two of the stoutest of the hands vainly trying to roll up a large log, rushed forward, and, bidding them stand aside, threw it up single-handed without appearing to exert half his strength. "You see that, don't you, captain?" he repeated, with an air of mingled wonder and waggishness. "Now, what do you think of my story, and the great, stout, black-looking devil that came, on reading the first chapter, and made the big stones fly so?" "I haven't thought much about it," carelessly replied Elwood, evidently wishing not to appear to understand the allusion of the other. "But why do you ask such a question?" "Don't know myself, it's a fact; but I happened to be thinking of things. But say, captain, you haven't been reading any chapters in any strange book yourself, lately, have you?" said Codman, with a queer look. "No, I guess not," replied Elwood, laughingly, though visibly annoyed by the subject. "No? Nor none of the family?" persisted the other, glancing towards Claud Elwood, who was standing near by. "Well, I wish I knew what put that story into my head, when I let it off this morning. It is de-ive-lish queer, at any rate, considering." So saying, he walked off to his work, croaking like a rooster at some questionable object. Although none of the settlers present seemed disposed to attribute the extraordinary physical powers, which Gaut Gurley had so unmistakably shown, to any supernatural agency, as the trapper, Codman, whose other singularities were not without a smart sprinkling of superstition, was obviously inclining to do, yet those powers were especially calculated, as may well be supposed of men of their class, to make a strong impression on the minds of them all, and invest the possessor with an importance which, in their eyes, he could in no other way obtain. Accordingly he soon came to be looked upon as the lion of the day, and suddenly thus acquired, for the time being, as he doubtless shrewdly calculated he could do in this way, a consequence and influence of which no other man could boast, perhaps, in the whole settlement. Meanwhile the work of clearing off the logs was prosecuted with increasing spirit and resolution. And so eagerly intent had all the hands become, in pressing forward to its completion their self-imposed task, which all could see was now fast drawing to a close, that they took no note of the flight of time, and were consequently taken by surprise when the sound of the horn summoned them to their midday meal. "Why! it can't yet be noon," exclaimed one, glancing up at the sun. "No" responded another. "Some of us here have been counting on seeing the whole job nearly done by noon, but it will take three hours yet to do that. No, the women must have made a mistake." "Well, I don't know about that: let us see," said the hunter, turning his back to the sun, and throwing out one foot as far as he could while keeping his body perpendicular. "Now my clock, which, for noon on the 21st of June, or longest day of summer, is the shadow of my head falling on half my foot, and then passing off beyond it about half an inch each day for the rest of the season, makes it, as _I_ should calculate the distance between my foot and the shadow of my head, now evidently receding,--makes it, for this last day of August, about a quarter past twelve." "I am but little over half past eleven," said Codman, pulling out and inspecting an old watch. "Phillips, may be, is thinking of that deer that he has been promising himself and us for dinner; and, before I take his calculation on shadows and distances, I should like to know how many inches he allowed for the hurrying influence of his appetite." "What nonsense, Comical! But what you mean by it is, I suppose, that I can't tell the time?" "Not within half an hour by the sun." "Why, man, it is the sun that makes the time; and, as that body never gets out of order or runs down, why not learn to read it, and depend directly upon it for the hour of the day? If half the time men spend in bothering over timepieces were devoted to studying the great clock of the heavens, they need not depend on such uncertain contrivances as common clocks and watches to know the time of day." "But how in cloudy weather?" "Tell the time of day by your feelings. Take note of the state of your appetite and general feelings at the various hours of the day, when it is fair and you know the time, and then apply the rule when you have no other means of judging; and you may thus train yourself, so that you need not be half an hour out of the way in your reckoning through the whole day." "Well, supposing it is night?" "Night is for sleep, and it is no consequence to know the time, except the time waking. And, as to that, none need be in fault, if they had you anywhere within two miles to crow for them." "A regular hit! I own it a hit, Mr. Hunter. But here comes Mr. Elwood: we will leave the question of the time of day to him." "We have a correct noon-mark at the house, and the women are probably right," replied Elwood. "At all events, men who have worked like lions, as you all have this forenoon, must by this time need refreshment. So, let us all drop work, and at once be off to dinner." With such familiar jokes and converse, the light-hearted backwoodsmen threw off their crocky frocks, and, after washing up at a runlet at hand, marched off in chatty groups to the house, where they found awaiting their arrival the well-spread board of their appreciating hostess, this time made more tempting to their vigorous and healthy appetites by the addition, to the fine trout of the morning, of the variously-cooked haunches of the hunter's venison. And, having here done ample justice to their excellent meal, they again hastened back to their labor in the field, unanimously declaring for the good husbandman's rule, "Work first and play afterwards," and saying they would have no rest nor recreation till they had seen the last log of the slash disposed of. And with such animation did they resume their labors, and with such vigor continue to apply themselves in carrying out their resolution, and in hastening the hour of its fulfilment, that by the middle of the afternoon their task was ended; and the gratified Mr. Elwood had the satisfaction of seeing the formidable-looking slash of the morning converted into a comparatively smooth field, requiring only the action of the fire on the log heaps, with a few days' tending, to make it fit for the seed and harrow. "Come, boys," said the hunter to the company, now all within speaking distance, except two or three who had somehow disappeared; "come, boys," he repeated, after pausing to see the last log thrown up in its place, "let us gather up here near the middle of the lot. Comical Codman and some others, I have noticed, have been putting their heads together, and I kinder surmise we may now soon expect some sort of christening ceremony of the field we have walked through in such fine style to-day; and, if they make out any thing worth the while, it may be well to give them a good cheer or two, to wind off with." While the men were taking their stand at the spot designated by the hunter, Codman was seen mounting a conspicuous logheap at the southerly end of the field; and two more men, at the same time, made their appearance on the tops of different piles on opposite sides of the lot, and nearly abreast of the place where the expectant company were collected and standing, silently awaiting the commencement of the promised ceremony. Presently one of the two last-named, with a preliminary flourish of his hand, slowly and loudly began: "Since we see the last logs fairly roll'd, And log-heaps full fifty, all told, We should deem it a shame If so handsome and well-cleared a field, Bidding fair for a hundred-fold yield, Be afforded no name." To this, the man standing on the opposite pile, in the same loud and measured tone promptly responded: "Then a name we will certainly give it, If you'll listen, and all well receive it, As justly you may: We will call it the thing it will make, We will name it the Pride of the Lake, Or the Job of a Day." Before the last words of this unique duet had died on the ear, Comical Codman on his distant perch straightened up, and, triumphantly clapping his sides like the boastful bird whose crowing he could so wonderfully imitate, raised his shrill, loud, and long-drawn _kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho_ in a volume of sound that thrilled through the forest and sent its repeating echoes from hill to hill along the distant borders of the lake. "There, the dog has got the start of us!" exclaimed the hunter, joining the rest of the company in their surprise and laughter at the prompt action of the trapper as well as at the striking character of his performance,--"fairly the start of us; but let's follow him up close, boys. So here goes for the new name!" And the prolonged "hurra! hurra! hurra!" burst from the lips of the strong-voiced woodmen in three tremendous cheers for the "_Pride of the Lake and the Job of a Day_." All the labors and performances of the field being now over, the company gathered up their tools, and by common consent moved towards the house, where, it was understood, an hour or so, before starting for their respective homes, should be spent in rest, chatting with the women, or other recreation, and a consultation also be held, among those interested, for forming a company, fixing on the time, and making other arrangements for the contemplated trapping and hunting expedition of the now fast-approaching season. As the company were proceeding along promiscuously towards the house, Gaut Gurley, who had thus far through the day manifested no desire for any particular conversation with Mr. Elwood, nor in any way deported himself so as to lead others to infer a former acquaintance between them, now suddenly fell in by his side; when, contriving to detain him till the rest had passed on out of sight, he paused in his steps and said: "Well, Elwood, I told you in the morning, you know, that we would do the work first and the talking afterwards. The work has now been done, and I hope to your satisfaction." "Yes--O yes--entirely," replied Elwood, hesitating in his doubt about what was to follow from the other, whose unexpected conduct and stand for his benefit he hardly knew how to construe. "Yes, the neighbors have done me a substantial favor, and you all deserve my hearty thanks." "I was not fishing for thanks," returned Gaut, half-contemptuously, "but wished a few words with you on private matters which concern only you and myself. And, to come to the point at once, I would ascertain, in the first place, if you know whether you and I are understood, in this settlement, to be old acquaintances or new ones?" "New ones, I suppose, of course, unless it be known to the contrary through your means. _I_ have not said a word about it, nor have my family, I feel confident," replied Elwood, demurely. "Very well; our former acquaintance is then wholly unsuspected here. Let it remain so. But have you ever hinted to any of the settlers what you may have known or heard about me, or any former passages of my life, which occurred when I used to operate in this section or elsewhere?" "No, not one word." "All is well, then. As you have kept and continue to keep my secrets, so shall yours be kept. It is a dozen or fifteen years since I have been in this section at all. It is filling up with new men. There are but two persons now in the settlement that can ever have seen or known me. And they will not disturb me." "Then there _are_ two that _have_ known you? Who can they be?" "One is Wenongonet, an old Indian chief, as he calls himself, still living on one of the upper lakes, they say, but too old to ramble or attend to anybody's business but his own. The other is Phillips, the hunter." "Phillips! Phillips, did you say? Why, as much as he has been at our house, he has never dropt a word from which one could infer that you were not a perfect stranger to him." "I did not suppose he had. Phillips is a peaceable, close-mouthed fellow; pretends not to know any thing about anybody, when he thinks the parties concerned would rather have him ignorant; keeps a secret by never letting anybody know he has one; and never means to cross another man's path. I can get along with _him_, too. And the only question now is whether _you_ and I can live together in the same settlement." "It will probably be your fault if we can't. I shall make war on no one." "My fault! Why I _wish_ to be on good terms with you; and yet, Elwood, you feel out of sorts with me, and, in spite of all I can do, seem disposed to keep yourself aloof." "If I do seem so, it may be because the past teaches me that the best way to avoid quarrels is to avoid intimacies. You know how we last parted in that gambling-room. I had no business to be there, I admit; but that was no excuse for your treatment." "Treatment! Why, Elwood, is it possible you have been under a misapprehension about that, all this time?" responded Gaut, with that peculiar wheedling manner which he so well knew how to assume when he wished to carry his point with another. "My object then was to save the money for you and me, so that we could divide it satisfactorily between ourselves. I was angry enough at those other fellows, whom I saw getting all your money in that way, I confess; and, in what I said, I was whipping them over your shoulders. I thought you understood it." "I didn't understand it in that way," replied Elwood, surprised and evidently staggered at the bold and unexpected statement. "I didn't take you so: could that be all you intended?" "Certainly it was," resumed Gaut, in the same insinuating tone. "Had I supposed it necessary, I should have seen you and explained it at the time. But it is explained now; so let it go, and every thing go that has been unpleasant between us; let us forget all, and henceforth be on good terms. Our children, as you may have suspected, seem intent on being friends; and why should not we be friends also? It will be a gratification to them, and we can easily make it the means of benefiting each other. You know how much I once did in helping you to property,--I can do so again, if we will but understand each other. What say you, Elwood? Will you establish the treaty, and give me your hand upon it?" Elwood trembled as the other bent his fascinating gaze upon him, hesitated, began to demur feebly; but, being artfully answered, soon yielded and extended his hand, which Gaut seized and shook heartily; when at the suggestion of the latter they separated and proceeded by different courses, so that they might not be seen together, to join the company at the house, whom they found, as they expected, in consultation about the proposed trapping and hunting expedition to the upper lakes, the time of starting, and the names and number of those volunteering to join the association, only remaining to be fixed and ascertained. That time was finally fixed on the 15th of September, and the company was formed to consist of the two Elwoods, Phillips, Gurley, Codman, and such others as might thereafter wish to join them. This being settled, they broke up and departed for their respective homes. CHAPTER X. "All good to me is lost; Evil, be thou my good"-- The next scene in the slowly unfolding panorama of our story opens at the house of Gaut Gurley, on the banks of the Magalloway. Gaut reached home, on the evening of the logging bee, about sunset; and, having put out his team, entered his house, where he found his wife alone, his daughter being absent on a visit to a neighbor. Contrary to what might have been expected, after the favorable impression he had so evidently made on the settlers that day, and the attainment of the still more important object with him, the regaining of his old fatal influence over Elwood, he appeared morose and dissatisfied. Something had not worked to his liking in the complicated machinery of his plans, and he showed his vexation so palpably as soon to attract the attention of his submissive but by no means unobservant wife, who, after a while, plucked up the courage to remark: "What is the case, Gaut? Have you been working yourself to death for those Elwoods, to-day, or has something gone wrong with you, that makes you look so sour this evening?" "I have worked hard enough, God knows; but that I intended, for I had objects in view, most of which I think I have accomplished, but--" "But not all, I suppose you would say?" "Well, yes, there is one thing that has not gone exactly to suit me, over there." "What is that, Gaut?" "It is of no consequence that you should know it. If I should name it, you would not see its bearing on my plans, I presume." "Perhaps not, for I don't know what your plans are, these days. I used to be able to guess out the objects you had in view, before you came here, whether you told me or not. But, since you have been in this settlement, I have been at loss to know what you are driving at; I can't understand your movements at all." "What movements do you mean, woman?" "All of them; but particularly those that have to do with the Elwoods." "What is there in my course toward them, since they came here, that you can't understand?" "Well, I'll tell you, Gaut. When you believed Elwood to be rich, I could easily see that you thought it would be an object to bring about an acquaintance between his son and only heir, and our Avis; and I knew you was, those days, studying how it could be done, and I always suspected that you in some way disposed of that picture of her for the purpose, instead of sending it to your relations, and----" "And what?" exclaimed Gaut, turning fiercely on his wife. "Suspected! What business had you to suspect? And you told Avis what you thought, I suppose?" "Not a word, never one word; for I knew she was so proud and particular, that, if she mistrusted any thing of that kind to have been done, she would flounce in a minute. No, I never hinted it to her, or anybody else, and it was guesswork, after all," replied the abashed wife, in a deprecating tone,--she having been tempted, by the unusual mood which her stern husband had manifested for discussing his private affairs with her, to venture to speak much more freely than was her wont. "Well, see that you don't hint any thing about that, nor any thing else you may take it into your silly head to guess about my objects," rejoined the other, in a somewhat mollified tone. "But now go on with what you were going to say." "Well, I could understand your course before Elwood failed; but, when he did, I could see no object, either in following him here, or having any thing particular to do with him, or any of his family. But you seized on the first chance, after we came here, to court them, and have followed it up; first, in the affair of the young man and Avis, and then, in drumming up the whole settlement in getting up this logging bee for the old man. Now, Gaut, you don't generally drive matters at this rate without something in view that will pay; and, as I can see nothing to be gained worth so much pains, I don't understand it." "I didn't suppose you did, and it is generally of little consequence whether you see through my plans or not; but, in this case--" Here Gaut suddenly paused, rose, and took several turns across the room, evidently debating with himself how far it was policy to disclose his plans to his wife; when, appearing to make up his mind, he again seated himself and resumed: "Yes, as this is a peculiar case, and coming, perhaps, in part within the range of a woman's help, if she knows what is wanted, and one which she may unintentionally hurt, if she don't, I suppose I must give you some insight into my movements, so that you can manage accordingly, help when you can, and do no mischief when you can't; as you probably will do, for you well know the consequences of doing otherwise." "I will do all I can, if I can understand what you want, and can see any object in it," meekly responded the woman. "Well, then, in the first place," resumed the other, "you know how many years I slaved myself, and what risks I run, to help Elwood make that fortune; how he threw me off with simple wages, instead of the share I always intended to have for such hard and dangerous services; and how he failed, like a fool, before I got it." "I knew it all." "Then you can easily imagine how much it went against my grain to be balked in that manner. At all events, it did; and I soon determined not to give up the game so, even if that was all. And ascertaining that Elwood, by allowances made by the creditors to his wife, and sales of furniture which they allowed the family to retain, brought quite a little sum of money into the settlement,--enough, at any rate, to pay for his place, put him well afloat, and make him a man of consequence in such a new place,--I soon made up my mind on buying and settling, for present purposes, here, too, as we did." "Yes, but what do you expect to make here more than in any other new country? And what can you make out of the Elwoods, more than any other new settlers?" "A good deal, if all things work to my mind. There is money to be made here. I could do well in the fur business alone, and at the worst. And, by the aid of one who could be made to favor my interests, there is no telling what could be done. Now, what claim had I on any other settler to be that one to aid me? On Elwood I had a claim to help _me_ to property in turn; and I determined he should do it. But he must first be brought into the traces. He has got out with me, and must be reconciled before I can do much with him." "Well, I should think he ought to be by this time, after what you have been doing for him, without his asking." "Without asking? Why, that was just the way to do it. As I calculated, he was taken by surprise, disarmed, and yielded; so that object is accomplished, as well as making the right impression on the other settlers by beating them at their own work." "I begin to understand, now." "You will understand more, soon; that was only part of my object." "What was the other part?" "To insure the consummation of the match between Avis and young Elwood, which now seems in fair progress, but which would be liable to be broken off, if his family should continue to be unfriendly to me." "Why, that was the thing I could understand least of all. The young man is well enough, I suppose, but I thought you had looked to have Avis make more of herself, and do better for us. She is still young, and we don't know what chances she may have. If she and the young man should keep on intimate, and set their hearts on it, I don't know that I should oppose it much; but what object we can have in helping it on, I can't, for the life of me, see. I have not said a word against it, because I saw that you were for it. But, if I had been governed by my own notions, I should have sooner discouraged than helped it on." "I suspected so; and, for that reason, as well as others, I see I must tell you a secret, which the Elwoods themselves don't know, and which I meant should never pass my lips; and, when I tell it to you, see that it never passes yours. That young man, Claud Elwood, whom you think so ordinary a match, is heir to a large property. A will is already executed making him so." "Is that so, Gaut?" "Yes, I have known it for months. I made the discovery before I decided to move here." "It is a wonder how you could keep it from me." "Humph! It is a greater wonder how I came to tell you at all, and I fear I shall yet repent it; but things had come to a pass that seemed to make it necessary." "But who is the man, and where, who is going to give the young man such a property?" "It is not for you to know. I have told you enough for all my purposes. And this brings me back to your first question, when I admitted that there was one thing which had not gone to my liking. There _was_, indeed, one thing that disturbed and vexed me; and that was the discovery I made, over there, today, that Elwood's wife is an enemy to me. I contrived all ways to get speech with her, but she studiously avoided giving me a chance, nor was I able once even to catch her eye, that I might give her a friendly nod of recognition. I know she never wished me about, in former times, but I then attributed her coldness to the pride of the rich over the poor. But I now think it was because she hated me. I am satisfied she is an enemy, at heart; and will, for that reason, prove a secret and I fear dangerous opposer to a match which will connect me with her family, unless something is done to reconcile her." "How can that be done?" "Perhaps _you_ can do something. We start, in about a fortnight, on the fall hunt,--both the Elwoods, myself, and others. When we are gone, you can go down into that neighborhood, get acquainted with some of the women, and get them to call with you on Mrs. Elwood; and, if Avis could be made to go and see her, so much the better. She would make an impression without trying. You would have to manage, but how, I am not now prepared to decide. I will think of it, and you may, and we will talk it over again. I have told you this, now, that you might understand the situation of affairs; and the object, which you will now see, is worth playing for. And, if we can carry this last point, the last danger will be removed,--unless Claud himself proves fickle." "I guess there will not be much danger of that in _this_ settlement. What girl is there that he could think of in comparison with Avis?" "I think there is none; and still, there is one whom I would rather he would not see." "Who can that be, I should like to know?" "She is the daughter, or is claimed to be, of an old Indian chief, called Wenongonet, who lives up the lakes, and was once a man of some consequence, both with Indians and whites." "An Indian girl! Fudge!" "You might alter that tune, if you should see her. She is white as you are, and has, most of the time, of late years, lived in some of the old settlements, been schooled, and so on. I saw her, soon after we came here, with another woman, at the south end of the lake, where she was visiting in the family of one of the settlers, and I inquired her out, as she appeared so much above the common run of girls. But she is courted, they say, by a young educated Indian, called Tomah, from Connecticut-river way, where I used to see him. He _ought_ to be able to take care of her. But hark! what was that? It sounded like the trotting of some heavy horse. I'll see." So saying, Gaut rose and went to the window, when, after casting a searching look out into the road, and pausing a moment, in evident doubt and surprise at what met his gaze, he muttered: "The devil is always at hand when you are talking about him; for that must be the very fellow,--Tomah himself! But what a rig-out! Wife, look here." The woman promptly came to the window, when her eyes were greeted with the appearance of a smart-looking and jauntily-equipped young Indian, mounted on the back of a stately, antlered moose, that, by some contrivance answering to a bridle, he was about bringing to a stand in the road, opposite to the house. Without heeding the exclamations of surprise and questions of his wife, who had never seen an animal of the kind, Gaut stepped out of the door, and, after pausing long enough to satisfy himself that he was not known to the other, said, after the distant greeting customary among strangers had been exchanged: "That is a strange horse you are travelling on, friend." "No matter that, when he carry you well," replied the Indian, whose language was a little idiomatic, notwithstanding his education. "Perhaps not; but I should think he would be a hard trotter for most riders." "Moose don't care for that: he say, he carry you ten miles an hour, you not the one to complain: if you no like, you no ride." "How did you tame him to be so manageable?" "Caught him a little calf, four years ago; trained him young to mind halter; then ox-work, horse-work. This year ride him. No trouble, you let him enough to eat." "Where did you catch him?" "Over the mountain. Live there. My name John Tomah. Been here to hunt some, but not see you before. Another man live in this house last spring." "Yes, I am a new-comer. But I have heard some of the settlers speak of you, I think. You are the Indian that has been to college?" "Yes, been there some, but in the woods more. Love to hunt, catch beaver, sable, and such things. Come here to hunt now, soon as time. But must have moose kept when off hunting: thought the man lived here do that. May be you keep him, while I come back. Pay you, all right." "Yes, if I could; but where could I keep him? He would jump any pasture or yard fence there is here, and then run away, would he not?" "No. Stay, after week or two, and get wonted, same as horse or cow. I go to work, make yard, keep him in a while, and feed him with grass or browse. I tend him first. You keep him,--you keep me, till go hunting; then get boy. Pay well, much as you suit." Gaut Gurley never acted without a strong secret motive. He had been intently studying the young Indian during the conversation just detailed, with a view of forming an opinion how far his subservience could be secured; and, appearing to become satisfied on this point, and believing the first great step for making him what was desired would be accomplished by yielding to his request gracefully, however much family inconvenience it might occasion, Gaut now turned cordially to him, and said: "Yes, Tomah, I will do it. I like your looks, and I will do it for _you_, but wouldn't for anybody else. We can get along with your animal, somehow; and you shall stay, too, till our company start on our hunt, and then you shall go with us. I will see that you have fair play. I will be your friend; and perhaps I may want a good turn of you some time." "Like that; go with you; show you how catch beaver. Do all I can." "Very well; and perhaps I can help you in some way. You have an affair that you feel a peculiar interest in, with somebody on the upper lake, and--" "You know that?" interrupted the startled but evidently not displeased Indian. "Yes, I have heard something about it." "But how you help there?" "O, I can contrive a way for you to make the matter work as you wish, if you will only persevere." "Persevere? Ah, means keep trying. Yes, do that; but she don't talk right, now; perhaps, will, you help, then we be great friends, sure." The treaty being thus concluded, the gratified young Indian dismounted, with his rifle and pack, containing his blanket, hunting-suit, etc., which he carried before him, laid across the shoulder of his novel steed; and, under the guidance of Gaut, he led the animal into the cow-yard, where he was tied and fed, and the fence, already made high to exclude the wolves, as usual among first settlers, was topped out by laying on a few additional poles, so as to prevent the possibility of his escape. This being done, Gaut conducted his new-found friend into the house, and introduced him, to his wife and also to his daughter, who had by this time returned, as the young Indian that had been to college, but still had a liking for the woods. "I have often thought I should feel interested in seeing an educated native of the forest," remarked Avis, after the civilities of the introduction had been exchanged. "Books, when you became able to read and understand them," she continued, turning to the Indian, "books must have opened a new world to you, and the many new and curious things you found in them must have been exceedingly gratifying to you, Mr. Tomah." "Yes, many curious things in books," replied Tomah, indifferently. "And also much valuable knowledge?" rejoined Avis, interrogatively. "Valuable enough to some folks, suppose," replied the other, with the air of one speaking on a subject in which he felt no particular interest. "Lawyers make money; preachers get good pay for talking what they learn in books; so doctors." "But surely," persisted the former, who, though disappointed in his replies, yet still expected to see, if she could draw him out, the naturally shrewd mind of the native made brilliant by the light of science, "surely you consider an education a good thing for all, giving those who receive it a great advantage over those who do not?" "Yes, education good thing," responded Tomah, his stolid countenance beginning to lighten up at the idea which now struck him as involving the chief if not the sole benefit of his scientific acquirements; "yes, education good, very good, sometime. Instance: I go to Boston with my moose next winter; show him for pay, one, two days; then reckon up money--add; then reckon up expenses--subtract; tell how much I make. Make much, stay; make little, go to other place. Yes, education good thing." "But I should think you might do better with your education than you could by following the usual employments of your kind of people," resumed the other, still unwilling to see the subject of her scrutiny fall so much below her preconception of an educated Indian. "You say, lawyers, preachers, and doctors make money from the superiority which their education has given them; now, why don't you profit by _your_ education, and go into a profession like one of theirs, and obtain by it the same wealth and position which you see them enjoying?" "Did try," replied Tomah, with an evident effort to elevate his language, and meet the question candidly. "When I came home from the school, people all say, Now you go and live like white folks, in village, and study to be doctor, make money, be great man. So went; study one year; try hard to like; but no use. Uneasy all the time; could not keep down the Indian in me; he always rising up, more every day, all the time drawing me away to the woods,--pull, pull, pull. I fight against him; put him down little some time; but he soon up again, stronger than ever. Found could not make myself over again; must be as first made; so gave up; left study for the woods; and said, Now let Indian be Indian as long as he like." Satisfied, or rather silenced, by Tomah's reasons, Avis turned the conversation by asking him to relate to her how he caught and tamed his moose. She found him completely at home in this and other of his adventures in the forest, which he was thus encouraged to relate, and in which he often became a graphic and interesting narrator, and displayed the keen observation of the objects of nature, together with the other peculiar qualities of his race, to so much advantage that she soon relinquished her favorite idea of ever finding a philosopher in an educated Indian. In presenting the above picture, drawn from one of the many living prototypes that have fallen within our personal observation, or come within our knowledge derived from reliable sources, we had no wish to disparage the praiseworthy acts and motives of those spirited and patriotic men who, like Moore, in establishing his well-known charity school, in connection with Dartmouth college, may have, in times past, founded and endowed schools for the education of the natives of the forest; nor would we dampen the faith and hopes of those philanthropists who still believe in the redemption of that dwindling race by the aids of science and civilization; but we confess our inability to perceive any general results, flowing from the attempts of that character, at all adequate to the pains and outlay bestowed on the experiment. And we think we cannot be alone in this opinion. We believe that those results, when gathered up so that all their meagreness could be seen, have sadly disappointed public expectations; that this once favorite object and theory, of elevating and benefiting the red man by taking him from his native woods and immuring him in the schoolroom, has been, in the great majority of the cases, a futile one; and that whole system, indeed, can now be regarded as but little less than a magnificent failure. There have been, it is true, some brilliant exceptions to the application of our remarks, such as may be found in the pious and comparatively learned Samson Occom, the noted Indian preacher of the times of the Pilgrims; in the eloquent Ojibway chief of our own times, and a few others; as well as in the person we have already introduced into this work, the intelligent and beautiful Fluella. But _only_ as exceptions to the general rule, we fear, can we fairly regard them,--for, where there is one Occom, there are probably ten Tomahs. Education, or so much of it as he has the patience and ability to acquire, seems often to unsettle and confuse the mind of the red man; for, while his old notions and traditions are disturbed or swept away by it, he fails of grasping and digesting the new ones which science and civilization present to his mind; and he falters and gropes, like an owl in the too strong light of the unaccustomed sun. In his natural condition, he can _at least_ realize the happy picture which the poet has drawn of him: "Lo the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven, Some safer world in depth of wood embraced; Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christian thirsts for gold. To be content's his natural desire; He asks no angel's wings, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company." But now, in his new and anomalous position, even this happiness and this content is taken away, while he is unable to embrace an adequate substitute. His old faith is shaken, but no new one is established. Before, he could see God in clouds or hear him in the wind; but now he can scarcely see God in any thing. His physical system, in the mean while, deprived as it is of the forest atmosphere, in which it was alone fitted to exist and reach its greatest perfection, suffers even more than his mental one. And his whole man, both mental and physical, begins to degenerate, and soon dwindles into insignificance. Yes, it is only in his native forests that the Indian appears in his wild and peculiar dignity of character. There only can he become a being of romance, and there only a hero. And there, in conclusion, we would say, in view of the unsatisfactory results of the experiments made to elevate him by any of the methods yet adopted,--there we would let him remain. But we must now on with our tale, the main incidents of which we have only foreshadowed, not touched. CHAPTER XI. "Hearts will be prophets still." The week succeeding the logging bee was an extremely busy one with the Elwoods, who still had a heavy task to perform on their new field, before it could be considered properly cleared or fitted for seeding and harrowing. Sixty days before, that field was covered with a heavy growth of primitive forest, standing in its native majesty, a mountain mass of green vigor and sturdy life, and as seemingly invincible against the assaults of man as it had been against those of the elements whose fury it had so long withstood. But the busy and fatal axe had done its work. That towering forest had been laid prostrate with the earth, and the first process of the Herculean task of converting the forest into the field had been completed. The second and third process, also, in the burning of the slash and the gathering the trunks of the trees into log-heaps, as we have seen, had been in turn successfully accomplished. But the fourth and last process still remained to be performed. Those unseemly log-heaps, cumbering no inconsiderable portion of the field, must be disposed of, to complete the work. This was now the first task of the Elwoods, and time pressed for its speedy execution. Accordingly, the next morning after the bee, they sallied out, each with a blazing brand in his hand, and commenced the work of firing the piles,--a work which, unlike that of firing a combustible and readily catching slash, required not only considerable time, but often the exercise of much skill and patience. But they steadily persevered, and, before sunset, had the gratification of beholding every one of those many scores of huge log-piles, that thickly dotted the ground, clearly within the grasp of the devouring element; and afterwards of seeing that grasp grow stronger and stronger on the solid material on which it had securely fastened, till, to the eye of fancy, the dark old forest seemed by day to be reproduced in the numerous, thickly-set columns of smoke that shot upward and spread out into over-arching canopies above, while, with the gathering darkness of the night, that forest seemed gradually to take the form of a distant burning city in the manifold tapering pillars of fire which everywhere rose from the field, fiercely illuminating the dark and sombre wood-wall of the surrounding forest, and dimly glimmering over the sleeping waters of river and lake beyond. They had now made the fire their servant, and got it safely at work for them; but that servant, to insure its continued and profitable action, must be constantly fed and fostered. The logs, becoming by the action of the fire partially consumed, and, by thus losing their contact with each other, ceasing to burn, required, every few hours, to be rolled together, adjusted, and repacked; when, being already thoroughly heated and still partly on fire, they would soon burst out again into a brisk blaze. This tending and re-packing of the piles demanded, for many of the succeeding days, the constant attention of the Elwoods; who, going out early each morning, and keeping up their rounds at short intervals through the day and to a late hour at night, assiduously pursued their object, till they had seen every log-heap disappear from the field, and the last step of their severe task fully accomplished. Few of those who live in cities, villages, or other places than those where agricultural pursuits prevail; few of those, indeed, who have been tillers only of the subdued and time-mellowed soils of the old States and countries, have any adequate conception of the immense amount of hard labor required to clear off the primitive forest, and prepare the land for the first crop; nor have they, consequently, any just appreciation of the degree of resolution, energy, and endurance necessary to insure continued perseverance in subduing one piece of forest-land after another, till a considerable opening is effected. It is the labor of one man's life to clear up a new farm; and few there be, among the multitudes found making the attempt, who have the sustaining will and resolution--even if the pecuniary ability is not wanting--to accomplish that formidable achievement. Probably not one in five of all the first pioneer settlers of a new country ever remain to become its permanent settlers. The first set of emigrants, or pioneers, are seen beginning with great resolution and energy, and persevering unfalteringly till the usual ten-acre lot is cleared, the log-house thrown up, and the settlement of the family effected. Another piece of forest is the next year attacked, but with a far less determined will, and the clearing prosecuted with a proportionate lack of energy and resolution; and the job, after being suffered to linger along for months beyond the usual period for completion, is finally finished. But, in view of the hard labors and prolonged struggles they have experienced in their two former trials for conquering the wilderness, they too often now falter and hesitate at a third attempt. Perhaps the lack of means to hire that help, which would make the toil more endurable, comes also into the case; and the result is that no new clearing is begun. They live along a while as they are; but, for want of the first crops of the newly-cleared land and the usual accessions to their older fields, they soon find themselves on the retrograde, and finally sell out to a new set of incoming settlers, who in their turn begin with fresh vigor, and with more means generally for prosecuting advantageously the work which had discouraged or worn out their predecessors. But even of this second set a large proportion fail to succeed, and, like the former, eventually yield their places to more enterprising and able men, who, with those of the two former sets of settlers that had succeeded in overcoming the difficulties and retaining their places, now join in making up the permanent settlers of the country. Such is generally the history of the early settlement of every new country. Those who have endured the most hardship, encountered the greatest difficulties, and performed the hardest labor, do not generally reap the reward which might eventually crown their toils, but leave that reward to be enjoyed by those to whom such hardships and toils are comparatively unknown. This seems hard and unjust; but, from the unequal conditions and characters of men, it is doubtless a necessary state of things, and one which, though it may occasionally be somewhat modified, will never, probably, as a general thing, be very essentially altered. The Elwoods, having now thus brought the labors of clearing to a successful close, next proceeded to the lighter and more cleanly task of taking the incipient step towards securing the ever-important first crop which was to reward them, in a good part, for their arduous toils. Accordingly, the previously engaged supply of winter wheat intended for seed was brought home, the requisite help and ox-work enlisted, the seed sown, and the harrows and hoes put in motion to insure its lodgment beneath the surface of the broken soil. And, by the end of the second day from its commencement, this task was also completed, leaving our two persevering settlers only the work of gathering in the small crops of grain and potatoes they had succeeded in raising on their older grounds, to be performed before leaving home on the contemplated trapping and hunting expedition; the appointed day for which was still sufficiently distant to allow them abundant time to do this, and also to make all other of the necessary arrangements and preparations for that, to them, novel and interesting event. But how, in the meanwhile, stood that domestic drama of love and its entanglements, which was destined to be deeply interwoven with the other principal incidents of this singular story? All on the surface seemed as bright and unruffled as the halcyon waters of the sleeping ocean before the days of storm have come to move and vex it. But how was it within the vail of the heart and teeming mind, where the currents and counter-currents of that subtle but powerful passion flow and clash unseen, often gaining their full height and unmasterable strength before any event shall occur to betray their existence to the public. How was it there? We shall see. While the events we have described in the last foregoing chapters were transpiring, Mrs. Elwood held her peace, studiously avoiding all allusion to what still constituted the burden of her mind,--the thickening intimacy between her family and the Gurleys; but, though she was silent on the subject, yet her heart was not any the less sad, nor her thoughts any the less busy. She had been made aware that a reconciliation had taken place between her husband and Gaut Gurley; and she had seen how artfully the latter had brought it about, and regained his old fatal influence over the former. She believed she fully understood the motives which actuated Gaut in all these movements. And she now looked on in helpless anguish of heart to see the toils thus drawn tighter and tighter around the unconscious victims, and those victims, too, her husband and son, with whose happiness and welfare her own was indissolubly connected. She saw it with anguish, because her feelings never for once were permitted even the alleviation of a doubt that it could result in aught else than evil to her family. She could not reason herself into any belief of Gaut's reformation. She felt his black heart constantly throwing its shadow on to her own; she _felt_ this, but could not give to others, nor perhaps even to herself, what might be deemed a satisfactory reason for her impressions and forebodings; for in her was exemplified the words of the poet: "The mind is capable to show Thoughts of so dim a feature, That consciousness can only know Their presence and their nature." Such thoughts were hers,--dim and flitting, indeed; but she felt conscious of their continued presence, of their general character, and deeply conscious what they portended. They took one shape, moved in one course, and all pointed one way, and that was to evil,--some great impending evil to the two objects of her love and solicitude. "But is there no hope?" she murmured aloud, in the fullness of her heart, while deeply pondering the matter, one day, as she sat alone at her open window, looking out on her husband and son engaged in their harvest, which she knew they were hurrying on to a close, before leaving her on the contemplated long, and perhaps perilous, expedition into the wilderness,--a circumstance that doubtless caused the subject, in the thus awakened state of her anxieties, to weigh at this time peculiarly heavy on her mind. "Is there no hope," she repeated, with a sigh, "that this impending calamity may in some part be averted? Must they both be sacrificed? Must the faults of the erring father be visited on the innocent son, who had become the last hope of the mother's heart? Kind Heaven! may not that son, _at least_, be delivered from the web of toils into which he has so strangely fallen, and yet be saved? Grant, O grant that hope--that one ray of hope--in this my hour of darkness!" But what sound was that which now fell upon her ear, as if responsive to her ejaculation? It was a light tap or two on the door, which, after the customary bidding of _walk in_ had been pronounced, was gently opened, when a young female of extreme beauty and loveliness entered. Mrs. Elwood involuntarily rose, and stood a moment, mute with surprise, in the unexpected presence. Soon recovering, however, she invited the fair stranger to a seat, still deeply wondering who she could be and what had occasioned her visit. "You are the good woman of the house?--the wife of the new settler?--the mother of Mr. Claud Elwood?" asked the stranger girl, pausing between each interrogatory, till she had received an affirmative nod from Mrs. Elwood. "Yes," replied the latter kindly, but with an air of increasing curiosity, "yes, I am Mrs. Elwood. Would you like to see my son, Claud?" "No," rejoined the girl, in the same subdued and musical accents. "No, it was not him, but you, I came to see and speak with," she added, carefully, withdrawing a screening handkerchief from a light parcel she bore in her hand, and displaying a small work-basket of exquisite make, which, advancing with hesitating steps, she presented to the other, as she resumed: "I came with this, good lady, to see if you would be suited to have such an article?" "It is very pretty," said Mrs. Elwood, examining the workmanship with admiration, "beautiful, indeed. Did you make it?" "I did, lady," said the other modestly. "Well, it certainly does great credit to your skill and taste," rejoined the other. "I should, of course, be pleased to own it, but I have little money to pay for such things. You ought to sell it for quite a sum." "But I do not wish to sell it," responded the girl, looking up to Mrs. Elwood with an expostulating and wounded expression. "I do not wish to take money for it; but hoped you would like it well enough to accept it for a gift,--a small token." "O, I should," said Mrs. Elwood, "if I was entitled to any such present; but what have I ever done to deserve it of you? I do not even know who you are, kind stranger." "They, call me Fluella," responded the other, the blood slightly suffusing her fair, rounded cheek. "_You_ have not seen me, I know. You have not done me the great favor that brings my gratitude. It is your brave son that has done both." "O, I understand now," exclaimed Mrs. Elwood. "You are the chief's daughter, whom Claud and Mr. Phillips helped out of a difficulty and danger on the rapids, some time since. But your token should be given to Claud, should it not?" "It would be unsuitable, too much," quickly replied the maiden, in a low, hurried tone. "I could not do a thing like that. But if you would accept such a small thing?" "I cannot but appreciate and honor your delicacy," returned Mrs. Elwood, with a look of mingled admiration and respect. "I think you must be an excellent girl; and I will accept your present,--yes, thankfully,--and never forget the manner in which it was bestowed." "Your words are in my heart, lady. I came, feeling much doubtful; I return, much happy," said the maiden, rising to depart. "Do not go yet," interposed the matron, who was beginning to feel a lively interest in the other; "do not go yet. Claud should know you are here. I will call him," she added, starting for the door. "O no, no,--do not, do not. He would not wish to be troubled by one like me," hurriedly entreated the maiden, with a look of alarmed delicacy. "O, you are mistaken. He would be pleased to see you, and expect to be called," said Mrs. Elwood, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, while pausing at the unexpected objection. "But it is unnecessary; for I see that he is already coming, and in a moment will be here," she added, glancing out of the window. Having made the announcement, she turned encouragingly to the maiden, to reassure her, believing her request that Claud should not be called in proceeded entirely from over-diffidence. But one glance of her quick and searching eye was sufficient to apprise the former that there was a deeper cause for those tender alarms. The cheeks of the beautiful girl were deeply suffused with crimson, her bosom was heaving wildly, and her whole frame was trembling like an aspen. As her eyes met the surprised gaze of the matron, she became conscious that her looks had betrayed the secret she was the most anxious to conceal; and she cast an imploring look on the face of the other, as if to entreat the mercy of shielding the weakness. Mrs. Elwood understood the silent appeal; and, approaching and laying her hand gently on the shoulder of the other, said, in a low, kindly tone: "Have no fears. You have made a friend of me." The girl silently removed the hand, brought it to her lips, and, as a bright tear-drop fell upon it, kissed it eagerly. The two then separated, and resumed their respective seats, to compose themselves before the expected entrance should be made. In a few moments Claud carelessly entered the house; but stopped short in surprise, at the threshold, on so unexpectedly seeing the well-remembered face and form of the heroine of his late romantic adventure on the rapids, in the room with his mother. But, almost instantly recovering his usual manner, he gallantly advanced to the trembling maiden, took her by the hand, and respectfully inquired about her welfare, and pleasantly adverted to the singular circumstances under which they had become acquainted. Soon becoming in a good measure assured, by a reception so much more condescending and cordial than she had dared hope for, from one whose image she had been cherishing as that of some superior being, the grateful and happy girl, now forgetful of her wish to depart, gradually regained her natural ease and vivacity, and sustained her part in the general conversation that now ensued, with an intelligence and instinctive refinement of thought and expression that equally charmed and surprised her listeners. She at length, however, rose to depart, observing that her father, who was in waiting for her at the landing, would chide her for her long delay; when Claud offered to attend her to the lake. To this she at first objected; but, on Claud's assurance that he should be pleased with the walk, and that it would afford him the opportunity of meeting her father, whom he had a curiosity to see, she blushingly assented, and the couple sociably took their way to the lake together, leaving Mrs. Elwood deeply revolving in her mind the new train of thoughts that had been awakened by the remarkable personal beauty and evident rare qualities of her fair visitor, and the discovery of the state of her feelings,--thoughts which the matron laid up in her heart, but forbade her tongue to utter. On reaching the landing, Fluella drew a bone whistle from her pocket, and blew a blast so loud and shrill that the sound seemed to penetrate the inmost depths of the surrounding forest. The next moment a similar sound rose in response from the woods, apparently about half a mile distant, on the right. "He has heard me; that was my father's whistle. He has been taking a short bout in the woods with his rifle, but will now soon be here. And Mr. Elwood will wait, I know, for the chief wishes to thank the brave that rescued his daughter," said the maiden, looking inquiringly at Claud. "Yes," replied Claud, "yes, certainly; for, even without company, I am never tired of standing on this commanding point, and looking out on this beautiful lake and its surrounding scenery." "Ah! then you think, Mr. Elwood," exclaimed Fluella, with a countenance sparkling with animation, "you think of our woods life, like one of your great writers, whom I have read to remember, and who so prettily says: 'And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.' One would almost think this wise writer must be one of my people, he describes our ways of becoming instructed so truly; for we Indians, Mr. Elwood, read few other books than those we see opened to us on the face of nature, or hear or read few other sermons than those in the outspread pages of the bright lake, the green woods, and the grand mountain." "You Indians!" said Elwood, looking at the other with a playful yet half-chiding expression. "Why, Fluella, should a stranger look at your fair skin, hear you conversing so well in our language, and quoting so appropriately from our books, he would hardly believe you an Indian, I think, unless you told him." "Then I would tell him, Mr. Elwood," responded the maiden, with dignity, and a scarcely perceptible spice of offended pride in her manner. "I _am_ one,--on my father's side, at least, wholly so; and, for the first ten or twelve years of my life, was but a child of the woods and the wigwam; and I will never shame at my origin, so far as that matters." "But you did not learn to read in the wigwam, Fluella?" said Claud, inquiringly. "No," replied the girl; the proud air she had assumed, while speaking of her origin, quickly subsiding into one of meekness. "No; but I supposed that Mr. Phillips, who knows, might have told you that, for many years past, I have lived much with your people, learned their ways, been to their schools, and read their books. And, in owning my natural red father, may be I should have also said, I have a good white father, who has done every thing for the poor, ignorant, Indian girl." "But where does this good and generous white father live, and what is his name?" asked Claud. "He lives near the seaside city," answered she, demurely; "I may say so far. But I do not name him, ever. We think it not best. But, if he comes here sometime, as he may, you shall see him, Mr. Elwood." At this point of the dialogue, the attention of its participants was arrested by the sound of breaking twigs and other indications of the near approach of some one from the forest; and, the next moment, emerging through the thick underbrush, which he parted by the muzzle of his rifle as he made his way, the expected visitant came into view. Seemingly unmindful of the presence of others near by, or of the curious and scrutinizing gaze of Claud, he advanced with a firm, elastic tread, and stately bearing, exhibiting a strong, erect frame, a large, intellectual head, and handsomely moulded features, with a countenance of a grave and thoughtful cast, but now and then enlivened by the keenly-glancing black eyes by which it was particularly distinguished. With the exception of moccasins and wampum belt, he was garbed in a good English dress; and, so far as his exterior was in question, might have easily been mistaken, at a little distance, for some amateur hunter from the cities; while, from the vigor of his movements, and other general appearance, he might have equally well passed for a man of the middle age, had not the frosts of time, which were profusely sprinkled over his temples, and other visible parts of his head, betrayed the secret of his advanced age. "My daughter is not alone," he said, in very fair English utterance, coming to a stand ten or twelve yards distant from the young couple. "No" promptly replied the daughter, assuming the dignified tone and attitude usual among those engaged in the ceremonies of some formal presentation, or public introduction. "No, but my father will be pleased to learn that this is the Mr. Claud Elwood, who did your daughter such good service in her dangers on the rapids, and whom she has now conducted here, that he might have the opportunity to see the chief, and receive the thanks which it is more fitting for the father than the daughter to bestow." "My daughter's words are good," said the chief. "The young brave has our thanks to last; but the Red Man's thanks are acted, the White Man's spoken. Does the young man understand the creed of our people?" Fluella looked at Claud as if he was the one to answer the question, and he accordingly remarked: "I have ever heard, chief, that your people always notice a benefit done to them, and that he who does them one secures their lasting gratitude." "The young man," rejoined the chief, considerately, "has heard words that make, sometime, too much; they make true, the good-doer doing no wrong to us after. But when he takes advantage of our gratitude he wipes out the debt; he does more,--he stands to be punished like one an enemy always." The maiden here cast an uneasy glance at Claud, and a deprecating one at her father, at the unnecessary caution, as she believed it, which she perceived the latter intended to convey by his words to the former. But, to her relief, Claud did not appear as if he thought the remarks had any application to himself, for he frankly responded: "Your distinction is a just one, chief. Your views about these matters are my own views. Your creed is a good creed, so far as the remembrance of benefits is concerned; and I wish I could see it observed as generally among my people as I believe it to be among yours. But, chief, your daughter makes too much out of my assistance, the other day. I did only a common duty,--what I should have been a coward not to have done. I have no claim for any particular gratitude from her or you." "Our gratitude was strong before; the young man now makes stronger," remarked the other, exchanging appreciating glances with his daughter. "No, chief," resumed Claud, "I did not come here to boast of that small service, nor claim any thanks for it, but to see a sagamore, who could give me the knowledge of the Red Man which I would like to possess; to see one who, in times gone by, was as a king in this lake country. His own history, and that of his people especially, I would like to hear. They must be full of interest and instruction to an inquirer like me. Will not the chief relate it briefly? I have leisure,--my ears are open to his words." "Would the young man know the history of Wenongonet, alone?" said the other, with a musing and melancholy air. "It may be told easier than by words. Does the young man see on yonder hill that tall, green pine, which stands braced on the rocks, and laughs at the storms, because it is strong and not afraid?" "I do." "That is Wenongonet fifty winters ago. Now, does the young man see that tall, dry pine, in the quiet valley below, with a slender young tree shooting up, and tenderly spreading its green branches around that aged trunk, so it would shield its bare sides in the colds of winter, and fan its leafless head in the heats of summer?" "Yes, I see that, also." "That dry tree, already tottering to its fall, is Wenongonet now." "But what is the young tree with which you have coupled it?" "The young man has eyes," said the speaker, glancing affectionately at his blushing daughter. "But the young man," he resumed after a thoughtful pause, "would know more of the history of the Red Men who once held the country as their own? Let him read it in the history of his own people, turned about to the opposite. Let him call the white man's increase from a little beginning, the red man's decrease from a great,--the white man's victories, the red man's defeats,--the white man's flourishing, the red man's fading; and he will have the history of the red men, and the reasons of their sad history, in this country. "Two hundred year-seasons ago, the Abenaques were the great nation of the east. From the sea to the mountains they were the lords of Mavoshen. [Footnote: The name by which the Province of Maine was designated by the early voyagers, and the Indian word probably from which the present name of the State of Maine was derived.] They were a nation of warriors and a wise and active people. But, of all the four tribes--the Sokokis, the Anasquanticooks, the Kenabas, the Wawenocks--who made up this great nation, the Sokokis were the wisest and bravest. Wenongonet is proud when he thinks of them. They were his tribe. All the land that sent its waters through the Sawocotuc [Footnote: The Indian appellation of the river Saco, which is doubtless an abbreviation of the Indian name here introduced.] to the sea was theirs. They stood with their warriors at the outposts against the crowding white settlers from the west and south. They were pleased to stand there, because it was the post of danger and of honor in the nation. And there they bravely kept their stand against that wide front of war, and took the battle on themselves, till the snows of more than a hundred winters were made red by their rifles and tomahawks. But those who court death must often fall into his embrace. So with the Sokokis. They were at first a great and many people; but they wasted and fell, as time, the bringer of new and strange things, wore away, before the thick and more thick coming of their greedy and pushing foes,--by their fire-water in peace and their bullets in war, till the many became few, the great small. What the bloody Church, with his swarm of picked warriors, had left after his four terrible comings with fire and slaughter, the bold Lovewell finished, on that black day when the great Paugus and all the flower of the tribe found red graves round their ancient stronghold and home,--their beloved Pegwacket. [Footnote: The name of a once populous Indian village, which occupied the present beautiful site of the village of Fryeburg, Me., near Lovewell's Pond, where the sanguinary conflict here alluded to occurred in 1725.] This was the last time the tribe was ever assembled as a separate people. The name of the Sokokis, at which so many pale faces had been made paler, was buried in the graves of the brave warriors who had here died to defend its glory. The feeble remnant, panic-struck and heart-broken, fled northward, and, like the withered leaves of the forest flying before the strong east wind, were scattered and swept over the mountains into Canada; all but the family of Paugus, who took their stand on these lakes, where his son, Waurumba, took the empty title of chief and, dying, left it still more empty to Wenongonet, the last of the long line of sagamores,--the last ever to stand here to tell the young white man the story of their greatness, and the fate of their tribe." On concluding his story, the chief turned to his daughter and significantly pointed to the lengthening shadows of the trees on the water, with a motion of his head towards their home up the lakes. "The chief thinks," said Fluella, arousing herself from the thoughtful attitude in which she had been silently listening to the conversation,--"the chief thinks it time we were on the water, on our way home. We shall have now to bid Mr. Elwood a good-evening." So saying, she stepped lightly into the canoe and took her seat. She was immediately followed by the chief, who, quickly handling his oar, sent the light craft, with a single stroke, some rods into the lake, when, partially turning its bow towards the spot where Claud was standing on the shore, he said: "Should the young man ever stray from his companions in the hunt, or find himself weary, or wet, or cold, or in want of food, when out on the borders of the Molechunk-a-munk, let him feel, and doubt not, that he will be welcome to the lodge of Wenongonet." "And, if Mr. Elwood should be in the vicinity of our lake this fall, and _not_ happen to be in a so very sad condition, he might, perhaps, find a good welcome on calling,--so, especially, if he come before the time of the first snows," added Fluella, playfully at first, but with a slight suffusion of the cheek as she proceeded to the close. "I thank the chief," responded Claud with a respectful bow. "And I thank you, my fair friend," he continued, turning more familiarly to Fluella. "I hope to come, some time. But why do you speak of the first snows?" "O, the birds take wing for a warmer country about that time, and perhaps some who have not wings may be off with them," replied Fluella, in the same tone of playfulness and emotion. A stately bow from the father, and another with a sweetly eloquent smile from the daughter, completed, on their part, the ceremonies of the adieu; when the canoe was headed round, and, by the easy and powerful paddle-strokes of the still vigorous old man, sent bounding over the waters of the glassy lake. Slowly and thoughtfully Claud turned and took his way homeward. "Who could have expected," he soliloquized, "to witness such an exhibition of intellect and exalted tone of feeling in one of that despised race, as that proud old man displayed, in his eloquently-told story? And that daughter! Well, what is she to me? My faith is given to another. But why feel this strange interest? Yet, after all, it is probably nothing but what any one would naturally feel in the surprise occasioned on beholding such qualities in such a place and person. No, no, it can be nothing more; and I will whistle it to the winds." And he accordingly quickened his steps, and literally began to whistle a lively tune, by way of silencing the unbidden sensation which he felt conscious had often, since he first met this fair daughter of the wilds, been lurking within. But, though he thus resolved and reasoned the intruding feeling into nothing, yet he felt he would not like to have Avis Gurley know how often the sparkling countenance and witching smile of this new and beautiful face had been found mingling themselves with the previously exclusive images of his dreams. But, if they did so before this second interview, would they do it less now? His head resolutely answered, "Yes, less, till they are banished." His heart softly whispered, "No." And we will not anticipate by disclosing whether head or heart was to prove the better prophet. CHAPTER XII. "Away! nor let me loiter in my song, For we have many a mountain path to tread, And many a varied shore to sail along,-- By truth and sadness, not by fiction, led." The day agreed on, by the trappers, for starting on their expedition into the unbroken wilds around and beyond the upper lakes to the extreme reservoirs of the lordly Androscoggin, had at length arrived. All the married men belonging to the company, not having sons of their own old enough, had engaged those of their neighbors to come and remain with their families during their absence from home, which, it was thought probable, would be prolonged to nearly December. Steel-traps and rifles had been put in order, ammunition plentifully provided, and supplies of such provisions as could not be generally procured by the rifle and fish-hook in the woods and its waters, carefully laid in; and all were packed up the night previous, and in readiness for a start the next morning. It had been agreed that the company should rendezvous on the lake-shore, at the spot which we have already often mentioned, and which, by common consent, was now beginning to be called Elwood's Landing. And, accordingly, early on the appointed morning, Mark Elwood and his son Claud, having dispatched their breakfast, which Mrs. Elwood had been careful to make an unusually good and plentiful one, shouldered their large hunting packs, with their blankets neatly folded and strapped outside; and, having bid that anxious and thoughtful wife and mother a tender farewell, left the house and proceeded with a lively step to the border of the lake. On reaching their canoe at the landing, they glanced inquiringly around them for some indications of the presence or coming of their expected companions. But not a living object met their strained gaze, and not the semblance of a sound greeted their listening ears. A light sheeted fog, of varying thickness and density in the different portions of the wide expanse,--here thin and spray-like, as if formed of the breath of some marine monster, and there thickening to the appearance of the stratiform cloud,--lay low stretched, in long, slow-creeping undulations, over the bosom of the waveless lake. "The first on the ground, after all," exclaimed Mr. Elwood, on peering out sharply through the partially-obstructing fog in the direction of the outlet of the lake, up through which most of the company, who lived on the rivers below, were expected to come. "That is smart, after so much cautioning to us to be here in season. But they cannot be very far off, can they, Claud?" "One would suppose not," replied the latter; "but sounds, in this dense and quiet state of the atmosphere, could be distinguished at a great distance, and, with all that my best faculties can do, I cannot hear a single sound from any quarter.--But stay, what was that?" "What did you think you heard, Claud?" asked Mr. Elwood, after waiting a moment for the other to proceed or explain. "Why, I can hardly tell, myself," was the musing reply; "but it was some shrill, long-drawn sound, that seemed to come from a great distance in the woods off here to the south-east, or on the lake beyond." "Perhaps it was a loon somewhere up the lake," suggested Mr. Elwood. "It may be so, possibly," rejoined Claud, doubtfully; "but, if there were any inhabitants near enough in that direction, I should think it must be--hark, there it is again! and, as I thought, the crowing of a rooster." "A rooster! then it must be the echo of one, that has somehow struck across from Phillips' barn; but how could that be? Ah, I have just thought: your rooster must be Codman coming down the lake. You know how curiously he imitated that creature at the logging bee, don't you?" "No; I happened to be in a noisy bustle in the house, just at the time of those queer performances of his, and heard them imperfectly. But, if the sound I heard was not that of a veritable rooster, I never was so deceived in my life respecting the character of a sound." "Well, I think you will find I am right, but we will wait, listen, and see." The event soon proved the truth of Mr. Elwood's conjecture. Suddenly a canoe, rounding a woody point a half-mile to the right, shot into view, and the old loud and shrill _Kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho_ of Comical Codman rang far and wide over the waters to the echoing hills beyond. But, before Claud had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to respond to the triumphant "_I told you so_" of his father, the strange salute was answered by a merry, responsive shout of voices in the opposite direction; and presently two canoes, each containing two men, emerged into view from the fog hanging over the outlet, and, joining in a contest of speed, to which they seemed to perceive the single boatman was, by his movements, challenging them, rapidly made their way towards the understood goal of the landing. "The race is run. The vict'ry won!" exclaimed the trapper, in his usual cheery tone and inimitable air of mock gravity, as he drew up his oar, to let the impulse of his last stroke send his canoe in to the shore of the landing, as it did, while the foremost of his competitors in the friendly race was yet fifty yards distant. "Mighty smart fellows, you!" he resumed, waggishly cocking his eye towards the hunter, who had charge of the boat most in advance. "_What bright and early_ chaps, living only from two to five miles off, to let one who has ten miles to come be in first at the rendezvous!" "Well, Codman, I suppose we must give in," responded the hunter. "But, to do all this, you must have risen long before day; how did you contrive to wake up?" "Why, crowed like the house a-fire, and waked myself up, to be sure!" replied Codman, promptly. "How did you suppose I did it? But let that all go; I want to look you over a little. You have brought some new faces with you, this time, haven't you, Mr. Hunter?" "Yes, here is one," answered Phillips, pointing to a tall, sandy-complexioned, but good-looking man of about thirty, who, having occupied the forward seat of the canoe, now quietly stepped ashore; "yes, gentlemen," added the hunter, addressing himself to the Elwoods, standing on the bank, as well as to the trapper, "I make you acquainted with Mr. Carvil,--a man, if I ain't a good deal out in my reckoning, who might be relied on in most any circumstances." The customary salutations were then exchanged with the stranger; when the hunter, instinctively understanding that often violated rule of true politeness which requires of the introducer some accompanying remark, giving a clue to the position and character of the introduced, so as to gratify the natural curiosity felt on such occasions, and to impart more freedom to the conversation, quickly resumed: "Mr. Carvil is a Green Mountain boy, who loves hunting, partly for the health it gives, and partly for the fun of it. His old range has usually been round the Great Megantic, the other side of the highlands, in Canada, where I have heard of him through the St. Francis Indians. But, having a mind to see and try this side, he came on a few days ago, inquired me out, and turned in with me. We from below have invited him to join our company; are you all here agreed to that?" "Certainly," said Mark Elwood, in his usual off-hand manner. "Certainly," added Claud, more specifically, "I think we ought to be gratified in such an acquisition to our company." "And you, Codman?" said the hunter, turning inquiringly to the trapper. "It is your turn to speak. But don't show the gentleman so many of your bad streaks, to begin with, as to put him out of conceit of you before he has time to find out your good ones." "Well, I don't see but I must run the risk, then," said the trapper; "my streaks always come out as they come up, I never pick any of them out as samples for strangers. But to the question,--well, let's run him over once, if he won't be mad: high cheek bones, showing him enough of the Indian make to be a good hunter; a crank, steady eye, indicating honest motives, and a good resolution, that won't allow a man to rest easy till his object is carried out; and lastly, a well-put-together, wiry frame, to bear fatigues, and do the work which so large a head must often lay out for it. Yes, he passes muster with me bravely: let him in, with a welcome." Carvil rewarded these good-natured running commentaries on his person and supposed qualities, with a complacent bow; when the trapper turned to the other canoe, which, with Gaut Gurley and the young Indian described in a preceding chapter on board, now came within speaking distance, and sang out: "Hil-lo! there, you, captain, who made the big logs fly so like the de-i-vel, the other day, whether the old chap had any hand in it or not, what red genius is that you have brought along with you?" "It's Tomah, the young red man from the Connecticut-river region, who hunted some in this section last fall, I understand. I supposed you had met him before," replied Gaut. "O, ah, well, yes," responded Codman; "I bethink me, now, it is the young Indian that went to college, but couldn't be kept there long enough to make any thing else, though long enough, may be, to spoil him for a hunter." "May be not, too," retorted Tomah, with a miffed air, which showed he did not so readily appreciate the half-serious, half-sportive manner of the trapper as the other stranger had done. "May be, when you out with me catching beaver, one, two month, you no crow so loud." "That's right," interposed the hunter; "the Indian gives you what you deserve for your nonsense, Codman. But a truce to jokes. Let us all aboard, strike out, and be on our way over the lake." In compliance with this suggestion, those not already in the boats took to their seats, handled their oars, pushed off, and, headed by the hunter and his boat companion, and falling, one after another, into a line, rowed steadily on across, the broadest part of the lake, taking a lofty pine, whose attenuated top looked like a reed rising over the fog in the distance, as a guide and landmark to the great inlet, where the most arduous task of their expedition was to be encountered,--the surmounting of the long line of rapids leading to the great lakes above. But that task, after a pleasant rowing of a couple of hours had brought them to it, was, by dint of hard struggles against the current, with oars as long as oars could be made to prevail; with setting-poles when oars ceased to serve the purpose; and with ropes attached to the boats and drawn from point to point or rock to rock, when neither oars nor poles were of any avail; together with the carrying both boats and baggage by land round the last and most difficult ascent,--that task was at length accomplished, and, before one o'clock in the afternoon, all the boats, with their loading, were safely launched on the broad bosom of the wild and picturesque Molechunk-a-munk. Here, however, the company decided on taking their mid-day's lunch, and an hour's rest, before proceeding on their voyage. But, not deeming it expedient to incur the trouble and delay which the building of fires and the new cooking of provisions would require, they drew out only their bread and cold meats, for the occasion; and these, as the company were seated in an irregular circle on the rocks, were discussed and dispatched with that keen relish which abstinence and a toil-earned appetite alone could have brought them. After they had finished their repast, they, at the suggestion of Phillips and Codman, the only persons of the company who were familiar with the lakes and country above, took up a question which they had before discussed, without settling, but which, they were told by the persons just named, must now, before proceeding any farther, be definitely settled and understood. This question was that of the expediency of establishing a general head-quarters for the season, by building a large, storm-proof camp, and locating it at some central point on the shore of one of the two great lakes opening still above the one on which they were now about to embark. The object of this was to insure the company comfortable quarters, to which they could resort in case of falling sick, or encountering long storms, at which their furs could be collected and more safely kept, their more cumbrous stores left, and from which their provisions could be distributed, with the least trouble and travel, to the smaller and more temporary camps that each of the company, or any two of them, might make at the nearest terminations, on the neighboring waters, of the different ranges of woods they should select for their respective fields of operations. The main part of the question, that of the necessity of establishing general head-quarters, was at once, and unanimously, decided in the affirmative. The remaining part, that of the most eligible location for these quarters, was then fully discussed, and finally settled by fixing the point of location about midway of the eastern side of the Mooseeluk-maguntic, the next great lake above, and, counting from the south, the third in this unique chain of secluded lakes and widely clustering lakelets, through which the far-spanning Androscoggin pours its vast volume of wild waters to the distant bosom of the welcoming ocean. "Wisely arranged," remarked the hunter, at the close of the discussion. "The next object in view, then, is to reach there this evening, in season to work up something in the shape of a camp, that will serve for the night, and until the good one we propose to build can be completed." "That can be done easily enough," said Codman, "that is, if we will tax our marrow-bones a little extra in pulling at the oars. The distance over this lake, up the narrows, or river, and across the end of the Maguntic to the mouth of that second stream we have talked of, can't be much more than a dozen miles, and all smooth sailing. Lord, yes! if we put in like decent oarsmen, I warrant we make fetch come, so as to be there by the sun an hour high, which will give time to build a comfortable camp, and for cooking up the jolly good supper I'm thinking to have, to pay us for all these sweats and hard pulls up these confounded rapids and over these never-ending lakes." "Well, let us put in, then, boys," responded Gaut Gurley. "I am as much for the go-ahead principle as the best of you. Let us try the motion, and _earn_ the good supper, whether we get it or not. But, to make the supper quite the thing for the occasion, it strikes me we ought to have something a little fresher than our salt junk." "True, O King, and Great Mogul of the lubber-lifts," rejoined the trapper; "thou talkest like one not altogether without knowledge of the good living of the woods. That something fresher we will have, if it be only a mess of fish, which I think I can take out of that stream in a short time after we get there." "That could be done as we go along, if these lakes are as well stocked with large trout as they are reputed," observed Carvil, in the calm, deliberate manner which characterized him on all occasions. "But we mustn't stop for that," said the trapper. "There is no need of stopping," quietly replied the former. "That's a queer idea," said the trapper, evidently at fault. "How are we to put in and wait for bites, without stopping, I would like to know?" "Perhaps I may be able to demonstrate the matter, as we proceed on our way. At all events, since the question is raised, I will try," replied Carvil, drawing from his pocket a roll of small silk cord, to which a fish-hook, without any sinker, was attached. "Can any of you handily get at your pork, so as to cut off and throw me a small bit? There, that will do," he continued, taking the proffered bit of meat, and baiting his hook with it. "Now, the experiment I propose to try is what in my region we call 'troulling,' which consists of throwing out a baited hook and paying out, as the boat moves on, a hundred feet, or so, of line, that is left to trail, floating on the surface of the water behind; when most large fish, like bass, or trout, especially if you make a sharp tack, occasionally, so as to draw the line across an undisturbed portion of the water, will see, and, darting up, sieze it, and hook themselves. And, if you have many large trout _here_, and they are any related to those I have found in the Great Maguntic, and other large bodies of fresh water, they will some of them stand a pretty good chance to be found adding to our supper to-night." "Sorry to hear it," said the trapper, "for I have always considered the trout a sensible fish, and I should be sorry to lose my respect for them. But, if they will do that, they are bigger fools than I took them to be. But you'll find they just won't." "Well, I don't know about that, now. I am not so sure but there may be something in it," remarked the hunter, who had been listening to Carvil with evident interest. "Though we have never tried that method in this region, to my knowledge, yet my experience rather goes to confirm the notion. I remember to have caught several fine trout, when I had laid down my pole, and was moving off with my boat, but had left my line trailing behind. Those great fellows are not very bashful about seizing any thing they think they can eat, which they can see on the surface. I have known them do a stranger thing than to come up and seize a piece of pork." "What was that?" asked the trapper. "Well, I don't know as you will believe the story," answered the other, "but it will be equally true, if you don't. Some years ago I was out on the Umbagog, for a mess of trout, but couldn't get a bite; and, seeing a flock of black ducks in a neighboring cove, I hauled in my line, and rowed off towards them, thinking I might get a shot, and so have something to carry home, by way of mending my luck at fishing. But, before I got near enough to count with much certainty on the effect of a shot, if I fired, they all flew up, but one, which, though it seemed to be trying hard enough, could not raise its body out of the water. As my canoe drifted in nearer, I once or twice raised my rifle to fire at it; but it acted so strangely, flapping the water with its wings, and tugging away at swimming, without appearing to gain scarce a single foot, that I soon laid down my piece and concluded I would try to take it alive, supposing it must have got fast tangled with something, but with what, I was wholly unable to conceive. So, taking up my oar, and gunning my canoe, so as to send it by within reach of the bird, I gave two or three strong pulls, threw down the oar, put out my hand, and sat ready for the grab, which the next moment I made, seizing the panting and now sinking duck by one of its outspread wings, and pulling it in, with a big trout fastened to its foot and leg so tight by the teeth that the hold did not give way till the greedy fish was brought slapping over the side, and landed safely in the bottom of the canoe. That trout, when I got home, weighed just seven pounds and nine ounces." "Wheugh! whiz! kak! ke-o-ho!" exclaimed, whistled, and crowed Comical Codman. "I do not doubt it in the least," said Carvil. "Nor can I, of course, on Mr. Phillips' statement," added Mark Elwood; "but, if I had not known his scrupulousness in matters of fact, I should not have believed that so strange a circumstance had ever happened in the world." "So the story is voted gospel, is it?" rejoined the trapper. "Well, then, I propose we commission its author to cruise along the coves this afternoon, so that he may bring into camp to-night trout enough caught in that way to make up what Mr. Carvil may miss taking by _his_ method, together with a brace or two of nice ducks, which would be a still further fine addition to our supper." "Yes, ducks or some other kind of flesh, to go with the fish, we may now safely count on being secured, by some of the various proposed methods," here interposed Claud Elwood, seriously. "And I second the motion of such a cruise along the shores, by Mr. Phillips, who so seldom fails of killing something. And if he, Mr. Carvil, and father, will agree to an exchange of boat companions for the afternoon, I should like to go with him. I have chosen him my schoolmaster in hunting, and I should have a chance for another lesson before we go into the separate fields of our approaching operations." Gaut Gurley started at the suggestion, and cast a few quick, searching glances at Claud and the hunter, as if suspecting a concert of action between them, for some purpose affecting his secret plans; but, appearing to read nothing in either of their countenances to confirm such suspicions, and seeing all the rest of the company readily falling in with the proposal, he held his peace, and joined the others in handling the oars for their immediate departure; which was now in a few minutes taken, the main part of the company striking in a direct line across the middle of the lake for their destination, leaving the hunter and Claud moving off obliquely to the right, for a different and farther route among the intervening islands, and along the indented shores beyond,--where it will best comport with the objects of our story, we think, to accompany them in their solitary excursion. "Where away, as the sailors have it?" said Claud, after the two, each with a single oar, had rowed on a while in silence; "where away, Mr. Phillips, or in the line of what object in sight would you lay your course?" "Why, I had proposed, in my own mind," replied the hunter, "to steer direct across, so as to graze the east side of the great island you see yonder in the distance; but, as we shall pass so near the cove which lies snuggled away between two sharp, woody points here, a little ahead to the right, we might as well, perhaps, haul in and take a squint round it." "What shall we find there?" "Perhaps nothing. It is the place, however, where I found that deer which I killed when we were here before." "Well, if you can count on another, we should turn in there now." "We will; but a hunter, young man, must never talk of certainties when going to any particular spot in search of such roving things as the animals of the forest. He must learn to bear disappointment, and be prepared to find nothing where he or others had before found every thing. He must have patience. Loss of patience is very apt to be fatal to success in almost any business, but especially so in hunting. You spoke of taking lessons of me in the craft: this is the very first grand lesson I would impress on your mind. But we are now close upon the point of land, which we are only to round to be in the cove. If you are disposed to row the boat alone, now, keep in or out, stop or move on, as I from to time give the word, I will down on my knees in the bow of the boat, with cocked rifle in hand, ready for what may be seen." Readily complying, Claud carefully rowed round the point and entered the dark and deep indenture constituting the cove, whose few acres of surface were thrown almost wholly into the shade, even at sunny noonday, by the thickly-clustered groups of tall, princely pines, which, like giant warriors in council, stood nodding their green plumes around the closely-encircling shores. Closely hugging the banks, now stopping behind some projecting clump of bushes, now in some rock-formed nook, and now in the covert of some low-bending treetop, to give the keen-eyed hunter a chance to peer round or through these screening objects into the open spaces along the shore beyond, he slowly pushed along the canoe till the whole line of the cove was explored, and they reached the point corresponding to the one at which they commenced their look-out for game, and all without seeing a living creature. "Pshaw! this is dull business," exclaimed Claud, as they came out into the open lake, where he was left free to speak aloud. "This was so fine a looking place for game that I felt sure we should see something worth taking; and I am quite disappointed in the result." "So that, then, is the best fruit you can show of my first lesson in hunting, is it, young man?" responded the hunter, with a significant smile. Claud felt the implied rebuke, and promised better behavior for the future; when both seated themselves at the oars, and, as men naturally do, after an interval of suppressed action, plied themselves with a vigor that sent their craft swiftly surging over the waters in the line of their original destination. They now soon reached, and shot along the shore of, a beautifully-wooded island, nearly a half-mile in extent, about midway of which the hunter-rested on his oars, and, after Claud, on his motion, had done the same, observed, pointing through a partial opening among the trees, along a visible path that led up a gentle slope into the interior of the island: "There! do you catch a glimpse of a house-like looking structure, in an open and light spot in the woods, a little beyond where you cease to trace the path?" "Yes, quite distinctly. What is it?" "That belongs to the chief, and might properly enough be called his summer-house, as he generally comes here with his family to spend the hot months. He raises fine crops of corn in his clearing on there beyond the house, and saves it all, because the bears, coons, and squirrels, that trouble him else-where, are so completely fenced out by the surrounding water." "Are the family there, now?" "No; they have moved back to his principal residence, a mile or two distant, on a point of land over against the opposite side of this island, and not far out of our course." "Indeed! what say you, then, to giving them a call as we pass by?" "We shall not have time, which is a good reason for not calling now, if there were not still stronger ones." "What stronger reasons, or what other reasons at all?" "Well, perhaps there are none. But, supposing two of the company we left behind, who might happen to conceive they have some secret interest at stake, should ever suspect that your leading object in leaving them was to make the very visit you are now proposing, would you not prefer that we should have it in our power to set their minds at rest, when we join them to-night, by telling them all the places we _did_ touch at?" "It is possible I should, in such a case," replied Claud, looking surprised and puzzled; "but, 'suspected,' did you say? _Why_ should they suspect? and what if they do?" "Three questions in a heap, when one is more than I could wisely attempt to answer," evasively answered the cautious hunter. "But you must have some reasons for what you said," persisted the other. "Reasons founded upon guesses are poor things to build a statement on," rejoined the hunter. "Half the mischief and ill-feeling in the world comes from statements so made. And, guessing aloud is often no better. I rather think, all things considered, we had better not stop at the chief's, this time. I can show you where he lives, as we pass; and, if that will do, we will now handle oars, and be on our way." Much wondering at the enigmatical words of the other, Claud, without further remark, put in his oar and thoughtfully rowed on, till they had passed round the head of the island; when, on the indication of the hunter, they stretched away towards a distant promontory, on the northeastern shore of the lake. A steady and vigorous rowing of half an hour brought them within a few hundred yards of the headland, for which they had been steering; when the hunter lifted his oar, and said: "There! let the canoe run on alone, a while, and give me your attention. Now, you see," he continued, pointing in shore to the right, "you see that opening in the woods, yonder, on the southern slope extending down near the lake, eighty rods or such a matter off, don't you? Well, that, and divers other openings, where the timber has been cut down and burnt over, for planting corn, scattered about in the woods in different places, as well as a large tract of the surrounding forest-land, are the possessions of the chief." "But where is their house?" "Down near the lake, among the trees. You can't see much of it, but it is a smart, comfortable house, like one of our houses, and built by a carpenter; for the chief used formerly to handle considerable money, got by the furs caught by himself, and by the profits on the furs he bought of the St. Francis Indians, who came over this way to hunt. But stay: there are some of the family at his boat-landing. I think it must be Fluella and her Indian half-brother. She is waving a handkerchief towards us. Let us wait and see what she wants." The female, whose trim figure, English-fashioned dress, and graceful motions went to confirm the hunter's conjectures, now appeared to turn and give some directions to the boy, who immediately disappeared, but in a few minutes came back, entered a canoe, and put off towards the spot where our two voyagers were resting on their oars. In a short time the canoe came up, rowed by an ordinary Indian boy of about fourteen, who, pulling alongside, held up a neatly-made, new, wampum-trimmed hunting pouch, and said: "The chief send this Mr. Claud Elwood,--gift. Fluella say, wish Mr. Phillips and Mr. Claud Elwood good time." And so saying, and tossing the article to Claud, he wheeled his canoe around, and, without turning his head or appearing to hear the compliments and thanks that both the hunter and Claud told him to take to the chief and his daughter, sped his way back to the landing. "There, young man!" exclaimed the obviously gratified hunter, "that is a present, with a meaning. I would rather have it, coming as it does from an Indian, and that Indian such a man as the chief,--I would rather have it, as a pledge of watchfulness over your interests in the settlement, whether you are present there or absent,--than a white man's bond for a hundred dollars; and I would also rather have it, as a token of faith, given when you are roaming this northern wilderness, than a passport from the king of England. The chief's _Totem_, the bald eagle, is woven in, I see, among the ornaments. Every Indian found anywhere from the great river of Canada to the sea eastward will know and respect it, and know, likewise, how to treat the man to whom it was given." "But how," asked Claud, "could stranger Indians, whom I encountered, know to whom it was given, or that I did not find, buy, or steal the article?" "Let an Indian alone for that. You have but three fingers on your left hand, I have noticed." "True, the little finger was accidentally cut clean off by an axe, when I was a child; but what has that to do with the question?" "Enough to settle it. Do you notice something protruding as if from under the protecting wing of the eagle of the _Totem_, there?" "Yes; and surely enough it resembles a human hand, with only three fingers." "That is it; and you may yet, in your experiences in these rough and sometimes dangerous wilds, know the value of that gift." "At any rate, I feel gratified at this mark of the chiefs good will; the more because I was so little expecting it, especially at this time. How could they have possibly made out who I, or indeed either of us, was, at such a distance?" "A very natural inquiry, but answered when I tell you that Fluella has a good spy-glass, that a year or two ago she brought, among other curious trinkets, from her other home in the old settlement. And she makes it often serve a good purpose, too. She has spied out, for her father's killing, many a moose or deer that had come down to the edge or into the water of the lake round the shores to drink, eat wild-grass, or cool themselves, as well as many a flock of wild geese, lighting here on their fall or spring passages. She knew, I think, about the day we were to start, and, being on the lookout, saw the rest of our company passing off here to the west, an hour or two ago, and, not seeing us among them, expected us to be along somewhere in this direction. Now, is all explained?" "Yes, curiously but satisfactorily." "Then, only one word more on the subject: let me advise you not to show that hunting-pouch when we join the company, nor wear it till we are off on our separate ranges. I have my reasons, but mustn't be asked to give them." "All this is odd, Mr. Phillips; but, taking it for granted that your reasons are good ones, I will comply with your advice." "Very well. The whole matter being now disposed of, let us move on round the point, and into the large cove we shall find round there. We mustn't give up about game so. No knowing what may yet be done in that line." Having risen to his feet, raised his hunting-cap, and bowed his adieu to the still lingering maiden on shore, Claud now joined his companion at the oars; when they rapidly passed round the headland, and soon entered the bay-like recess of water, which, sweeping round in a large wood-fringed circle, opened upon the view immediately beyond. After skirting along the sometimes bold and rocky, and sometimes low and swampy, thickly-wooded shore, with a sharp lookout for whatever might come within range of the eye, but without stopping for any special examination till they had reached the most secluded part of the cove, the hunter suspended his oar, and signified his intention of landing. Accordingly, running in their canoe by the side of an old treetop extending into the water, and, throwing their mooring-line around one of its bare limbs, they stepped noiselessly ashore, and ascended the bank, when the hunter, pausing and pointing inward, said, in a low, suppressed tone: "There, within a short distance from us, commences one of the thickest windfall jungles in these parts, and extends up nearly to the chiefs outermost cornfield, about half a mile off. I have been threatening to come here some time; and if, as I will propose, we go into the tangle, and get through, or half through, without encounter of some kind, I confess I shall be uncommonly disappointed. But, before entering, let us sit down on this old log a few minutes, and, while looking to our flints and priming, keep our ears open for such sounds as may reach them." And, bending low his head, with closed eyes, and an ear turned towards the thicket, the hunter listened long and intently in motionless silence, after which he quickly rose, and, while glancing at his gun-flint and priming, said: "There are no distinct sounds, but the air is disturbed in the kind of way that I have frequently noticed when animals of some size were in the vicinity. Let us forward into the thicket, spreading out some ten rods apart, and worming ourselves among the windfalls, with a stop and a thorough look every few rods of our progress. Should you start up a panther, which ain't very likely, you had better whistle for me, before firing; but, if any thing else, blaze away at it." Nodding his assent, and starting off in a course diverging to the right of the one he perceived his companion to be taking, Claud slowly, and as he best could, made his way forward, sometimes crawling underhand sometimes clambering over the tangled masses of fallen trees, which, with a thick upshooting second growth, lay piled and crossed in all conceivable shapes and directions before him. After proceeding in this manner thirty or forty rods, he paused, for the third or fourth time, to look and listen; but lastly quite as much for his companion as for game, for, with all his powers, he could detect no sound indicating that the latter could be anywhere in the vicinity. While thus engaged, he heard a small, shrill, plaintive sort of cry, as of a little child, coming from somewhere above him; when, casting up his eyes, he beheld a large raccoon sidling round a limb, and seemingly winking and nodding down towards him. With the suppressed exclamation of "Far better than nothing," he brought his piece to his face and fired; when the glimpse of a straight-falling body, and the heavy thump on the ground that followed, told him that the object of his aim was a "_dead coon_." But his half-uttered shout of exultation was cut short by the startling report of a rifle, a little distance to the rear, on his left. And the next moment a huge old bear, followed by a smaller one, came smashing and tearing through the brush and tree-tops directly towards him. And with such headlong speed did the frightened brutes advance upon him, that he had scarce time to draw-his clubbed rifle before the old one had broke into the little open space where he stood, and thrown herself on her haunches, in an attitude of angry defiance. Recoiling a step in the only way he could move, and expecting the next moment to find himself within the fatal grasp of the bear, if he did not disable her, Claud aimed and struck with all his might a blow at her head. But, before the swiftly-descending implement reached its mark, it was struck by the fending paw of the enraged brute, with a force that sent its tightly-grasping owner spinning and floundering into the entangled brushwood, till he landed prostrate on the ground. And, ere he had time to turn himself, the desperate animal had rushed and trampled over him, and disappeared through a breach effected in one of the treetops that had hemmed him in and prevented his retreat from such a doubtful, hand-to-hand encounter. As the discomfited young huntsman was rising to his feet, his eyes fell upon Phillips, hurrying forward, with looks of lively concern; which, however, as he leaped into the small open space comprising the battle-ground, and saw how matters stood, at first gave place to a ludicrous smile, and then to a merry peal of laughter. "I can't say I blame you much for your merriment," said Claud, joining, though rather feebly, in the laugh, as he brushed himself and picked up his rifle; "for, to be upset and run over by a bear would have been about the last thing I should have dreamed of myself." "O well," said the other, checking his risibles, "it had better turn out a laughing than a crying matter, as it might have done if you had kept your footing; for, if you had not been overthrown and run over, you would have probably, in this cramped-up place, stood up to be hugged and scratched in a way not so very agreeable; and I rather guess, under the circumstances, you may as well call yourself satisfied to quit so; for the bears have left you with a whole skin and unbroken ribs, though they have escaped themselves where, with our time, it will be useless to follow them. But, if you had not fired just as you did, we would have had all three of them." "What! have you killed one?" asked Claud, in surprise. "To be sure I have," answered the hunter. "Then you supposed it was one of your rough visitors I fired at, and missed? No, no. I had got one of the black youngsters in range, and was waiting for a chance at the old one, knowing if I killed her first the young ones would take to the trees, where they could easily be brought down. Seeing them, however, on the point of running at the report of your rifle, I let drive at the only one I was sure of; when the two others, they being nearly between us, tacked about and ran towards you. But go get your 'coon, and come along this way, to look at my black beauty." "How did you know I had killed a 'coon?" inquired the other. "Heard him squall before you fired, then strike the ground afterwards with a force that I thought must have killed him, whether your bullet had or not," replied the hunter, moving off for his bear, with which, tugging it along by a hind leg, he soon joined Claud, who was threading his way out with his mottled trophy swung over his shoulder. "Why, a much larger one than I supposed," exclaimed the latter, turning and looking at the cub; "really, a fine one!" "Ain't he, now?" complacently said the hunter. "There, heft him; must weigh over half a hundred, and as fat as butter,--for which he is doubtless indebted to the chiefs cornfield. And I presume we may say the same of that streaked squaller of yours, which I see is an uncommonly large, plump fellow. Well," continued the speaker, shouldering the cub, "we may now as well call our hunt over, for to-day,--out of this plaguey hole as soon as we can, and over the lakes to camp, as fast as strong arms and good oars can send us." On, after reaching and pushing off their now well-freighted canoe, on,--along the extended coast-line of this wild lake, westward to the great inlet, up the gently inflowing waters of that broad, cypress-lined stream, to the Maguntic, and then, tacking eastward, around the borders of that still wilder and more secluded lake,--on, on, they sped for hours, until the ringing of the axe-fall, and the lively echo of human voices in the woods, apprised them of their near approach to the spot which their companions had selected, both for their night's rest and permanent head-quarters for the season. CHAPTER XIII. "And now their hatchets, with resounding stroke, Hew'd down the boscage that around them rose, And the dry pine of brittle branches broke, To yield them fuel for the night's repose; The gathered heap an ample store bespoke. They smite the steel: the tinder brightly glows, And the fired match the kindled flames awoke, And light upon night's seated darkness broke. High branch'd the pines, and far the colonnade Of tapering trunks stood glimmering through the glen; So joyed the hunters in their lonely glade." "Hurra! the stragglers have arrived!" exclaimed Codman, the first to notice the hunter and Claud as they shot into the mouth of the small, quiet river, on whose bank was busily progressing the work of the incipient encampment. "Hurra for the arrival of the good ship Brag, Phillips, master; but where is his black duck, with a big trout to its foot? Ah, ha! not forthcoming, hey? Kuk-kuk-ke-oh-o!" "Don't crow till you see what I have got, Mr. Trapper," replied the hunter, running in his canoe by the sides of those of his companions on shore. "Don't crow yet,--especially over the failure of what I didn't undertake: you or Mr. Carvil was to furnish the big trout, you will recollect." "That has been attended to by me, to the satisfaction of the company, I rather think," remarked Carvil, now advancing towards the bank with the rest. "Not only one big trout, but two more with it, was drawn in by my method, on the way." "O, accident, accident!" waggishly rejoined the trapper; "they were hooked by mere accident. The fact is, the trouts are so thick in these lakes that a hook and line can't be drawn such a distance through them without getting into some of their mouths. But, allowing it otherwise, it don't cure but half of your case, Mr. Hunter. Where is the black duck?" "_Here_ is the black duck," responded the hunter, stepping ashore and drawing his cub out from under some screening boughs in the bow of the boat. A lively shout of laughter burst from the lips of the company at the disclosure, showing alike their amusement at the practical way in which the hunter had turned the jokes of the teasing trapper, and their agreeable surprise at his luck in the uncertain hunting cruise along the shores, on which they, without any expectation of his success, had banteringly dispatched him. "Ah, I think you may as well give up beat, all round, Mr. Codman," observed Mark Elwood, after the surprise and laughter had subsided. "But come up here, neighbor Phillips, and see what a nice place we are going to have for our camp." Leaving the game in charge of Claud and Carvil, who volunteered to dress it, the rest of the company walked up with the hunter to the spot where the new shanty was in progress, wishing to hear his opinion of the location selected, and the plan on which it had been commenced. The location to which the company had been guided by the trapper was a level space, about ten rods back from the stream here falling into the lake from the east, and at the foot of a rocky acclivity forming a portion of the southern side of a high ridge that ran down to the lake. The first ten feet of the rise was formed by the smooth, even face of a perpendicular rock, which from the narrow shelf at the top fell off into a less precipitous ascent, extending up as far as the eye could reach among the stunted evergreens and other low bushes that partially covered it. About a dozen feet in front of this abutting rock, equidistant from it, and some fifteen feet apart, stood two spruce trees, six or eight inches in diameter at the bottom, but tall, and tapering towards the top. These, the company, who had reached the place about two hours before, had contrived, by rolling up some old logs to stand on, to cut off, and fell, six or seven feet from the ground; so that the tall stumps might serve for the two front posts of the proposed structure. And, having trimmed out the tops of the two fallen trees, and cut them into the required lengths, they had laid them from the top of the rock to the tops of the stumps, which had been first grooved out, so as to receive and securely fasten the ends of the timbers. These, with the stout poles which they had then cut and laid on transversely, at short intervals, made a substantial framework for the roof of the shantee. And, in addition to this, rows of side and front posts had been cut, sharpened, driven into the ground at the bottom, and securely fastened at the top to the two rafters at the sides and the principal beam, which had been notched into them at the lower ends to serve for the front plate. "Just the spot," said the hunter, after running his eye over and around the locality a moment, and then going up and inspecting the structure in progress. "I thought Codman could not miss so remarkable a place. I have been thinking of building a camp here for several years; but it never seemed to come just right till this fall. Why, you all must have worked like beavers to get along with the job so well, and to do it so thoroughly. The bones of the thing are all now up, as far as I can see, and made strong enough to withstand all the snows and blows of half a dozen winters. So, now, nothing remains but to put on the bark covering." "But how are we to get the bark covering?" asked Gaut Gurley. "Bark will not peel well at this season, will it?" "No, not very well, I suppose," replied the former. "But I will see what I can do towards hunting up the material, to-morrow. A coat of these spruce boughs, spread over this framework above, and set up here against the sides, will answer for to-night. And this rigging up, gathering hemlock boughs for our beds, building a good fire here in front, and cooking the supper, are all we had better think of attempting this evening; and, as it is now about sunset, let us divide off the labor, and go at it." The encampment of these adventurous woodsmen presented, for the next hour, a stirring and animated scene. The different duties to be performed having been apportioned by mutual agreement among the company, they proceeded with cheerful alacrity to the performance of their respective tasks. Phillips and Carvil set busily to work in covering, inclosing, and rigging up the camp,--to adopt the woodsman's use of that word, as we notify the critic we shall do, as often as we please, albeit that use, contrary to Noah Webster, indicates the structure in which men lodge in the woods, rather than the place or company encamping. Mark Elwood, Gaut Gurley, and the young Indian Tomah, proceeding to a neighboring windfall of different kinds of wood, went to work in cutting and drawing up a supply of fuel, among which, the accustomed backlog, forestick, and intermediate kindling-wood, being adjusted before the entrance of the camp, the fire from the smitten steel and preserving punkwood was soon crackling and throwing around its ruddy glow, as it more and more successfully competed with the waning light of the departing day. Claud and Codman, in fulfilment of their part of the business on hand, then unpacked the light frying-pans, laid in them the customary slices of fat salted pork, and shortly had them sharply hissing over the fire, preparatory to receiving respectively their allotted quotas of the tender and nutritious bearsteaks, or the broad layers of the rich, red-meated trout. In a short time the plentiful contents of the pans were thoroughly cooked, the pans taken from the fires, the potatoes raked from the glowing embers, in which they had been roasting under the forestick, the brown bread and condiments brought forward, and all placed upon the even face of a broad, thin sheet of cleft rock, which they had luckily found in the adjacent ledge, and brought forward and elevated on blocks within the camp, to serve, as it well did, for their sylvan table. Gathering round this, they proceeded to help themselves, with their camp knives and rude trenchers, split from blocks of the freely-cleaving basswood, to such kinds and portions of the savory viands, smoking so invitingly in the pans before them, as their inclinations severally prompted. Having done this, they drew back to seats on broad chips, blocks of wood, piles of boughs, or other objects nearest at hand, and began upon their long anticipated meal with a gusto which made them for a while too busy for conversation, other than an occasional brief remark on the quality of the food, or some jocose allusion to the adventures of the day. After they had finished their repast, however, and cleared away the relics of the supper, together with the few utensils they had used in cooking and eating it, they replenished their fire; and, while the cheerful light of its fagot-fed blaze was flashing up against the dark forest around, and shooting away through the openings of the foliage in long glimmering lines over the waters below, they all placed themselves at their ease,--some sitting on blocks, some leaning against the posts, and some reclining on piles of boughs,--and commenced the social confab, or that general conversation, in which woodsmen, if they ever do, are prone to indulge after the fatigues of the day are over, and the consequent demands of appetite have been appeased by a satisfactory meal. "Now, gentlemen, I will make a proposition," said Mark Elwood, in a pause of the conversation, which, though it had been engaged in with considerable spirit, yet now began to flag. "I will propose, as we have an hour or two on hand, to be spent somehow, before we shall think of rolling ourselves up in our blankets for the night,--I propose that you professional hunters, like Phillips, Codman, and Carvil, here, each give us a story of one of your most remarkable adventures in the woods. It would not only while away the hour pleasantly for us all, but might furnish useful information and timely hints for us beginners in this new life, upon which we are about to enter. For my part, I should like to listen to a story, by these old witnesses, of the strange things they must have encountered in the woods. What say you, Gurley, Claud, and Tomah? Shall we put them on the stand?" "Yes, a good idea," replied Gaut, his habitual cold reserve relaxing into something like cordiality; "I feel just in the humor to listen,--more so than to talk, on this hearty supper. Yes, by all means let us have the stories." "O, I should be exceedingly gratified," joined in Claud, in his usual frank and animated manner. "I like that, too; like to hear hunting story, always, much," added Tomah, with a glistening eye. "Well, no particular objection as far as I am concerned," responded the trapper, seriously; but adding, with his old waggish gleam of the eye: "that is, if you will take what I give, and swallow it as easily as you did Phillips' fish story. But let Carvil, who must be the youngest, go on with _his_ story first; I will follow; and Phillips shall bring up the rear." Carvil, after making a few excuses that were not suffered to avail him, commenced his narration, which we will head THE AMATEUR WOODSMAN'S STORY. "I call myself a woodsman, and a pretty good one, now; but, four years ago, I was almost any thing else but one of _any_ kind. I should have then thought it would have certainly been the death of me to have lain out one night in the woods. And I had no more idea of ever becoming a hunter or trapper, to remain out, as I have since done, for weeks and months in the depths of the wilderness, with no other protection than my rifle, and no other shelter than what I could fix up with my hatchet for the night, where I happened to be, on the approach of darkness, than I now have of undertaking to swim the Atlantic. And, as the circumstances which led to this revolution in my opinions and habits, when _out_ of the woods, may as much interest you, in the account, as any thing that happened to me after I got into them, I will first briefly tell you how I came to be a woodsman, and then answer your call by relating a hunting incident which occurred to me after I became one; which, if not very marvellous, shall, at least, have the merit of truth and reality. "I was brought up rather tenderly, as to work; and my parents, absurdly believing that, with my then slight frame, any employment requiring any labor or physical exertion would injure me, put me to study, and assisted me to the means of entering college at eighteen, and of graduating at twenty-two. Well, I did not misimprove my opportunities for knowledge, I believe; but, instead of gaining strength and manhood by my exemption from labor, I grew feebler and feebler. Still, I did not know what was wanting to give me health and constitution, nor once think that a mind without a body is a thing not worth having; and so I went on, keeping within doors and studying a profession, until I found myself a poor, nervous, miserable dyspeptic, and threatened with consumption. It was now plain enough that, if I would avoid a speedy death, something must be done; and, by the advice of the doctors, who were about as ignorant of the philosophy of health as myself, I concluded to seek a residence and livelihood in one of the Southern States. Accordingly, I packed up and took stage for Boston, timing my journey so as to get there the day before the ship, on which I had previously ascertained I could find a passage, was to sail for Savannah. But, the morning after I arrived, a severe storm came on, and the sailing of the ship was deferred till the next day; so, having nothing to do, knowing nobody to talk with, and the weather being too stormy to go out to see the city, I took to my solitary room in the hotel, where, fortunately, there were neither books nor papers to prevent me from thinking. And I _did_ think, that day, almost for the first time in my life, without the trammels of fashionable book-theories, and more effectually than I had ever done before. I had a favorite classmate in college, whose name was Silas Wright, who had a mind that penetrated, like light, every thing it was turned upon, and who never failed to see the truth of a matter, though his towering ambition sometimes prevented him from following the path where it led. In recalling, as I was pacing the floor that gloomy day, my old college friends and their conversation, I happened to think of what Wright once said to me on the subject of health and long life. "'Carvil,' said he, 'did you know that we students were committing treason against the great laws of life which God has laid down for us?' "'No.' "'Well, we are. Man was made for active life, and in the open air.' "'But _you_, it seems, are not observing the theory about which you are so positive?' "'No, and don't intend to. To observe that, I must relinquish all thought of mounting the professional and political ladder, even half way to the mark I _must_ and _will_ reach. I have naturally a strong constitution, and I calculate it will last, with the rapid mounting I intend, till I reach the top round, and that is all that I care for. But I shall know, all the while, that I am going up like a rocket, whose height and brilliancy are only attained by the certain and rapid wasting of the substance that composes it. But the case is different with you, Carvil. You have a constitution yet to make, or your rocket will go out, before you can get high enough, in these days of jostling and severe competition, to warrant the attempt of mounting at all.' "Such was one of Wright's intuitive grasps at the truth, hid under the false notions of the times, or the artificial theories of books, which he was wasting his life to master, and often only mastering to despise. And I, being now earnestly in search of the best means of health, eagerly caught at his notion, which placed the matter in a light in which I had never before seriously viewed it, and, indeed, struck me with a force that soon brought me to a dead stand in all my calculations for the future. 'What is it,' thought I, running into a sort of mental dialogue with myself, and calling in what little true science I had learned, to aid me in fully testing the soundness of the notion, before I finally gave in to it; 'what is it that hardens the muscles, and compacts the human system?'--'Thorough exercise, and constant use.'--'Can these be had in the study-room?' 'No.'--'And what is the invigorating and fattening principle of the air we breathe?'--'Oxygen.'--'Can this be had in the close or artificially-heated room?'--'No, except in stinted and uncertain proportions. It can be breathed in the open fields, but much more abundantly in the woods.'--'Well, what do I need?'--'Only hardening and invigorating.'--'But shall I go to the relaxing clime of the South for this?'--'No; the northern wilderness were a hundred times better.'--'It is settled, then.'--'Landlord,' I cried aloud, as I saw that personage at that moment passing by my partly open door, 'when does the first stage, going north, start?' "'In twenty minutes, and from my door.' "'Order on my luggage, here; make out your bill; and I will be on hand.' "And I was on hand at the time, and the next hour on my way home, which I duly reached, but only to start off immediately to the residence of a hunter acquaintance, a dozen miles off, who, I knew, was about to start for the head-waters of the Connecticut, on his annual fall hunting expedition. I found him, joined him, and within ten days was entering, with pack and rifle, the unbroken wilderness, by his side, though with many misgivings. But my first night out tested and settled the matter forever. We had had a fatiguing march, at least to me, and the last part of it in the rain. We had to lay down in a leaking camp, and I counted myself a dead man. But, to my astonishment, I awoke the next morning, unhurt, and even feeling better than I had for a month. And I constantly grew better and hardier, through that and my next year's campaign in that region, and through the two succeeding ones I made on the Great Megantic; where the incident which I propose to relate to you, it being my best strike in moose-hunting, occurred, and which happened in this wise: "It was a raw, gloomy day in November, and I had been lazily lying in my solitary camp, on the borders of this magnificent lake, all the forenoon. But, after dinner, I began to feel a little more like action, and soon concluded I would explore a sort of creek-looking stream, four or five rods wide, which I had noticed entering the lake about a mile off, but which I had never entered. Accordingly, I loaded my rifle, took my powder-horn, put two spare bullets in my vest-pocket, not supposing I could have use for more, entered my canoe, and pulled leisurely away for the place. After reaching and entering this sluggish stream, I went on paddling and pushing my way along through and under the overhanging bushes and treetops, something like half a mile, when I came to higher banks and a series of knolls jutting down to the stream, which, with frequent sharp curves and crooks, wound its way among them. On turning one of these sharp points, my eyes suddenly encountered a sight that made my heart jump. On a high, open, and almost bare bluff, directly before me, and not fifteen rods distant, stood two tremendous moose, as unconcernedly as a pair of oxen chewing their cuds, or dozing in a pasture. The last was unusually large, the biggest a monster, appearing, to my wide-opened eyes, with his eight or nine foot height, and ten or eleven foot spread of antlers, as he stood up there against the sky, like some reproduced mastodon of the old legends. Quietly falling back and running in under a screening treetop, I pulled down a branch and put in under my foot to hold and steady my canoe. When I raised my rifle, I aimed it for the heart of the big moose, and fired. But, to my great surprise, the animal never stirred nor moved a muscle. Supposing I had somehow unaccountably missed hitting him, even at all, I fell, with nervous haste, to reloading my piece; and, having got all right, as I supposed, I raised it this time towards the smaller moose, standing a little nearer and presenting a fairer mark; took a long and careful aim, and again let drive; but again without the least effect. Utterly confounded to have missed a second time, with so fair a shot, I stood half confused a moment, first querying whether something was not the matter with my eyes, and then thinking of stories I had heard of witches turning away bullets from their object. But I soon mechanically began to load up again; and, having got in my powder, I put my hand in my pocket for a bullet, when I found there both the balls I had brought with me from camp, and consequently knew that in my eager haste in loading for my last shot, I had neglected to put in any bullet at all! But I now put in the bullet, looked at it after it was entered, to make sure it was there, and then felt it all the way down, till I had rammed it home. I then raised the luckless piece once more, uncertain at first which of the two moose I should take, this time. But, seeing the smaller one beginning to move his head and lay back his horns, which I well enough knew was his signal for running, I instantly decided to take _him_, took a quick, good aim, and fired. With three dashing bounds forward, the animal plunged headlong to the ground. Knowing that one to be secure, at least, I then turned my attention to the big one. To my astonishment, he was still there, and, notwithstanding all the firing, had not moved an inch. But, before I got loaded for another trial upon him, I looked up again, when a motion in his body had become plainly visible. Presently he began to sway to and fro, like a rocking tower, and, the next moment, went over broadside, with a thundering crash, into the bushes. My first shot, it appeared, had, after all, done the business, having pierced his lungs and caused an inward flow of blood, that stopped his breath at the time he fell. All was now explained, except the wonder that such shy animals should stand so much firing without running. But the probability is, that, not seeing me, they took the reports of my rifle for some natural sound, such as that of thunder, or the falling of a tree; while, perhaps, the great one, when he was hit, was too much paralyzed to move, by the rupture of some important nerve. But, however that may be, you have the facts by which to judge for yourselves. And I have now only to add, that, having gone to the spot, bled, partially dressed the animals, and got them into a condition to be left, I went off to the nearest camps and rallied out help; when, after much toil and tugging, we got the carcases home to my shanty, for present eating, curing, and distributing among the neighboring hunters, who soon flocked in to congratulate me on my singular good luck, and receive their ever freely-bestowed portions, and who unanimously pronounced my big prize the largest moose ever slain in all the regions of the Great Megantic." THE TRAPPER'S STORY. "My story," commenced the trapper, who was next called on for his promised contribution to the entertainment of the evening, "my story is of a different character from the one you have just heard. It don't run so much to the great and terrible as the small and curious. It may appear to you perhaps a little queer, in some parts; but which, after the modest drafts that have been made on my credulity, you will, of course, have the good manners to believe. It relates to an adventure in beaver-hunting, which I met with, many years ago, on Moosehead Lake, where I served my apprenticeship at trapping. I had established myself in camp, the last of August, about the time the beavers, after having collected in communities, and established their never-failing democratic government, generally get fairly at work on their dams and dwelling-houses, for the ensuing cold months, in places along the small streams, which they have looked out and decided on for the purpose. I was thus early on the ground, in order to have time, before I went to other hunting, to look up the localities of the different societies, so that I need not blunder on them and disturb them, in the chase for other animals, and so that I should know where to find them, when their fur got thick enough to warrant the onslaught upon them which I designed to make. "In hunting for these localities in the vicinity around me, I soon unexpectedly discovered marks of what I thought must be a very promising one, situated on a small stream, not over half a mile in a bee-line over the hills from my camp. When I discovered the place,--as I did from encountering, at short intervals in the woods, two wolverines, always the great enemy and generally the prowling attendant of assembled beavers,--these curious creatures had just begun to lay the foundation of their dam. And the place being so near, and the nights moon-light, I concluded I would go over occasionally, evenings,--the night being the only time when they can ever be seen engaged on their work,--and see if I could gain some covert near the bank, where, unperceived, I might watch their operations, and obtain some new knowledge of their habits, of which I might thereafter avail myself, when the season for hunting them arrived. Accordingly, I went over that very evening, in the twilight, secured a favorable lookout, and laid in wait for the appearance of the beavers. Presently I was startled by a loud rap, as of a small paddle struck flatwise on the water, then another, and another, in quick succession. It was the signal of the master workman, for all the workers to leave their hiding-places in the banks, and repair to their labors in making the dam. The next moment the whole stream seemed to be alive with the numbers in motion. I could hear them, sousing and plunging in the water, in every direction,--then swimming and puffing across or up and down the stream,--then scrambling up the banks,--then the auger-like sound of their sharp teeth, at work on the small trees,--then soon the falling of the trees,--then the rustling and tugging of the creatures, in getting the fallen trees out of the water,--and, finally, the surging and splashing with which they came swimming towards the ground-work of the dam, with the butt end of those trees in their mouths. The line of the dam they had begun, passed with a curve up stream in the middle, so as to give it more strength to resist the current; across the low-water bed of the river some five rods; and extended up over the first low bank, about as much farther, to a second and higher bank, which must have bounded the water at the greatest floods. They had already cut, drawn on, and put down, a double layer of trees, with their butts brought up evenly to the central line, and their tops pointing in opposite directions,--those of one layer, or row, pointing up, and those of the other, down stream. Among and under this line of butts had been worked in an extra quantity of limbs, old wood, and short bushes, so as to give the centre an elevation of a foot or two, over the lowest part of the sides, which, of course, fell off considerably each way in the lessening of the tops of the trees, thus put down. Over all these they had plastered mud, mixed in with stones, grass, and moss, so thick as not only to hold down securely the bodies of the trees, but nearly conceal them from sight. "Scarcely had I time to glance over these works, which I had not approached near enough to inspect much, before the beavers from below, and above came tugging along, by dozens on a side to the lower edges of their embankment, with the loads or rafts of trees which they had respectively drawn to the spot. Lodging these on the solid ground, with the ends just out of water, they relinquished their holds, mounted the slopes, paused a minute to take breath, and then, seizing these ends again, drew them, with the seeming strength of horses, out of the water and up to the central line on top; laid the stems or bodies of the trees parallel, and as near together as they could be got; and adjusted the butt ends, as I have stated they did with the foundation layers, so as to bring them to a sort of joint on the top. They then all went off for new loads, with the exception of a small squad, a part of which were still holding their trees in a small space in the dam, where the current had not been checked, and the other part bringing stones, till they had confined the trees down to the bottom, so that they would not be swept away. This task of filling the gap, however, after some severe struggling with the current, was before long accomplished; when those engaged upon it joined in the common work, in which they steadily persevered till this second double layer of trees, with the large quantities of short bushes which they brought and wove into the chinks, near the top, was completed, through the whole length of their dam. They then collected along on the top of the dam, and seemed to hold a sort of consultation, after which they scattered for the banks of the stream, but soon returned, walking on their hind legs, and each bringing a load of mud or stones, held between his fore paws and throat. These loads were successively deposited, as they came up, among the stems and interlacing branches of the trees and bushes they had just laid down, giving each deposited pile, as they turned to go back, a smart blow with the flat of their broad thick tails, producing the same sound as the one I have mentioned as the signal-raps for calling them out to work, only far less loud and sharp, since the former raps were struck on water, and the latter on mud or rubbish. Thus they continued to work,--and work, too, with a will, if any creatures ever did,--till I had seen nearly the whole of the last layers plastered over. "Thinking now I had seen all that would be new and useful to me, I noiselessly crept away and returned to camp, to lay awake half the night, in my excitement, and to dream, the other half, about this magnificent society of beavers, whose numbers I could not make less than three dozen. I did not go to steal another view of the place for nearly a week, and then went in the daytime, there now being no moon, till late,--when, to my surprise, I found the dam finished, and the river flowed into a pond of several acres, while on each side, ranged along, one after another, stood three family dwellings in different states of progress; some of them only rising to the surface of the water, showing the nature of the structure, which, you know, is built up with short, small logs, and mud, in a squarish form, of about the size of a large chimney; while others, having been built up a foot or two above the water, and the windows fashioned, had been arched over with mud and sticks, and were already nearly finished. "Knowing that the establishment was now so nearly completed that the beavers would not relinquish it without being disturbed by the presence of a human foe,--which they will sometimes detect, I think, at nearly a quarter of a mile distance,--I concluded to keep entirely away from them till the time of my contemplated onslaught, which I finally decided to begin on one of the first days of the coming November. "Well, what with hunting deer, bear, and so on, for food, and lynx, otter, and sable, for furs, the next two months passed away, and the long anticipated November at length arrived; when, one dark, cloudy day, having cut a lot of bits of green wood for bait, got out my vial of castor to scent them with, and got my steel traps in order, with these equipments and my rifle I set off, for the purpose of commencing operations, of some kind, on my community of beavers. On reaching the spot, I crept to my old covert with the same precautions I had used on my former visits, thinking it likely enough that, on so dark a day, some of the beavers might be out; and, wishing to know how this was, before proceeding openly along, the banks to look out the right places to set my traps, I listened a while, but could hear no splashing about the pond, or detect any _other_ sounds indicating that the creatures were astir; but, on peering out, I saw a large, old beaver perched in a window of one of the beaver-houses on the opposite shore. I instinctively drew up my rifle,--for it was a fair shot, and I knew I could draw him,--but I forbore, and contented myself with watching his motions. I might have lain there ten minutes, perhaps, when this leader, or judge in the beaver Israel, as he soon showed himself to be, quietly slid out into the water, swam into a central part of the pond, and, after swimming twice or three times round in a small circle, lifted his tail on high, and slowly and deliberately gave three of those same old loud and startling raps on the water. He then swam back to his cabin, and ascended an open flat on the bank, where all the underbrush had been cut and cleared off in building the dam. In a few minutes more, a large number of beavers might be seen hastening to the spot, where they ranged themselves in a sort of circle, so as just to inclose the old beaver which came first, and which had now taken his stand on a little moss hillock, on the farther side of the little opening, to which he had thus called them, and, evidently, for some important public purpose. Soon another small band of the creatures made their appearance on the bank above, seeming to have in custody two great, lubberly, cowed-down looking beavers, that they were hunching and driving along, as legal officers sometimes have to do with _their_ prisoners, when taking them to some dreaded punishment. When this last band reached the place, with these two culprit-looking fellows, they pushed them forward in front of the judge, as we will call him, and then fell into the ranks, so as to close up the circle. There was then a long, solemn pause, in which they all kept still in their places round the prisoners, which had crouched sneaking down, without stirring an inch from the places where they had been put. Soon, however, a great, fierce, gruff-appearing beaver left the ranks, and, advancing a few steps within them, reared himself on his haunches, and began to sputter and gibber away at a great rate, making his fore-paws go like the hands of some over-heated orator; now motioning respectfully towards the judge, and now spitefully towards the prisoners, as if he was making bitter accusations, and demanding judgment against them. After this old fellow had got through, two or three others, in turn, came forward, and appeared also to be holding forth about the matter, but in a far milder manner than the other, which I now began much to dislike for his spitefulness, and in the same proportion to pity the two poor objects of his evident malice. There was then another long and silent pause, after which, the judge proceeded to utter what appeared to be his sentence; and, having brought it to a conclusion, he gave a rap with his tail on the ground. At this signal, the beavers in the ranks advanced, one after another, in rapid succession toward the prisoners, and, circling round them once, turned and gave each one of them a tremendous blow with their tails over the head and shoulders; and so the heavy blows rapidly fell, whack, whack, whack, till every beaver had taken his part in the punishment, and till the poor prisoners keeled over, and lay nearly or quite dead on the ground. The judge beaver then quietly left his stand and went off; and, following his example, all the rest scattered and disappeared, except the spiteful old fellow that had so raised my dislike, by the rancor he displayed in pressing his accusations, and, afterwards, by giving the culprits an extra blow, when it came his turn to strike them. He now remained on the ground till all the rest were out of sight, when,--as if to make sure of finishing what little remains of life the others, in their compunction, might have left in the victims, so as to give them, if they were not quite killed by the terrible bastinadoing they had received, a chance to revive and crawl off,--he ran up, and began to belabor them with the greatest fury over the head. This mean and malicious addition to the old fellow's previously unfair conduct was too much for me to witness, and I instantly drew my rifle and laid him dead beside the bodies he was so rancorously beating. Wading the stream below the dam, I hastened to my prizes, finished their last struggles with a stick, seized them by their tails, and dragged them to the spot I had just left; and then, after concealing my traps, with the view of waiting a few days before I set them, so as to give the society a chance to get settled, I tugged the game I had so strangely come by, home to camp, where a more particular examination showed them to be the three largest and best-furred beavers I had ever taken. "This brings me to the end of the unaccountable affair, and all I can say in explanation of it; for how these creatures, ingenious and knowing as they are, should have the intelligence to make laws,--as this case seems to pre-suppose,--get up a regular court, try, sentence, and execute offenders; what these offenders had done,--whether they were thievish interlopers from some other society, or whether they had committed some crime, such as burglary, bigamy, or adultery, or high treason, or whether they had been dishonest office-holders in the society and plundered the common treasury, is a mystery which you can solve as well as I. Certainly you cannot be more puzzled than I have always been, in giving the matter a satisfactory explanation. "And now, in conclusion, if you wish to know how I afterwards succeeded in taking more of this notable society of beavers, I have only to say, that, having soon commenced operations anew, I took, before I quit the ground that fall, by rifle, by traps, by digging or hooking them out of their hiding places in the banks, and, finally, by breaking up their dwelling-houses, twenty-one beavers in all; making the best lot which I ever had the pleasure of carrying out of the woods, and for which, a month or two after, I was paid, in market, one hundred and sixty-eight hard dollars." THE OLD HUNTER'S STORY. "I never but once," commenced the hunter, who had announced himself ready with the last story, when called on for that purpose by his comrades, after they had commented to their liking on the trapper's strange adventure,--"I never but once, in my whole life, became afraid of encountering a wild beast, or was too much unnerved in the presence of one to fire my rifle with certainty and effect. But that, in one event, I _was_ in such a sorry condition for a hunter, I freely confess. And, as you called for our most remarkable adventures, and as the occurrence I allude to was certainly the most remarkable one _I_ ever met with in _my_ hunting experience, I will relate it for the story you assign me. "It was about a dozen years ago, and on the borders of lake Parmagena, a squarish-shaped body of water, four or five miles in extent, lying twenty-five miles or so over these mountains to the northwest of us, and making up the chief head-water of the river Magalloway. My camp was at the mouth of the principal inlet, and my most frequented hunting route up along its bank. On my excursions up that river, I had often noticed a deeply-wooded, rough, and singularly-shaped mountain, which, at the distance of four or five miles from the nearest point of the stream, westward, reared its shaggy sides over the surrounding wilderness, and which I thought must make one of the best haunts for bear and moose that I had seen in that region. So, once having a leisure day, and my fresh provisions being low, I concluded I would take a jaunt up to this mountain, thinking that I should stand a good chance to find something there, or on the way, to replenish my larder. And accordingly I rigged up, after breakfast, and, setting my course in what I judged would prove a bee-line for the place, in order to save distance over the river route, I took up my march through the woods, without path, trail, or marked trees to guide me. "After a rough and toilsome walk of about three hours, I reached the foot of the mountain of which I was in search, and seated myself on a fallen tree, to rest and look about me. The side of the eminence next to me was made up of a succession of rocky, heavily-timbered steeps and shelves, that rose like battlements before me, while, about midway, it was pierced or notched down by a dark, wild, thicket-tangled gorge, which extended along back up the mountain, as far as the eye could penetrate beneath, or overlook above the tops of the overhanging trees. "To think of trying to ascend such steeps was out of the question; and I was debating in mind whether I would attempt to go up through that forbidding and _pokerish_-looking gorge, or, giving up the job altogether, strike off in the direction of the river, and so go home that way, when a hideous yell, which brought me instantly to my feet, rose from an upper portion of the ravine, apparently about a hundred rods distant. I at once knew it came from a painter, or 'evil devil,' as the Indians justly call that scourge and terror of the woods; and, from the strength and volume of his voice, I also knew he must be a large one, while, from its savage sharpness, I further conjectured it must be a famine cry, which, if so, would show the animal to be a doubly ticklish one to encounter. "Feeling conscious that it was but the part of wisdom to avoid such an encounter as I should be likely to be favored with if I remained where I was, I soon moved off in an opposite direction, steering at once for the nearest point of the river, which was at the termination of a long, sharp sweep of the stream to the west, and nearer by a mile than in most other parts of its course. I had not proceeded more than a quarter of a mile before the same savage screech,--which was more frightful than I can describe, being seemingly made up of the mingling tones of a man's and a woman's voice, raised to the highest pitch in an agony of rage or pain,--the same awful screech, I say, rose and thrilled through the shuddering forest, coming this time, I perceived, from the mouth of the gorge, where the animal had so quickly arrived, found my trail, doubtless, and started on in pursuit. I now, though still not really afraid, quickened my steps into a rapid walk, hoping that, now he had got out of the thickets of the ravine, he would not follow me far in the more open woods; yet thinking it best, at all events, to put what distance I could between him and me, without too much disturbing myself. Another of those terrific yells, however, coming from a nearer point than before, as fast as I had made my way from him, told me that the creature was on my tracks, and rapidly gaining on me in the race. I then started off at a full run; but even this did not insure my escape, for I was soon startled by another yell, so near and fierce, that I involuntarily turned round, cocked my rifle, and stood on the defence. The next moment the animal met my sight, as he leaped up on to the trunk of a lodged tree, where he stood in open view, eagerly snuffing and glaring around him, about forty rods from the place where I had been brought to a stand,--revealing a monster whose size, big as I had conjectured it, perfectly amazed me. He could not have been much less than six feet from, snout to tail, nor much short of nine, tail included. But for his bowed-up back, gaunter form, and mottled color, he might have passed for an ordinary lioness. The instant he saw me, he began nervously fixing his paws, rapidly swaying his tail, like a cat at the first sight of her intended prey, and giving other plain indications that he was intent on having me for his dinner. "I had my rifle to my shoulder: it was a fair shot, but still I hesitated about firing. My experience with catamounts, which, though of the same nature, are yet no more to be compared with a real panther, like this, than a common cur to a stout bulldog, had taught me the danger of wounding without killing them outright. If _those_ were so dangerous under ordinary circumstances, what would this be, already bent on destroying me? And should I stand, at that distance, an even chance to finish him, which could only be done by putting a ball through his brain, or spine, or directly through his heart? I thought not. The distance was too great to be sure of any thing like that; and besides, my nerves, I felt, were getting a little unsteady, and I also found I was losing my faith, which is just the worst thing in the world for a hunter to lose. While I was thinking of all this, the creature leaped down, and, the next instant, I saw his head rise above the bushes, in his prodigious bounds towards me. With that glance, I turned and ran; ran as I never did before; leaping over logs, and smashing headlong through brush and bushes, but still distinctly hearing, above all the noise I made, the louder crash of the creature's footfalls, striking closer and closer behind me. All at once, however, those crashing sounds ceased to fall on my ear, and the thought that my pursuer had sprung one side into an ambush, from whence he would pounce on me before I could see him, flashing over my mind, I suddenly came to a stand, and peered eagerly but vainly among the bushes around me for the crouching form, of my foe. While thus engaged, a seeming shadow passing over the open space above caused me to glance upward, when, to my horror, I saw the monster coming down from a tree-top, with glaring eyes, open mouth, and outspread claws, directly upon me! With a bound, which at any other time I should have been utterly incapable of making, I threw myself aside into the bushes just in time to escape his terrible embrace; and, before he had rallied from the confusion caused by striking the ground and missing his prey, I had gained the distance of a dozen rods, and thrown myself behind a large tree. But what was now to be done? I knew, from his trotting about and snuffing to regain the sight and scent of me, which I could now distinctly hear, that he would soon be upon me. If I distrusted the certainty of my aim before this last fright, should I not do it much more now? I felt so; and, as I was now within a mile of the river,--where, if I could reach it, I thought it possible to find a way to baffle, at least, if I did not kill, my ruthless pursuer,--I concluded that my best chance for life was to run for the place. But, in peering out to ascertain the exact whereabouts of the painter before I started, my ear caught the sound of other and different footsteps; and the next moment I had a glimpse of a bear's head, bobbing up and down in his rapid course through the bushes, as he ran at right angles, with all his might, directly through the space between me and the painter, which, I saw, was now just beginning to advance towards me, but which, to my great relief, had seen and was turning in pursuit of the flying and frightened bear. "But still, fearing he would give up that pursuit, and again take after me, I ran for the river, which I at length reached, and threw myself exhausted down on the bank. As it happened, I had struck the river exactly at the intended point, which was where a small sand-island had been thrown up in the middle of the stream. To this island, in case I kept out of the claws and jaws of the painter till I reached the river, I had calculated to wade; believing, from, what I knew of the repugnance of this class of animals to water, that he would not follow me, or, if he did, I need not fail of shooting him dead while coming through the stream. But I soon found that _I_ was not the only one that had thought of this island, in our terrible extremity. "I had lain but a few minutes on the bank, before I caught the sounds of near and more distant footfalls approaching apace through the forest above me. Starting up, I cocked my rifle, and darted behind a bush near the edge of the water, and had scarcely gained the stand, when the same bear that I had left fleeing before the painter, made his appearance a few rods above me, coming full jump down the bank, plunging into the stream, and swimming and rushing amain for the island. As soon as he could clear the water, he galloped up to the highest part of his new refuge, and commenced digging, in hot haste, a hole in the sand. The instant he had made an excavation large and deep enough to hold his body and sink it below the surface, he threw himself in on his back, hurriedly scratched the sand at the sides a little over his belly and shoulders, and lay still, with his paws stiffly braced upwards. "The next moment the eagerly-pursuing painter came rushing down the bank to the water, where the bear had entered it; when, after a hesitating pause, he gave an angry yell, and, in two prodigious bounds, landed on the edge of the island. Having raised my rifle for a helping shot, if needed, I awaited, with beating heart and eyes wide open, the coming encounter. With eyes shooting fire, the painter hastily fixed his feet, and, with a long leap, came down on his intrenched opponent. A cloud of dust instantly enveloped the combatants, but through it I could see the ineffectual passes of the painter at the bear's head, and the rapid play of the bear's hind paws under the painter's belly. This bout between them, however, was of but short continuance, and terminated by the painter, which now leaped suddenly aside, and stood for a moment eyeing his opponent askance, as if he had found in those rending hind-claws already much more than he had bargained for. But, quickly rousing himself, he prepared for the final conflict; and, backing to the water's edge, he gave one short bound forward, and, leaping ten feet into the air, came down again, with a wild screech, on his still unmoved antagonist. "This time, so much more furiously flew up the dust and sand from the spot, that I could see nothing; but the mingling growls and yells of the desperately-grappling brutes were so terrific as to make the hair stand up on my head. Presently, however, I could perceive that the cries of the assailant, which had been becoming less and less fierce, were now turning into howls of pain; and, the next moment, I saw him, rent and bloody, with his entrails out and dragging on the ground behind him, making off till he reached the water on the opposite side of the island, when he staggered through the current, feebly crawled up the bank, and disappeared in the woods, where he must have died miserably within the hour. "I went home a grateful man; leaving the bear, that had done me such good service, to depart in peace, as I saw him doing before I left, apparently little injured from the conflict." CHAPTER XIV. "Ours the wild life the forest still to range, From toil to rest, and joy in every change." The low chirping of the wood-birds, the tiny barkings of the out-starting squirrels, the hurrying footsteps of the night-prowling animals, on their way to their coverts, on the land; and the leaping up of fish, the flapping of the wings of ducks, and the far-heard, trumpet-toned cry of the great northern diver, on the water, those unfailing concomitants of approaching day, in the watered wilderness, early aroused the next morning our little band of soundly-sleeping hunters from their woodsmen's feather beds,--the soft, elastic boughs of the health-giving hemlock,--and put them on the stir in building their fire, and making preparations for their breakfast. The business of the day before them was the completion of their camp building; which, being intended, as before mentioned, for their general head-quarters and storehouse, required far more care and labor in the construction than the ordinary structures that are made to serve for shelters for the sojourners of the woods. And, as soon as they had dispatched their morning repast, they rose and prepared themselves to commence the task on hand. As the main part of the company were scattering into the woods, with their hatchets, in search of straight poles to rib out the sides and roof of their structure, which was the first thing in order to be done, Phillips, without explaining his object, quietly intimated to Codman a wish for company, in a short excursion with canoes up the river; and, the latter complying with the intimation, and putting himself under the hunter's lead, the two took to their canoes, with each another canoe in tow, and commenced rowing up the stream; which, having run its rapid and noisy race down to the foot of the mountains, a mile or two above, was here, with gentle pace and seeming reverence, advancing to the lake with its welcome tribute of crystal waters. "Hillo, there, Mr. Hunter!" sung out the trapper to the other, now some distance ahead, "what may be some of the whys and wherefores of this shine we are cutting, stringing along here with canoes to our tails? What suppose you should be telling, before a great while, lest this end of the fleet might be missing?" "Soon show you," replied the hunter, without turning his head. "I always liked the Indian fashion of answering questions by deeds instead of words, where the circumstances admit,--it is so much more significant and satisfactory, besides the world of lying it often prevents." After rowing a short distance farther, in silence, the hunter turned his canoe in shore; and, after the other had followed his example, he said: "Now, follow me a few rods back into this thicket, up here." And, leading the way, he proceeded to what at first appeared to be an irregular pile of brush, lying by the side of a large fallen tree, but which, when the top brush was removed, and an under-layer of evergreen boughs brushed aside, disclosed a large, compact collection of peeled spruce bark, cut in regular lengths of six or seven feet, and in breadths of about one foot, of exact uniformity, and made so straight and flat by solid packing that a rick of sawed boards would have scarcely presented a more smooth and even appearance. "Well, I will give in, now, and acknowledge myself beat in wood-craft," said the trapper, comprehending, at once, by whom and for what purpose this acceptable pile of covering material had been cut, and thus nicely cured and stored away for use. "To have done this, you must have come here in June, the peeling month; but how came you to think of this process of preparing the bark, or come here at all to do it, so long beforehand, on the uncertainty of its being needed, this fall, except perhaps by yourself?" "Well, happening to think, one day, how much better camps might be made from bark peeled, cut, and pressed into the required lengths and shapes, beforehand, as we prepare it for our Indian canoes, than by following our usual bungling method, I concluded to put things in train for trying the experiment this fall; and this fall especially, as I was then calculating, unless you wished to join, to hunt only in company with the two Elwoods, and I was desirous of getting up an extra good camp for them." "You take an unusual interest in the affairs of this newly-come family, I have noticed." "If I do, I may have my reasons for it." "Special reasons, doubtless." "Ordinary reasons would be enough. In the first place, they are fine people, the son and mother uncommonly so, and the father also I consider a well-disposed man, but who may have some weak points; and this being so, and the son being inexperienced in dealing with designing men, a neighbor, like me, ought, I am sure, to be unwilling to see any advantage taken of them." "Yes, a fair reason enough for your course, if you had no other; but may be you have other inducements, received, for instance, on your visit to the seaside, the past summer." "That is all guess-work, remember; but come, let us drop the subject, get this bark into our canoes, and be off down the river with it to camp." They did so; and, on reaching camp, agreeably surprised their companions with the abundant supply of excellent material which they had brought for covering the cabin, and for which, when the circumstances became known, all were disposed to accord due credit to the provident hunter. With the material thus obtained, the ribbing of the frame having by this time been completed, all hands now commenced the work of laying on, fitting, and confining the pliant and close-lying strips of bark to the framework of the structure, both above and below. And with so much assiduity and skill did they prosecute their labors, that before night their camp was covered and inclosed on every side, and made to present to the eye, a cabin neat and comely in appearance, and as tight, warm, and secure against storms, as many a dwelling-house in the open country, covered with boards and shingles. After the company had completed the roof and walls of their camp, constructed a rude door, and made what interior arrangements they deemed necessary for sleeping and storing their provisions, they went out, for the hour or two now remaining before sunset, and scattered for short excursions in their canoes along the neighboring coves of the lake, for the various purposes of fishing, shooting ducks, or inspecting the shores for indications of beaver, otter, and other classes of the smaller fur-animals of amphibious habits. All returning, however, at sunset, they proceeded to cook and eat their suppers, much in the same manner as on the preceding evening; after which, in compliance with the suggestions made by several of the company during the day, they went into a general consultation for the purpose of fixing on the different locations and ranges of river and forest, which each, or each pair of them, should take for their hunting or trapping during the season before them. They soon agreed, in the first place, without any difficulty, in making the shores of the Oquossak, the next lake above, and the last and perhaps largest of the four great lakes forming the chief links of this singular chain of inland waters, the base-line of their operations. Phillips and Codman, having procured a wide strip of the outer bark of the white birch,--ever the woodman's substitute for writing paper, when writing becomes necessary,--then proceeded to draw a map, from personal recollection, of the strangely-irregular lake in question. By this, when completed, it appeared that the main inlet, or the uppermost portion of the Androscoggin river, coming down from the north through a chain of lakelets, or ponds, and running parallel with the eastern shore of the lake, and but a few miles distant from it, entered into a deep, pointed bay, about a third of the way down the eastern shore; where it was joined by another and scarcely lesser river, coming from or through a different chain of these lakelets, scattered along far to the east and northeast of the Oquossak; while a third considerable stream entered the lake at its extreme northwestern termination. These three inlets, that constituted all the rivers of any magnitude running into this lake, would not only afford, it was readily seen, the most desirable hunting-grounds in the sections through which they flowed, but give the greater part of the hunters, if they encamped in pairs, and had their camps at the mouths of these streams, as was expected, an opportunity of locating in near vicinity; while two more of the remaining part of the company would, at the mouth of the northwestern inlet, be less than five miles distant. This arrangement would dispose of six of the company,--two of them on the inlet last mentioned, and four on the two rivers that entered the lake together,--and leave one to remain on the Megantic, to take charge of the head-quarters, or store-camp there, and hunt anywhere he chose in its vicinity. But who the one to be placed in this trust should be, was the next question to be decided. Gaut Gurley, who had been secretly scheming for this post ever since the arrangement which he saw must necessarily create it was agreed on, and who had been insidiously making interest for it, with all the company, except Phillips and Codman, now proposed that the question should be decided by ballot, and without discussion. And, the proposition being seconded by Tomah and assented to by all, each took a small piece of birch bark, marked with a coal the name of the person he would vote for, and deposited it in a hat placed on their stone table for the purpose. After all had voted, the hat was turned and the votes assorted; when it appeared that four votes had been thrown for Gaut Gurley and three for Mark Elwood, making seven in all, and showing that all the company had voted. "Well, friend Elwood," said Gaut, with a well-assumed air of indifference, when the result was seen, "shall _I_ resign in _your_ favor, or _you_ in _mine_? This thing should be unanimous." Elwood looked up inquiringly at Gaut, when he read something in the countenance of the latter which gave him to understand what was expected of him, and he accordingly responded: "I should suppose there could not be much question which of the two, a minority or a majority candidate, should ask the other to stand aside,--especially when, as in your case, the majority candidate is clearly chosen. I voted, gentlemen, for Mr. Gurley," he added, turning to the rest of the company; "and I hope those who voted for me will cheerfully acquiesce in the choice of the majority." "I am a comparative stranger to you all," remarked Carvil, "and, though I voted for Mr. Elwood, I will yet very willingly agree to the selection you have made." Gaut, knowing well enough who had thrown their votes against him, now glanced at Phillips and Codman; but gathering from their silence and demure and downcast looks that no approving expression was likely to be drawn from either of them, he interrupted the pause that followed Carvil's remarks, by saying: "Perhaps, then, I ought to accept the post thus assigned me; and on some accounts it will come right all round. I should be compelled, any way, to return once or twice to the settlements during our campaign, on business, and I can attend to that, and procure the fresh supplies of bread and other things we shall need, all under one head. And, besides that, I had already made up my mind I should select this stream, and the coves on this lake, for my trapping and hunting for beaver and other water animals, which I once knew how to take, in preference to going any farther. So I will accept the post, warrant the safe-keeping of the common property, and see what I can do towards contributing my share to the stock of furs." This point being thus regarded by the company as settled, they next proceeded to the discussion of the more particular duties which should devolve on their chosen camp-keeper; which, at length, resulted in the arrangement that he should go up with his canoe into the Oquossak, once a week, make the circuit of the lake so far as to visit the nearest or lake-shore camps of each or each pair of his companions, bring them fresh provisions, and take back to head-quarters all the furs each had caught in the interim, and be held responsible for the good condition and safe-keeping of all the peltries, and other common property of the company, thus placed in his charge. After this matter (which was destined to have an important bearing on the fate and fortunes of more than one of the leading personages of our story) was thus disposed of, they then, in conclusion of the business of the evening, proceeded, by mutual agreement, to apportion the different locations for hunting on the upper lake, already fixed on, among the three pairs of hunters the company would now make; decide what individuals should join to form each pair; and what general plan of operations they should adopt, after they had got settled in their respective places. By the amicable arrangement thus made, Phillips and Claud Elwood were to form one of these pairs, and fix their lake-camp at the mouth of the river already named as coming in from the east; Carvil and Mark Elwood to constitute another pair, and encamp at the mouth of the great inlet entering at the same place; while Codman and the young Indian, Tomah, who, from their mutual challenges in beaver-catching, had by this time become friends, and willing to hunt from the same starting-point, were to have their camp at the mouth of the river coming in at the northwest end of the lake. By the plan now adopted, also, each of these three hunting parties, after they had reached their respective destinations and built their camps, were to explore the rivers ten or fifteen miles upward through the forest, and to some suitable and convenient terminus of their proposed trapping and hunting range; there build a camp, in which to lodge on their outward jaunts; and mark off, on their return, by blazing the trees, lines for setting log-traps for sable, marten, stoat, or ermine,--for, whatever may be said to the contrary, the noted ermine of Europe is a native of our northern forests. These marked lines were to diverge from the upper camps along the ridges on each side of the river; sometimes running many miles apart, then turning down to the stream, where indications of beaver and otter had been discovered, so as to afford a chance for setting and tending steel-traps for those animals; then running back again on to the high hills and ridges; but finally converging in, and meeting at the lake camp. And, these preliminary steps being taken, everything would then be in readiness for setting the traps, and for entering on the hopeful business of their expedition. All these arrangements being now definitely settled and understood, the consultation was broken up, and the company betook themselves once more to their sylvan couches, calculating on an early start the next day for their several destinations on the Oquossak, the nearest of which was at least a dozen miles distant. Accordingly, with the first crack of dawn the next morning, the loud and startling gallinaceous cachinnation of the droll and wide-awake trapper aroused the woodsmen from their slumbers, and warned them to be up and doing. And soon the whole company were in motion, the kindled fire was crackling and flashing up amidst the dry pine faggots, thrown, on to feed and start it into the steadier blaze and heat of more solid fuel, and the process of cooking was going busily forward. In a short time they were again gathered, in high spirits, round their stone table, unconsciously partaking, as the event proved, the last meal they were ever all to enjoy together in the woods. But let us not anticipate. As soon as they had dispatched their breakfast, the band about to depart loaded their canoes with traps, guns, camp-kettles, and the provisions needed for immediate use; and, wishing Gaut Gurley a happy and successful time at his solitary station, pushed merrily away into the broad lake, turned their course northward, and sped on their voyage. A few miles rowing brought them to the great inlet, which, like the principal inlets to the lakes below, was another reach of the Androscoggin, flowing directly from the east through a channel, still nearly a hundred yards in width and nearly three miles in length, from its entrance into one lake to the point where it debouches from the other. After a row of an hour up this channel, made interesting and impressive by the magnificent colonnades of princely pines, that, as far as the eye could reach, stood towering away in lessening perspective along its banks, they suddenly emerged into the bright and far-stretching waters of the unmapped Oquossak, which lay nestling and inflected among the dark green cliffs of the boldly intersecting mountains, like some rough, unshapen gem, gleaming out from the rubbish of a mine. And laying their course northeasterly, for the distant bay receiving the waters of the confluent streams before described, they now pulled away through the lake, in as direct a line as its irregular form, would permit. And now, skirting long reaches of its deeply-wooded shores, from which the old forest, never broken by the axe, and rarely ever trod by the foot of the white man, was seen, stretching away back, lift after lift, in pristine grandeur, to the tall summits of the amphitheatric mountains,--now shooting athwart, under some dark headland that stood out boldly disputing the empire with the water, and now threading their way among the clustering green islands that studded the bright and beautiful expanse,--they rowed steadily onward for hours, and at length were gladdened by the sight of the dim but well-remembered outlines of the pointed bay, whose farthest shore was to be the home and haven for most of their number, during their present sojourn in this wild and remote fastness of the wilderness. To row in, disembark their luggage, select sites for camps, to build those camps, so far as to make them serve for shelters for the night, and to prepare and eat their suppers, occupied the company, who had all decided to remain there that night through the remainder of the day till bed-time. The next morning, after an early breakfast, Codman and Tomah took leave of their companions, and proceeded on further up the lake to their allotted station; leaving the two Elwoods, and their respective hunting companions, to complete their camps, which were situated in near vicinity, get all in readiness, and the next day enter in earnest on the main business of the campaign. But it is not our intention to follow either of these pairs, or now distinct parties, of adventurous woodsmen, in the general routine of their camp life,--in their solitary and almost daily marches among the tangled wilds, from their inner to outer camps; their toils and fatigues on the way; their pleasant meetings at the ends of their ranges at night, to recount the adventures of the day, and lodge together; their heats and their colds, their dark hours and their bright ones, their curious experiences and startling encounters with wild animals; and finally their varying success in realizing the objects of their expedition, through the successive scenes of the next nine or ten weeks, where --"rifle flashed, The grim bear hushed its savage howl, In blood and foam, the panther gnashed Its fangs with dying howl; The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And, with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound, Its pond-built Venice by." Suffice it to say, that they were all blest with uninterrupted health and increasing vigor, in realization of the favorite theory of Carvil, in relation to the invigorating and fattening principle of the super-abounding oxygen of the woods. They all highly enjoyed their wild life, and were, even beyond their most sanguine expectations, successful in their aggregate acquisitions of peltries and all kinds of game. Gaut Gurley, whose unremitted attention and apparent faithfulness in the duties of his post soon disarmed the distrusting, came round punctually, every week, supplied them with all they needed, and, while reporting his own good success, in his short ranges in the vicinity of his head-quarters encampment, seemed greatly gratified at the continued successes of all the rest, and exultingly bore off their furs for curing and safe storage with the rich and rapidly-increasing collection at his camp; setting the mark of their collected value, the last time he came round, at upwards of a thousand dollars, and encouraging them with the hope that, probably, before any change would occur in the weather which would compel them to relinquish the business and return to the settlement, a much larger sum would be realized from their exertions. And, in view of this gratifying condition of their affairs, the company at large--as winter at the farthest could not be very distant--now began to anticipate, with much satisfaction, the time when they should return to their families, to gladden them with their welcome presence, and, from the fruits of their enterprise, make such unlooked-for pecuniary additions to the means of domestic comfort and happiness. CHAPTER XV. "As the night set in, came hail and snow, And the air grew sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a terrible blow Was heard on the distant hill; And the norther,--see, on the mountain peak, In his breath, how the old trees writhe and shriek! He shouts along o'er the plain, ho, ho! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will." C. G. EASTMAN. We will now take the reader to the wild and secluded banks of Dead river, the great southwesterly tributary of the lordly Kennebec, the larger twin brother of the Androscoggin, both of which, after being born of the same parent range of mountains, and wandering off widely apart, at length find, at the end of their courses, like many a pair of long estranged brothers, their final rest in a common estuary at the seaboard. At a point on the banks of the tributary above named, where its long southward sweep brings it nearest, and within twenty miles of the Oquossak, and within a quarter of that distance from the terminating camps of the outward ranges of the hunters, two men in hunting-suits might have been seen, in the fore part of one of the last days of November, in the season of the eventful expedition we have been describing, intently engaged in inspecting some fragments of wrought wood, which, from the clue of some protruding piece, they had kicked up from the leaves and decayed brushwood that had nearly concealed them from view. One of these men was past the middle age, of a hardy but somewhat worn appearance. The other was in the prime of young manhood, of a finely-moulded form and an unusually prepossessing face and countenance. But we may as well let the dialogue that ensued between them disclose their identity; the matter that was now engaging their attention; and their reasons for thus appearing in this remote position. "This piece," said the elder, closely scanning the fragment he held in his hand, "is evidently oak, and looks mightily as if it was once the stave of an oak keg or half-barrel. Yes, and here is another that will settle the question," he continued, pulling from its concealment a larger and sounder fragment. "There! can't you trace the chine across the end of this?" "Yes, quite distinctly, and I should not hesitate to pronounce all these fragments the remains of an oak barrel that had once been opened, or left here, if I could conceive how such a thing could come here, in the heart of this extensive wilderness. How do you solve the mystery Mr. Phillips?" "Well, Claud, I am as much at fault as you. Barrels don't float up stream; and to suppose this came down stream, and still farther from any inhabitants, wouldn't help on the explanation any more; while to suppose it was brought here by hunters through the woods, where they could have no use for it even if they could get it here, is scarcely more probable." "True; but can't we get a clue from something else about the place? This open space, hereabouts, wears something of the aspect of a place from which the trees have been once cut away, or greatly thinned, out, for some great encampment, for instance. Did you ever hear of any expedition of men through this region, in such numbers as would require the transportation of large quantities of provisions, drawn possibly by oxen, or more probably by men on light sledges?" "Well, now, come to think of it, I have. And I guess you have blundered right smack on the truth, at the first go off; which is more than I can claim for myself, I admit. Yes, nearly fifty years ago, at the beginning of the old war, as you must have often read, an army _did_ pass somewhere through the wilderness of Maine to Quebec. It was under the command of that fiery Satan, Benedict Arnold,--the only man in America, may be, who could have pushed an army, at that time of the year, some weeks later in the season than it is now, through a hundred and fifty miles' reach of such woods as these are, between our last and the first Canadian settlement. My father was one of that army of bold and hardy men. They passed up the Kennebec some distance, and, then, according to his account, left it, and, with the view of getting over the Highlands on to the Great Megantic more easily, turned up a branch, which must have been this very stream. Yes, I see, now. You are right about the appearance of this spot. There _was_ once a great encampment here, and doubtless that of Arnold's army, staying over night, and breaking open a barrel of meat, conveyed here in some such way as you suggested." "It is an interesting discovery; for that was a remarkable expedition, and must have been one of great hardship and suffering." "Hardship and suffering! Why, they fell short of provisions long before they got out of the wilderness, and, besides the hardships of cold and fatigue, came near starving to death! I have heard my father tell how he was one of a party of thirteen, who, with other like squads, were permitted to scatter forward in search of some inhabitants, for food, lest they all perished together; how, after going two days without putting a morsel into their mouths, except their shoe-strings or the inner bark of trees, they at length were gladdened by the sight of an opening, with a log house, and a cow standing before the door; how, the instant their eyes fell on the cow, they ran like blood-hounds for the spot, seized an axe, brought the animal to the ground, ripped up the hide on one thigh, cut off slices of the quivering flesh, and, by the time the aroused family had got out into the yard, were munching and gobbling them down raw, with the desperate eagerness of ravenous beasts." [Footnote: A historical fact, once related to the author by an old soldier who was one of the party here described.] "Horrible! but they paid the poor people for their cow, I trust?" "Yes, twice-over, but that did not reconcile them to the loss of their only cow, where it was so difficult to get another. The children screamed, and even the man and his wife wrung their hands and cried as if their hearts would break." "That incident is to me a new feature among the horrors of war, which I probably should have never heard of but for coming here and making this curious discovery of one of the relics of that terrible and fruitless campaign of our Revolution. I am glad we concluded to come." "So am I; for that, and the other reason that I wanted to see the lay of the country, round this river, where, as it happened, I had never been. But my mind misgave me several times, on the way." "Why so, pray?" "I can hardly tell, myself, but I began to kinder feel as if something wrong was going on somewhere, and that, though this place could not be more than five miles from our upper camp, where we stayed last night, we had yet better be making our way directly back to the lake. Besides that, I haven't liked the symptoms of the weather, to-day." "I don't know that I have noticed any thing peculiar in the weather, except a chilliness of the air that I have not felt before this season." "That's the thing," rejoined the hunter, glancing uneasily up through the treetops, to try to get a view of the sky. "But there are other indications I don't fancy. There is a peculiar raw dampness in the air, and a sort of low, moaning sound heard once in a while murmuring along through the forest, such as I have often noticed before great storms, and sudden changes from fall to winter weather, this time of the year. And hush! hark!" he exclaimed, suddenly cutting short his remark, as the well-known, solemn, and quickly-repeated _konk! konk!_ of wild geese, on their passage, greeted their ears. They ran down to the water's edge to get a view of the open sky, when, looking up, they saw a large flock of these winged, semi-annual voyagers of the air, coming in view over the forest, in their usual widespread, harrow-shaped battalions, and with seemingly hurried flight, pitching down from the British highlands toward the lower regions to the south. And that flock had scarcely receded beyond hearing, when another, and yet another, with the same uneasy cries and rapid flight, passed, in quick succession, over the open reach of sky above them. "How far do you calculate the nearest shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence is from here?" asked the hunter, musingly. "O, not so very great a distance,--three hundred miles, perhaps," replied Claud, looking inquiringly at the other. "Well," slowly responded the hunter, "those God-taught creatures know more about the coming changes of the weather than all the philosophers in the world. These are but the advanced detachments of armies yet behind them, already, doubtless, on their way from Labrador, and even more northern coasts beyond. In the unusual mild November we have had, they never received their warning till this morning. And these, being on the southern outposts of their summer quarters, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, started at daylight, I presume,--about four hours ago, just about the time I perceived a change in the atmosphere myself. This, at the rapid headway you perceive they are making, would give them time to get here by this hour of the day." "Then you take this as an indication of the approach of winter weather?" "I do. And the evident hurriedness of their flight, and the sort of quickened, anxious tone of their cries, show that _they_, at least, think it is not far behind them. But let us put all the signs together. I must get to some place where I can see more of the sky. I noticed, as I was coming in sight of the river, a short way back in the woods, a high, sharp hill, with a bare, open top, rising from the river, about a hundred rods up along here to the left. What suppose we pack up, and go and ascend it? We can, there, besides getting the view we want of the lay of the country, see, probably, the horizon nearly all round. And, all this done, we will then hold a council of war, and decide on our next movement." This proposal meeting the ready approval of the young man, the two took their rifles, and proceeded to the foot of the eminence in question, which they found to be a steep, conical hill, rising abruptly three or four hundred feet above the general level of the surrounding forest, with a small, pointed apex, from which some tornado had hurled every standing tree except a tall, slender green pine, that shot up eighty or ninety feet, as straight as a flagstaff, from the centre. After a severe scramble up the steeps, in some places almost perpendicular, they at length reached the summit, and commenced leisurely walking round the verge, looking down on the variegated wilderness, which, with its thousand dotted hills and undulating ridges, lay stretched in cold solitude around them. With only a general glance, however, over the surrounding forests, the gaze of the hunter was anxiously lifted upwards, to study the omens of the heavens. The sun, by this time, was scarcely visible beneath the cold, lurid haze which had for some hours been gradually stealing over it; while around the horizon lay piled long, motionless banks of leaden clouds, thick and heavy enough evidently to be dark, but yet of that light, dead, glazed, uncertain hue, which the close observer may have often noted as the precursor of winter-storms. After a long and attentive survey of every visible part of the heavens, the hunter, with an ominous shake of the head, dropped his eyes to the ground, and said: "I was right, but didn't want to believe it when I got up this morning; and the wild geese are right. We are on the eve of winter, and our best hope is that it may come gently. But even that favor, I greatly fear, we shall not be permitted to realize." "Well, sir, with that view of the case, in which I am inclined to concur, what do you propose now?" asked Claud. "Why, I propose, seeing we have all the fur pelts we took from the traps yesterday put up in packs, and have left nothing in our upper camp of any consequence,--I propose, that, instead of going back to our nearest marked line, as we talked of, we strike directly across the woods, by the nearest route, to our lake camp; or, if you are willing to put up with two or three miles additional travel, we will steer so as to take the upper camp of your father and Carvil in our way. We might find them there, perhaps." "Then let us steer for their camp; I can stand the jaunt. But can you determine the direction to be taken to strike it?" "Nearly, I think. Their camp, you know, is on the neck or connecting piece of river, between two long ponds, lying about southwest of us. I rather expected to be able to get a glimpse of one of those ponds from the hilltop, but find I can't. I presume I could, however, from the top of this pine tree." "Yes, but to climb it would be a long, and perhaps dangerous task, would it not?" "No, neither. We woodsmen are often compelled to resort to such a course, to take our latitude and bearings. And, on the whole, I think in this case it might be the cheapest way. So I will up it, and you may be watching for wild geese, that are still, I perceive, every few minutes, somewhere in sight. Very likely some flock may soon come over us near enough for a shot." So saying, the resolute and active hunter, casting aside coat, cap, and boots, sprang up several feet on to the clasped trunk of the pine, over whose rough bark he now, by means of the vigorous clenches of his arms and legs, fast made his way upwards. It was a hard struggle for him, however, till he reached the lower limbs, some fifty feet from the ground, when, swinging himself up by a grappled limb, he quickly disappeared among the thick, mantling boughs, on his now doubly-rapid ascent; and, in a few minutes more, he was heard by his companion below, breaking off the obstructing tiptop branches, and, as he gazed abroad from his dizzy height, shouting out the discoveries which were the object of his bold attempt. "Make ready there, below!" he startlingly exclaimed, all at once, after a long pause, in which he seemed to be silently noting the distant objects in the forest; "make ready there, below, for a famous large flock of wild geese, just heaving in sight over the hills, and coming directly to this spot." The next moment the expected flock, spread out in columns answering to the two sides of a triangle, each a quarter of a mile in extent, and the nearest nearly in a line with the summit where the young huntsman stood, with raised rifle, awaiting their approach, came in full view, making the forest resound with their multitudinous and mingling cries, and the loud beating of their long wings on the air, as they swept onward in their close proximity to the earth. Singling out the nearest goose of the nearest column, Claud quickly caught his aim, and fired; when the struck bird, with a convulsive start, suddenly clasped its wings, and, in its onward impulse, came down like lightning into the bushes, within five rods from its exulting captor. "Done like a marksman,--plumped through and through under the wing. You are improving, young man," exclaimed the hunter, who now, rapidly coming down, had reached the foot of the tree, as Claud came forward from the bushes, with his prize. "It is a fine fat one, ain't it?" he continued, glancing at the heavy bird, as he was pulling on his boots. "We will take it along with us for our supper." "Yes, rather a lucky shot," returned the other, self-complacently. "But what discoveries did you make up there, that will aid us in our course, Mr. Phillips?" "O, that is all settled," answered the latter, putting on his pack, and buttoning up, preparatory to an immediate start. "I caught glimpses of both the ponds, noted all the hilltops, ridges, and other noticeable landmarks, in the line between here and there, and can lead you as straight as a gun to the spot, for which we will now be off; and the sooner the better, as it is fast growing colder and colder, and the whole heavens are every moment growing more dark and dubious." They then, after making their way down the precipitous side of the hill to its western foot, struck off, under the lead of the hunter, in a line through the forest, preserving their points of compass, when none of their general landmarks were visible, by noting the peculiar weather-beaten appearance of the mosses on the north sides of the trees, and the usual inclination of the tips of the hemlocks from west to east. And for the next hour and a half, on, on they tramped, in Indian file, and almost unbroken silence, making headway with their long, loping steps, notwithstanding the obstructing fallen trees, brushwood, and constantly occurring inequalities of the ground, with a speed which none but practised woodsmen can attain in the forest, and which is scarcely equalled by the fastest foot-travellers on the smooth and beaten highways of the open country. At length they were gratified by an indistinct sight of some body of water, gleaming dimly through the trees from some point in front; and the walk of a few hundred yards more brought them out, as it luckily happened, directly to the camp of which they were in search. It was, however, tenantless; their companions had already departed; but the bed of live coals in the usual place, from which the thin vapor was still perceptibly ascending, showed that they could not have left more than an hour before. In glancing into the deserted shanty, they descried a clean strip of white birch bark, lying conspicuously on the ground, a few feet within the entrance. On picking it up, they were soon enabled to read the following words, traced with the charred end of a twig: "Thinking something unusual to be brewing overhead, we are off for the lake about 10 A. M. CARVIL." "A very observing, considerate man, that Mr. Carvil," said the hunter, still musingly keeping his eyes on the unique dispatch. "He is one of the few book-learned men I have ever known, who could apply science to the natural philosophy of the woods. I can see how justly he reasoned out this case: knowing that we had some thought of a jaunt to Dead river this trip, he judged we should notice the signs of the weather just as we did, and, as it seems, _he_ did; and that, in consequence, when we got there, we should decide on the nearest route back, which would bring us so near their camp that we should be tempted to come to it; and so he left this notice for us that they thought it wisdom to depart." While the hunter was thus delivering himself, as he stood by the fire before the entrance, spreading out his hands over the coals, Claud went inside, and, returning with two fine, fresh trout, which the late occupants had, for some cause, left behind them, held them up to his musing companion, and exclaimed: "Look here, Mr. Phillips,--see what they have left for us!" "Good!" cried the hunter, rousing himself, "for, whether they left them by design or mistake, they come equally well in play at this time. You out with your knife and split them through the back, and I will prepare the coals. We will roast them for a lunch, which will refresh and strengthen us for the ten or twelve miles walk that is still to be accomplished, before reaching the lake." After dispatching the welcome meal, which in this primitive fashion they had prepared for themselves out of the material thus unexpectedly come to hand, and enjoying the half-hour's rest consequent on the grateful occupation, they again swung on their packs, and, striking into one of the marked lines of their companions, set forth with fresh vigor on their journey. Their walk, however, was a long and dreary one. Contrary to what they had ever before experienced, in jaunts of this length through the woods, not a single hunting adventure occurred, to enliven the tedium of the way. For, although the heavens above were made vocal with the screams of wild geese, still pouring along in their hurried flight to the south, to escape the elemental foe behind, like the rapidly succeeding detachments of some retreating army, yet not a living creature, biped or quadruped, was anywhere to be heard or seen in the forest beneath. All seemed to have instinctively shrunk away and fled, as from the presence of some impending evil, to their dens and coverts, there to await, cowering and silent, the dreaded outbreak. Slowly, but steadily, the lurid storm-clouds were gathering in the heavens, bringing shade after shade over the darkening wilderness. Low, hollow murmurs in the troubled air were now heard, ominously stealing along the wooded hills; and now, in the sharp, momentary rattling of the seared beech-leaves, the whole forest seemed shivering in the dead chill that was settling over the earth. The cold, indeed, was now becoming so intense as to congeal and skim over all the pools and still eddies of the river, and make solid ice along the shores of the rapid currents of the stream; while even the ground was fast becoming so frozen as to clumper and sound beneath the hurrying tread of our anxious travellers. By three in the afternoon, it had become so dark that they could scarcely see the white blazings on the sides of the trees, by which they were guided in their course; and in less than another hour, they were stumbling along almost in utter darkness, uncertain of their way, and nearly despairing of reaching their destination that night. But, while they were on the point of giving up the attempt, the bright glare of an ascending blaze, shooting fiercely through the thickets before them, greeted their gladdened eyes, and put them on exertions that soon brought them rejoicing into the comfortable quarters of their almost equally gratified friends and comrades; where it was at once decided that, instead of proceeding to their own camp, to build a fire and lodge, they should turn in for the night. After some time passed in the animated and cheery interchange of inquiries and opinions, which usually succeeds on the meeting of anxiously-sought or expected friends, Claud and Phillips, having by this time warmed and measurably rested themselves, took hold with Carvil and Mark Elwood in dressing and cooking for supper and for breakfast the next morning, Claud's goose, and a pair of fine ducks from a flock which the two latter had encountered just before reaching camp that afternoon; and, after completing this process with their good supply of game, and the more agreeable one of eating so much of it as served for a hearty supper, they drew up an extra quantity of fuel for the large fire which they felt it would be necessary to keep up through the night; and then, seating themselves in camp, went into an earnest consultation on the measures and movements next to be taken. When, in view of the lateness of the season, coupled as it was with the alarming portents of an immediate storm, which they had all noticed, it was unanimously determined that they should embark, early next morning, for head-quarters on the Maguntic, where Gaut Gurley, instead of preparing to come round again, as was now nearly his usual time to do, would, under the altered aspect of things, doubtless be awaiting them, and making arrangements for the return of all to the settlement. Then, building up a fire of solid logs, for long burning, the tired woodsmen drew up their bough-pillows towards the entrance of the camp, so as to bring their feet near the fire, closely wrapped their thick blankets around them, lay down, and were soon buried in sound slumber. And it was well for them that they were thus early taking their needed rest; for, soon after midnight, they were awakened by the lively undulations of the piercing cold air that was driving and whistling through the sides of their camp, and by the puffs of suffocating smoke that the eddying winds were ever and anon driving from their fire directly into their faces. One after another they rose, and ran out to see what had caused the, to them, sudden change that had occurred in the air since they went to sleep. And they were not long in ascertaining the truth. The expected storm had set in, with that low, deep commotion of the elements, and that slowly gathering impetus, which, as may often be noted at the commencement of great storms, was but the too certain prelude of its increase and duration. The fine snow was sifting down apace to the already whitened ground, and the rising wind, even in their mountain-hemmed nook, was whirling in fierce and fitful eddies about their camp, and shrilly piping among the strained branches of the vexed forest around; while its loud and awful roar, as it careered along the sides of the distant mountains, told with what strength and fury the storm was commencing over the country at large. In the situation in which the company now found themselves, neither sleep, comfort, nor quiet were to be expected for the remainder of the night. They therefore piled high the wood on their fire, and gathered round the hot blaze, to protect them from the cold, that had now not only grown more intense, but become doubly difficult to withstand, from the force with which it was brought by the driving blasts in contact with their shivering persons. And thus,--in alternately turning their backs and fronts to the fire, while standing in one place, and often shifting places from one side of the fire to the other; in now taking refuge within their camp when the constantly veering gusts bore the smoke and flame outward, and then fleeing out of it when the stifling column was driven inward; but finding no peace nor rest anywhere, among those shifts and commotions of the battling elements,--they wore away the long and comfortless hours of that dreary night, till the return of morning light, which, after many a vain prayer for its speedier appearance, at length gradually broke over the storm-invested wilderness. As soon as it was light enough to see objects abroad, or see them as well as they can ever be discerned through the fast-falling snow of such a driving storm, Phillips and Carvil sallied out through the snow, already eight inches deep, and made their way down to the nearest shore of the lake, about a quarter of a mile distant, to ascertain the condition of the water before embarking upon it in their canoes, as they had designed to do immediately after breakfast. On reaching the shore, they found the narrow bay, before mentioned as forming the estuary of the two rivers on which they had been located, comparatively calm, though filled with congealing snow and floating ice from the rivers. But all beyond the line of the two points of land inclosing the bay was rolling and tumbling in wild commotion, madly lashing the rocky headlands with the foaming waters, and resounding abroad over the hills with the deep, hoarse roar of the tempest-beaten breakers of the ocean. "Do you see and hear that?" exclaimed Phillips, pointing to the lake. "Yes, yes; but what was that I just caught a glimpse of, out there in the offing, to the right?" hastily cried Carvil. They both peered forward intently; and the next moment they saw a canoe, containing a single rower, low bending to his oar, shoot by the northern headland with the speed of an arrow, strike obliquely out of the white line of rolling waves into the bay, and make towards the point where they stood. "Who can it be?" inquired Carvil, after watching a while in silence the slow approach of the obstructed canoe. "In a minute more we shall see," replied the hunter, bending forward to get a view of the man's face, which, being seen the next moment, he added, with a shout: "Hallo, there, Codman, is that you? Why didn't you crow, to let us know who was coming?" "Crow?" exclaimed the trapper, driving through the ice to the shore; "did you ever hear a rooster crow in a time like this? There! I am safe, at last," he added, leaping out upon the shore, and glancing back with a dubious shake of the head towards the scene from which he had thus escaped. "Yes, safe now, for all my fright; but I would not be out another hour on that terrible lake for all the beaver in the province of Maine! I started at daylight, got out a mile or two, tolerably, but after that, Heaven only knows how I rode on those wild waves without swamping! But no matter,--I am here." "But where is Tomah, the Indian?" asked the hunter. "Tomah!" said Codman, in surprise. "Why, haven't you seen him? He went off three days ago, saying he must return to the settlement, to be training his moose to the sledge, so as to start for Boston with him, the first snow. He said he should leave it with Gaut Gurley to see to his share of the furs. I supposed he would call at one of your camps. But come, move on. I suppose you have a fire at camp, and something to eat; I am frozen to death, and starved to death, besides being more than half-dead from the great scaring I've had; but that's all over now, and I'm keen for breakfast. So troop along back to your camp, I say." To return to camp, take their cold and comfortless breakfast, and decide on the now hard alternatives of remaining where they were, to await the event of the storm, without provisions, and with their imperfect means of protection from the rigor of the elements, or of starting off through the cumbering snow beneath their feet, and the driving tempest above their heads, with the hope of reaching head-quarters by land, before another night should overtake them, was but the work of half an hour. To remain, with the foretaste of the past and the prospects of the future, was a thought so forbidding that none of them could for a moment entertain it; and to set out to travel by land, with such prospects, over the mountains, by the long, winding route on the eastern side of the lake,--which was the only one left to them, and which could not be less than fifteen miles in extent,--was a scarcely less forbidding alternative. But it must be adopted. So, gathering in their steel traps and iron utensils, they buried them all, except their lightest hatchet, under a log, that they should not be encumbered with more weight than was absolutely necessary; snugly packing up the few peltries they had taken since Gaut Gurley had been round, and putting the scanty remains of their food into their pockets, for a lunch on the way, they set forth on their formidable undertaking. Led on and guided by the calm and resolute hunter,--who at different times had been over the whole way, and in whose skill and discretion, as a woodsman, for conducting them by the nearest and easiest route, they all had undoubting confidence,--they vigorously made their way onwards through the accumulating snows and natural obstructions of the forest; now threading the thickets of the valleys; now skirting the sides of the hills; now crossing deep ravines; and now climbing high mountains in their toilsome march. And, though the storm seemed to rage more and more fiercely with the advancing hours of the day,--whirling clouds of blinding snow in their faces, hurling the decayed limbs and trunks of the older tenants of the wood to the earth around them, in the fury of its blasts, and rattling and creaking through the colliding branches of the writhing green trees, as it swept over the wilderness,--yet, for all these difficulties of the way and commotions of the elements, they faltered not, but continued to move forward in stern and moody silence, hour after hour, in the footsteps of their indomitable leader, until they reached the extreme eastern point of the lake, where their destination required them to turn round it, in a sharp angle to the west. Here, at the suggestion of their leader, who made the encouraging announcement that the worst half of their journey was accomplished, they made a halt, under the lee of a sheltering mountain, for rest and refreshment. And, sitting down on a fallen tree, from whose barkless trunk they brushed off the snow, they took out and commenced chewing their stale and frozen bread, with a few small pieces of duck-meat, remaining from their breakfast, and comprising the last of their provisions. The animal heat, produced by their great and continued exertions in travelling, had thus far prevented them, from suffering much from the cold, or perceiving its actual intensity. But they had been at rest scarcely long enough to finish their meagre repast, when they were driven from their seats by the chill of the invading element, and were eagerly demanding, as a lesser annoyance, again to be led forward on their journey. The snow by this time had accumulated to the depth of a foot and a half, and still came swiftly sifting down aslant to the earth, without the least sign of abatement; while the wind, which was before a gale, had now risen to a hurricane, causing the smitten earth to tremble and shake under the force of the terrible blasts that went shrieking and howling through the bowed, bending, and twisting forests, where "The sturdiest birch its strength was feeling, And pine trees dark and tall To and fro were madly reeling, Or dashing headlong in their fall." But, still undismayed by these manifestations of elemental power around them, or the prospects before them, all terrific and disheartening as they were, and nerved by the consciousness that their only chance of escape from a fearful death depended on their exertions, the bold and hardy woodsmen again started out into the trackless waste, and labored desperately onward, mile after mile, through the impeding snow; sometimes taken to the armpits in its gathering drifts, and sometimes thrown at full length beneath its submerging depths by stepping into some hole or chasm it had concealed from their sight. And thus resolutely did they beat and buffet their rough way through the perplexed and roaring wilderness, and thus stoutly did they bear up against the constantly thickening dangers that environed them during the last part of that dreadful day. But, as night drew on, their strength and spirits began to flag and give way. The cold was increasing in intensity. The tempest howled louder than ever over their heads, and the snow had become so deep and drifted that furlongs became as miles in their progress. And yet, as they supposed, they were miles from their destination. At length, one after another, they faltered and stopped. The strong men quailed at the fate which seemed staring them in the face, and they were on the point of giving up in despair. But hark! that cheery shout which rises above the roaring of the wind, from their more hardy and hopeful leader, who, while all others stopped, had pushed on some thirty rods in advance. It comes again! "Courage, men! We have struck the river, at whose mouth stands our camp, now not half a mile distant." Aroused by the glad tidings, that sent a thrill of joy through their sinking hearts, they sprang forward, with the revivified energies which new and suddenly-lighted hope will sometimes so strangely impart, and were soon by the side of the exulting hunter; when together they rushed and floundered along down the banks of the stream towards the place, in joyful excitement at the thought that their troubles were now so nearly over, and with visions of the comfortable quarters, warm fires, and smoking suppers, which they confidently expected were awaiting them at camp, brightly dancing before them. Joy and hope lent wings to their speed; and, in a short time, they could discern the open place and the well-remembered outlines of the locality where the camp was situated. But no bright light greeted their expectant eyes. They were now at the spot, but, to their utter consternation, no camp was to be seen! Could they be mistaken in the place? No; there was the open path leading to the structure; there rose the steep side of the hill; and there, at the foot of it, stood the perpendicular rock against which it was erected! What could it mean? After standing a moment in mute amazement, peering inquiringly at each other, in the fading twilight, they started forward for the rock, and, in so doing, came upon the two front posts, still standing up some feet out of the snow. They were black and charred! The sad truth then flashed over their minds. Their camp had been burnt to the ground, and with it, also, probably, their rich collection of furs,--nearly the whole fruit of all the toils and fatigues of their expedition! O death, death! what shall save the poor trappers, now? "Great God! I have had a presentiment of this," exclaimed Phillips, the first to find utterance, in a voice trembling with unwonted emotion. "How could it have happened?" and "Where is Gaut Gurley?" simultaneously burst from the lips of the others. "Well may you, ask those questions, and well couple them together, I fancy," responded the hunter, with bitter significance. "But away with all speculations about _that_, now. We have something that more nearly concerns us to attend to, in this strait, than forming conjectures about the loss of our property: our lives are at stake! If you will mind me, however, you may all yet be saved." "Direct us, direct us, and we will obey," eagerly responded one and all. "Two of you follow me, then, for something dry, if we can find it, for a fire, and the rest go to kicking away and treading down the snow under the rock, with all your might!" sharply commanded the hunter, dashing his way towards the thickets, with hatchet in hand. With that ready obedience which a superior in energy and experience will always command among his fellows, in emergencies like this, the men went to work in earnest. In a short time the snow was cleared away or beat down compactly over a space some yards in extent along the side of the rock, while the others soon returned with a supply of the driest wood to be found, together with an armfull of hemlock boughs, to strew over the beaten snow. The next thing requiring their attention was the all-important object of starting a fire. But in this they were doomed to sad disappointment. Their punk-wood tinder had been so dampened by the snow sifting into their coat-pockets, where they had deposited it, that it could not be made to catch the sparks of the smitten steel. They then tried the flashing of their guns; but they had no paper, and could find no dry leaves or fleecy bark of the birch, and the finest splinters or shavings they could whittle, in the dark, from the clefts of the imperfectly dry pine, would not take fire from the light, evanescent flash of the powder in their pans. Again and again did they renew the doubtful experiment; but every succeeding trial, from the dampness of their material in the driving snow, and from the unmanageable condition of their benumbed fingers and shivering frames, became more and more hopeless, till at length they were compelled to relinquish wholly the fruitless attempt. "This is a calamity, indeed!" exclaimed the hunter. "I feared it might be so from the first. Could we have foreseen the want, so as to have been on the lookout for material coming along, or have got here before dark, it might have been averted. But as it is, there is one resort left for us, if we would live in this terrible wind and cold till morning, and that is, to keep in constant and lively motion. Whoever lies down to sleep is a dead man!" But he found it difficult to impress on the minds of most of them his idea of the danger of ceasing motion. They began to say they felt more comfortable now, and, being very tired, must lay down to take a little rest. Sharply forbidding the indulgence, the hunter sallied out, cut and trimmed two or three green beech switches, and returned with them to his wondering companions; when, finding Mark Elwood, in disregard of his warning, already down and dozing on a bunch of boughs under the rock, he sternly exclaimed: "Up, there, in an instant!" "O, let me lie," begged the unconsciously freezing man: "do let me lie a little while. I am almost warm, now, but very, very sleepy," he added, sinking away again into a doze. Instantly a smart blow from the tough and closely-setting switch of the hunter fell upon the outstretched legs of the dozer, who cringed and groaned, but did not start. Another and another, and yet another, fell with the quickness and force of a pedagogue's rod on the legs of an offending urchin, till the aroused, maddened and enraged victim of the seeming cruelty leaped to his feet, and, with doubled fists, rushed upon the assailant, who darted off into the snow and led his pursuer a doubling race of several hundred yards before he returned to the spot. "There are some spare switches," resumed the active and stout-hearted hunter, as he came in a little ahead of the puffing, reanimated, and now pacified Elwood; "take them in hand, and do the same by me, if you see me going the same way; it is our only salvation!" But, notwithstanding all this preaching, and the obvious effects of this wholesome example, others of the company, deceived by the insidious sensation which steals upon the unsuspecting victims of such exposures, as the treacherous herald of their death,--others, in turn, required and promptly received the application of the same strange remedy. But this could not always last. The fatigue of their previously overtasked systems prevented them from keeping up their exertions many hours more; and, declaring they could bear up no longer, one after another sunk down under the rock; and even their hitherto indomitable leader himself now visibly relaxed, and at length threw himself down with the rest, feebly murmuring: "I know what this feeling means; but it is so sweet! let us all die together!" At that instant a shock, quickly followed by the loud, gathering rumblings of an earthquake, somewhere above them, suddenly aroused and brought every man to his feet. And the next moment an avalanche of snow, sweeping down the steep side of the rock-faced declivity above, shot obliquely over their heads to the level below, leaving them unharmed, but buried twenty feet beneath the outward surface. "Now, God be praised!" cried the hunter, at once comprehending what had happened, and starting forward to feel out what space was left them between their shielding rock in the rear and the wedged and compact slant snow-wall in front, which, with the no less deeply blocked ends, formed the roof and sides of their new and thus strangely built prison-house. "This is the work of Providence! We are now, at least, safe from the cold, as you will all, I think, soon have the pleasure of perceiving." "You are right, Mr. Phillips," responded Carvil; "and it is strange some of us did not think of building a snow-house at the outset. Even the wild partridges, that in coldest weather protect themselves by burrowing in the snow, might have taught us the lesson." "Yes, but it has been far better done in the way God has provided for us. And we have only now to get our blood into full circulation to insure us safety and rest through the night; and let us do this by shaking out our boughs, and treading down the snow, as smooth as a floor, to receive them for our bedding." "It may be as you say about its being mild here, Mr. Phillips," doubtingly observed Mark Elwood; "but it seems strange philosophy to me, that being inclosed in snow, the coldest substance in nature, should make us warmer than in the open air." "And still I suspect it is a fact, father," said Claud. "The Esquimaux, and other nations of the extreme north, it is known, live in snow-houses, without fire, the whole of their long and rigorous winters." "O, Phillips is right enough about _that_," added Codman, now evidently fast regaining his usual buoyancy of spirits; "yes, right enough about _that_, whether he was about that plaguey switching he gave us, or not. Why, I can feel a great change in the air here already! warm enough, soon; safe, at any rate; so, hurra for life and home, which, being once so honestly lost, will now be clear gain. Hurra! whoo-rah! whoo-rah-ee! Kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho!" And the hunter _was_ right, and the trapper was right. Their perils and physical sufferings were over. They were not only safe, but fast becoming comfortable. And, by the time they had trod down the snow as hard and smooth as had been proposed, and shaken out the boughs and distributed them for their respective beds, the air seemed as warm as that of a mild day in October. Their clothes were smoking and becoming dry by the evaporation of the dampness caused by the snow. Their limbs had become pliant, and their whole systems restored to their wonted warmth and circulation. And, wrapping themselves in their blankets, they laid down--as they knew they could now safely do--and were soon lost in refreshing slumber, from which they did not awake till a late hour the next morning. When they awoke, after their deep slumbers, they at once concluded, from the altered and lighter hue of all around them, as well as by their own feelings, that it must be day without; and with one accord commenced, with their hatchets, cutting and digging a hole through the wall of their snowy prison-house, in the place where they judged it most likely to be thinnest. After working by turns some thirty or forty minutes, and cutting or beating out an upward passage eight or ten yards in extent, they suddenly broke through into the open air. The roaring of the storm no longer greeted their ears. The terrible conflict of the elements, which yesterday kept the heavens and earth in such hideous commotion, was over and gone. Though it was as cold as in the depths of winter, the sky was almost cloudless; and the sun, already far on his diurnal circuit, was glimmering brightly over the dreary wastes of the snow-covered wilderness. By common consent, they then packed up, and immediately commenced beating their slow and toilsome way towards the nearest habitation, which was that of the old chief, now only about five miles distant, over land, on the shore of the lake below. With far less fatigue and other suffering, save that of hunger, than they had anticipated, they reached the hospitable cabin of Wenongonet before night. Here their wants were supplied; here an earnest discussion--in which they were aided by the shrewd surmises of the chief--was held, respecting the burning of their camp and the probable loss of their common property; and, finally, here, though the "_Light of the Lodge_" was absent at her city home, they were agreeably entertained through the night and succeeding day,--when, the lakes having become frozen over sufficiently strong to make travelling on the ice as safe as it was convenient and easy, they, on the second morning after their arrival at his house, bade their entertainer good-by, and set out for their homes in the settlement, which they respectively reached by daylight, to the great relief of their anxious and now overjoyed families and friends. CHAPTER XVI. "There was a laughing devil in his sneer, That rais'd emotions both of hate and fear." In the early part of an appointed day, about a fortnight after the return of the imperilled and unfortunate trappers to their homes, as described in the preceding chapter, an unusual gathering of men was to be seen within and around a building whose barn, open shed, watering-trough, and sign-post, showed its aspirations to be a tavern, occupying a central position among a small, scattering group of primitive-looking houses, situated on the banks of the Androscoggin, five miles below that lake, and where it might be considered as fairly under way, as an uninterrupted river, in its devious course to the ocean. In the yard and around the door stood men, gathered in small knots, engaged in low, earnest conversation; while, every few minutes, some were seen issuing from the house and hastily departing, as if dispatched on special messages,--the company in the mean time being continually augmented by fresh arrivals of the settlers, who came straggling in from both directions of the great road, which, leading from the more thickly-settled parts of Maine to the Connecticut, here passed over the Androscoggin. Within the house, in the largest room, and behind a table, drawn up near the wall at the farther end, sat a magistrate, in all the grave dignity of a court, with pen in hand and paper before him, as if in readiness to take such testimony in the case on hand as should be presented for his consideration. On his right sat Mark Elwood, Phillips, and Codman, appearing as the representatives of the injured trappers or hunters, who were the prosecutors in the case; while on his left sat Gaut Gurley, in custody of the sheriff and his assistant, who had arrested and brought him there to answer to the complaint of the former. Gaut appeared perfectly unconcerned, glancing boldly about him with an air of proud defiance; while his former companions, the trappers just named, sat looking down at their feet, compressing their lips and knitting their brows in moody and indignant silence. But, before proceeding with any further description of the court, its parties or doings, let us briefly recur to what had happened in the interim between the return of the trappers and their present appearance in court, for redress for the outrages that they supposed had been designedly committed upon them, or at least for bringing to punishment the man who, they felt morally certain, must be the perpetrator. After the trappers had reached their homes, become fully restored from the chill and fatigues they had undergone during the terrible storm with which their expedition so disastrously terminated, and attended to such domestic wants as demanded their immediate care, they met at the house of Phillips, in accordance with an appointment they made when they parted, to report what evidence each might be able to collect relative to the burning of their camp, and the suspected previous abstraction of their furs; and thereupon to decide what measures should be taken in the premises. Finding that Gaut Gurley had been seen at home, or in the vicinity, some days previous to the storm, and that he was not likely to come to _them_, they dispatched a disinterested person to _him_, to notify him of their arrival, and the condition in which they found matters at the store-camp, left in his charge, and also of their wish that he would attend their proposed meeting, and account for the catastrophe which had so unexpectedly occurred. He pretended to know nothing of the affair, and feigned great surprise at the news; said he had left the camp and its stores, all safe, two days before the storm, to come to the settlement for more provisions; believing that his companions would remain a fortnight longer; that, having procured his supplies, he was intending to return to camp the day the storm came on; and finally that it devolved on those last at the camp, and not on _him_, to account for what had taken place. He therefore declined meeting them on the business. As soon as they ascertained that Gaut had taken this stand, which only added to their previous convictions of his guilt, the different members of the company made journeys to the nearest villages or trading-places in Maine and New Hampshire, to see if any furs, answering in description to their collection, had recently been sold in any of those towns. And at length they found, in one of the frontier villages in Maine, a small collection of peltries, which they thought they could identify, and which the trader said he had lately purchased of an unknown travelling pedlar, who, out of a large lot of peltries, would sell only these at prices that would warrant the purchasing. This small lot of furs they prevailed on the trader to let them take home with them, for the purpose of making proof in court. This was all the direct evidence they could find to implicate Gaut; but they believed it would be sufficient. For, at the meeting they then held, Mark Elwood found among the furs a beaver-skin, that he could swear was of his own taking, from a careless slit he remembered to have made in the skinning. Codman found another, which he could safely identify by a mangled ear which was caught in one end of the trap, while the tail was caught in the other. And Phillips found an otter skin, with a bullet-hole on each side, made, as he well remembered, by shooting the animal through and through in the region of the heart. On this proof they unanimously decided on a prosecution; and accordingly Phillips and Mark Elwood set off the next day for Lancaster, the shire-town on the Connecticut, for legal advice, warrants, and a sheriff to serve them. On reaching the place, they were told by the attorney they consulted that they could not make out larceny or theft against Gurley for taking the furs placed in his trust, but for their private redress must resort to a civil action of trover, or unlawful conversion of the common property. A criminal process for arson, or the burning of the camp, would probably be sustained. And the result of the consultation was, that a complaint and warrant for arson should be issued, and the arrest made by the sheriff, who should also have in his hands a civil process returnable to the court of Common Pleas, to serve on Gurley and his property, provided the proof elicited at the court of inquiry on the criminal charge should be such as to afford them any prospect of a recovery. It was under these circumstances that Gaut Gurley had been arrested for the burning of the camp, and brought before the magistrate, who, with the lawyers employed on both sides, had come to this place, as before described, for the hearing of the case. The magistrate now declared the court open, and directed the parties to proceed with the case. The attorney for the prosecution then rose, read the complaint, and briefly stated what they expected to prove, to substantiate the allegations it contained. Mark Elwood, Phillips, Codman, and the trader who had purchased the furs of the pedlar, and who had been summoned for the purpose, were then called to the stand, and sworn, as witnesses on the part of the prosecution. The trader, being first called on, testified to the identity of the furs which had been produced in court with the lot he had bought of the pedlar, as before mentioned; and he further stated that the man had a large lot, which well answered the general description given by the complainants of the lot they had in camp; but where or how he obtained the lot, or who he was, or where he went to when he left town, he did not learn, and had no means of ascertaining. All he could say, was, that these were the furs he purchased, and the only ones of the whole lot on the prices of which he and the fellow could agree, so as to effect a trade. Phillips, next called, swore plumply that the bullet-pierced otter-skin before him was taken by his own hand from the animal he shot. He also added that there were several strings of sable-skins in the lot before him, which he felt confident he had seen among the furs of the company, and he especially pointed out one strung together by a braid of wickape bark. And in this last statement he was confirmed by Codman, who, besides identifying one beaver-skin, had the same impression in relation to the string of sable; but neither of them would swear positively in the matter of the smaller furs. Mark Elwood, the last of the witnesses to be examined, then took the stand; and, contrary to what might have been expected from one of his wavering disposition, and particularly from one who had been so strangely kept under the influence and fear of the man on trial, bore himself resolutely under the menacing looks which the latter fixed upon him by way of intimidation. For some time he had utterly refused to harbor the idea of Gaut's guilt. He believed the burning of the camp was accidental; that Gaut, in anticipation of the storm, had taken all the furs home with him, and would soon call the company together for the distribution. But when he heard of the course Gaut was taking, and coupled it with the other circumstances, he suddenly changed his tone, fell into the belief of his companions, and more loudly and openly than any of them denounced the crime and its author,--seemingly throwing off, at once and forever, the mysterious spell which had so long bound him. Accordingly he now swore confidently to the beaver-skin in question, as one of his own taking, and, facing him boldly, even went so far as to declare his full belief in Gaut's guilt, not only in the burning of the camp, but in the stealing of the furs. This gratuitous assertion of a mere matter of belief in the respondent's guilt, which was no legal evidence in the case, at once aroused, as might have been expected, the ire of Gaut's lawyer, who, with, fierce denunciations of the conduct of the witness, subjected him to a severe cross-examination. "What reason, then," asked the somewhat mollified lawyer, now himself incautiously venturing on ground which, with a better knowledge of the parties, he would have seen might injure his cause, and on which his client evidently wished him not to push inquiries. "What reason, then, could you have for your extraordinary conduct in trying, against all rule, to lug in here your mere ungrounded conjectures, to prejudice the court and spectators against an innocent man?" "Innocent?" here broke in Phillips, provoked by what, in his exasperated state of feeling, he viewed as the cool impudence and hypocrisy of the lawyer. "Innocent, hey? Well, well, there are various ways of lying in this world, I see plainly." "What do _you_ know about my client, whom you are all conspiring to ruin?" exclaimed the excited lawyer, turning fiercely on the interposing hunter. "Know about him?" retorted the other. "I know enough, besides this outrageous affair; I know enough to--" "Beware!" suddenly exclaimed Gaut Gurley, with a look that brought the speaker to a stand. "I don't fear you, sir," said the hunter, confronting the other with an unflinching countenance. "But you may be right; it may be _I had_ better forbear; it may be your time is not yet come," he added, in a low, significant tone. "Now, I will finish with you, sir," resumed Gaut's lawyer, turning again sternly to Elwood, from whom he--like many other over-acting attorneys, who cannot see where they should stop in examinations of this kind--seemed to think he could draw something more that would make for his client. "When that fellow interrupted me, just now, I was asking what reason, besides some grudge or malice, you had for your unwarrantable course in pronouncing the respondent guilty, without proof; for, allowing the furs you swear to _were_ once yours, you don't show, by a single particle of proof, that he had any thing to do with it more than yourselves, who were quite as likely to have taken them as he. Yes, what reasons,--facts, facts, I mean; no more guess-work here; so speak out, sir, like an honest man, if you can." "I will, then," promptly responded Elwood. "You shall have facts, to your heart's content; I said what I did because I am convinced he _is_ guilty." "Convinced!" sneeringly interrupted the other; "there it is again; thrusting in sheer conjectures for evidence! I must call on the court to interpose with the stubborn and wilful fellow. Didn't I tell you, sir, I'd have no more of your guess-work? Facts, sir, facts, or nothing." "Well, you shall have them, then," replied the other, in a determined tone, "for I know enough facts to convince _me_, at least, of his guilt. Both before and after we started on our expedition, he threw out hints to me which I did not then quite understand, but which, since this affair, I have recalled, and now know what they meant. He hinted, if I would fall into his plan and keep council, we might--" "Might what?" sharply demanded the excited and alarmed attorney. "Do you know you are under oath, sir? Might what, I say?" "Might get all the furs into our hands, and--" "Traitor! liar! scoundrel!" exclaimed Gaut Gurley, in a tone that sounded like the hiss of a serpent, as he bent forward and glared upon Elwood, with an expression so absolutely fiendish as to make every one in the room pause and shudder, and as to be remembered and recounted, months afterwards, in connection with events which seemed destined to spring from this worse than fruitless trial. "You was going to say," said the attorney for the prosecution, here eagerly pricking up and turning to the interrupted and now evidently discomposed witness,--"you was going to say, he proposed that he and you should take all the furs to yourselves, and so rob the rest of the company!" "I can't tell the words; but I think he meant that," replied Elwood, in more subdued tones. "O ho," exclaimed Gaut's lawyer; "you _now_ think, that is, you guess, he meant something that you didn't dream of his meaning at the time he uttered it. Pretty evidence this; make the most of it!" "We will," said the opposite counsel; "and I request the court to take it all down, together with the prisoner's exclamations of _traitor_, etc., which involves, indirectly, an admission that I shall remark on in the argument. Yes, let all this be noted carefully. It is important. It goes to show the previous design, which, coupled with the identified furs, is, I trust the court will see, sufficient to fix the crime on the respondent, beyond all doubt or question." "We will soon show you how much you will make out of your identified furs," rejoined the other lawyer, with a confident and defiant air. "Have you witnesses to introduce on the part of the defence?" asked the court. "Yes, your honor; but our most important one has not yet arrived. We are expecting him every minute." At that moment, a shout of surprise and laughter, together with an unusual commotion in the yard, arrested the attention of all in the court-room; and they mostly rushed to the door or windows to ascertain the cause, when they were amused to behold the young Indian, Tomah, driving into the yard, with his moose harnessed to a pung or sledge, of his own rigging up, on which---with reins and whip in hand---he sat as jauntily as a coachman, and almost with, the same ease, apparently, brought his strange steed to a stand before the door. "Our witness has come!" exclaimed Gaut's lawyer, exultingly. "Mr. Sheriff, send out and bring him in. We will now dispose of this miserable prosecution, in short metre." In a few minutes Tomah entered the room, and, readily comprehending,--from a knowledge of the usages of courts he had obtained during his residence in the villages of the whites,--what was expected of him, now demurely advanced in front of the magistrate, raised his hand, and received the oath of a witness. He was then shown the lot of furs that had been identified by the hunters present, his attention directed to the peculiar marks by which part of them had been distinguished, and he was asked if he had ever seen these furs, and noticed the marks on them, before. "Yes, think so," replied Tomah, quietly, as he rapidly handled every large skin, and each parcel of the smaller ones, keenly noting the palpable marks shown him on the former, and every tie confining together the latter. "Yes; here bullet-holes on otter; slit on this beaver; cropt ear on that; little fat back of fore-legs on rest of beaver; wickape strings on that bunch sable; elm-bark tie on that; and beech twigs on that. Yes, seen 'em all." "Where? And how do you know the furs? Tell the court all about it," said Gaut's lawyer, as an exultant smile played over his sardonic features. "Well, now," calmly and with his usual passionless cast of countenance replied Tomah, after a considerable pause; "well, this lot of skins all taken from the great lot taken by our company up round the great lakes, this fall. I come back to settlement, three, four, five days, may be, 'fore the rest; to see to moose, train him for Boston, and make sled; wanted my part of furs to sell right off, to bear expenses, and get off on journey soon. Mr. Gurley, then, after while, said he venture to divide off to me greater part of what I would get for my share of skins then got into the great camp. So he do it; and I take my part, just this lot you show me here, and steer off with them to Bethel; but, 'fore got quite there, come cross pedlar and sold them cheap, for money, and go right back to Mr. Gurley's, where moose was. Found Mr. Gurley home, too; said he left all furs safe in camp; come for provisions to carry back, to hunt one, two weeks longer; but storm come, and he stayed to home, and soon heard all the men got home, too; big storm, bad; I no start for Boston yet, but most ready; go soon, get heap of money for moose, certain." The counsel for the prosecution and his clients--on hearing such a piece of testimony from a witness whom they themselves would have summoned, but for the belief that he would be so much under the influence and training of Gaut, that little could be drawn from him making against the latter--were taken so completely by surprise, by the unexpected _denouement_, that they all sat mute and dumb-founded for some moments; both lawyer and clients being scarcely able to credit their own senses, and each hoping that the other had discovered some flaw in the testimony, by which it could be picked to pieces. But no such flaw or discrepancy could be discovered; and the testimony, after the severe and prolonged cross-examination to which it was subjected by the rallying and desperate attorney, remained wholly unshaken, in every material part, standing out, in all its decisive force and effect, for the exclusive benefit of the respondent. Every person in the room, indeed, at length became convinced that the young Indian had told the truth, and that he could know nothing of Gaut's guilt, though unconciously made a witness in his favor; with the view, probably, of meeting just such an exigency as had occurred in the present prosecution. The attorney for the prosecution, then, it being agreed to submit the case on the testimony now in, made a long and ingenious speech, abandoning the matter of the identified furs; dwelling largely on Gaut's dimly-hinted proposals to Elwood to join in the crime; and, on the ground that he was the only person in a situation to burn and rob the camp, raising the violent presumption that he must have perpetrated the double crime. Gaut's lawyer then rose, with a confident and exultant air, and said he might, with the best reason in the world, make a plea to the jurisdiction of the court, since he had discovered that the camp which was alleged to have been burnt was situated some miles within the boundary of Maine; that no New Hampshire magistrate, of course, could take jurisdiction of the case; and, that the respondent, on that ground alone, must be at once discharged, if he wished it. But he did not wish it. He courted a trial and decision, on the merits of the cases which, after briefly urging the strong points of the defence, he submitted to the court. Tomah's testimony had settled the case; and, though nearly every one in the room, probably, were deeply impressed with suspicions of Gaut's guilt, yet all felt that the evidence was not sufficient for a legal conviction. And they were not surprised, therefore, when the court, after briefly commenting on the testimony, pronounced the full discharge of the prisoner. "Ha, ha!" exclaimed Gaut, with a laugh so inconceivably devilish that his own lawyer, even, recoiled at the sound. "Ha, ha!" he repeated, with a smile on his lips, made ghastly by the fires of concentrated malice that shot from his eyes. "Wouldn't my good friends, here, like to try this game again?" "Yes," boldly retorted the hunter. "Yes, and we shall, with evidence Heaven will direct us where to find. Your time hasn't come. But it _will_ come! God ain't dead yet!" CHAPTER XVII. "Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourn of Heaven, Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth." KEATS. It is not to be supposed that a lawsuit, or prosecution, in so new and remote a settlement, especially one that involved so many interests, and whose result must have so many and complicated bearings, as the one described in the last chapter, would be suffered to pass away like any ordinary occurrence and be forgotten. With the settlers, besides the novelty of having a court held among them, for any cause, it was an extraordinary occurrence that there should be any grounds for a prosecution or lawsuit of this character,--extraordinary that any one should be found base enough to violate the common faith and honesty which the trappers and hunters had, up to that time, so implicitly reposed in, and observed with each other,--and doubly extraordinary that the perpetrator could not be detected and brought to punishment. To them, such a flagitious betrayal of trust was a new and startling event. They felt it deeply concerned them all; and the sensation it produced was accordingly as profound as it was general, in all that region of the country. But, if such was the effect of the unfortunate occurrence in question, on the community at large, how much more deeply would the effect be naturally felt by the parties immediately concerned? By the loss of their stock of furs, three families, at least, were deprived of the means on which they had relied for supplying them, with a large part of the necessaries of life, through the ensuing winter; while, besides this, many a wife and child were doomed to sad disappointment, in being thus deprived of the fondly-anticipated purchases of articles of dress, books, and various other little comforts, which had been promised them on the division and sale of the peltries. Nor were these the only interests and feelings affected by the event and its concomitants. Friendships were broken, and even more tender relations were disturbed, if, indeed, their further existence were not to be terminated. By the open, and as was supposed irreconcilable, quarrel between Mark Elwood and the terribly vindictive Gaut Gurley, their children, Claud and Avis, who were understood to be under mutual engagement of marriage, were placed in a position at once painful and embarrassing in the extreme. And Claud, especially, although he had carefully abstained from all accusations of Gaut, had taken no part in getting up the prosecution, and purposely absented himself from the trial, yet felt very keenly the perplexing dilemma into which he would be thrown, by continuing the connecting link between two such deadly foes as he now found his father, whom he could not desert, and Gaut Gurley, whom he felt conscious he could not defend. And for this reason he had, from time to time, deferred the visit to Avis, which he had designed, and which she would naturally expect on his return from the expedition. But still he could not see how a quarrel between the fathers discharged him from his obligations to her; and he grew more and more doubtful and uneasy in the position he found himself occupying. He was soon, however, to be relieved. One day, a short time after the trial, while he was anxiously revolving the subject in mind, a boy, who had come as a special messenger from the Magalloway settlement (for the purpose, as it appeared), brought him the following letter: "DEAR CLAUD,--You do not know, you cannot know, what the effort costs me to write this. You do not know, you cannot know, what I have felt, what I have suffered since I became fully apprised of the painful circumstances under which your late expedition was brought to a close; and especially since I became apprised of the lamentable scenes that occurred in the court, growing out of that unfortunate--O how unfortunate, expedition! Before that court was held, and during the doubtful days which intervened between it and your escape from the terrible perils that attended your return, the hope that all would, all _must_ turn out right, in some measure relieved my harrowing fears and anxieties; though even then the latter was to the former as days of cloud to minutes of sunshine. But, when I heard what occurred at the trial,--the bitter crimination and recrimination, the open rupture, the menaces exchanged, and the angry parting,--and, more alarming than all, when I saw my father return in that fearful mood, from which he still refuses to be diverted, the last gleam of hope faded, and all became cloud, all gloom,--dark, impenetrable, and forbidding. My nights, when sleep at length comes to close my weeping eyes, are passed in troubled dreams; my days in more troubled thoughts, which I would fain believe were dreams also. O, why need this be? I have done nothing,--you have done nothing; and I have no doubt of your faith and honor for performing all I shall ever require at your hands. But, Claud, I love you, and all 'Know love is woman's happiness;' and all know, likewise, that the ties of love are but gossamer threads, which a word may rupture, a breath shake, and even the power of unpleasant associations destroy. Still, is there not one hope,--the hope that this thread, hitherto so blissfully uniting our hearts, subtle and attenuated as it is, may yet be preserved unbroken, if we suffer no opinion, no word, no syllable to escape our lips, respecting the unfortunate affair that is embroiling our parents; if we wholly deny ourselves the pleasure of that social intercourse which, to _me_, at least, has thus far made this wilderness an Eden of delight? But can it be thus preserved, if we keep up that intercourse, as in the sunshine of our love,--those pleasant, fleeting, rosy months, when I was so happy, O so very happy, in the feelings of the present and the prospects of the future? No, no, it is not possible, it is not possible for you to come here, and encounter my father in such a mood, and then return and receive the upbraidings of your own, that you are joining or upholding the house of his foes. It is not possible for you to do this, and your heart receive no jar, and mine no fears or suspicions of its continued fealty. I dare not risk it. Then do not, dearest Claud, O do not come here, at least for the present. Perhaps my dark forebodings, that our connection is not to be blessed for our future happiness, may be groundless. Perhaps the storm that now so darkly hangs over us may pass harmlessly away. Perhaps this painful and perplexing misunderstanding--as I trust in Heaven's mercy it only is--may yet be placed in a light which will admit of a full reconciliation between our respective families. But, till then, let our relations to each other stand, if you feel disposed to let them, precisely as we left them at our last mournfully happy parting; for, till then, though it break my heart, I could never, never consent to a renewal of our intercourse. Have I said enough, and not too much? I could not, under the almost insupportable weight of grief, fear, and anxiety, that is distracting my brain, and crushing my poor heart,--I could not say less, I dare not say more. O Claud, Claud, why has this dreadful cloud come over us? O, pray that it may be speedily removed, and once more let in, on our pained and perplexed hearts, the sunshine of their former happiness. Dearest Claud, good-by; don't come, but don't forget. "AVIS." Claud felt greatly relieved, in some respects, by this unexpected missive; in others, the contents caused him uneasiness and self-condemnation. It relieved him from the sense of obligation he had entertained, to make the dreaded visit to the house of Gaut Gurley,--who, with every desire to arrive at a different conclusion, he could no longer believe guiltless of the basest of frauds, and the basest of means to conceal it. It relieved him, indeed, on this point; but, as we have said, made him sad and thoughtful on others. The great grief and distress under which the fair writer was so evidently laboring, and the deep-rooted love for him which was revealed in almost every line, but which her pride, in the bright hours of their courtship, had never permitted her to disclose, keenly touched his feelings, and rose in condemnation of the comparative indifference, which, in spite of all his efforts to correct its waywardness, he felt conscious had been gradually stealing over his heart, since his admiration, to say the least, had been raised by a rival vision of loveliness. In the newly-awakened feeling of the moment, however, he bitterly upbraided himself for his tergiversations in suffering his thoughts to vacillate between the Star of the Magalloway, who had his plighted faith, and Flower of the Lakes, who had no claims to his special consideration. But still, when his thoughts wandered over the scenes of the past summer, which now, since trial and hardship had brought his mind back within the dominion of reason and judgment, seemed much more like dreams than realities,--when he thought of the manner in which he became acquainted with Avis Gurley; how he persisted in gaining her affections, and kindling into an over-mastering flame his own fancy-lit love; and finally, how, against the known wishes of his family, and the dictates of his own sober judgment, he had urged her into an engagement of marriage, which he could now see had, as his mother predicted, in all probability led to a renewal of the intimacy between his father and Gaut Gurley, and that last intimacy to the present disaster, and a new quarrel, whose consequences might yet well be looked for with uneasiness and apprehension,--when he thought of all this, he deeply condemned his own indiscretion, and could not help wishing himself clear from an engagement, which, like every thing connected with the schemes of that dark and dreaded man, who was now an object of suspicion through the whole settlement, seemed destined to lead only to trouble and disaster. Such was the maze of perplexity by which the young man, now too late for an honorable retreat, found himself on every side thickly environed. Yet, for all this, and in despite of all these perplexities and misgivings, he resolved he would not cease to play the man, but honorably fulfil all his obligations in such manner as should be required of him. So much for the love and its hapless entanglements, which had been so deeply but so unsatisfactorily occupying, for the last few weeks, the thoughts of Claud Elwood, who then little suspected that there was another heart, besides that of the pure, proud, and impassioned Avis Gurley, whose every pulse, in the great unseen system of intermingling sympathies, beat in trembling vibration to his own,--a heart that had been won uncourted and unknown,--a heart that had secretly nursed, in the favoring solitudes of these wild lakes, and brooded over, a passion more deep and intense than words could well be found to describe. There _was_ such a heart; and that heart was now wildly beating, in the agonizing uncertainties of a hoped reciprocation, in the bosom of that peerless child of the forest, the beautiful Fluella; and all the more intense were its workings, because confined to its own deep recesses, where the hidden flame was laboring constantly for an outlet to its pride-walled prison, but as constantly shrinking in terror from the disclosure. She had once, however, through the violence of emotions which she could not control, accidentally betrayed the state of her feelings; but it was to one in whose discretion and friendship she was soon made to repose undoubting confidence, and with whom, therefore, she at length became reconciled to let her secret remain. The person, who had thus become the depositary of that secret was, as the reader may remember, Mrs. Elwood. The consciousness that this lady knew all, coupled as it was with the thought of the relation in which the latter stood to the object of her secret idolatry, had irresistibly drawn to her the yearning heart of the guileless maiden. She had longed for another interview, but dare not seek it; longed for some excuse for opening a communication with her, but could not find one. At length, however, fortune opened the desired avenue; and, after much hesitation and trembling, she summoned up the courage to avail herself of the offered opportunity. Phillips, in his determination to ferret out the outrage which had been committed on him and his companions, and of the author of which he still entertained no doubt, had, immediately after the trial, commenced a series of rapid journeys to all the nearest villages or trading towns in Maine and New Hampshire, to ascertain if any lot of furs, answering to those caught by his company, had been sold in those places. And one of these journeys, for that and other purposes, he had extended to the seaboard. On his return home, he immediately repaired to his neighbor Elwood's, and, unperceived, slipped into the hands of Mrs. Elwood a letter, which the wondering matron soon took to a private room, curiously opened, and, with a deep, undefined interest and varying emotions, commenced reading. It ran thus: "MRS. ELWOOD, MY FRIEND,--Our Mr. Phillips has been here, and told us all that has happened in your settlement. Mrs. Elwood, I am greatly troubled at the loss your family suffer, with the rest of the hunters, but still more troubled and fearful for your husband and your noble son, about what may grow out of the quarrel with that dark man. My father knew him, time long past, and said there would be mischief done the company, when we heard he was going with them. I hope Mr. Elwood will keep out of his way; and I hope, Claud,--O, I cannot write the thought. Mrs. Elwood, I am very unhappy. I sometimes wish your brave and noble son had suffered me to go down and be lost in the dark, wild waters of those fearful rapids. By the goodness of my white father, whom I am proud to hope you may some time see with me in your settlement, I have all the comforts and indulgences that a heart at ease could desire; warm, carpeted rooms, dress, books, company, smooth flatterers, who mean little, it may be, together with _real_ friends, who mean much, and prove it by actions, which do not, like words, ever deceive. And yet, Mrs. Elwood, they are all now without any charms for me. My heart is in your settlement. The grand old forest, and the bright lake, were always things of beauty for me, before I saw _him_; but now, when associated _with_ him,--O, Mrs. Elwood, if I did not know you had something of what I meant should forever be kept secret from all but the Great Eye, in your keeping, and if you had not made me feel you would be my discreet friend, and keep it as safe from all as an unspoken thought, I would not for worlds write what I have, and what I every moment find my pen on the point of writing more fully. O, how I wish I could make you understand, without words, what I feel,--how I grieve over what I almost know must be vain hopes, and vainer visions of happiness! You have sometimes had, it may be, very bright, delightful dreams, which seemed to bring you all your heart desired; and then you suddenly awoke, and found all had vanished, leaving you dark and sad with disappointment and regret. If you have, you may fancy what my thoughts are undergoing every hour of the day. O, how my heart is drawn away towards you! I often feel that I must fly up, like a bird, to be there. I should come now, but for what might be thought. I shall certainly be there in early spring. I can't stay away, though I may come only to see what I could bear less easy than these haunting, troubled fancies. Mrs. Elwood, adieu. You won't show this, or breathe a word about it,--I know you won't; you could not be so cruel as that. Mrs. Elwood, may I not sign myself your friend? FLUELLA." On perusing this unexpected communication, Mrs. Elwood felt--she scarcely knew herself what she felt, except a keenly appreciating sense of the writer's embarrassed feelings, and except, also, the pleasurable emotions which this timid and tender outpouring of an unsophisticated heart somehow afforded her. Ever since her singular interview with this remarkable girl, as described in a former chapter, Mrs. Elwood had not ceased to think of her as of some good angel, sent by an interposing Providence, in answer to the agonizing supplications which immediately preceded her unexpected appearance at the time,--sent to be the means, in some unforeseen way, of extricating her family from the fatal influences, as she viewed them, under which they had insidiously been brought by their different connections with the Gurleys. Especially had she been impressed that this would prove the case, in all that related to her idolized son, Claud; whom, in her disregard to all considerations of lineage, when relieved by such excellence of beauty and character, she would a thousand times rather have seen united to the Indian girl than to the one he appeared to have chosen. She was, therefore, besides being touched by the broken pathos of the letter, gratified by its reception; for it seemed to come as a sort of confirmation of her grateful presentiment, that her son, at least, was to be happily disenthralled. Nor was she, at this time, without the evidence which led her to hope that her husband, also, had now finally escaped from the toils that had, once and again, caused him such calamity and suffering. The sudden and terrible outbreak of indignation, which, with equal surprise and gratification, she had seen him exhibit against Gaut, and the quarrel in court, which followed in consequence, must, she thought, now forever keep them separate. If so, poorly as her family could afford to suffer their part of the loss of the avails of the fall's work, she would cheerfully bear it, and even look upon the event in the light of a Heaven-sent mercy. But even of this poor comfort she was destined soon to be deprived. After the trial, Mark Elwood--who, however bravely he bore himself at first, on that occasion, was finally seen to quail under the terrible glances of Gaut--soon became strangely silent respecting the prosecution and supposed perpetration of the offence about which he had before manifested so much zeal and indignation. And, in the active exertions which Phillips and Codman, in the vain search for evidence or some clue to the robbery of the furs, perseveringly kept up during the whole of the long and dreary winter that followed, he could not be induced to take any decided part. Nor would he, when they met him at his own house, or that of Phillips, as they several times did, that winter, to compare the discoveries and observations they had made, and discuss the subject, any longer maintain the position he at first so boldly took, respecting Gaut's guilt, or say any thing in aid of their deliberations. _He_, indeed, as _they_ grew more decided and convinced, seemed to grow more wavering and doubtful. Such was his demeanor and conduct in company of his late companions; while, with his own family, he appeared moody, irresolute, and restless, and even, at length, he began to throw out occasional hints tending to defend or extenuate the conduct of the very man whom, a few weeks before, he had so confidently denounced as a thief and a robber. Alarmed at these indications of returning weakness and fatuity in her husband, Mrs. Elwood soon put herself on inquiry, to ascertain the cause; and she was not long in making discoveries that more than justified her worst fears and suspicions. It appeared that Gaut Gurley, after his arrest, and after his escape from the punishment of the law, through the means, as was now generally believed, which he had cunningly provided before he entered on the commission of the offence charged, remained almost constantly at home, during nearly the whole winter, brooding, in savage mood, over his own dark thoughts and varying schemes for advantage and revenge, keeping his family in continual awe of him, and causing all who approached him to recoil, shuddering, from his presence, and mark him as a dangerous man in the community. Towards spring, however, he appeared suddenly to change his tactics, or, at least, to undergo a great change in his deportment and conduct. All at once, he came round in his usual manner. The dark cloud had been banished from his brow. He civilly accosted every acquaintance he met, appeared cheerful and good-humored, and desirous of prolonging the conversation with all with whom he came in contact, without seeming to notice, in the least, the evident inclination of most of the settlers to avoid his company. He came down, every few days, to the little village before named as the place where the court was held, and lounged for hours about the tavern; which, during the winter season, was the common resort of the settlers. Here he soon encountered his old companions, Phillips, Codman, and the Elwoods, all of whom, notwithstanding the cold and demure manner with which the two former, at least, turned away from him, he saluted with careless ease, and as if nothing had happened to disturb their former social relations. And, having thus surmounted the somewhat difficult task of breaking the ice with them, without receiving the open and absolute repulse which, however disposed, they did not deem it wise to give him, he, at the next meeting, ventured to broach the subject of their late quarrel, affecting to laugh at their mutual exhibitions of folly in getting so angry with each other in court, under the belief, on his part, that _they_ had got the furs, and, on their part, that _he_ had made way with them; when neither of them were guilty, and ought not to be charged with the offence. For himself, he said, he was now satisfied, on thinking the matter over, who were the real culprits. They were a couple of "cussed runagate Indians," that had strolled over from Canada, and, having discovered his camp, had laid in wait for his absence. He had seen the tracks of two different-sized moccasins in the sand on the lake-shore, but two days before he left; but the circumstance was forgotten, or he should not have left the camp unguarded. It was a great loss for them all; but it would not help the matter to mourn now. It must be borne; and he knew of no way to make it up but to try their luck in another expedition. He should, for his part; for he had no notion of giving up so. Such was the drift of his conversation at this interview; and, seeming to think he had ventured far enough for one experiment on their credulity, he dropped that subject and struck off on to others. But the next time he met them he contrived to turn the conversation upon the same theme; when, telling them with a confidential air that, a few days before he left camp, he discovered, on a stream coming in at the upper end of the Megantic, a succession of freshly-constructed beaver dams, which, from the number of houses and other indications around each, he thought must be occupied by one of the largest colonies of beavers ever collected on one stream in that part of the country, he directly proposed to them to join him, when the spring opened, in an expedition to secure this extraordinary collection of the valuable animals that were, unquestionably, still all there, and as unquestionably might be captured. This story, with the accompanying proposal, presented, as Gaut well knew, the most tempting inducement that could be offered, to trappers. But it made no impression on Phillips and Codman. They deeply distrusted the man, his whole story, and the motives which they believed moved him to concoct it. Spurning in their hearts, therefore, the bait that had been so artfully laid for them, they would have nothing to do with _him_ or his proposal. And, both then and thereafter, they remained unmoved, and stood proof against all the arguments his taxed ingenuity and devilish cunning could invent and bring to bear upon them. With the infatuated Mark Elwood, however, the case seemed to be almost wholly reversed. He again listened,--was again lost. He, restless, uneasy, and evidently apprehensive of something he did not disclose, from continuing under the terrible displeasure which Gaut had so significantly manifested towards him,--he had appeared, from the first, to hail with pleasure the indications of the relenting mood of the other, and seemed but too glad to be again noticed with favor. He could see no reason to distrust the man's sincerity, he said, when others raised the question; and he was much inclined to adopt his version of the robbery and burning of their camp. When, therefore, the proposal of a new expedition was made, under the circumstances we have named, the blinded Elwood seemed fully prepared to accept it; and he would have openly and without reserve done so, but for the restraining presence of his companions, who, he felt conscious, would disapprove and deprecate his conduct. Gaut had noticed all this, and was not long in bringing about a private interview with his dupe and victim, which resulted, as might be supposed, in settling the matter in just the way he intended. From that time, the conduct of Mark Elwood became wholly inexplicable to all his friends and acquaintances in the settlement. He commenced with defending Gaut Gurley, thus giving the lie to all he had said, and ended with declaring an intention of accompanying him in another trapping expedition to the upper lakes, to be entered upon on a given day in April, then near at hand. And, in spite of all the advice and warnings of his late associates in the former disastrous campaign; the remonstrances of his son, who shared in the apprehensions of the others; and the agonizing tears and entreaties of his wife, he strangely persisted in his purpose, and, like the fated one of the Scriptures, steadily "set his face" towards his contemplated destination. "The man is _hurried_!" said Phillips to Codman, as they left Elwood's on a second and last visit, made with the sole object of dissuading him from a step which they shrank from themselves,--that of going into the distant forest with such a desperate fellow as they now deeply suspected Gaut Gurley to be,--"the man is evidently _hurried_. When I saw that look Gaut gave Elwood in court, I knew he was marked for destruction, more especially than the rest of us, who are doubtless both placed on the same list. And Elwood would see it himself, if he was right-minded. Yes, he is _hurried_, and can't help it. He will go, and God grant my fears may not be realized." And he did go, but not alone. As soon as Claud became fully satisfied that his father's purpose was not to be shaken, he began earnestly to debate in mind the question whether he himself should not, as a filial duty, become a participant in the expedition, with the view of making his presence instrumental in averting the apprehended danger. And, although he perceived that his mother's distress, all troubled and doubtful as she was in deciding between her conflicting duties of affection, would be enhanced by the step; and, although his mind had been still more staggered by a brief confidential note from Avis Gurley, advising him, if not too late, to find means to break up the project of the expedition entirely, yet he finally made up his mind in the affirmative. And, accordingly, on the morning of the appointed day, both father and son, after a leave-taking with the despondent wife and mother, more ominously sad and mournful than had ever before marked their family trials, set forth again for the wild wastes of the lakes, with their now doubly questionable companion. CHAPTER XVIII. "But there was weeping far away; And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim." BRYANT'S MURDERED TRAVELLER. It was the second week in May; and spring, delightful spring, sweet herald of happiness to all the living creatures that have undergone the almost literal imprisonment of one of the long and dreary winters of our hyperborean clime, was beginning to sprinkle the green glories of approaching summer over the reanimated wilderness. In the physical world, all seemed light and laughing around: --"the green soil with joyous living things Swarm'd, the wide air was full of joyous wings." The sun, no longer feebly struggling through the dark, obstructed medium of a northern winter's atmosphere, was throwing abroad his clear, unstinted floods of living light, bathing with soft radiance the diversified face of the basking forest, and gleaming far and brightly over the soothed waters of the sleeping lake. The mild and genial zephyrs were discoursing the low, sweet, melancholy music of their aeolian harps, among the gently-wavering tops of the whispering pines. The choral throng of feathered songsters were filling every grove, glade, or glen, of field and forest, with the glad strains of their merry melodies. And all nature seemed crying aloud, in the fulness of her happiness, "The summer is coming; rejoice ye, rejoice!" So smiled every thing, animate and inanimate, in the visible physical world, as circumscribed to this secluded settlement, on the morning when opened the first scene in the closing act of our story's changeful drama. But in the moral world, so far as the interests and feelings of most of our leading personages were involved, the skies were overcast with contrasted clouds of doubt and darkness. On that morning, at the Elwood Landing, on the western shore of Umbagog, stood a collected group of excited people, of different ages and sexes, gazing anxiously across the lake in the direction of the great inlet, as if expecting the appearance of some object or person from that quarter. But, before naming the cause of their assembling and the objects of their present solicitude, we will leave them a moment for a brief--but, for the understanding of the reader, necessary--recurrence to what had transpired, in the interim between the departure of the two Elwoods and Gaut Gurley, and the present occasion. For nearly a month after her husband and son left home, Mrs. Elwood had been wholly unable to obtain any tidings of them, or any information even of their locality on the upper lakes. And gloomily, O how gloomily, with her, passed the long and dreary days and sleepless nights of that dismal period! Little had occurred to vary the monotony of her harrowing anxieties; and that little tended rather to increase than relieve them. For, even from the limited intercourse she had with families of the settlers,--although their conversation, out of regard to her feelings, was restrained and guarded, when the subject nearest her heart was introduced,--she gathered the fact that she was not alone in her fears and anxieties, but that they were shared, to a greater or less extent, by the people of the whole settlement; among whom the subject was being daily discussed, at every fireside, with avowed apprehensions that some fearful fate was awaiting one or both of the Elwoods, in their sojourn in the forest, in whose dark recesses there would be no witnesses to restrain the evil-doer from the purposes of robbery and revenge which they generally believed he secretly entertained. But, among all the settlers, no one had exhibited so much anxiety and restlessness as the hunter, Phillips. He had been almost continually absent from home, evidently to distant places, but where and with what objects he declined to make known. The direction and object of one of these secret journeys, however, was inferred from the unexpectedly early return of Fluella, the lovely maid of the forest, who had no sooner reached her old home than she flew to the Elwood cottage, to mingle her tears and sympathies with those of the anxious and troubled matron; who, in the circumstances, could have received no more acceptable visit. With the opening of the season, also, other absentees had returned to the settlement. Carvil had come back, to ascertain what had been effected in relation to the supposed robbery of the furs, the fall before, having intrusted his interests to the care of Phillips; and now feeling, with the others, apprehensive for the result of the new expedition, he was anxiously awaiting the return of the absent trappers. Tomah, the eccentric young Indian, likewise had surprised the settlers by his sudden reappearance among them, in a suit of superfine broadcloth, hat and boots to match, gold watch, showy seals, and all the gewgaw _etceteras_ that go to make up the animal they call a city dandy. He had sold his moose, it appeared, for four hundred dollars, and brought nearly the whole of it home on his bedizened person,--with the object, as he soon admitted, of dazzling the hitherto obdurate Fluella. "Yes,--catch her sartain, now," he said, with a complaisant glance over his dashing rig, on departing for the chief's, as soon as he ascertained the fair object of his pursuit had returned to her father's. But he soon came back, in a great miff, and offered to sell the whole of his fine new outfit for just one half what it cost him. Contrary to expectation, he declared he would have nothing more to do with Gaut Gurley; concerning whom he had seen something, about the time of the trial, to awaken his suspicions, and against whom he now evidently stood ready to array himself, with the rest, on the next occasion. With these few incidents, April passed away, and the first day of May, the usual limit of the fur season, had arrived; but with it the absent trappers had failed to make their appearance. Another week passed, and still they came not. "What could it mean?" was on every tongue. Men ominously shook their heads, and women and children began, in the connection, to talk in suppressed voices of the dark character of Gaut Gurley. At this juncture, word came that Gaut had returned, and had several times been seen about his home. A man was immediately dispatched to Gaut's residence, for inquiries about the Elwoods; but the messenger returned and reported that Gaut said he parted with them on the Maguntic,--he to go over the mountains to his home, on the Magalloway, and they, in their canoe, that had been frozen up in Oquossak, the fall before, to go to Bethel to sell their furs. Further than this, he knew nothing about them. "I don't believe a word of it!" exclaimed the hunter, who with many others had anxiously awaited, at the tavern, the messenger's return: "not one word of it! They would not have gone off to Bethel after such an absence, before returning home; or, if they had, they would have been here before this time. But the story shall be investigated without twelve hours delay. It is time we were moving in the business. Who will furnish me with a good saddle-horse?" The horse was furnished; and within half an hour the excited hunter was speeding his way to Bethel. He returned early the next morning, in a state of still greater excitement and concern than before; having ridden all night, in his anxiety to reach the settlement by the time people were up, so that immediate measures might be put afoot to scour the country in search of the missing Elwoods, whose continued absence had now become doubly mysterious and alarming, by the discovery he had made, as he feared he should, that they had not gone to Bethel at all, nor been seen or heard of anywhere in that direction. The news of Gaut's return alone, his improbable story, and the discovery of its almost certain falsity, spread like wild-fire over the settlement; and the people, already prepared to believe the worst by their previous suspicions of Gaut's evil designs, rose up as one man, instinctively shuddering at the thought of the apprehended crime, and feeling irresistibly impelled to attempt something to bring about that fearful atonement which Heaven demands of every man who wilfully sheds the blood of his fellow-man. So deep and absorbing was this feeling, indeed, in the present instance, that men dropped their hoes in the field, left their axes sticking in the trees, and threw aside all other kinds of business, and, with excited and troubled looks, hurried off to the scene of action, to see, hear, and join in whatever movement the exigencies of the case might require to be made. And before night nearly the whole of the settlers, residing within a circuit of a dozen miles of the surrounding country, had assembled at the tavern in the rustic hamlet, which, as before mentioned, they made, on all extraordinary occasions, the place of their common rendezvous. Here, after conversing a while in scattered groups, exchanging in low, hurried tones, and with many an apprehensive glance around them, their various opinions and conjectures, they gradually gathered in one room in the tavern, formed themselves into something like an organized meeting, and began their deliberations. But, before they had settled on any definite course of action, their attention was suddenly turned from the channel their minds were all evidently taking, by a new and unexpected occurrence. Two young men, who had that day been across the lake to the Great Rapids, for the purpose of fishing, returned to the village about sunset, with the news that they had discovered, at the foot of the most dangerous pass of the rapids, wedged in among the projecting flood-wood of the place, a partially-wrecked and stove canoe, which they both recognized as the one kept by the Elwoods at their landing last summer, and, of course, the one they took away with them in their succeeding fall expedition. This fact, all at once readily perceived, might throw an entirely new aspect over the whole of the mysterious affair; and they soon decided on dispatching the same young men, at daybreak the next morning, across the lake, to examine carefully both shores of the inlet up to, and some distance beyond, the place where they found the canoe, to see if they could find any thing else, or discover any indications going to show that anybody had been wrecked and drowned there; then to return, as quickly as possible, with the wrecked canoe in tow, and whatever else they might find, to the Elwood landing; where the company would assemble, by the middle of the forenoon, to receive them, hear their report, examine the canoe, and take action according to the circumstances. It was done; and this was the occasion of the assembling at the landing of the mingled and anxious group which we began to describe near the commencement of this chapter, and to which we will now return. Foremost in the mingled group of people which we have thus brought to view, was the agonized wife and mother of the missing or lost men; whose doubtful fate was also engrossing, though less intensely, every thought and feeling of the sympathizing company around her. She had gradually worked herself down to the extremest verge of the low shore, and had unconsciously placed one foot in the edge of the water, as if irresistibly drawn to the farthest possible limit in the supposed direction of those two objects of her affection, who, alive or dead, were still her all-in-all of this world; and there she stood, slightly inclined forward, but motionless, mute, and pale as a marble statue, with lips painfully compressed, and eyes, glazed and watery, intently fixed on the opposite shore of the lake to which she was looking for relief, at least from the terrible suspense under which she was suffering. By her side, a little back, stood the wife of the hunter, and two or three other women of the vicinity, who had more particularly interested themselves in her troubles,--some shedding sympathetic tears, and some offering an occasional word, which they hoped might in a slight degree divert her sorrows or console her in her anguish. But, alike regardless of their falling tears and soothing remarks, she gazed on, in unbroken silence, hour after hour, taking no note of time, or any object around her, in the all-absorbing intensity of her feelings. Little, indeed, was said by _any_ of the company. The younger portion stood in hushed awe at the sight of grief in the older, and at the thought of what might the next hour befall. And the men, though visibly exercised by strong emotions, and occasionally revealing a trembling lip or starting tear, as they glanced at the face of the chief sufferer, yet offered scarce a remark to relieve the pervading gloom of the sad and anxious hour. The whole group, indeed, might have been taken for a funeral cortege, awaiting on the shore the expected remains of some deceased friend. After standing in this manner till nearly noon, the company caught sight of a scarcely-perceptible object on the water, in the direction of the great inlet. And, although for some time it appeared like a speck, as seen against the low, green fringe of the opposite and far-distant shore, yet it at length so enlarged on the vision that the form of a canoe and the gleam of flashing oars became distinctly discernible. Soon a little variation in the line of approach brought not only the canoe and the rowers, but another canoe in tow, plainly in view; and then all knew that their painful suspense was about to be ended. Another half-hour had to be passed by the company, who still stood there in trembling expectation, awaiting the approach of the canoes; when, as the latter now came within hailing distance, the impatient hunter stepped down to the water's edge, and called out: "What news do you bring?" "None! but we have brought the canoe." "I see; but have you made no discoveries?" "None whatever." "No caps, packs, or bunches of furs washed up anywhere?" "No, nothing. We examined thoroughly both shores of the rapids, and found nothing, and no mark or sign of any thing about which any conclusion could be formed respecting the manner the canoe got there." "But the oars?" "We found them in the same flood-wood with the boat, and they appeared as if they were thrown out of the canoe when it struck." The canoe, which was the object of scrutiny, and which had been injured much less than had been supposed, a break in the upper part of the bow being the only ruptured part, was now drawn up on the shore; when Phillips, Codman, and Tomah took upon themselves to go into a minute and careful inspection of every part of its outer and inner surface, together with every appearance from which any inference having the least bearing on the question at issue could be drawn by these experienced and observing canoe-men. "Men no leave oars in canoe, when go over falls," at length observed the Indian, standing back with the air of one who has satisfied himself with an examination,--"no leave oars that way; have them out to use; and then, when upset, drop 'em in the river; where get scattered, go down, wash up different places, mile apart, may be,--not together, right close side of canoe, likely. Don't believe so much story, like that come to." "Spoke like a man who knows something," said the trapper, the next to offer comments. "And here is a loosened slip-knot in the end of this bark boat-rope, which I have been looking at. See! it has been drawn into a fixed knot, that hasn't been altered since it has had considerable use and steady pulling through it, as I see by the chafed bark inside the small hole within the knot. The hole is too small to have been brought into this shape by hitching it to a stake or projecting limb of a tree on shore. It looks exactly as if a tie attached to some other canoe had been passed through it, to draw this canoe along by; and here is a slight mark of a knife, where that tie has been cut out, owing to the difficulty of untying. This canoe must have been hitched behind some other canoe, and towed down to the head of the rapids, and there sent adrift." "Yes," responded the hunter, who had been particularly confining his attention to the outer and top edges along the sides of the boat; "yes; and here is the moss or scurf that had gathered on these upper edges, on both sides, during the snows and thaws of winter, still remaining entire and unbroken, in every part of this delicate weather coating, which even a thumbnail, as you see, can't pass over without marring it or leaving a mark. No man could have rowed this canoe twenty rods without grazing these edges and leaving marks on them. Yes, you are both right. This canoe, which I suppose you all agree was Mr. Elwood's, has not been rowed since he left it hauled up on the shore of the Oquossak last fall, to be buried by the great snow-storm; and the Elwoods are both safe, for all being wrecked and drowned from _that_ boat, or any other, I presume." The countenance of Mrs. Elwood, who stood at some little distance from the spot where the examination of the canoe had been going on, but near enough to hear most of what was said, visibly brightened at this announcement. The hunter saw the expression, and a shade of anguish passed over his face, as, turning to those immediately around him, and speaking in a low, subdued, and commiserating tone, he resumed: "I cannot find it in my heart to dampen the new-lighted hope which this turn of the affair seems to give that poor, wretched wife and mother. But, to my mind, all this makes it doubly certain that the Elwoods have met with foul play. It looks exactly like one of Gaut's devilish schemes of finesse, to cause this canoe to be sent down the rapids, and be so found as to lead folks to suppose the owners were drowned, and to put the public on a false scent. Yes, friends, you may depend there has been foul play,--I dare not guess how foul. I have felt it the last fortnight, as if same unseen hand was writing the dreadful secret on my heart. I feel it still, now stronger than ever. And I call God to witness my resolution, that I will know no rest or relaxing till I see the dark deed laid open to day, and its infernal author brought to justice. Will you all join me in the work, without flinching or flagging?" The low but firmly-responded "Yes, yes, all of us," told the hunter that he would know no lack of efficient aid in carrying out his resolution. "Let us, then," he said, "leave the women and boys, a few minutes, and retire back here a few rods, out of their hearing, to determine on the first steps to be taken." In accordance with this suggestion, the men withdrew, by themselves, to a convenient place on the site of an old camping-ground, within the forest, a few rods farther up the lake, leaving Mrs. Elwood and her female attendants slowly retracing their steps back to her house, from which they had accompanied her to this spot, and the boys amusing themselves in seeing who could throw a stone farthest into the lake. The men, now relieved from the fear of causing Mrs. Elwood needless alarm, and of having their remarks reported by others of the mingled company,--to the injury, perhaps, of the investigation on hand,--at once gave vent to their smothered convictions, and feelings of indignation and horror, in an exciting debate; which soon resulted in the determination to dispatch, the next morning, four men in two canoes up the lakes, in search of the missing, or such traces of them as might lead to a discovery of their fate; while the rest should remain in the settlement, to watch for new indications there and keep a vigilant eye on the movements of the bold but wary villain, whom they all believed to be the perpetrator of the supposed outrage. But, before they had fully settled the details of their plan, their attention was arrested by a shouting from the boys, who announced that a strange canoe was approaching them from the other part of the lake. Hearing this, and thinking the new-comer might have perhaps arrived from the upper lakes, and could give them important information, the men immediately suspended their consultation, and came out to the landing to hail him, or to await his approach. They soon discovered that the rower was an Indian, and it was not long before the trapper began to recognize the canoe, from some peculiarity about the bow, to be his own, and the one he had left with the boats of his companions on the Oquossak the season before. This, if true, might lead to important developments; and the company kept their eyes keenly fixed on the rower, to see if he would manifest any disposition to avoid them. But he kept steadily on towards the landing, and, in another minute, was within near hailing distance. "Hillo! my red friend, where did you get that canoe?" cried the trapper. "Tell you soon,--you make me believe you right to know," quietly replied the native, without appearing to be in the least disturbed by the question, or any inference which might naturally be drawn from it. "Well, I _can_ make you believe I have a right to know, if you are _willing_ to believe; for I can swear the canoe is my own, and prove it, too, by some of these gentlemen," returned the trapper, with warmth. "Maybe,--we see soon," responded the other, an intelligent, good-looking, middle-aged Indian, now slipping ashore and firmly confronting the company. "Now tell us where you got it, sir," again sharply demanded the trapper. "I have offered to swear to my ownership, and prove it; so tell how you came by it, unless you would have us believe you stole it." "Stole it?" reproachfully said the Indian. "Ask that man," he added, pointing to Carvil, whom he appeared to have previously recognized,--"ask him, if me do thing like that?" "Moose-killer, is this you?" exclaimed Carvil, who had been eying the stranger Indian with a hesitating air. "I thought, from the first, I knew you, but couldn't quite decide. Moose-killer, I am glad you have come. We are just at this time trying to search out a dark affair, which we fear has happened, and with which this boat you came in may possibly be connected. We should be glad to make a few inquiries of you, when you are ready to hear them. There need," he added, turning to the trapper and the others, "there need be no fear but this man will tell a true story; I have met him on the Great Megantic, where he goes by the name I have called him, on account of his well-known expertness in moose-killing." The Indian started at the significant allusion which had been made to the subject that was then engaging the attention of those present, and its possible connection with his canoe; and, with unusual promptness for one of his demure and slow-speaking race, announced himself ready to tell his story. "Moose-killer is about to speak," said Carvil, looking round on the eagerly expectant company. "We will all listen. What he will say will be true." "Hear, in my country," thereupon began Moose-killer, in the abbreviated, broken, and sententious language peculiar to the Red Man,--"hear, in my country, beaver bring more this side the mountains; so come over, and been to Bethel-town to sell 'em. Come over mountains, down piece, the river you call Magalloway,--then strike off down to big lake, Megantic. Then follow shore long way; but stop sudden,--start back! See much blood on the leaves,--trail all along down to the water. Then go back, look again,--find where man fall, bleed much,--die,--lay there till dead quite. Man, because see where hands catch hold of moss, leaves,--feet kick in ground. All dead, because feet limber and no catch in brush dragging to shore,--find where canoe hitch to shore,--dead man put in, rowed away, sunk in lake, likely. Look all over ground again, much time,--then come on long way, and find that canoe, hid in bushes,--take it, go sell beaver,--then come here quick to tell story, see who missing." We will not undertake to describe the intense excitement which this brief but pregnant story of the Indian produced on the company, who; though hoping to gather something from him that might be of use in the inquiry on hand, were yet little expecting a development so startling as this. They--especially those but little acquainted with the Indian character--could, at first, hardly believe that a story of such horrors, if true, could be told so quietly, and with so little apparent feeling, as the narrator had exhibited during his recital; and they immediately subjected him to a long and close cross-examination. Nothing, however, was elicited to weaken his story, but some things to confirm it. Among these was a faint stain of blood, which Moose-killer pointed out to the company, in the bow of the canoe, and which was evidently but lately made; while the size and height of the man, supposed to be murdered, which the Indian judged of by a similar curious process with that by which he reached his other conclusions, were seen to correspond with the dimensions of the elder Elwood; who was believed to be the man thus indicated, though it left the fate of Claud still shrouded in mystery. "Poor Mark Elwood!" exclaimed the hunter, with a sigh, as they closed their examination of the Indian. "He is dead; whatever may have become of his son, for whom there is still some hope, _he_, at least, is dead! murdered in cold blood! and who need doubt the identity of the accursed author of the deed?" "This is, certainly, something like tangible evidence," responded Carvil, whose former studies enabled him to speak more understandingly, in the matter of legal evidence, than his companions. "And, though it is still only circumstantial, yet, when taken in connection with Gaut's false story, and all other of the attending circumstances, it stands out most remarkably significant against the man; and, even without any additional proof, it would, I think, warrant us in arresting him." "In God's name, then, let it be done, before he escapes from the country!" cried the hunter, with startling emphasis. "But we must all keep the discoveries we have made to-day, as well as the movements we may now make, as secret as death, lest he hear of them and take the alarm." An earnest consultation was then held, and a plan of operations soon adopted. By this it was arranged that Moose-killer--who, when he had gathered what was known of Gaut Gurley, and obtained a description of his person, entered into the arrangements with an unexpected alacrity--it was arranged that Moose-killer, Carvil, Tomah, and two of the settlers, should start immediately up the lakes, in further search for the body of Mark Elwood (whose fate was now treated as settled), and, also, for a more general search round the two upper lakes for his son, Claud; who, it was hoped, had by some means been separated from his father, and suffered to escape, despite the improbability that he would remain so long absent, if nothing had befallen him. Phillips also concluded to accompany them as far as the next lake above, to see the chief and his daughter, to confide to them the discoveries of the day, and put them on the lookout for further indications. The rest of the company were to return quietly and separately, as far as could conveniently be done, to the village, and there remain till after dark; when two of their number were to ride, as fast as horses could carry them, to Lancaster, for warrants, a sheriff, and his posse, to be on the ground as early as possible the next morning; while others were to proceed up the Magalloway, and lurk round in the woods within sight of the house of Gaut Gurley, as spies on his movements. The company then separated on their several destinations; and, during the remainder of the afternoon, nothing occurred in the settlement which need here be mentioned, except the secret and cautiously-made preparations for the proposed action of the night, that, though imperceptible to the uninitiated, were yet actively going on at the village. About sunset, however, the hunter returned from his visit to the chief's; but in a state of no little perplexity and concern, at an event which he unexpectedly found had there occurred. This was the unaccountable absence of Fluella, who, without apprising her father of her intentions, had secretly left home several days before. As the hunter had depended considerably on the girl's acuteness and means of observation at the commanding point of her residence, he was both disappointed and puzzled at her absence. And, as he had been debating with himself, on his way across the lake, whether he had not better call on Mrs. Elwood, and take the first step towards gradually preparing her mind for the worst, in regard to her husband, he now resolved to do so, with the further object of getting her version of Fluella's absence at such a juncture. Accordingly, he called at the house; and, seeing the afflicted woman's entreatingly expectant looks, he at once entered on his painful task by hinting his fears for the fate of her husband; when, somewhat to his surprise, she cut him short by sadly remarking: "I know it all." "How?--what have you heard?" eagerly asked the hunter. "I don't know it by what I have heard," she replied, in the same sad accents; "for I have heard less, perhaps, than you; but I knew it would be so, from the hour he departed. And, a few days ago, my heart received a shock. It was from the same blow that killed him. Yes, poor Mr. Elwood is dead! I have buried him! But my son Claud--O, my son Claud!" The astonished hunter then told her of the singular absence of Fluella; when, again to his surprise, she started up, and joyfully exclaimed, "He lives!--though in danger, perhaps, he lives, and I shall see him again!" Wondering whether her reason was not unsettled, the hunter departed, and hurried on to the village. CHAPTER XIX. "What justice ever other judgment taught, But he should die who merits not to live." SPENSER. About the middle of the afternoon, on the day next succeeding the eventful one which was marked by the occurrences narrated in the last chapter, a cavalcade of about a dozen men on horseback, followed by a single wagon, containing some fire-arms, two or three pairs of iron handcuffs, and a few other articles of luggage, came clattering down the road from the west, towards the tavern with which the reader has already been made familiar. The men, who had been dispatched for the shire-town of the county, had ridden hard all night, reached the place at daylight, drummed up the officers of justice, got them started at an early hour, and urged them on with such speed that, within twenty hours, they had arrived at the scene of action. After the halt of an hour at the tavern, for rest and refreshment, and a brief consultation with the settlers, the sheriff, and his posse, now swelled by volunteers from the settlement, set forth, under the guidance of Phillips, for the residence of the supposed criminal, calculating to reach there about dusk,--the hour they deemed most favorable for making the arrest. After proceeding in silence about two-thirds of the way to their destination, they halted, to make their final preparations and arrangements for the onset; when, knowing the great strength and desperate character of the man with whom they would have to deal, they first carefully prepared their fire-arms, and then detailed a half-dozen of their number, most conversant with the locality, to go forward, spread themselves around the borders of Gaut's clearing, and cautiously advance to the house, so as to head off any attempt he might make to escape, when the main body made their appearance. All the time spent in these precautions, however, as well as this whole jaunt thus far up the river, was destined to be mostly lost; for, as the company were again beginning to move forward, they were met by the scouts, dispatched the night before, hurrying back, most of them in a disabled condition, and with the report that Gaut had escaped about an hour before. They had lain in their coverts all day, and in the fore part of it nothing had been seen to excite their suspicions; but, towards night, they noticed him cleaning his rifle and pistols, as near as they could judge, and then, soon after, bringing out a pack and placing it by the side of his rifle at the door; and scarcely had they time to concentrate before he came out, shouldered his pack, took his arms, and proceeded towards a canoe moored on the bank of the river. They then instantly resolved to intercept him; and, running for the spot, came up to him just as he had laid his rifle in the boat; when he turned upon them with the suddenness and fury of a pursued tiger; seized the foremost, who had laid his hands on the canoe, and, with giant strength, threw him headlong into the river; hurled the second with stunning effect on the ground; knocked down a third with his fist; leaped into his canoe, sent it swiftly across the stream, ran up the opposite bank, and disappeared in the woods, before they had recovered from their confusion, or thought of having recourse to their rifles to stop him. "Slipped through our fingers and gone!" said the sheriff with an air of chagrin and disappointment. "Yes, for this onset," said Codman, the next to volunteer remarks in the provoking nonplus in which they now all found themselves. "Yes, but I should like mightily to know how he got wind of our movements? If the devil didn't tell him, I don't think he done as well by his friend as he ought." "Perhaps," rejoined the sheriff, after the laugh of some and the approving glances of others, which had followed the characteristic remark of the trapper, had passed away,--"perhaps he, or some of his family, caught a glimpse of these scouts round their clearing during the day; or perhaps he has an accomplice, or tool, whom he had engaged to watch public movements, and bring him word." "I have thought of some such thing, myself," remarked Phillips. "In the case of his robbing our camp, last fall, I felt quite confident he must have had some accomplice, or some secret agent, to take off the furs for him. If he has such an one now, I think it must be a Jesuit priest, as I have heard that such a looking personage has, once or twice, been seen at Gaut's house since he moved into the settlement." "Well, if the villain has such a character as that in tow, he would be devil enough for all common purposes," responded the sheriff. "But, however all that may be, I fear he has struck a line for Canada, and this is the last we shall ever see of him in this country." "Not for Canada," confidently said the hunter; "for I know enough about him to make me feel quite sure that he will never again trust his head within reach of British authority." "Ah!" exclaimed the sheriff, "what is it you know?" "I think it had better not be told just yet," answered the other, decisively. "Let us first see whether he can't be caught and hung here, for his last crying offence." "But do you think he can yet be overtaken, and arrested?" asked the former. "Certainly I do," returned the hunter, with earnest confidence. "He must, and _shall_, be taken! God's curse is on the man; and he will never, I tell you, _never_ be suffered to escape us." "Well, then," resumed the sheriff, thoughtfully, "what course do you think he will take, and where secrete himself, so that he can be found? I, on my part, stand ready to do every thing in my power to bring the miscreant, of whose guilt I think there can now be but little doubt, to immediate justice. Now, as you are said to be a man of observation and energy, Mr. Phillips, let us have the benefit of your opinion and advice in the matter." "It is my opinion," said the hunter, in response, after dropping his head a moment in study, "it is very clearly my opinion that the fellow will now aim to reach some of the eastern cities,--over the Umbagog, most likely, in a canoe that he keeps concealed somewhere on the western shore, which is only a mile or two over this ridge, that rises from the other bank of the river, here against us. He will not be likely to come back to his house, or the river, where he will still suppose we are on the watch; nor will he start out on the lake till after dark, lest he be seen, and his course traced; but lie concealed till that time in some of the difficult rocky steeps that shut down to the lake." "Your ideas of his probable aims and movements appear reasonable, Mr. Phillips. Now, what are the steps you would advise to be taken for his apprehension?" asked the sheriff. "Well, my plan would be something like this," replied the hunter, musingly. "I would post half a dozen men, for the night,--to be relieved in the morning,--a half mile or so apart, along this river, above and below here, to be walking back and forth, and occasionally firing a gun. The others go back, and a sufficient number get on to the lake before dark to have canoes in station every quarter of a mile along the western shore. Codman, you will be a good hand to manage this company. As for myself, I will wade the river somewhere hereabouts, go over through the woods to the lake-shore, be mousing round the shore a little, in search of his canoe, and, if I find it, be out on the water by the time you get there; if not, I will be within call of some of you, and give, for a signal, the cry of a raccoon, which I can imitate tolerably, I believe." "But you don't propose to go alone?" asked several, anxiously. "It might be dangerous business, if you should happen to encounter him with no help within call." "Yes, I think I will go alone," quietly replied the hunter. "If he can see me before I do him, he will do better than I think he can. And, if I _do_ get my eye on him first, he will stop and yield, or die, as sure as my rifle is true to its old trust; for I should feel it my bounden duty to stop him by bullet, if need be, in case he should attempt to flee, as much as I should to shoot a painter carrying off one of my own children." By the approval of the sheriff, and the concurrence of all, the hunter's plan of operations was immediately adopted. And, accordingly, the designated numbers were told off to man the river, and at once set in motion to perform the duty; while the rest retraced their way to the village, except the hunter, who, seeking a shoal place, waded the river, and was soon out of sight among the thickets of the opposite bank. On the return of the company to the tavern, every boat to be found on the river, from that place to the lake, was immediately put in requisition, for the service of the night. And by early twilight, eight canoes, each containing two or three well-armed men, led on by the trapper, in a single canoe, were seen emerging from the outlet into the broad lake, and slowly filing off along its western border. Coasting in closely to the shore, so as to keep within the shadow of the woods, they pursued their noiseless way up the lake, to a point where the low, marshy land lying between the lower part of the Umbagog and the Magalloway rises into the gradually-swelling ridge, which, a mile or two farther on, becomes a rocky, precipitous mountain, whose beetling cliffs, overhanging the deep, dark waters beneath, were crowned with their primeval growth of towering pines. Here they paused long enough to station one of their canoes, near a small point, commanding a view across the corresponding coves on either side; and then cautiously proceeded onward, dropping a canoe, in like manner, every five or six hundred yards, till the extremity of the western coast was reached, the line efficiently manned, and the trapper left to cruise alone over the cordon of boats thus stretched along the shore, to carry any needed intelligence, and make independent observations. It was now dark, and, being a moonless night, all within the shade of the mountains, especially, was wrapt in almost impenetrable gloom; so that the ear, rather than the eye, must now be depended on for whatever discoveries were to be made. Nothing as yet, to the disappointment and increasing anxiety of the company, had been seen or heard of the hunter. "He cannot have been killed, so soon, can he?" whispered the sheriff, in one of the last-stationed canoes, as the trapper glided alongside, to hold communication with the officer. "No," was the low-toned reply; "that could not have happened, if there were any _fear_ of such a thing, without one or more rifle-shots, which, in this calm evening, and this favorable locality for conveying sounds to a great distance, we must have heard, even down to the tavern. No, I will risk him. I think he must have got on to the fellow's trail, and, if near the lake, lies in some spot where he can't move away without danger of alarming the game. We have nothing to do but wait patiently. Phillips knows we are here in waiting, and he will report himself as soon as he can." They did not, however, have to wait long. In a few minutes, a small, shrill, quavering cry, which few could have distinguished from that of a raccoon, rose from a thicket on the shore, a short distance below. "Ah! that is he," softly cried the trapper; "I know the thicket he is hailing from. If you will remain just where you are, I will scull my canoe down to the spot, take him in with me, if he has not found a boat,--or at any rate bring him here to make his report." Like the gliding of a fish, shrinking away from sight, the light canoe, under the invisible impulse of the dexterously handled oar of the trapper, passed noiselessly away, and disappeared in the darkness. But, long before the expectant officer, who had been vainly listening for some sound, either of the going or the coming of the absent canoe, had thought of its return, it was again at his side, with the anticipated addition to its occupants. "Here is the man, to speak for himself," said the trapper, putting out a hand to guard off and prevent the canoes from grazing. "Well, Mr. Phillips," said the sheriff, in the same cautious under-tone by which all their communications had been graduated, "we are all looking to you,--what is your report?" "In the first place, that he is here." "Where?" "Sixty or seventy rods to the north of us, in a secure retreat up among the rocks, about a dozen rods from the shore." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes." "How did you make the discovery?" "I will tell you. When I came over, I struck down to the lake, nearly abreast the lower end of the ridge, and cautiously moved along the shore, upwards, in search of the suspected boat; without discovering it, however, till I came to the rocky pass I have alluded to, a short distance above here; when, peering out into the approaching darkness, I caught sight of it run under a treetop lying partly in the water. Your boats had not got on there; and thinking, if I took the boat out on to the water, as I had proposed, he might discover the loss too soon, take the alarm, and conclude to escape through the woods round the upper lakes, I varied my plan, and stationed myself back a few rods, to see if he would not come down to escape by his canoe. I had trailed him to the top of this rocky eastern slope, before I struck down to the lake, and knew he must be somewhere near; so I cocked my rifle, for instant use, and stood ready for his approach. And in a short time I caught the sound of his movements, sliding cautiously down the rocky steeps from the spot above, where I suspected he had housed himself. But, before he reached the bottom of the short ravine he must come down, or could be seen where I stood, a dry stick unluckily broke under my foot, and the sound, as I perceived at once, brought him to a stand. And, though he did not know, and don't know yet, whether the sound was caused by the step of man or beast, yet he soon seemed to think it safest to retreat; and my ear could distinctly trace his movements, as he clambered and pulled himself along back up the ledges to his retreat. I then went down to the shore; and perceiving, from the slight agitation of the water and the faint sound of its gurgling under oars, that you had got on to the ground, I stole down the shore a piece, and gave the signal, as you heard." "Are you familiar with the place where you think he lies concealed?" "Yes, nearly as much so as with my own door-yard." "What sort of a place is it, and how many ways are there to reach it or to escape from it?" "It is the most curious place in all these parts, and there is but one way, I ever could find, to get to it; and that is, by climbing up the ledgy shelf of the face of the hill, through a sort of ravine that opens from it down to the lake, where there is scarce room, enough, on either side, to pass along the shore between the perpendicular cliffs and the water. It is an old bear's den, in fact, passing horizontally into the rocks twelve or fifteen feet, of varying breadth, and, after you get in, from three to six feet in height. I have taken at least a half-dozen fine bears from it, in my day, and supposed I was the only one knowing of it; but Gaut must have discovered it before this; for I at once found by his trail that he steered directly for the spot, on leaving the Magalloway." "He did?" interposed the trapper; "_he_ find it, when he has been here in the settlement less than a year, and knows little about the woods; and _I_, who have been here a dozen years, knew nothing about it? He never found it without _help_, and that, too, from the same character that let him know we were coming to his house, to-day. I tell you, the Old Boy is in that man!" "Then we will hang him and the Old Boy with one rope," resumed the hunter, "for we are now sure of him." "I hope so," said the sheriff; "but can he be taken to-night?" "He might, possibly, if we were willing to run risks enough," replied the hunter, doubtfully. "But I should hardly think it advisable to make the attempt. He could not be drawn from the cave, if we made the onset; while, if we entered it, he could easily kill several of us before he could be secured." "What shall be done, then?" "I have been studying on that, and the best thing I can think of, is, to post men enough to guard him securely through the night; and then have on force enough in the morning to unburrow him, by some means or other, which we will contrive when the time comes." "But will he not come down, to escape in his boat, to-night?" "I rather expect not. After hearing the noise I made, and, then coupling it with my signal, which he will then be suspicious of, as well as of the sounds that most likely have reached or will reach his ears from some of our boats; after all this, he will, probably, be afraid of falling into a trap, and would prefer taking his chances of escape by daylight. But, if he should come down, I will arrange things so that we will have him, to a dead certainty." The suggestions of the hunter were again adopted; and he was again requested to take the lead in putting the proposed plan into execution. Accordingly, after directing the trapper to concentrate those stationed in their canoes above with those in one or two below, he entered the boat with the sheriff and his associate; and, taking an oar, slowly rowed along towards the place he had designated as the retreat of the desperate outlaw, on whose seizure they were so resolutely determined. After reaching the spot, and waiting till the expected boat-crews arrived, the hunter quietly landed, and stationed two of the men in the narrow pass north of the gorge, with orders to keep a sharp lookout through the night, hail whoever might approach, and shoot him down before suffering him to escape. He next led two more up round the nearest approaches of the cave, and posted one on each side, a little above it, to prevent all possibility of escape over the rocks and ledges in that direction; and then, returning down to the shore, selected the trapper to occupy with him the southern pass to the gorge, thus reserving for himself, and the man on whom he believed he could best rely in an emergency, the post where an encounter would be most likely to occur. After completing these arrangements, and landing a pair of handcuffs from the sheriff's boat, he dismissed the officer to collect all the rest of the company, not thus retained, and return to the village for the night, and for a fresh rally the next morning. It was now ten o'clock at night; and from that time, for the next six hours, the stillness and darkness of death brooded over the slumbering waters of the lake. The mute men on guard,--to whom the slowly-passing hours seemed doubly long and gloomy, from the oppressive sense of the duty of silence,--stood immovably at their posts, alternately employing themselves in guessing at the hour of the night, and intently listening to catch some sound which should indicate the presence of the dreaded object of their watch. But, through the whole night, no such sound or indication reached their strained senses; and most of them, at length, were brought to the belief that either he had never been there, or that he had, by some unknown means, effected his escape. The hunter, however, never for a moment permitted his faith to waver. He not only felt confident that Gaut was still in his dark cage in the rocks, but that, the next day, safe means would be found to uncage him, and deliver him over to hands of justice, to undergo the penalties of his crimes. And, as soon as the anxiously-awaited daylight began to make its appearance in the east, he began gradually to work his noiseless way into the mouth of the gorge, and then up over the steeps and ragged ledges, till he had gained a stand under cover of a tuft of clinging evergreens, where he could obtain an unobstructed view of the mouth of the cavern, some six rods above. Here, low crouched behind his bushy screen, with rifle cocked and levelled at the entrance, he lay, silently awaiting the approach of daylight, expecting that Gaut would then, at least, be peering out to ascertain the state of affairs on the shore below. And the event soon showed the correctness of his reasoning. As the brightening flushes of morning fell on the water, and began to throw the reflected light on the face of the mountain, so as to bring its darker recesses to view, the hunter's practised ear soon detected a movement within the cave; and presently the head, and then the shoulders, of the wary outlaw rose gradually in sight against the rocks, immediately over the low entrance. "Yield yourself a prisoner, or die!" suddenly broke from the lips of the concealed hunter. Gaut cast a startled glance around him, and then instantly threw himself to the ground, but barely in time to escape the bullet of the exploding rifle below, which struck the rock in the exact spot that a half-second before was darkened by the shade of his head and shoulders. "Went through the hair on top of his head, I think, but missed his skull by something like an inch, probably," said the hunter, quickly gliding down a few feet over the edge of the shelf, where he lay so as to put a rock between him and the mouth of the cave. "But, on the whole, I am glad of it; for I had rather see him go by the hand of the hangman than my own." The hunter then quietly reloaded his rifle, and went down among his excited companions; who, the ban of silence being now removed by his example, came forward to talk over this unexpected and startling incident of the morning, which had served the double purpose of demonstrating to the former that Gaut would never surrender himself a prisoner, and to the latter, the doubted fact that the object of their search was there, as represented to them the evening before. With the whole of them, indeed, the affair had now assumed a new aspect. Phillips and Codman put their heads together, and began to start and discuss various expedients for dislodging the intrenched fugitive; while the others, in their excitement and agitation, walked hurriedly about in their confined positions speaking or thinking of the desperate and dangerous struggle now likely soon to ensue in the attempted capture, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of the sheriff and the additional force, which, it was understood, he would rally and bring on with him. "They are coming!" at length cried one of the men from the cliff above; "they are coming in troops, and in all directions." The men on shore now eagerly ran down to the farthest projecting rocks, or on fallen trees extending into the water, to obtain unobstructed views of the company thus announced to be approaching in the distance; when, instead of the few they had expected, they beheld a whole fleet of canoes emerging from the distant outlet below, and rowing with all speed towards them; while, at the same time, another company of boats was seen approaching from the settlement around the upper end of the lake. It appeared that, when the sheriff with his attendants reached the village the evening before, and announced the exciting tidings that the desperate man, whom all were so intent on hunting down, had been driven to a stronghold among the rocks of the mountain up the lake, where it might require a large force to take him, men started off in all directions, and rode all night with the news; which, flying like wind over this and the adjoining settlements, threw the whole country, for thirty or forty miles around, into commotion, and put scores of bold men immediately on the march for the scene of action. And the upshot was that, by sunrise the next morning, more than fifty men, hurrying in from all quarters, had assembled at the village, and having appropriated all the boats on the rivers, for many miles above and below, had joined the company of the sheriff, and under his lead were now on their way to the great point of attraction; together with many others entering the lake from other quarters. In a short time the long retinue of canoes came clustering to the shore; when the motley company, preceded by the sheriff and his immediate attendants, all landed, and, crowding around the hunter and his associates, listened, with many a half-suppressed exclamation, indicative of the deep excitement that agitated the mass, to the recital of the discoveries and incidents of the morning. "I cannot believe," said the sheriff who had been listening with keen interest to the hunter's account of his bold but fruitless attempt to compel the submission of the desperado, "I cannot believe, after all, that the fellow will be so foolhardy as to persist in his refusal to surrender, when he knows there is now no longer any chance for him to escape. I will try him faithfully before resorting to extreme measures." "That may be well enough, perhaps," remarked the hunter, demurely, feeling a little rebuked for his own hastiness in firing on the man, by some of the expressions of the officer; "yes, that will be well enough. But, if you succeed in drawing him out to be taken by means of words alone, I will try the experiment on the very next wolf or painter I drive into his den." "Nevertheless, it shall be tried," returned the officer. And accordingly, having called to his side a small band of well-armed assistants, he proceeded with them up the gorge, till he had gained the shelf which afforded the hunter a covert in the previous assault; when he stepped fearlessly out in full view of the mouth of the cavern, and, with a loud voice, calling the name of Gaut Gurley, "commanded him, in the name and by the authority of the State of New Hampshire, to come out and surrender himself a prisoner, to answer, in court, to the charges set forth in a warrant then ready to be produced." The officer now paused; and all listened; but no sound came from the cave. The summons was then repeated, in a still louder and more determined tone of voice. And this time a sound, resembling the growl of a chafed tiger, was heard within, belching out a volley of muttered curses, and ending with the distinguishable words of defiance: "If you want me, come and take me; and we will see who dies first." "Your blood be on your own head, then, obstinate wretch!" exclaimed the excited officer. "Men, prepare to throw a volley of bullets into that cavern. Ready--aim--fire!" The single report of a half-dozen exploding muskets instantly followed the word, ringing out and reverberating along the mountain like the shock of a field-piece; while, with the dying sound, a hoarse shout of derisive laughter from the cave greeted the ears of the awe-struck and shuddering company around. "There is no use in that," said the hunter, who had followed and posted himself a little in the rear of the besieging party, under the apprehension that the besieged might make a rush out of his retreat, in the smoke and confusion consequent on the firing,--"there is no use in any thing of that kind. The entrance, after the first four or five feet, suddenly expands into quite a large space, into one of the corners of which he could easily step, as he doubtless did just now, and be safe against a regiment of rifles from without." "Then we will smoke him out!" fiercely exclaimed the sheriff, recovering from his astonishment at finding the culprit had not been annihilated, and beginning to be enraged at seeing himself and his authority thus alike despised; "we will smoke him out, like a burrowed wild beast, and soon convince the scoffing villain that we are not to be foiled in this manner. Hillo, there, below! gather and bring up here at least a cartload of dry and green boughs." With eager alacrity the throng below sprang to do the bidding of the officer; and, in a short time, they came clambering up the steeps, with their shouldered loads of mingled material, to the post occupied by the advanced party; who took, and, keeping as much as possible out of the range of the entrance, carried them up, and threw them over the next shelf on to the little level space lying around the mouth of the cavern. This process was briskly continued, till a pile as large as a haycock was raised against the upright ledge through which the cave opened by a low narrow mouth at the bottom. A fire was then struck, a pine knot kindled, and held ready for the intended application; when the sheriff, proclaiming to the desperate object of these fearful preparations what was in store for him, commanded him once more, and for the last time, to surrender. But, receiving no reply, he then, ordering the men to stand ready with poles to scatter the material the moment the victim should cry for mercy, seized the flaming brand and hurled it into the most combustible part of the pile before him. Within the space of a minute the appearance of the quickly-catching blaze, now seen leaping in a thousand dimly-sparkling tongues of flame, from layer to layer and from, side to side, through the crevices of the loosely-packed mass, gave proof that the whole pile was becoming thoroughly ignited. And the next moment the cave, and the whole visible range of rocks above, were lost to sight in the dense cloud of smoke that deeply wrapt and rolled over them. Expecting every instant to hear the agonized cries of the victim, now seemingly enfolded in the very embrace of the terrible element, calling aloud for mercy and offering submission, the whole company, crowding the gorge below, or peering over from the surrounding cliffs, climbed for the purpose, stood for some time mute and appalled at the spectacle, and the thought of the fearful issue it involved. No sound or sight, however, except the crackling of the consuming fagots and the flaring sheet of the ascending flames, greeted their expectant senses. "Pretty much as I have long thought it would turn out, in the end," said the trapper, the first to break the silence, as the fire was seen to be slacking away, without any thing yet being heard from the dreaded inmate of the cave. "His master is taking him off in a winding-sheet of smoke and flame. I shouldn't be surprised at a clap of thunder or an earthquake to wind up with." "At any rate," observed another of the crowd, "he must be suffocated by this time." "Yes," responded a third, "dead, dead as a door-nail; so, there is an end of the incarnate Beelzebub that we have known by the name of Gaut Gurley." "I am not so clear about that," now interposed the hunter, who had stood intently watching the varying aspects of the fire and smoke about the cave. "I thought, myself, that this operation must put him on begging terms, if any thing would; and the question is, whether it wouldn't now, before he found himself in any danger of smothering. I don't understand it; but stay,--what is that rising from the top of the rocks, some distance back from the front of the den? Mr. Sheriff, do you see it?" "See what, sir?" "Why, that slender column of smoke rising gently out of the top of the rocks, directly over the cave, and growing more visible every moment, as the smoke from the fire down here in front becomes light and thin in the clear blaze." "I do see what appears, here, to be something of the kind not proceeding directly from the fire;--yes, plainly, now. What does it mean, Mr. Phillips?" "It means that the rascal has a chimney to his house, or what, for his safety, is the same. The rocks forming the top of the cavern are piled up so loosely that the smoke rises through them almost as easy and natural as from a chimney. He had nothing to do but to throw himself on the bottom, to be out of its way, and breathe as good air as the best of us." "By Heavens, Phillips, I believe you are right! And that is not all there is to it, either: if our smoking-out experiment has failed, it has shown a better one. The same looseness of the rocks that permitted the escape of the smoke so freely, will permit, also, their being removed or torn away. We will now uncage him by digging down into his den. Ho there! my merry men below, go to cutting heavy pry-poles, and look up your crow-bars, picks, sledge-hammers, and shovels. There is work for you all." As soon as the unexpected discoveries which had led to these new orders, and consequent change of the whole plan of attack, were understood and fully comprehended by all, the solemn and revolting character of the scene was instantly converted into one of bustle and animation. As the plan thus indicated by the sheriff required the scene, of operations to be transferred to the top of the rocks above the cave, to which there was no means of access from the gorge in front, he, leaving a strong guard in the pass now occupied, took the hunter and came down to the shore; when the latter, followed by the officer and a score of resolute, strong-armed men with their various implements, led the devious way back through the woods, and up round the ledgy and precipitous face of the mountain, till they reached a point a little above the level of the cave. Here they paused, and sent the hunter out along a lateral shelf of the declivity, to search for the most accessible path to their destination. While the company were pausing here for this purpose, their attention was suddenly arrested by the heralding shouts of another company of men, evidently approaching from the other side of the mountain. And, soon after, a band of a dozen well-armed, hardy-looking fellows, headed by a tall, powerfully-framed man, made their appearance, pushing their way down the brush-tangled steeps from above. "Turner!" exclaimed the sheriff, addressing the leader of the approaching band, who was at once recognized to be an ex-sheriff of the county, and one of the most daring and successful felon-hunters ever known in northern New-Hampshire; "General Turner, of all men you are the one I should have most wished to see, just at this time. We have a tough case on hand; but how did you get here?" "The only way left for us. When we reached the tavern down here on the river, not a boat was to be had; and so we steered up the Magalloway, and came over by land, as you see. I had heard of this desperate character, and your dealings with him, before the present outrage, and have now come to help you put him through. Now tell us the state of the siege,--some idea of which we got from a man we met, a mile back on our way." The sheriff then related all that had transpired, and named the new plan of operations, of which they were then proceeding to test the feasibility. "We will have him!" said Turner, with a determined look. "If we can't tear away the rocks with bars and sledges, we will send off for a barrel of gunpowder to blow them open; and if that fails, I will go into the cave, myself, and if I don't snake him out before I've done with him, he must be a harder customer than it has ever yet been my lot to encounter." By this time the hunter had returned, and now pointed out the best way to the place of which they were in quest; when the sheriff, ex-sheriff, and their respective followers, preceded by their guide, commenced forcing their passage along the craggy cliffs; and, within ten minutes, they found themselves standing on the off-set forming the rocky roofing of the cavern. The appearance of the place was much more favorable for the proposed attempt at excavation than any of them had anticipated. From the front face of the rock, which was pierced by the mouth of the cave at the bottom, and which presented a perpendicular of about fifteen feet, the topmost stones rapidly fell off to a depression over the centre of the cave, which, it was at once seen, must greatly reduce the depth of rock to be removed or broken up, before reaching the interior. And, in addition to this encouraging discovery, the rocks in and around this depression, through which the smoke was yet visibly oozing, appeared to be detached from the main ledge, and, though heavy, such as might be removed by appliances at command. Still, there was a formidable mass to be disrupted and removed before an entrance could be effected in that direction. But the men, impatient of inaction, and eager to be doing something to forward the common object,--like all bodies of excited people anxious to cooperate, but unable to decide on a course of action,--scarcely waited to be told what was wanted, before they all sprang to the work with that resistless union of faith and exertions which requires no intervention of miracles to remove mountains. The moss, earth, decayed wood, and all else of the loose covering of rocks, quickly disappeared under their busy hands or rapidly-plied implements. The smaller stones and broken fragments, as soon as loosened or beat off by the bars and sledges, were seized and hurled in showers over the surrounding ledges; the larger ones, when started from their beds by the long heavy prys, were grappled with the united strength of all that could get to them, rolled up, pitched over the precipice in front, and sent bounding and crashing down the gorge below. And the whole forest resounded with the din of their heavy blows and the mingling sounds of their varied labors. While all who could find room to work on the excavation were thus briskly pushing forward their operations, a smaller party were engaged in beating down the rocky battlement in front; and so vigorously and successfully were the efforts of these also directed, that, in a short time, the top was so lowered, and the seamy rocks so split down, that, with the mass of stones thrown over, a path of easy descent was formed from the top, down to the shelf below, on one side of the mouth of the cave; which was now securely blocked up, and closely invested by the party previously stationed in near vicinity to guard it. Thus bravely, and with no token of faltering at the obstacles which they frequently encountered, and which sometimes required their greatest exertions to overcome, did these strong-armed and determined men push on their herculean labors, for the space of nearly two hours; when suddenly a shout of exultation rose from those at work lowest down in the excavation, and the next moment the voice of the ex-sheriff was heard exclaiming to those around him: "Courage, men! the game is nearly unkenneled. I have driven my bar through, and the hole is so large that the bar has slipped from my hands and gone to the bottom!" The excitement now became intense; and all crowded round the rim of the excavation, and, with uneasy looks and hushed voices, eagerly peered down into the dimly-visible perforation at the bottom; while those already within the excavated basin began, with beating hearts, carefully loosening and pulling out the shivered and detached stones, lying around the small aperture just effected, and continued the process until all the outer edges of the broad, thin rock, which the crow-bar had perforated, and which appeared to form the lower or interior layer of the roofing of the cavern, were fully laid bare, and brought within the reach of the outstretched arms of those bending down to grasp them. A dozen brawny hands were then seen securing their gripe on one side of the rock; when, at the word of the sheriff, a sudden pull was made with a force that raised the whole mass nearly a foot from its bed. "It comes bravely!" said the sheriff. "Now fix yourselves for another pull; while two or three of you above there come forward with your rifles, and stand with them levelled at the hole, as we open it, lest the desperate dog make a rush before we are prepared. Now altogether,--there, now!" The effort was made, and the sheeted rock was brought to a perpendicular; when it was grappled by the men with might and main, lifted clear from its bed, and thrust aside, letting the sunlight down upon the bottom of the cave through a chasm nearly large enough to permit two men to jump in abreast. There was now a dead pause; and all eyes were turned on the chasm in silent and trembling expectation. But nothing appearing, the hunter and ex-sheriff crept down prostrate to the brink of the chasm, and worked their heads cautiously below, to get a fuller view of the interior. After looking, with slightly varied positions, about a minute, they both rose and came up on the bank; when the ex-sheriff, turning to the hunter, softly said: "He is there. I caught sight of his legs standing in a corner near the mouth of the cave. Did _you_ get a view?" "Yes, a better one than that; I saw his legs, and as much of his body as I could without bringing my _own_ head within the line of his eyes. He stands there on the watch, with cocked rifle pointing to this opening, while he has a dirk within his left hand grasping the rifle, and I think a pistol within his other hand, held in a similar manner. I can read his plan." "What is it, as _you_ read it?" "To take the first that enters with his rifle, pistol the second, make a rush through the rest, and stab as he goes." "About the truth, probably. But what is to be done? Shall you and I leap down, make a spring upon him, and stand our chance?" "Why,--yes," replied the hunter, with a little hesitation; "yes, if we can't do better than throw away one good life, at least, for a bad one. But if we could contrive to divert his attention suddenly to the mouth of the cave--" "You are right! Stay here a moment, and I will put matters in train to carry out your suggestion," eagerly interrupted Turner, taking the sheriff confidentially aside. In a few minutes the determined ex-sheriff followed by four or five stout, resolute men, whose special assistance he had bespoken for the occasion, returned to the side of the hunter, and said: "Get down there in your old position, where you can watch his movements. They have gone down to unblock the mouth of the cave outside, and make a feint of entering. If they succeed in drawing his fire, I will take that as a signal,--if not, then you give me the word, at the right moment, when his head, and with it naturally his rifle, is turned to the supposed new point of attack, and I will leap down and make a spring to get within the line of the muzzle before he can fire; and, the instant I disappear, you and these men follow, and be close on my heels for the grapple." The hunter then edged down to his former place of observation, where he lay, while Turner sat crouching on the brink ready for the leap, narrowly watching the movements of the dreaded foe within, who was seen to be still standing motionless in the same position as before. Presently the movements of those outside the old entrance of the cavern, as they began cautiously to remove the blockading stones, became clearly audible, and soon a few straggling rays of light began to gleam into the interior from that direction. On perceiving these indications, the wary desperado began, for the first time, to exhibit signs of uneasiness. Slightly changing his position, he glanced rapidly from the already half-cleared entrance in front to the chasm just opened through the top in the rear. But neither seeing or hearing any thing that led him to expect any assault, except from the front, and evidently supposing it was now the intention of his assailants to drive him up through the top opening, to be seized as he came out, he drew back a step, and, turning the muzzle of his rifle towards the mouth of the cave, stood ready to fire upon the first who should make his appearance. This movement was not lost on the keenly-watching, hunter, who saw that it afforded a fair chance for a successful surprise; and he once parted his lips to give the signal for the onset. But, perceiving from the incoming light that the mouth of the cave was cleared from its obstructions, he ventured to await the effect of the feint now momentarily expected from that quarter. He had judged wisely. The delay was not in vain. A rustling sound, seeming to come from some one squeezing through the entrance, was now heard; and soon a dark object, resembling the head and shoulders of a man, making slow and cautious advances, was fully protruded into the cavern; when, suddenly, the whole ledge shook with the stunning report of a rifle, and the next moment, Turner, Phillips, and their chosen backers, had all disappeared in the cloud of smoke that came pouring up through the chasm. Quick, heavy, muffled sounds, as of fiercely-grappling tigers, instantly came from within. And within another minute, the stentorian voice of the daring leader of the onset was heard, shouting for the hand-cuffs and fetters. The fierce siege was over. The desperate intentions and giant strength of the besieged, after a brief but terrible struggle, had been thwarted and overcome by the intrepidity and equal strength of the ex-sheriff; and he, now firmly clenched round the body, and held down, with every limb in the vise-like grasp of his iron-fisted captors, lay disarmed, helpless, and panting on the ground. "There!" sternly cried the victorious leader of the hazardous assault, as he rose to his feet, after he had seen the heavy irons securely locked on the wrists and ankles of the silent and sullen prisoner,--"there! drag him out, feet foremost, into the open light of day, where he and his dark deeds have all now got to come, to meet the vengeance of an outraged community!" It was done, and with no gentle hand; when a long, wild shout of exultation fiercely broke from the closely-encircling throng, thrilling the trembling forest around with the din, and rolling away to the farthest shores of the lake, to proclaim that the first murderer of the settlement--the black-hearted Gaut Gurley--was now a prisoner, and in the uncompromising hands of public justice. The animated spectacle which now ensued, of trundling, pushing, and tumbling the chafed and growling prisoner down to the shore, amid the unrestrained demonstrations of the exulting multitude; the noisy and bustling embarkation, on the lake; the ostentatious display of mimic banners, formed by raising on tall poles, handkerchiefs, hats, coats, and whatever would make a show in the distance, as the long line of canoes, with the closely guarded prisoner in the centre, filed off in gorgeous array, through the glitter of the sun-lit lake, on their way to the great outlet; the pause and concentration there; the rapid descent down the river to the village, where a board of magistrates were waiting to sit on the case of the expected prisoner; and, finally, the loudly heralding _kuk-kuk-ke-o-hos_ of the overflowing trapper, to announce, over a two-mile reach of the stream, the triumphant approach,--this animated and here extraordinary spectacle, we must leave to the delineation of the reader's imagination. Our attention is more strongly demanded in a different direction, to bring up other important incidents of our story, before proceeding any farther with the actors who have figured in this part of the narrative, or taking note of the examination to which they were now hurrying the prisoner. CHAPTER XX. "By thine infinite of woe, All we know not, all we know; If there be what dieth not, Thine, affection, is its lot." Deep in the wilderness of woods and waters encircling the mouth of a small inlet, at the extreme northwestern end of the picturesque Maguntic, there lay encamped, at the point of a low headland, on one of the first nights of May, the three trappers, whose expedition had been the subject of so many gloomy speculations, and whose unexpectedly prolonged absence had caused, as we have seen, so much anxiety in the settlement to which they belonged. They had extended their outward journey more than double the distance contemplated by the Elwoods, at least when they left home; the mover of the expedition, Gaut Gurley, having proposed to make the shores of the Maguntic, and its feeding streams only, the range of their operations. But when they arrived there, as they did, on the ice, which was still firm and solid on the lakes, Gaut pretended to believe that the rich beaver-haunts, to which he had promised to lead them, could not be identified, much less reached, until the ice had broken up in the streams and lake. He, therefore, now proposed that they should first proceed over to the chief inlet of the Oquossak, stay one night in the camp, which was left in the great snowstorm of the fall before, dig out the steel-traps buried there, and, the next day, slide over the boats, also left there, on the glare ice,--as all agreed could easily be done on some light and simple contrivance,--and land them on the west shore of the Maguntic, where they could be concealed, and found ready for use when the lake opened. He would then, he said, lead them to a place among the head-water streams of the Magalloway, only a day's journey distant, where he once "trapped it" himself, and where, as the rivers there broke up early, he could promise them immediate success. All this had been done; and the party, having spent nearly three weeks among the lakelets and interweaving streams going to make up the sources of the Magalloway and Connecticut rivers, with occasional recourse to the nearest habitations on the upper Magalloway, for provisions, but with very indifferent success in taking furs, had now, on the urging of young Elwood, returned to the Maguntic,--which, after a hard day's journey, they had reached, at the point where we have introduced them, about sunset the day but one preceding, thrown up a temporary shanty, and encamped for the night. On rising the next morning, Gaut had proposed that Claud remain at camp that day, to build a better shanty, and hunt in the near vicinity; while he and Mark Elwood should explore the stream, to a pond some miles above, where his previously discovered beaver-haunts, he said, were mostly to be found, and where, the snow and ice having wholly disappeared, they could now operate to good advantage. With this arrangement, however, the young man, whose secret suspicions had been aroused by one or two previous attempts made by Gaut to separate him from his father, plausibly refused to comply; and the consequence was, that they had all made the proposed explorations together, returned to camp without discovering any indications of the promised beaver, and laid down for the night, with the understanding, reluctantly agreed to by the moody and morose Gaut, that they should proceed down the lake to their boats the next morning, and embark for an immediate return to their homes, where the Elwoods felt conscious they must, by this time, be anxiously expected. Such were the circumstances under which we have brought this singularly-assorted party of trappers to the notice of the reader, as they lay sleeping in their bough-constructed tents,--Gaut and Mark Elwood under one cover, and Claud under another, which he had fixed up for himself on the opposite side of their fire,--on the ominous night which was destined to prelude the most tragic and melancholy scene of our variously eventful story. It was the hour of nature's deepest repose, and the bright midnight moon, stealing through the gently-swaying boughs of the dark pines that rose heavenward, like pinnacles, along the silent shores around, was throwing her broken beams fitfully down upon the faces of the unconscious sleepers, faintly revealing the impress which the thoughts and purposes of the last waking hours had left on the countenance of each. And these impresses were as variant as the characters of those on whose features they rested: that lingering on the sternly-compressed lips and dark, beetling brows of Gaut Gurley, ever sinister, was doubly so now; that on the face of Mark Elwood, whose vacillations of thought and feeling, through life, had exempted his features from any stamp betokening fixed peculiarity of character, was one of fatuous security; and that resting on the intellectual and guileless face of Claud Elwood was one of simple care and inquietude. But what is that light, shadowy form, hovering near the sylvan couch of Claud, like some unsubstantial being of the air; now advancing, now shrinking away, and now again flitting forward to the head of the youthful sleeper, and there pausing and preventing the light from longer revealing his features? Yes, what is it? would ask a doubting spectator of this singular night-scene. A passing cloud come over the moon? No, there is none in the heavens. But why the useless speculation? for it is gone now, leaving the sleeper's face again visible, and wearing a more unquiet and disturbed air than before. His features twitch nervously, and expressions of terror and surprise flit over them. He dreams, and his dream is a troubled one. Let the novelist's license be invoked to interpret it. He was alone with his father on a boundless plain, when suddenly a dark, whirlwind tempest-cloud fell upon the earth around them, and soon separated him from the object of his care. As he was anxiously pressing on through the thickly-enveloping vapors, in the direction in which the latter had disappeared, he was suddenly confronted by a monstrous, black, and fearful living apparition, who stood before him in all the horrid paraphernalia ascribed to the prince of darkness, apparently ready to crush him to the earth, when a bright angel form swiftly interposed. Starting back, with the rapidly-chasing sensations of terror and surprise, he looked again, and the fiend stood stript of his infernal guise, and suddenly transformed into the person of Gaut Gurley, who, with a howl of dismay, quickly turned and fled in confusion. The amazed dreamer then turned to his deliverer, who had been transformed into the beauteous Fluella, whose image, he was conscious, was no longer a stranger among the lurking inmates of his heart. A sweet, benignant smile was breaking over her lovely features; and, under the sudden impulse of the grateful surprise, he eagerly stretched out his arms towards her, and, in the effort, awoke. "Where, where is she?" he exclaimed, springing to his feet, and glaring wildly around him. "Why!" he continued, after a pause, in which he appeared to be rallying his bewildered senses,--"why! what is this? a dream, nothing but a dream? It must be so. But what a strange one! and what could have caused it? Was there not some one standing over me, just now, darkening my face like a shadow? I feel a dim consciousness of something like it. But that, probably, was part of the same dream. Yes, yes, all a mere dream; all nothing; so, begone with you, miserable phantoms! I will not suffer--" But, as if not satisfied with his own reasoning, he stopped short, and, for many minutes, stood motionless, with his head dropped in deep thought; when, arousing himself, he returned to his rude resting-place, and laid down again, but only to toss and turn, in the restless excitement which he obviously found himself unable to allay. After a while spent in this tantalizing unrest, he rose and slowly made his way down to the edge of the lake, a few rods distant, where, scooping up water with his hands, he first drank eagerly, then, bathed his fevered brow, and then, rising, he stood some time silent on the shore,--now pensively gazing out on the darkly-bright expanse of the moon-lit lake; and now listening to the mysterious voices of night in the wilderness, which, in low, soft, whispering undulations of sound, came, at varied intervals, gently murmuring along the wooded shores, to die away into silence in the remote recesses of the forest. These phenomena of the wilds he had once or twice before noted, and tried to account for, without, however, attaching much consequence to them. But now they became invested with a strange significance, and seemed to him, in his present excited and apprehensive state of mind, portentous of impending evil. While his thoughts were taking this channel, the possibility of what might be done in his absence suddenly appeared to occur to him; and he hastened back to camp, where he slightly replenished the fire, and, taking a recumbent position, with his loaded rifle within reach, kept awake, and on the watch, till morning. After daylight Claud arose, as if nothing unusual had occurred to disturb him, bustled about, built a good fire, and began to prepare a morning meal from the fine string of trout he had taken during yesterday's excursion. The noise of these preparations soon awoke the two sleepers; who, complimenting him on his early rising, also arose, and soon joined him in partaking the repast, which, by this time, he had in readiness. As soon as they had finished their meal, which was enlivened by no other than an occasional brief, commonplace remark, the thoughts of each of them being evidently engrossed by his own peculiar schemes and anxieties, the trappers, by common consent, set about their preparations to depart; and, having completed them, leisurely took their way down the western shore of the lake towards the spot at which they had hauled up and concealed their canoe, and which, if they followed the deep indentures of the shore in this part of the lake, must be four or five miles distant. For the first mile or two of their progress nothing noticeable to an indifferent observer occurred to vary the monotony of their walk, as they tramped steadily and silently forward, in the usual, and, indeed, almost the only practicable mode of travelling in the forest, appropriately denominated Indian file. But young Elwood, whose feelings had been deeply stirred by the fancies of the night, which, to say the least, had the effect to make him more keenly apprehensive and vigilant, had noted several little circumstances, that, to him, wore a questionable appearance. Gaut, who at first led the way, soon manoeuvred to get Mark Elwood, the next in the order of their march, in front; and then urged him forward at a much faster pace than before, at the same time often casting furtive glances behind him, as if to see whether Claud, who seemed inclined to walk more slowly than the rest, would not fall behind, and soon be out of sight. And, when the latter quickened his pace, he showed signs of vexation, which had not passed unnoticed. All this Claud had noted, together with the singular expression which Gaut's countenance assumed, and which filled him with an undefinable dread, and a lively suspicion that the man was on the eve of attempting the execution of foul purposes. Consequently he resolved to follow up closely, having no fears for himself, and believing his presence would prevent any attempt that might be meditated against his father. This precaution, for some time, the young man was careful to observe; but, as he was passing over a small brook that crossed his path, his eye caught the appearance of a slight trail, a few rods up the stream, and curiosity prompted him to turn aside to examine it. When he reached the place, he soon detected indications which convinced him that some person had recently been there; and, forgetful of his resolution, in the interest the circumstance excited, he commenced a closer inspection, which resulted in discovering a fresh imprint, in the soft mud on one side of the brook, of a small moccasined foot. This curious and unexpected discovery, uncertain as were its indications of any identity of the person, or even of the age or sex of the person, by whom that delicate footprint was made, at once diverted his attention, from the particular care by which it had been engrossed, and started that other of the two trains of thought, which, for the last month, but especially since his singular awakening the past night, had constituted the chief burden of his mind,--his increasing apprehensions for his father's safety, and his lurking but irrepressible regard for the chief's beautiful daughter, whose image, since his dream, had haunted him with a pertinacity for which a resort to reason alone would fail to account. "If music be the food of love," dreams, we apprehend, whatever the immortal bard might have thought of the matter, have often proved the more exciting stimulus of the tender passion; many of whose happiest consummations might be traced back to an origin in some peopled scene of a dreaming fancy, whose peculiar effect on the sympathies has frequently been felt by the sternest and most sceptical, though never very clearly explained in any of our written systems of the philosophy of the soul and its affections. In the pleasing indulgence of the feelings and fancies which had been thus freshly kindled, Claud stood, for some minutes, quite unconscious of the lapse of time, though it had been long enough to place his companions far out of sight and hearing. From this reverie he was suddenly aroused by the sharp report of a rifle, bursting on his ear from the woods, about a quarter of a mile off, in the direction just taken by his companions. Starting at the sound, which sent a boding chill through his heart, and bitterly taxing himself for his inadvertent loitering, he sprang back to the trail he had left, and made his way along over it towards the place indicated by the firing, with all the speed which excited nerves and agonizing anxiety could bring to his aid. But, before reaching the spot at which he was aiming, and just as he was beginning to slacken his pace, to look around for it, Gaut Gurley burst through the bushes, a few rods ahead, and, running towards him with all the manifestations of a man in hasty retreat before a pursuing foe, eagerly exclaimed: "Run, Claud! run for your life! We have just been beset by hostile Indians, who fired on us, and, I fear, have killed your father. I have misled them a little; but they will soon be on our trail. Run! run!" he added, seizing the other by the arm to start him into instant flight. "What!" exclaimed the astonished young man, hanging back, and by degrees recovering from the surprise with which he was at first overwhelmed by the strange and startling announcement. "What! hostile Indians?--hostile to whom, to my father, or to me, that I should run from them? Gaut Gurley, what, O what does this mean?" "Why, it means," said the other, keeping up all the motions and flourishes naturally used by one urging another to flee,--"it means, as I say, our lives are in danger. Let us escape while we can. Come, come, there's not a moment to lose!" "I will _know_," said Claud, with a quick, searching glance at the face of the other,--"yes, I _will know_ for myself what has happened," he sternly added, suddenly breaking from the grasp on his arm, and bounding forward to execute his purpose with a quickness and rapidity that made pursuit useless. "Hold!" cried Gaut, in an increasingly fierce and angry tone, "hold, instantly,--on your life, hold! I warn you, sir, to stop, instantly to stop!" But, heeding neither the entreaties nor the threats which, his ear told him, were strangely mingled in the tones of the words thus thundered after him, Claud, in his agony of apprehension, eagerly rushed on towards the forbidden scene, which could not now be thirty rods distant, and had proceeded, perhaps, forty yards; when, just as he was straightening up, after stooping to pass under an obstructing limb of a tree, extending across his path, he became conscious of the sound of the sudden hitting of the limb, and partly so of the concussion of a shot, still farther in his rear. But he neither heard nor knew more; and, the next moment, lay stretched senseless on the ground. When he awoke to consciousness, after, he knew not what lapse of time, he found himself in a different place; lying, as he felt conscious, badly wounded, on a soft, elastic bed of boughs, within a dense thicket of low evergreens, through which his opening eye caught the gleams of widely-surrounding waters. A ministering angel, in the shape of the peerless daughter of the wilds, who had lately so much occupied his thoughts, was wistfully bending over him, with a countenance in which commiseration and woe had found an impersonation which no artist's pencil could have equalled. "Fluella!" he feebly murmured,--"how came you here, Fluella?" She saw that the effort to speak caused him a pang, and, without replying to the question, motioned him to silence; when, being no longer able to master her emotions, she sat down by his side, and, covering her face with both hands, began to grieve and sob like a child. Poor girl! who could measure the depth of her heart's anguish? She could not answer, had she deemed it best. We must answer the question for her. But, to do so, to the full understanding of the reader, we must again recur to the events of the past,--her troubled past, at least,--during the three or four days preceding the time of her appearance as an actor in the sad scene before us. She had learned from Mrs. Elwood that Claud had pledged himself to her that he would return from his expedition within the month of April; and to Fluella, with her undoubting confidence in his word, a failure to redeem that pledge would be but little less than certain intelligence that some evil had befallen either him or his father, in their unknown place of sojourn in the wilderness. Consequently her solicitude--growing out of her secretly nourished but overmastering love for him--became, as the time approached which was to relieve or realize her fears for the result of an expedition undertaken under such dreadful auspices, each day more deep and absorbing. And, the last morning but one of the expiring month, she went out early on to the rock-bound shore of the lake, on which her father's cabin was situated, and commenced her watch from the most commanding points, for the appearance of the expected party, on their way homeward from the upper lakes. And during that anxious day, and the still more anxious one that followed, she kept up her vigils, with no other cessation than what her brief absences for her hastily-snatched meals at the house required; sometimes standing, for an hour at a time, in one spot, intently gazing out into the lake, and sometimes moving restlessly about, and hurrying from cliff to cliff along the beetling shore, to obtain a better observation. But, no appearance or indications of their coming rewarding her vigils during all that time, she retired from the shore, at the approach of night, on the last day of April, sad and sick at heart from disappointment, and painfully oppressed with apprehension for the fate of one for whose safety she felt she would have given her own worthless life as a willing sacrifice. But, her feelings still allowing her neither peace nor quietude, she left the house after supper; and, in the light of the nearly full moon, that was now throwing its mellow beams over the wild landscape, unconsciously took her way to the lake-shore, where she had already spent so many weary hours in her fruitless vigils. Here, climbing a tall rock on the bluff shore, she resumed her watch, and long stood, straining both eye and ear to catch sight of some moving thing, or the sound of some plashing oar, out on the lake, that might indicate the coming, even at this late hour, of the objects of her solicitude. But no such sight or sound came up from the sleeping waters, to greet and gladden her aching senses. All there was as motionless and silent as the plains of the dead. "The time is past!" she at length despairingly muttered, slowly withdrawing her gaze, and standing as if to collect her thoughts and ponder. "Yes, passed by, now. He will not come!" And her ideas immediately reverted to the other alternative for which she had before made up her mind, in case the party did not return within the month; but which, having been kept in the background of her thoughts, by her hope of their coming, now occurred to her with startling effect. She fancied Claud the victim of outrage or misfortune,--perhaps wounded and dying, by the same hand that might have previously struck down his father,--perhaps taken sick on his way home alone, and now lying helpless in the woods, where none could witness his sufferings or hear his cries for assistance. The thought sent a pang through her bosom, the more painful because, being something like a legitimate conclusion of her previous reasoning, she could not divest herself of it. She stood bewildered in the woes of her thick-coming fancies. The images thus conjured up from her distracting anxieties and excited brain, all heightened by the natural inspirations of the place and the hour, soon became to her vivid realities. And her burning thoughts at once insensibly ran into the form and spirit of one of the many beautiful plaints of England's gifted poetess: "I heard a song upon the wandering wind, A song of many tones, though one full soul Breathed through them all imploringly; and made All nature, as they pass'd,--all quivering leaves, And low responsive reeds and waters,--thrill, As with the consciousness of human prayer. ------the tones Were of a suppliant. '_Leave me not_' was still The burden of their music." "I will _not_ leave you!" she exclaimed, startling the silent glens and grottos around by the wild energy of her tones, and eagerly stretching out her hands towards the imagined scene, and the suppliant for her ministering services, "O Claud, I will come to you. My love, my life, my more than life, I will soon be with you! Go after him?" she resumed, after a sudden pause, to which she seemed to be brought by recalling her thoughts to their wonted channel, and being startled at the sober import of her own words. "Go in search of him in the woods! Yes," she added, after another long and thoughtful pause,--"yes, why not? I cannot, O, I _cannot_ stay here another day, with these but too prophetic words, I fear, ringing in my ears. To be in the same wilderness with him were a pleasure, to the insupportable suspense I must suffer here. If I discover all to be well, I need not show myself; but, if it be as I fear, O, what happiness to be near him! Yes, it is decided; I will start in the morning." And, hastily descending from her stand, with the firm, quick step and decisive air of one whose purpose is fixed, she struck off directly for the house; where, after a few hasty preparations, she retired to her bed, and, happily, after the exhausting cares of the day, was soon quieted into sound and refreshing slumber. In accordance with her still unaltered resolution, she rose early the next morning; and with an indefinite intimation to her family of her intention to be absent among friends a day or two, swung to her side a small square basket of nutritious provisions, took a thick shawl to protect her from the damps of the night, proceeded directly to her canoe at the landing, embarked, and struck out vigorously along the winding shore, on her way to the next upper lake. A steady but quiet row of a couple of hours took her out of the great lake on which she had embarked, up the principal inlet, and into the Maguntic, whose western shores, she had understood, were to be the base of the operations of the absent party. Here she turned short to the left, and, drawing in close to land, rowed slowly and cautiously along the western shore, following round all the numerous indentations, and continually sending her searching glances up its wooded shores, that no appearance of the trail of human beings might escape her observation. After rowing two or three miles in this manner, and without noticing any thing that particularly attracted her attention, she reached the first of the three headlands, making out from this side a considerable distance into the lake, beyond the average line of the shore. As she was rounding this point, her eye fell on a dark protuberance, in a dense thicket a few rods in-shore, which appeared of a more oblong and regular form than is usual in such places. And, scanning the appearance more closely, she soon discerned a small piece of wrought wood, resembling a part of the blade of an oar, slightly projecting from one side of the apparent brush-heap. Starting at the sight, she immediately ran her canoe ashore, and proceeded at once to the spot; when, closely peering under the brush-wood, she discovered three canoes, with their oars, concealed beneath a deep covering of boughs, surmounted by a scraggy treetop lying carelessly over them, as if blown from some neighboring tree. This, to her, was an important discovery; for it told her--after she had carefully examined the place, and found that no one had been to the boats since they were concealed, which she thought must have been done several weeks before--it told her, at once, that the trappers had gone to some distant locality among the streams and mountains, to the west or north, from which they had not yet returned to the lake; but doubtless would so return before proceeding homeward, provided the Elwoods had not both been slain or disabled by their suspected companion. The discovery, notwithstanding the light it had thrown on the first movements of the trappers, and much as it narrowed the range of her search for them, but little relieved her harrowing apprehensions; and she resolved to proceed up the lake with her observations, which might now as well be confined to this side of it, and the larger streams which should here be found entering it, and down some of which the company, if they came at all, would probably now soon come, on their way to the canoes. And, accordingly, she again set forth on her solitary journey. But, being conscious that the trappers might now at any time suddenly make their appearance, she proceeded more cautiously, keeping as far as possible out of the views that might be taken from distant points of the lake, and from time to time turning a watchful eye and ear on the shores around and before her. Thus, slowly and timidly advancing, she at length reached and rounded the second headland in her course, where another and still more interesting discovery was in store for her. As she came out from the overhanging trees beneath which she had shot along the point, she unexpectedly gained a clear view of the extreme end of the lake, with what appeared to be the mouth of a considerable stream, and suddenly backed her oar, to pause and reconnoitre; when she soon noticed one spot, near the supposed inlet, which wore a different hue from the rest, and which, a closer inspection told her, must be imparted by the lingering of undissipated smoke, from a fire kindled there as late, at least, as that morning. Her heart beat violently at the discovery; for she felt assured that the trappers had reached the lake, had encamped there the night before, and could not now be many miles distant. Fearing she should be seen, if she remained longer on the water, she at once resolved to conceal her canoe in some place near by, and proceed by land through the woods to the spot of the supposed encampment, or near enough to ascertain how far her conjectures were true, and how far her new-lit hopes were to be realized. All this--after many a misgiving and many an alarm, from the sudden movements of the smaller animals of the forest, started out from their coverts by her stealthy advance--had been by her, at length, successfully accomplished; the camp detected from a neighboring thicket; cautiously approached, finally entered, and the joyful discovery made that three persons had slept there the night before. Hieing back, like a frighted bird, into the screening forest, she selected a covert in a dense thicket on an elevation about an hundred yards distant, where, unseen by the most searching eye, she could look down into the camp; and there she lay down and anxiously awaited the approach of night, and, with it, the expected return of the party, who, she felt confident, could be no others than those of whom she was in search. And it was not all a dream with Claud, when he fancied some one standing by his couch of repose. A flitting form had, that night, indeed, for a moment hovered over him, looking down, with the sleepless eye of love, on his broken slumbers, and trying to divine, perhaps, the very dreams which, through some mysterious agency of the mental sympathies, her presence was inciting. Although the maiden had now the unspeakable satisfaction of knowing that none of her fears had thus far been realized, yet she felt keenly sensible that the danger was not over; and she therefore determined that she would not lose sight of the objects of her vigilance and anxiety, at least until she had seen them embarked for home on the open lake, where deeds of darkness would be less likely to be attempted than in the screening forest. She had, therefore, started from her uneasy slumbers, the next morning, at daybreak; watched from her covert, with lively concern, the movements in the camp; and no sooner seen them packed up for a start, and headed towards their boats, then she shrank noiselessly away from her concealment, which was situated so as to give her considerably the start of them; and fled rapidly down the lake, in a line parallel to the one along the shore which the trappers would naturally take, and so near it that, from chosen stands, she could see them as they came along. And thus, for miles, like the timid antelope, she hovered on their flank,--now pausing to get a glance of them through the trees as they came in sight, and now fleeing forward again, for a new position, to repeat the observation. Up to this time she had kept considerably in advance of the moving party; but now, suddenly missing Claud, she sought a covert, and stood watching for him, till Mark Elwood, followed by Gaut Gurley, came abreast of the spot she occupied; when, suddenly, the forest shook and trembled from the report of a gun, bursting from the bushes, seemingly, almost beneath her feet. A single wild glance revealed to her appalled senses Gaut Gurley, clenching his smoking rifle, and, with the look of an exulting fiend, glaring out from behind a tree, towards his prostrate, convulsed, and dying victim. On recovering from the deeply paralyzing effect of the horrid spectacle, her first thought was for Claud; and, with the distracting thought, her eye involuntarily sought for the murderer of his father, who had shrunk back from his position, but whom she soon detected hastily reloading his rifle, and then starting, with a quick step, along back the path in which he had just come,--in search, as her alarmed heart suggested, of another victim for his infernal malice. With a sharp, smothered cry of anguish, she bounded out from her covert, and flew back, in a line parallel with that of the retreating murderer, till she saw him meet the alarmed young man hurrying forward to the rescue; when she suddenly paused, and listened with breathless interest to the dialogue we have already related as occurring between them. She heard--and her heart bounded with pride as she did so--she heard the manly and determined language of the young man; she saw him rush by the wretch who was trying to mislead him, to conceal his own crime. But she saw, also, the next moment, with a dismay that transfixed her to the spot, the murderous rifle raised, and the retreating, unconscious object of its aim stumble forward to the ground; then the monster, as if uncertain of the execution of his bullet, rush forward, with gleaming knife, apparently to finish his work; and then disappear in the direction of the concealed canoes, now less than a half-mile beyond. All this she had witnessed, with an agony which no pen can describe; and then, with the last glimpse of the retiring assassin, flown, to the side of his second victim, badly but not fatally wounded; staunched, as she best could, the blood pouring from his wounds; hurried off for her canoe, luckily hid near by; brought it up to the shore, within a few yards of the spot where he had fallen; drawn him gently down to it, and got him into it, she knew not how; and then, after obliterating the trail, entered herself, and rowed off to the thickly wooded little island, a furlong to the northeast, but hid by an intervening point from the view of the foe, now supposed to be on his way to the boats. Here she had contrived to draw Claud up, in the light canoe, on the farthest shore, and, by degrees, got both him and the boat on the dry, mossy ground, safely within a thicket wholly impervious to outward view. Still fearful of Gaut's return, she crept to the south end of the island, which she had scarcely reached when she saw him come round the point, land, drag down the body of Mark Elwood, take it out some distance from the shore, and sink it, by steel-traps and stones tied to it, deep in the lake. She then, with lively concern, saw him return and proceed towards the spot where Claud had fallen, but soon reappear, evidently much disturbed at not finding the body, yet not seeming to suspect how it had been disposed of, though several times coming down to the edge of the water and peering anxiously up and down the lake; but she was soon relieved from her fears by seeing him take to his boat, row rapidly round the point, there take in tow two other canoes,--which, it appeared, he had brought up and left there,--and then row down the lake, in the direction of the great outlet; under the belief, doubtless, that Claud had revived, struck down through the woods for the upper end of the lake below, where, if he had not before sunk down and died of his wounds, he might be waylaid and finished. Thus relieved of this pressing apprehension, she hurried back to her charge, and carefully examined his wounds; when she found that the bullet, whose greatest force had been broken by the obstructing limb, had struck near the top of his head, and ploughed over the skull without breaking it; that, of the two stabs inflicted, one had been turned by the collar-bone, making only a long, surface wound, the other had passed through the fleshy part of the arm and terminated on a rib beneath, producing a flow of blood, which, but for the timely and plentiful application of beaver-fur, pulled from a skin which she saw protruding from his pack, must have soon terminated his life. With the drinking-cup she found slung to his side, she brought water, washed the wounds, laid the ruptured parts in place, and, with plasters of cloth cut from her handkerchief, and made adhesive by balsam taken from a tree at hand, covered and protected them; and thus, by the application of a skill she learned from her father, placed them in a situation where nature, with proper care, would, of herself, complete the sanatory operation. She then resumed the process of bathing his head and face, and, within another hour, was thrilled with joy in witnessing his return to consciousness, in the manner we described before leaving him for this long but necessary, digression. After giving vent to her painfully laboring emotions a while, the maiden softly arose, and, creeping down under the overhanging boughs to the edge of the water, sat down on a stone and bathed her throbbing brow, for some time, in the limpid wave; after which, having in a good measure regained her usual firmness and tranquillity, she returned to the side of her wounded friend, whom she found wrapt in the deep slumber generally produced by exhaustion from loss of blood. After gazing a while on his face, with the sad and yearning look of a mother on a disease-smitten child, a new thought seemed suddenly to occur to her, and she noiselessly stole away to her former lookout, at the south end of the island, where, with a brightening eye, she caught sight of the loathed and dreaded homicide, just entering the distant outlet. Waiting no longer than to feel assured that he had disappeared with the real intention of descending the stream, she returned to her still sleeping charge, slowly and carefully slid the canoe down into the water, headed it round with her hands, gained her seat in the stern, and pushed out into the lake, shaping her course obliquely down it towards the mouth of a small river entering from the eastern side, at the lower end of the lake, but still nearly a mile distant from the outlet in which the murderer had disappeared. Softly and smoothly as a gently-rocking cradle, the light canoe, under the skillfully plied oar of the careful maiden, glided through the waveless waters on her destined course, and, for more than an hour, steadily kept on its noiseless way, without once appearing to disturb the repose of the slumbering invalid. But, as the hitherto low-looking forest bordering the eastern shore began to loom up, and thus apprise the fair rower that she was now nearing the point to which she had been directing her course, she noticed, with concern, that the lake was beginning to be agitated, even where she then was, from a gathering breeze; while a long, light, advancing line, extending across the lake in the distance behind her, plainly told of the rapid approach of wind, which must soon greatly increase the disturbance of the waters, and the consequent rocking of the canoe. Knowing how injuriously such motion of the boat might affect the invalid, she put forth her utmost strength in propelling the canoe forward to reach the quiet haven before her, in season to escape the threatened roughness of the water. But her best exertions could secure only a partial immunity from the trouble she thus sought to avoid. The wind struck her long before gaining the place; when, in spite of all her endeavors to steady it, the canoe began to lurch and toss among the gathering waves; while the almost immediate awakening of the disturbed invalid, his twinges of pain and suppressed groans, told her, as they sent responsive thrills of anguish through her bosom, how much he was suffering from the motion. To her great relief, however, she now soon reached and shot into the still waters of the stream, and this trouble, at least, was over. Here, after passing in out of sight of the lake, she drew up her oar, and paused to reflect and conclude what should be her next movement; when Claud, whose head was pillowed in the bow of the boat, and whose eye was resting tenderly on her downcast countenance, soon read her perplexity, and again asked to be informed of all that had happened, and the object of her present movement. She told him,--with such reservations as maidenly modesty and pride suggested,--she told him all she had seen, and in conclusion proposed, as their enemy might ambush them, and as it was now drawing towards night, and the lake would not be quiet enough for some hours, at least, to permit them to proceed, that they should row up the river till they found an eligible spot, and encamp for the night. To this Claud readily assented; and they again set forth up the gentle stream, that, as before intimated, here came in from the southeast; and, after proceeding some distance, the anxious eye of the maiden fell on a place on the left bank, where a temporary shelter could easily be rigged up, under the wide-spreading and low-set limbs of a thick-topped evergreen, which, of itself, would be ample protection against the dews of heaven. Drawing up the canoe on land near the tree, in the same manner as at the island, she proceeded to gather large quantities of fine hemlock boughs, and dry, elastic mosses, arrange them under the tree, in the form of bed and pillow, and over the whole to spread Claud's blanket; thus making a couch as safe and comfortable as ever received the limbs of a suffering invalid. Upon this, partly by his own exertions and partly by her assistance, he was then, without much difficulty, soon transferred from the canoe; when, with his light hatchet (she having brought all his implements along with him in the boat), she soon erected neat, closely-woven wicker walls of boughs, from the ground to the limbs above, on both sides, providing within one of them a space for herself. She then brought fuel, kindled a small fire in front, and took her position at his side, to be ready for such ministering offices as his case might seem to require. She found that he had again fallen into a profound slumber, which she at first regarded as a favorable omen; and, in the conscious security of the spot, in the belief that he had received none of the injuries she had apprehended from the motion of the boat, and, above all, in the indulgence of that overweening pride of affection which covets all pains and sacrifices for the loved one, she felt a satisfaction which was almost happiness, in her situation. But it was not destined to be of very long duration. She at length began to perceive a gradual reddening of his cheeks, and then, soon after, an increasing shortness of respiration, and a general restlessness of the system. Alarmed at these symptoms, she felt his pulse, and at once discovered that he was in a high fever, supervening from his wounds, and caused, or much aggravated, doubtless, by the jostling of the boat on his way hither. Starting back, as if some unexpected calamity had suddenly fallen upon her, she stood some minutes absorbed in earnest self-consultation. What should she do? She could not, dare not, even were it daytime, leave him to go miles away for her father, or others, for aid or advice. No; she must stay by him. And, having seen the alleviating effects of cold water in fevers and inflammations, and knowing that there were no other remedies within reach, she at once decided on its application. Accordingly, with her cup of water at her side, and a piece of soft, clean moss in her hand, she began sponging his face, neck, and the flesh around his wounds; and repeating this process at short intervals, she continued the tender assiduities, with only occasional snatches of repose, till the welcome morning light broke over the forest. She then rose, and, with a miniature camp-kettle found among her patient's effects, prepared some gruel from the pounded parched corn which she had brought with her. This he mechanically took from her hand, when aroused for the purpose, but immediately relapsed again into the same state of unconsciousness and stupor in which he had lain through the night. Through the day and night that followed, but little variation was discernible in his condition, and as little was made in his treatment, by his fair, anxious nurse. Through the next day and night it was still the same; but towards night, on the third day after his attack, he began to show signs of amendment, and before dark his fever had entirely subsided. Perceiving this, the rejoiced maiden prepared him some more stimulating nourishment, in the shape of broth made from jerked venison. Having partaken freely of this, he then, with a whispered "_I am much better, Fluella_," sank back on his couch, and was soon buried in a sweet and tranquil slumber. Having carefully adjusted his blanket around him, and added her own shawl to the covering, and being now once more relieved of her most pressing fears for his fate, the exhausted girl laid down on her own rude couch, and, before she was aware, fell into a slumber so deep and absorbing that she never once awoke till the sun was peering over the eastern mountains the next morning. Her first waking glance was directed to the couch of the invalid. It was empty. Starting to her feet, with a countenance almost wild with concern, she hurriedly ran her eye through the forest around her; when, with a suppressed exclamation of joyful surprise, she soon caught sight of his form, slowly making his way back from a short walk, which he had, on awakening, an hour before, found himself able to take, along a smooth and level path on the bank of the river. But we have not the space, nor even the ability, to portray adequately the restrained but lively emotions of joy and the charming embarrassment that thrilled the tumultuously-beating bosom of the one, and the deep gratitude and silent admiration that took possession of the other, of this singularly situated young couple, during the succeeding scenes of Claud's now rapid convalescence. Suffice it to say, that, on the afternoon of the second day but one from this auspicious morning, they were on their happy way down through the lakes and the connecting river, to the chief's residence, where they safely arrived some hours before night, and where they were greeted with demonstrations of delight which told what anxieties had been suffered on their account. Here, for the first time, they learned that the murderer had been taken and carried to the village for his preliminary trial; that the examination had been postponed, to allow the prisoner time to send for his counsel; and that the hearing was to commence that very evening, though the hunter, who had that day made a hurried journey to the chief's, to see if Fluella had returned or Claud been heard from, had expressed great fears that the evidence yet discovered might not be deemed sufficient to convict him of murder, and perhaps not to imprison him for a final trial. Claud, perceiving at once the importance of Fluella's testimony, as well as of his own, proposed that they should immediately proceed that evening down the lakes to the place of trial. But neither the chief nor his daughter would suffer him to undertake the journey that night. At her earnest suggestion, however, it was at length arranged that she, accompanied by her half-brother, a lad of fifteen, should go down that evening, and that the chief, with Claud, should follow early the next morning. In pursuance of this arrangement, the resolute girl and her attendant, as soon as she had changed her dress and refreshed herself with a meal, embarked on the lake, and, at the end of the next hour, they reached the Great Rapids, leading, as before described, down into the Umbagog. Here her brother, whose eye and ear, ever since they started, had often been turned suspiciously to a dark, heavy cloud, which, seeming to hang over the upper portions of the Magalloway, had been continually sending forth peals of heavy thunder, hesitated about proceeding any farther, and warned his unheeding sister of their liability of being overtaken by the thunder-storm. But, finding her determined to proceed, if she was compelled to do so alone, he yielded, and, landing their canoe at the usual carrying places, they shot rapidly down the stream, and in less than another hour came out on the broad Umbagog, just as darkness was beginning to enshroud its waters, and cut off their view of the distant shores for which they were destined. But for the light of day they found an ample substitute in the electric displays, which, lighting up the lake to the blaze of noonday, were every instant leaping from, the black, angry clouds, now evidently passing off, with one almost continued roar of reverberating thunders, but a few miles to the north of them. A rapid row of about three miles now brought them to the foot of the lake, where the maiden had proposed to enter the river, and row down it to the swift water, a short distance above the village, and then proceed by land. Here, however, her course was unexpectedly impeded by one of those paradoxical occurrences which is peculiar to the spot, and which often happens on great and sudden rises of the Magalloway, that, though entering the Androscoggin a mile down its course, thus becomes higher than the level of the Umbagog, and pours its surplus waters along up its stream in the channel of the river last named, with a strong, rushing current into the lake. And our adventurers now found that masses of tangled trees, mill-logs, and all sorts of flood-wood, were driving so strongly and thickly up this channel that it would be in vain for them to attempt to proceed in that direction. But the purpose of the heroic girl to reach the village, by some means or other, was not to be thus shaken. She directed the boat to be rowed back to the Elwood Landing, where, leaving it, she with her attendant took the path to the cottage; and reaching this, and finding all dark within she boldly led the way down the long road to the bridge, miles below, with no other light than the still lingering flashes of lightning afforded to her hurrying footsteps. But it was not till after an exhausting walk, and some time past midnight, that she reached the bridge leading over the river to the tavern, where the trial was proceeding; and then only to encounter another great obstacle to her progress. On coming up to the bridge, she perceived, with astonishment and dismay, that one-half of the structure, with the exception of a single string-piece, the only connection now remaining between the two sides of the river, had been swept away by the sudden flood, or the revolving trees it bore on its rushing surface. She also ascertained, from a woman still up, watching with a sick child, in a house near by, that every boat on that side the river had been either carried off by the unexpected freshet, or taken since the bridge went off, by persons still coming in, to get over to the exciting trial, which, it was understood, would occupy the whole night. After pausing a moment, the still unshaken maiden borrowed and lighted a lantern, when, without disclosing her purpose, she left the house and proceeded directly to the end of the string-piece. She first examined it carefully, and finding it broad, level, and fixed in its bed, she then mounted the dizzy beam, and stood for a moment glancing down on the wild rush of roaring waters beneath. Her movements, to which the light she carried had attracted attention, were by this time seen and comprehended by the crowd around the tavern, on the opposite side, who now came rushing to the other end of the bridge, to deter her from the bold attempt. But she heeded them not; and in a moment more was seen, with a quick, firm step, gliding over the awful chasm; in another, she had reached the end, and stood in safety on the planks beyond,--where she was greeted by the throng, who had witnessed with amazement the perilous passage, in a shout of exultation at her escape, that rose loud and wild above the roar of the waters around them. CHAPTER XXI. "So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried, O! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus The dirge note and the song of festival; But in one _heart_, one changeful human heart,-- Ay, and within one hour of that strange world,-- Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones To startle and to pierce!--the dying Swan's, And the glad Sky-lark's,--Triumph and Despair!" Our tale is running rapidly to a close, and we must no more loiter to gather flowers by the wayside, but depict the events which now come thickly crowding together to make up the mingled catastrophe. When the sheriff and his scores of exulting assistants reached the village with their prisoner,--the desperate villain, whom they had, with so much difficulty and danger, dislodged and seized in his rocky den in the mountains,--the latter requested a postponement of his examination till the afternoon of the next day, that he might have time to send for, and obtain, his lawyer. This request was the more readily granted, as the party sent up the lakes with Moose-killer, for more evidence, had not yet returned, and as their expected discoveries, or at least their presence with those already made, might and would be required to fasten the crime, in law, on the undoubted criminal. The court, therefore, was adjourned to an indefinite hour the next afternoon; and the crowd, except the court, its officers, and those from a distance, dispersed to assemble, the next day, with increased numbers, to witness the final disposal of one who had now become, in the minds of all, the monster outlaw of the settlement. The prisoner was then taken to an adjoining old and empty log-house, a straw-bed laid on the floor for him, and a strong guard placed over him, both within and around the house without; so that, being constantly under the eyes of vigilant, well-armed men, there should be no possibility of his escape, either by his own exertions, or by the aid of secret accomplices. And these precautions being faithfully observed, the night wore away without alarm, or any kind of disturbance. The fore part of the succeeding day also passed, though people soon began to pour into the village from all quarters, with singular quietness,--all seeming to be oppressed with that deep feeling of hushed expectation which may often be seen to predispose men to a sort of restless silence, on the known eve of an exciting event. And, through the whole of it, no incident or circumstance transpired affecting the great interest of the occasion, till about noon; when the news spread that the anxiously-awaited party from the upper lakes were approaching. As they came up to the tavern, the now excited crowd quickly closed around them, and eagerly listened to their report. Of Claud Elwood, whom they had unknowingly passed and repassed, on their way up and down the lakes, while he was lying helpless in the secluded retreat to which his fair and devoted preserver had conveyed him, they had heard nothing, seen nothing, and discovered no clues by which his locality or fate could be traced or conjectured. But they had visited, and carefully examined, the place pointed out by Moose-killer as the one where Mark Elwood was supposed to have been slain; and, although they had failed to find the body on the land, or in the lake, with the best means they could command for dragging it, and although time had measurably effaced the traces by which the sagacious Indian had judged of the suspected deed, yet every appearance went to confirm the strict accuracy of his previous account. And, in addition, they at last found, slightly imbedded in the bark of a tree, in the range of the path, and a short distance to the south of the spot, a rifle bullet, which had evidently been, before striking the tree, smeared with a bloody substance, and also slightly flattened, as it might naturally have been, in striking a bone, on its way through a man's body. This seemed to establish, as a fact, the commission of a murder; but on whom committed was still left a debatable question. The movers of the prosecution had hoped, through this mission up the lakes, to obtain evidence which would conclusively establish the guilt of the prisoner. But, to effect this, and thus insure his conviction, something more conclusive was still obviously wanting. And it was then that the indefatigable hunter made, as the reader has already been apprised, his last rapid but fruitless journey to the chief's residence, in the hope that his mysteriously absent daughter might have returned with discoveries that would complete the chain of evidence. He having come back, however, without accomplishing any part of his object, and the prisoner's counsel having arrived, and, after a consultation with his client, become strangely clamorous to proceed at once to the examination, they finally concluded to go into the hearing with the presumptive evidence in possession, and, backing it with the showing of Gaut's previously suspicious character, for which they were now well prepared, call themselves willing to abide the result. All this being now settled, the court was declared open, and the counsel for the prosecution was requested to proceed with the case. After the attorney for the prosecution had read the papers on which it was founded, and made a statement of what was expected to be proved in its support, the witnesses in that behalf were called and sworn. The first testimony introduced was that of Codman and others, to show the deep malice and implied threats of revenge which the prisoner had so clearly exhibited towards the supposed murdered man, in the prosecution of which the latter was a principal mover, the winter before. But this evidence, when sifted by the long and severe cross-examination that followed, and found to consist, instead of definite words, almost wholly of menacing looks and other silent demonstrations of rage, which are ever extremely difficult to bring out in words with their original effect, amounted to so little that the prisoner's counsel attempted to turn it into ridicule with considerable show of success. Testimony in relation to the canoe of the Elwoods, recently found washed up among the rapids, which was next introduced, was found, when tested in the same way, in despite of the opinions of the practical boatmen who were the witnesses, to be almost equally inconclusive of the prisoner's guilt; so much so, indeed, that his counsel seemed greatly inclined to appropriate it, as showing the probable manner in which the Elwoods, if they were not still both alive, had come to their end. By this time,--as the court of inquiry was not opened till nearly sunset, and as the examinations, cross-examinations, and preliminary speeches of the opposing counsel, on disputed points of evidence, had been drawn out to seemingly almost interminable lengths,--by this time, it was nearly midnight; and the prosecuting party now proposed an adjournment till morning. But this was strenuously opposed by Gaut's lawyer, who, affecting to believe that the whole affair was a malicious prosecution growing out of the suit last winter, and got up by certain men who had banded together to revenge their defeat on that occasion, and ruin his client, boldly demanded that the prisoner should be discharged, or his conspiring enemies be compelled to proceed at once with "their sham prosecution," as he put on the face to call it. This stand, which was obviously instigated by the prisoner himself, who narrowly watched the proceedings, and, from time to time, was seen whispering in the ear of his counsel, produced the desired effect: the motion was overruled, and the counsel for the prosecution told to go on with his evidence. Moose-killer was then called on to the witnesses' stand, when, for the first time, Gaut exhibited evident feigns of uneasiness, and whispered something in the ear of his counsel, who thereupon rose and went into a labored argument against the admissibility of the evidence of an Indian, who was a pagan, and knew nothing about the God whose invocation constituted the sacred effect of the oath he had taken. But, on the questioning of the court, Moose-killer declared his full belief in the white Christian's God and Bible, and this objection was overruled, and the witness requested to proceed with his story. The demure Indian, unmoved by the burning and vengeful eye of Gaut, which was kept constantly riveted upon him, then succinctly but clearly related all the facts, of which the reader has been apprised in the preceeding pages, in relation to the atrocious deed under investigation. And at the conclusion of his story he produced the bullet found imbedded in the tree, called attention to its smeared and flattened appearance, and then asked for the prisoner's rifle, to see whether it would fit in the bore. The rifle in question was then brought into court, the bullet applied to the muzzle, and pronounced an exact fit! A shout of exultation burst from the crowd, and in a tone so significant of the public feeling, and of their unanimous opinion on this point, that for a moment both the prisoner and his counsel were completely disconcerted. But, soon rallying, the latter started to his feet, and, having summoned back to its place his usual quantum of brass, demanded "the privilege of just looking at that rifle they were all making such a fuss about." It was accordingly handed to him; when, after noticing the size of the bore, which was a common one, and then glancing at some other rifles held in the hands of different spectators, he confidently requested that the first half-dozen rifles to be found among the crowd should be brought on to the stand. Five of the designated number were soon gathered and brought forward; and it was found, in the comparison, that three of them were of the same bore as that of Gaut, and that the ball in question would fit one as well as another. "There! what has become of your bullet evidence now?" sneeringly exclaimed the exulting attorney. "Wondrous conclusive, a'n't it? But, as weak as the whole story is, I will make it still weaker. It is my turn with you now, my foxy red friend," he added, settling back in his seat to commence his cross-examination. His vaunted cross-examination, however, resulted in giving him no advantage. The Indian could not be made, in the whole hour the brow-beating inquisitor devoted to him, either to cross himself or vary a single statement of his direct testimony, and he was petulantly ordered to leave the stand. "Not done talk yet," said Moose-killer, lingering, and glancing inquiringly to the court and the counsel for the prosecution. "More story me tell yet." Gaut's lawyer looked up doubtfully to the witness; but, thinking he must have told all he could to implicate the prisoner, and that any thing now added might show discrepancies, of which some advantage could be taken, remained silent, and, for once, interposed no objection to letting the Indian take his own course; when the latter, on receiving an encouraging intimation to speak from the other attorney, proceeded, in his peculiarly broken but graphic manner, to make in substance the following extraordinary revelation: About ten years ago (he said), there came, from what part nobody knew, a strange, questionable personage, into the neighborhood of a few families of St. Francois Indians, encamping for the hunting season around the head-water lakes of the Long River, as he termed the Connecticut, and went to trapping for sable and beaver. But he soon fell into difficulties with the Indians, who believed he robbed their traps; and with one family in particular he had a fierce and bitter altercation. This family had a small child, that began to ramble from the wigwam out into the woods, and that, one night, failed to come home. They suspected who had got it, and next day followed the trail to the man's camp; when they soon found where the child had been butchered, cut up, and used to bait his sable-traps! But the monster, becoming alarmed, had fled, and never afterwards could be found. With this, Moose-killer, who had evidently put his story in this shape to avoid interruption, suddenly paused, and then, with one hand raised imploringly towards the court and the other stretched out menacingly towards the prisoner, wildly exclaimed: "O, that was _my_ child! and this was the man who murdered it!" A thrill of horror ran through the crowd as the witness came to the conclusion of his revolting story. And so completely were all taken by surprise by the startling, and as most of them believed truthful, revelation, and so great was the sensation produced by the appalling atrocities it disclosed, that the proceedings of the court were for some moments brought to a dead stand. But soon the shrill, harsh voice of Gaut's lawyer was heard rising above the buzz of the excited crowd, and bursting in a storm of denunciation and abuse on the witness, and all those who had a hand in bringing him forward, to thrust in, against all rule, such a story,--which, if true, had no more to do with the prosecution now in progress than the first chapter of the Alcoran. But it was not true. It was a monstrous fabrication. It represented as a fact what never occurred in all Christendom. It was stamped with falsehood on the face of it; and not only spoke for itself as such, but was a virtual self-impeachment of the witness, whose whole testimony the court should now throw to the winds. And so, for the next half-hour, he went on, ranting and raving, till the court, interposing, assured him that the witness' last story would not be treated as testimony in the case; when he became pacified, and took his seat. The counsel on the other side, who, during his opponent's explosive display of rhetorical gas and brimstone, had been holding an earnest consultation with Phillips (now also at hand with a disclosure which had been reserved for the present moment), then calmly rose, and said he had a statement to make, which he stood ready to substantiate, and to which he respectfully asked the attention of the court, as a matter that should be taken into the account in considering the prisoner's guilt in the present case, it being one of the many offences that appeared to have marked his career of almost unvarying crime and iniquity. He was well aware of the _general_ rule of evidence, which excludes matters not directly connected with the point at issue; but there _were_ cases in which that rule often had, and necessarily ever must be, materially varied,--as in the _crim. con._ cases reported in the books, where previous like acts were admitted, to show the probability of the commission of the one charged, and also in cases like the present, resting, as he admitted it thus far did, on presumptive evidence. In this view, notwithstanding all that had been said or intimated, he believed the concluding testimony of the last witness proper to be considered in balancing the presumptions of the prisoner's guilt or innocence. And especially relevant did he deem the statement, and the introduction of the evidence he had at hand to substantiate it, which he had now risen to offer. But, even were it otherwise, it would soon be seen that the step he was about to take would be particularly suitable to be taken while the court and the officers of justice were together, and the prisoner under their control. With these preliminary remarks, he would now proceed with the statement he had proposed. "This man," continued the attorney (whom we will now report in the first person), "the man who stands here charged, and, in the minds of nine out of ten of all present, I fearlessly affirm, _justly_ charged, with a murder, to the deliberate atrocity of which scarce a parallel can be found in the world's black catalogue of crime,--this man, I say, is a felon-refugee from British justice. "Many years ago,--as some here present may know, as a matter of history,--a secret and somewhat extended conspiracy to subvert the government of Lower Canada was seasonably discovered and crushed at Quebec, which was its principal seat, and which, according to the plan of the conspirators, was to be the first object of assault and seizure. This was to be effected by the contemporaneous rising of a strong force within the city, headed by a bold adventurer, a bankrupt merchant from Rhode Island, and of an army of raftsmen, collected from the rivers, without, led on by a reckless and daring, half-Scotch, half-Indian Canadian, who had acquired great influence over that restless and ruffian class of men. The former had been in the province in the year before, and, from witnessing the popular disaffection then rampant from the enforcement of an odious act of their Parliament to compel the building of roads, had, with the instigation of such desperate fellows as the latter, his Canadian accomplice, conceived this plot, and had now come on, with a small band of recruits, to carry it into execution; when, as all was nearly ripe for the outbreak, the whole plot was discovered. The poor Yankee leader was seized, tried for high treason, condemned to death, and strung up by the neck from the walls of Quebec. [Footnote: See Christie's History of Lower Canada] But the more wary and fortunate Canadian leader, though tenfold more guilty, escaped into the wilderness, this side of the British line; lingered a year or two in this region, trapping and robbing the Indians; then took to smuggling; engaged in the service of the man whose murder we are now investigating, followed him to the city, nearly ruined him there, and then dogged him to this settlement to complete his destruction." "Who do you mean?" thundered Gaut Gurley. "Ask your own conscience," replied the attorney, fearlessly confronting the prisoner. "'Tis false as hell!" rejoined Gaut, with a countenance convulsed with rage. "No, you mistake,--it is as true as hell," promptly retorted the other; "or, rather, as true as there is one for such wretches as you. Mr. Phillips," he added, turning to the hunter, who stood a little in the background, with his rifle poised on his left arm, with an air of carelessness, but, as a close inspection would have shown, so grasped by his right hand, held down out of sight, as to enable him to bring it to an instant aim,--"Mr. Phillips, were you in the habit of going to Quebec, fall and spring, to dispose of your peltries, about the time of this plotted insurrection?" "I was." "Did you ever have the Canada leader I have spoken of pointed out to you, previous to the outbreak?" "Often, on going down the Chaudiere river, often; why, I knew him by sight as well as the devil knows his hogs!" "Did you afterwards see and identify him in this region?" "I did." "Is not, then, all I have stated true; and is not the prisoner, here, the man?" "All as true as the Gospel of St. Mark; and that _is_ the man, the very man; under the oath of God, I swear it!" During this brief but terribly pointed dialogue, Gaut Gurley,--whose handcuffs, on his complaint that they galled his wrists, had been removed after he came into court,--sat watching Phillips with that same singularly sinister expression which we have, on one or two previous occasions, tried to describe him as exhibiting. It was a certain indescribable, whitish, lurid light, flashing and quivering over his countenance, that made the beholder involuntarily recoil. And, as the last words were uttered, his hand was seen covertly stealing up under the lapel of his coat; but it was instantly arrested and dropped, at the sharp click of the cocking of the hunter's rifle, which was also seen stealing up to his shoulder. "Nonsense!" half audibly said the sheriff, to something which, during the bustle and sensation following these manifestations, the hunter had been whispering in his ear; "nonsense! I searched him myself, and _know_ there is nothing of the kind about him." "I am not so sure about that," responded the hunter, edging along through the crowd, with his eye still on the prisoner, and soon disappearing out of the door. This little judicial interlude in the remarks of the attorney being over, he resumed: "My statement having been thus corroborated, and, as I am most happy to find, without any of the expected interruptions, it now only remains for me to say, that this indefatigable Mr. Phillips, becoming perfectly convinced that the prisoner was a man of whom it was a patriotic duty to rid the settlement, has, within the last two months, made a journey into Canada; obtained a written official request from the governor-general, addressed to the governor of New Hampshire, for the delivery of Gaut Gurley, at the time when, on notice, the proper officers would be in waiting to receive him; that our governor has responded by issuing his warrant; which," he continued, drawing out a document, "I now, in this presence, deliver to the sheriff, to be served, but only served, in case we fail--as I do not at all anticipate--to secure the commitment and final conviction of the prisoner, on the flagitious offence now under investigation, and loudly demanding expiation under our own violated laws, in preference to delivering him up for the punishment of other and less crying felonies." The prisoner and his counsel, on this new and unexpected development, held an earnest whispered consultation. The latter had supposed, till almost the last moment, that his opponent was intending only to bring in another piece of what he deemed wholly irrelevant testimony, in the shape of another gone-by transaction; and he was preparing another storm of wrath for the judicial outrage. But, when he found that the statement was a preliminary to a different and more alarming movement, and especially when he saw placed in the sheriff's hands a warrant for delivering up his client to the British, to be tried for a former felony, from the punishment of which, he feared, from what he had just heard, there would be no escape, he was sadly nonplussed, and knew not which way to turn himself. And it was not until Gaut, who, though thus suddenly brought into a dilemma which he was little expecting, was yet at no loss to decide on his course,--that of making every possible effort to escape the more immediate pending danger, and then of trusting to chance for eluding the more remote one just brought to view,--it was not till Gaut, with assurances of the last being but a miserable, trumped-up affair, had pushed and goaded him up to action, that the dumbfounded attorney recovered his old confidence. He then straightened back in his seat, and, with the air of one who has meekly borne some imposition, or breach of privilege, till it can be borne no longer, turned gruffly to his opponent, and said: "Well, sir, having dragged every thing into this case except what legitimately belongs to it, I want to know if you are through, _now_? We, on our side, have no need of introducing testimony to meet any thing you have yet been able to show. Why, you have not even established the first essential fact to be settled in prosecutions for homicide. You have arraigned my client for killing a man, and yet have shown nobody killed! No, _we_ shall introduce no witnesses till the body of the alleged murdered man is produced; for, till then, no court on earth--But I am not making a speech, and will not anticipate. All I intended was, to ask, as I do again, are you through with your evidence _now_?" The attorney for the prosecution then admitted--rather prematurely, as it was soon seen--that he thought of nothing more which he wished to introduce. "Go on with your opening speech, then," resumed the former. "No," said the other, "I waive my privilege of the opening and close, and will only claim the closing speech." "O, very well, sir," said Gaut's lawyer, throwing a surprised and suspicious look around, as if to see whether some trap was not involved in this unexpected waiver of the usually claimed privilege. "Very well; don't blame you; shouldn't think you could find honest materials even for one speech." The hard-faced attorney, who was reputed one of the best of what are sometimes termed _devil's lawyers_, in all that part of the country, then consequentially gathered up his minutes of the testimony, glanced over them, and, clearing his throat, commenced his great final speech, which was to annihilate his opponent, and quash the whole proceedings of the prosecution. But he had scarcely spoken ten words, before a tremendous shout, rising somewhere in the direction of the bridge,--to which their attention had been before called, when a part of it had been swept away during the first hours of the night,--broke and reverberated into the room, bringing him to an instant stand. Feeling that something extraordinary had occurred, the startled court, parties and spectators, alike paused, and eagerly listened for something further to explain the sudden outbreak. But, for several minutes, all was still, or hushed down to the low hum of mingling voices, and not a distinct, intelligible sound reached their expectant senses. Soon, however, the noise of trampling feet and the rush of crowds was heard, and perceived to be rapidly approaching the door of the court-room. And the next moment the clear, loud voice of the now evidently excited hunter was heard exultantly ringing out the announcement: "A witness, a new witness! A witness that saw the very deed!" This sudden and exciting announcement of an occurrence which had been hoped for, in some shape, on one side, and feared on the other, but, at this late hour of the night, little expected by either, at once threw all within the crowded courtroom into bustle and commotion. Both parties to the prosecution were consequently taken by surprise; and both, though neither of them were yet apprised of the character of the witness, were aroused and agitated by the significant announcement. But, of all present, none seemed so much stirred as the obdurate prisoner, who had, thus far in the examination, scarcely once wholly lost his usual look of bold assurance, but who now was seen casting rapid, uneasy, and evidently troubled glances towards the door; doubtless expecting, each moment, to see the fear which had haunted him from the first--that Claud Elwood would turn up alive, and appear in court against him--realized in the person of the new witness. His lawyer also, appeared to be seized with similar apprehensions; and, the next moment, he was heard loudly demanding the attention of the court. He objected, he _pointedly_ objected, he _protested_, in advance, against the admission of further testimony. He had borne _every thing_ during the hearing, but could not bear _this_. The pleas were closed, and the case concluded against the introduction of new evidence; and that, too, by the express notice and agreement of the counsel for the prosecution. And now to open it would be in glaring violation of all rule, all law, and all precedent. In short, it would be an outrage too gross to be tolerated anywhere but in a land of despotism. And, if the court would not at once decide to exclude the threatened testimony, he must be heard at length on the subject. But the court declining so to decide, and intimating that they were willing to hear an argument on the point, of any reasonable length, he spread himself for the wordy onset. The sheriff--who, in the mean time, had started for the door to make an opening in the crowd for the expected entrance,--seeing that a long speech was in prospect, now went out, conducted the proffered witness, in waiting near by, to another room in the house to remain there till called; and then returned, and, in a low tone, made some communication to the court. The pertinacious lawyer then went on with his heated protest, as it might be called far more properly than an argument, to the length of nearly an hour. The calm, manly, and cogent reply of his opponent occupied far less time, but obtained far more favor with the sitting magistrates; who, after a short consultation among themselves, unanimously decided to hear the proposed evidence, and thereupon ordered the sheriff to conduct the witness at once into court. A breathless silence now ensued in the court-room, and every eye was involuntarily turned towards the door. In a few minutes the sheriff closely followed, by two females, made his appearance and cleared his way up to the stand that had been occupied by the witnesses. No names had been announced, and both the ladies were veiled, so that their faces could not be seen in the dusky apartment, lighted only by two dim candles, made dimmer, seemingly, by the morning twilight, then beginning to steal through the windows, and to produce that dismal and almost sickening hue peculiar to the equal mingling of the natural light of day with the artificial light of lamp or taper. And it was not consequently known, except to one or two individuals, who they were; but enough was seen, in the enlarged form and sober tread of the one, and in the rounded, trim figure and elastic step of the other, to show the former to be a middle-aged matron, and the latter a youthful maiden. Each was garbed in rich black silk, to which were added, in the one case, some of the usual emblems of mourning, and in the other, a few simple, tastily contrasted, light trimmings. "What are these ladies' names? or rather, first, I will ask, which of them is the witness?" said the leading magistrate. "I am, I suppose," said the maiden, in tones as soft and tremulous as the lightly-touched chord of some musical instrument, as she threw back her veil, and disclosed a beauty of features and sweetness of countenance that at once raised a buzz of admiration through the room. "Your name, young lady?" "Fluella, sir; and this lady at my side is Mrs. Mark Elwood, who comes only as my friend." "You understand the usages of courts, I conclude; and, if so, will now receive the oath, and go on to tell what you know relative to the crime for which, you have doubtless heard, the prisoner here is arraigned." At once raising her hand, she was sworn, and proceeded directly to state that part of the transaction she had witnessed on the lake, which the hunter, in the conversation she found means to have with him while waiting to be taken into court, had advised her was all that would be important as evidence in the case. Gaut Gurley, the alarmed prisoner, who at first had appeared greatly relieved on finding that the announced witness was not the reanimated young Elwood, as he had feared, now seemed utterly at fault to conjecture what either of these women could know of his crime. But the moment the maiden, whom he had seen the previous year, and regarded with jealous dislike, as the possible rival of his daughter, revealed herself to his view, his looks grew dark and suspicious; and when she commenced by mentioning, as she did at the outset, that she was on a boat excursion along the western shore of the Maguntic, on the well-remembered day when he consummated his long cherished atrocity, he seemed to comprehend the drift of what was coming, and his eyes fastened on her with the livid glare of a tiger; while those demoniac flashes, before noted as the usual percursor of hellish intent with him, began to burn up and play over his contracting countenance. But these suspicious indications had escaped the notice of all,--even of the watchful hunter, whose looks, with those of the rest, were for the moment hanging, with intense interest, on the speaking lips of the fair witness. And she proceeded uninterrupted, till, having described the position in the thicket on shore, in which she was standing, as Mark Elwood, followed by Gaut Gurley, both of whom she recognized, came along, she, nerving herself for the task, raised her voice, and said: "I distinctly saw Mr. Elwood fall, convulsed in death,--heard the fatal shot, and instantly traced it to Gaut, before he had taken his smoking rifle from his shoulder,--this same man who now--" When, as she was uttering the last words, and turning to the prisoner, she stopped short, recoiled, and uttered a loud shriek of terror. And, the next instant, the deafening report of a pistol burst from the corner where the prisoner was sitting, filling the room with smoke, and bringing every man to his feet, in the amazement and alarm that seized all at the sudden outbreak. There was a dead pause for a moment; and then was heard the sudden rush of men, the sharp, brief struggle, and the heavy fall of the grappled prisoner, as he was borne overpowered to the floor. "Thank God!" exclaimed the hunter, the first to reach the bewildered maiden, and ascertain what had befell from this fiendish attempt to take her life simply because she was instrumental in bringing a wretch to justice,--"thank God, she is unhurt! The bullet has only cut the dress on her side, and passed into the wall beyond." "Order in court!" sternly cried the head magistrate. "It is enough! Mr. Phillips, conduct these ladies to some more suitable apartment. We wish for no more proof. The prisoner's guilt is already piled mountain-high. We commit him to your hands, Mr. Sheriff. Within one hour, let him be on his way to Lancaster jail, there to await his final trial and doom, for one of the foulest murders that ever blasted the character of human kind!" We will not attempt to describe, in detail, the lively and bustling scene, which, for the next hour or two, now ensued in and around the tavern, that had lately been the unaccustomed theatre of so many new and startling developments. The running to and fro of the excited and jubilant throng of men, women, and children, who, in their anxiety to witness and know the result of the trial, had passed the whole night in the place,--the partaking of the hastily snatched breakfast, in the tavern, by some, or on logs or bunches of shingles in the yard, by others, from provisions brought along with them, from home,--the hurried harnessing of horses and running out of wagons, preparatory to the departure of those here with the usual vehicles of travel,--the resounding blows and lumbering sounds of the score of lusty men who had volunteered to replace and repair the bridge from the old materials luckily thrown on the bank a short distance down the stream, so as to permit the departing teams, going in that direction, to pass safely over,--and, lastly, the bringing out, the placing on his bed of straw in the bottom of a wagon, and the moving off of the caged lion, with his cavalcade of guards before and behind,--the fiercely exultant hurrahing of the execrating crowd, as he disappeared up the road to the west, together with the crowning, extra loud and triumphant _kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho!_ of Comical Codman, who had mounted a tall stump for the purpose, and made the preliminary declaration that, if he was _ever_ to have another crow, it should be now, on seeing the Devil's unaccountable and first cousin, to say the least, in relationship, so handsomely cornered, and, at last so securely put in limbo,--these, all these combined to form a scene as stirring to the view, as it was replete with moral picturesque to the mind. But we must content ourself with this meagre outline; another and a different, quickly succeeding scene in the shifting panorama, now demands our attention. Among the crowd who had arranged themselves in rows, to witness the departure of the court officials and the prisoner, were the two now inseparable friends, Mrs. Elwood and Fluella; who, on turning from the spectacle, had strolled, arm-in-arm, to a green, shaded grass-plot at the farther end of the tavern building, and were now, with pensive but interested looks, bending over the garden fence, and inspecting a small parterre of budding flowers, which female taste had, even in a place so lately redeemed from the forest as this, found means to introduce. They were lingering here, while others were departing, for the arrival of expected friends, though evidently not conscious of their very near approach. But even then, as they stood listlessly gazing over upon the mute objects of their interest, those friends were coming across the bridge, in the singularly contrasted forms of an aged man, walking without any staff, and with a firm elastic tread, and quite a youngerly one, walking _with_ a cane, and with careful steps and a restrained gait, betokening some lingering soreness of body or limb. On reaching the nearest part of the tavern-yard, the young man gazed eagerly round among the still numerous crowd, when, his eye falling on those of whom he seemed to be in search, he turned to his companion and said: "There they are, Chief, I will go forward and take them by surprise." The next moment he was standing closely behind the unconscious objects of his attention; when, with a smiling lip but silent tongue, he gently laid a hand on a shoulder of each. "Claud!" burst from the lips of the surprised and reddening maiden, the first to turn to the welcome intruder. "Claud! Claud!" exclaimed the agitated matron, as she also turned, in grateful surprise, to greet, for the first time since his return, her heart's idol. "My son! my son!" she continued, with gathering emotion, "are you indeed restored alive to my arms, and, but for you, my now doubly desolate home? Thank Heaven! O thank Heaven! for the happy, happy restoration!" "That is right, dear mother!" at length responded the visibly touched young man, gently disengaging himself from the long maternal embrace; "that is all right. But," he added, turning to the maiden, whose sympathetic tears were coursing down her fair cheeks, "if you would thank any _earthly_ being for the preservation of my life, it should be this good and lovely girl at your side." "I know it," said the mother, after a thoughtful pause, "I know it; and, Claud, I would that she were _indeed_ my daughter." There was an embarrassing pause. But the embarrassment was not perceived and felt by these two young persons alone. Another, unknown to them, had silently witnessed the whole interview from an open, loosely-curtained window of the chamber above; and perceived, and felt, and appreciated, all that had transpired, in word and look, no less keenly than the young couple, whose beating hearts, only, were measuring the moments of their silent perplexity. That other was Gaut Gurley's lovely and luckless but strong-hearted daughter. Having instinctively read her father's guilt, she had come to his trial with a sinking heart; shut herself up alone in this small chamber; so arranged the screening curtains that she could sit by the open window unseen, and kept her post through that long night of her silent woe, hearing all that was said by the crowd below, and, through their comments, becoming apprised of all that was going on in the court-room, in the order it transpired. She had known of Fluella's arrival,--her perilous passage over the river,--of the report she then made to the hunter of her discoveries,--of her bringing back the wounded Claud in safety,--of the dastardly attempt of the prisoner to take that heroic girl's life,--of his sentence, and, finally, of his departure for prison, amidst the execrations of a justly indignant people. She had known all this, and felt it, to the inmost core of her rent heart, with the twofold anguish of a broken-hearted lover and a fate-smitten daughter. She had wrestled terribly with her own heart, and she had conquered. She had determined her destiny; and now, on witnessing the last part of the tender scene enacting under her window, she suddenly formed the high resolve of crowning her self-immolation by a public sacrifice. Accordingly she hastily rose from her seat, and, without thought or care of toilet, descended rapidly to the yard, and, with hurrying step and looks indicative of settled purpose, moved directly towards the deeply surprised actors in the little scene, of which she had thus been made the involuntary witness. "No ceremony!" she said, in tones of unnatural calmness, with a forbidding gesture to Claud, who, while Fluella was instinctively shrinking to the side of the more unmoved but still evidently disturbed Mrs. Elwood, had advanced a step for a respectful greeting. "No ceremony--it is needless; and no fears, fair girl, and anxious mother--they are without cause. I come not to mar, but to make, happiness. Claud Elwood, my heart once opened and turned to you, as the sunflower to its god; and our paths of love met, and, for a while, ran on pleasantly together as one. But, even then, something whispered me they would soon again diverge, and lead off to separate destinies. The boded divergence, as I feared, began with the fatal family feud of last winter, and has now resulted, as I still more feared, in plunging us, respectively, in degradation and sorrow, and also in placing our destinies as wide as the poles asunder. Claud, Claud Elwood,--can you love this beautiful girl at your side? You speak not. I _know_ that you can. I relinquish, then, whatever I may have possessed of your heart, to her, if _she_ wills. And why should she not? Why reject one whose life she would peril her own to save? She will not. Be you two, then, one; and may all the earthly happiness _I_ once dreamed of, with none of the bitter alloy it has been my lot to experience, be henceforth yours. You will know me no more. With to-morrow's sun, I travel to a distant cloister, where the world, with its tantalizing loves and dazzling ambitions, will be nothing more to me forever. Farewell, Claud! farewell, gentle, heroic maiden! farewell, afflicted, happy mother! If the prayers of Avis Gurley have virtue, their first incense shall rise for the healing of all the heart-wounds one of her family has inflicted." As the fair speaker ceased, and turned away from this doubtless unspeakably painful performance of what she deemed her last worldly duty, as well as an acceptable opening act in the life of penance to which she had resolved now to devote herself, an audible murmur of applause ran through the throng, who, in spite of their wish not to appear intrusive, had paused at a little distance, to listen to and witness the unexpected and singular scene. Among the voices which had been thus more distinctly raised was that of a stranger, who, having arrived a few minutes before, given his horse to the waiter, shook hands with the hunter and the chief, to whom he appeared well known, had joined the crowd to see what was going on, and who had been particularly emphatic in the open expression of his admiration. The remembered tones of his voice, though attracting no attention from others, instantly reached the quick ears of one of the more silent actors of the little scene we have been describing. She threw a quick, eager glance around her; and, having soon singled out from the now scattering crowd, the person of whom her sparkling eye seemed in search, she flew forward towards him, with the joyful cry: "My father! my white father! I am glad, O, so glad you have come!" and she eagerly grasped his outstretched hand, shook it, kissed him, and, being now relieved from the embarrassment she had keenly felt in the position in which she had just been so unexpectedly placed, appeared to be all joy and animation. "Come, come, Fluella, don't shake my arm off, nor bother me now with questions," laughingly said the gentleman, thus affectionately beset, as he pulled the joyous girl along towards the spot where the wondering Mrs. Elwood and her son were standing. "You must not quite monopolize me; here are others who may wish to see me." "Arthur!" exclaimed Mrs. Elwood, with a look of astonishment, after once or twice parting her lips to speak, and then pausing, as if in doubt, as the other was coming up with his face too much averted to be fairly seen by her; "it is--it is--Arthur Elwood!" "Yes, you are right, sister Alice," responded the hard-visaged little man thus addressed, extending his hand. "It is the same odd stick of an old bachelor that he always was. But who is this?" he added, with an inclination of the head towards Claud. "Your son, I suppose?" The formal introduction to each other of the (till then) personally unacquainted uncle and nephew; the full developing to the astonished mother and son of the fact, already inferred from what they had just witnessed, that this, their eccentric kinsman, was no other than the foster-father of Fluella,--that he was the owner of large tracts of the most valuable wild lands around these lakes, the oversight of which, together with the unexpected tutelary care of the Elwood family since their removal to the settlement, he had intrusted to the prudent and faithful Phillips,--and, finally, the melancholy mingling of sorrows for the untimely death of the fated brother, husband, and father of these deeply-sympathizing co-relatives, now, like chasing lights and shadows from alternating sunshine and cloud on a landscape, followed in rapid succession, in unfolding to the mournfully happy circle their mutual positions and bonds of common interest. "Evil has its antidotes," remarked Arthur Elwood, as the conversation on these subjects began to flag and give room for other thoughts growing out of the association; "evil has its antidotes, and sorrow its alleviating joys. And especially shall we realize this, if the suggestions of that self-sacrificing girl, who has just addressed you so feelingly, be now followed. What say you, Claud?" "They will be," promptly responded the young man, at once comprehending all which the significant question involved; "they will be, on my part, uncle Arthur, joyfully,--proudly." "And you, Fluella?" persisted the saucy querist, turning to the blushing girl. "He has not asked me yet," she quickly replied, with a look in which maiden pride, archness, and unuttered happiness, were charmingly blended. "If he should, and _you_ should command me"-- "Command? _command_! Now, that is a good one, Fluella," returned the laughing foster-father. "Well, well, a woman will be a woman still, any way you can fix it. All right, however, I presume. But, chief," he added, turning to the natural father, who stood with the hunter a little in the background, "what has been going on here cannot have escaped your keen observation; and you ought to have a voice in this matter. What do _you_ say?" "The chief," replied the other, with his usual dignity, "the chief has had one staff, one light of his lodge; he will now have two. Wenongonet is content." "It is settled, then," rejoined the former, whose usually passionless countenance was now beaming with pleasure; "all right, all round. Now, sister Alice, let us all adjourn to your house, where you and Fluella, from some of those splendid lake trout which I and Mr. Phillips, who, as well as the chief, must be of the party, will first go out and catch for you,--you and Fluella, I say, must cook us up a nice family dinner, over which we will discuss matters at large, and have a good time generally." In a few minutes more the happy group were on their way to the Elwood cottage. The principal interest of our story is at an end; and with it, also, the story itself should speedily terminate. A few words more, however, seem necessary, to anticipate the inquiries which will very naturally arise in the mind of the reader, respecting what might be expected soon to follow the _eclaircissement_ of the few last pages; and, accordingly, as far as can be done without marring the unity of time, we will proceed, briefly, to answer the inquiries thus arising. The body of the fated Mark Elwood, perforated through the breast by the bullet of his cold-blooded murderer, having broken from the sinking weights attached to it, and risen to the surface of the lake, was found in about a fortnight, brought home, and buried on his farm. Not far from the same time the faithful hunter received, from the hands of a gentleman passing through the settlement, a deed of gift of three hundred acres of valuable timber-land, adjoining his own little patch of a lot, all duly drawn, signed, and executed by Arthur Elwood; who, after a pleasant sojourn of a week at the Elwood cottage, apprising its inmates of what he had in store for them, in the line of property, had departed for his home, a happier man than he had been, since, for secret griefs, he had dissolved partnership with his brother Mark, and left the little interior village where the pair first made their humble beginning in life. Codman, the trapper, continued to trap it still, and, as all the settlers within a circuit of many miles around them were often unmistakably made aware, to crow as usual on all extra occasions. Tomah, the college-learned Indian, immediately left, with the escort of the prisoner, and, kept away by the force of some associations connected with the settlement as disagreeable to him as they were conjecturable to others, was never again seen in the settlement; against which, on leaving, he seemed to have kicked off the dust of his feet behind him. Carvil, the cultivated amateur hunter, had also immediately departed, with the court party, on his way to his pleasant home in the Green Mountains; not wholly to relinquish, however, his yearly sojourns in the forests, to regain health impaired for the want of a more full supply of his coveted, life-giving oxygen. And, lastly, Gaut Gurley, whose infernal scheming and revolting atrocities have been so inseparably interwoven with the main incidents of our story, broke jail, on the night preceding the day set for his final trial, by digging through the thick stone wall of his prison, with implements evidently furnished from without, leaving bloody traces of his difficult egress through the hardly sufficient hole he had effected for the purpose; and, though instant search was everywhere made for him, he was not, to the sad disappointment of the thousands intending to be in at the hanging, anywhere to be found or heard of in the country. And the mystery of his retreat, and the still unexplained mystery of his strange and ruinous influence over the man whom he at last so flagitiously murdered, were not cleared up until years afterwards. SEQUEL. It was a terrible storm. The wind, with all the awful accompaniments of rain, hail, rattling thunders, and fiercely glaring lightnings, had burst down upon the liquid plains of the startled deep, in all the fury of a tropical tornado. The black heavens were in terrific commotion above; and the smitten and resilient waters, as if to escape the impending wrath of the aroused sister elements, were fleeing in galloping mountains athwart the surface of the boiling ocean, beneath. Could aught human, or aught of human construction, be here, now, and survive? It would seem an utter impossibility; and yet it was so. Amidst all this deafening din of battling elements, that were filling the heavens with their uproar and lashing the darkened ocean into wild fury and commotion, a staunch-built West India merchant-ship was seen, now madly plunging into the troughs of the sea, and now quivering like a feather on the towering waves, or scudding through the flying spray with fearful velocity before the howling blast. On her flush deck, and lashed to the helm, with the breaking waves dashing around his feet, and the water dripping from the close cap and tightly-buttoned pea-jacket in which he was garbed, stood her gallant master, in the performance of a duty which he, true to his responsibility, would intrust to no other, in such an hour as this,--that of guiding his storm-tossed bark among the frightful billows that were threatening every instant, to engulf her. Thus swiftly onward drove the seemingly devoted ship, strained, shivering, and groaning beneath the terrible power of the gale, like an over-ridden steed, as she dashed, yet unharmed, through the mist and spray and constantly-breaking white caps of the wildly-rolling deep; thus onward sped she, for the full space of two hours, when the wind gradually lulled, and with it the deafening uproar subsided. Presently a young, well-dressed gentleman made his appearance on deck, amidships, and, having noted a while the now evident subsidence of the tempest, slowly and carefully, from one grasped rope to another, made his way to the side of the captain, at the wheel. "A frightful blow, Mr. Elwood," said the latter; "for the twenty years I have been a seaman, I have never seen the like." "It certainly has exceeded all my conceptions of a sea-storm," said the other. "But do you know where we are, and where driving at this tremendous speed?" "Yes, I think I do, both. When we were struck by the gale, which I saw was going to be a terrible norther, and saw it, too, very luckily, at a distance that enabled me to become well prepared for it, look at my reckoning, and make all my calculations,--when we were struck, we were three hundred and fifty miles out of Havana, north'ard, and about forty from the American coast. I at once put the ship before the wind, and set her course southeast, which, being perfectly familiar with these seas, I knew would give her a safe run, and, in about sixty miles, carry her by the southern point of the Little Bahama Bank, where, rounding this great breakwater against northers, we should be in a comparatively smooth sea, that would admit of either laying to or anchoring. It is now over two hours since we started on this fearful race, which has kept my heart in my mouth the whole time; and I am expecting, every minute, to get sight of that rocky headland." "But that," rejoined Elwood (for the gentleman was no other than Claud Elwood, as the reader has doubtless already inferred), "that will bring us, according to the late rumor, into one of the principal haunts of the pirates, will it not?" "Yes, partly, perhaps," replied the captain; "but I hear that Commodore Porter has arrived, with the American squadron, in these seas, to break up these pests, and I presume _has_ done it, or frightened them away, so that we sha'n't be molested. At any rate, I saw no safer course to outlive such a tempest. You are the owner of ship and cargo, to be sure; but you put on me the responsibility of her safety." "Certainly," rejoined the other, "for my guidance would be a poor one; and, instead of any disposition to criticise your course, Captain Golding, I feel but too grateful, with the life of a beloved wife at stake, to say nothing of my own, and so much property, that your skill has enabled us to outride the storm--now nearly over, I think--so unexpectedly well. But what is that, a little to the left of the ship's course, in the distance ahead?" "Ah, that is it!" cheerily exclaimed the captain, casting an eager look in the indicated direction. "Why, how like a race-horse the ship must be driving ahead! I looked not ten minutes ago, and nothing was to be seen; and now there is the headland, in full view, but two or three leagues distant! And stay,--what is that dark object around and a little beyond the point? A ship? Yes, it grows distinct now,--a large, black ship. That, sir, is an American frigate. Hurra to you, Elwood! We will now soon be safe, and in safe company." It was about sunset. The merchantman, having passed the protecting promontory, and swept around the tall ship of war, had gained an offing, about a half mile beyond, under the lee of a thickly-wooded, long, narrow island; and was now lying snugly at anchor, riding out the heavy ground-swell occasioned by the abated storm; while all on board, unsuspicious of molestation, were making preparations to turn in for the night. "A sail to the leeward!" shouted a sailor, just sent aloft to make some alteration in the rigging. The word was passed below; and the captain, mates, and Elwood, were instantly on deck, and on the lookout. They at once descried a large black schooner, creeping out from behind the farther end of the island against which they were anchored, about a mile distant, and tacking and beating her way towards them. She carried no colors by which her character could be determined; but the very absence of all such insignia, together with the sinister appearance of her long, low sides, which exhibited the aspect of masked port-holes, and also the peculiar stir of her evidently large and strange-looking crew, at once marked her as an object of suspicion. "Elwood, your fears were prophetic," said the captain, lowering his glass from a long, intent observation. "That craft is a pirate, with scarce a shadow of doubt. But don't the mad creature see the frigate, and the frigate her?" With this, they all turned towards the ship of war; but she was no longer visible. A narrow vein of land fog, put in motion by some local current in shore, had been wafted out on to the water, and completely enshrouded her from their view. "I see it all," exclaimed Elwood. "That pirate has been lying, all the afternoon, concealed behind this island; and his spies, sent into the woods on the island, and to this end of it, probably, saw both our ship and the frigate take their positions, and this intervening fog coming on, and reported all to their master; who at once conceived the bold design which he has now started out to execute,--that of snatching us, as its prize, from under the very guns of the frigate!" A brief, earnest consultation was then held; when, knowing the uselessness of trying to signalize the frigate, they first thought to weigh anchor and try to escape to her protection; but a little reflection told them the enemy would be down upon them before this could be effected, and they would be taken, unprepared for defence. The only other alternative left them was, therefore, quickly adopted; and, in pursuance, the second mate and two seamen were lowered in the life-boat, with orders to keep the ship between themselves and the schooner till they got into the screening fog, and then make their way, with all speed, to the frigate, to invoke her aid and protection; while all the rest should arm themselves with the muskets, swords, and pistols on board, and, if possible, hold the enemy at bay till succor arrived. And scarcely had these hasty preparations been made, before the piratical schooner, which had made a wide tack outward to catch the wind, came swiftly sweeping round to their side, like a towering falcon on his prey. But, by some miscalculation of her helmsman, she went twenty yards wide of them--not, however, without betraying the full extent of her bloody purposes; for as, under the impulse of a speed she found herself unable instantly to check, she swept by on the long, rolling billows, a score or two of desperate ruffians, headed by their burly and still more fierce-looking captain, stood on her deck, armed to the teeth, and holding their hooks and hawsers, ready to grapple and board their intended prey. But, still forbearing to unmask their batteries or fire a gun, lest they should thus bring down the frigate upon them, her grim and silent crew sprang to their posts, to tack ship and come round again, with the narrowest sweep, to repair their former mischance. And, with surprising quickness, their well-worked craft was again, and this time with no uncertain guidance, shooting alongside of the devoted merchantman. Still the crew of the latter quailed not; but, well knowing there was no longer any hope of escaping a struggle in which death or victory were the only alternatives, stood, with knitted brows and fire-arms cocked and levelled, silently awaiting the onset. It came. With the shock of the partial collision as the assailing craft raked along the sides of their ship, and the sudden jerk as she was brought up by the quickly-thrown grapples, the pirate captain, with a fierce shout of defiance, cleared, at a single bound, the intervening rails, and landed, with brandished sword, upon their fore-deck. A dozen more, with a wild yell, were in the act of following, when they were met by a full volley from the guns of the defenders, poured into their very faces. There was a pause,--a lurch,--a crack of breaking fixtures; and the next moment the schooner, torn away from her fastenings by the force of a monstrous upheaving wave, and thrown around at right angles to the unharmed prey so nearly within her clutches, was seen rolling and reeling on the top of a billow, fifty yards distant. At that instant, twenty jets of blinding flame fiercely burst from the edge of the fog-cloud, almost within pistol-shot to the windward, and, with the startling flash, rent sky and ocean leaped as with the concussion of a closely-breaking volley of linked thunder-peals. There was another and still more awful pause; when, through the cloud of sulphurous smoke that was rolling over them, the astounded defenders heard the gurgling rush, as of waters breaking into newly opened chasms, in the direction of the enemy; and they comprehended all. The frigate, unperceived by the eager pirates, had dropped down, rounded to, and sent a whole broadside directly into the uprolled hull of the devoted craft, which had been reduced to a sinking wreck by that one tremendously heavy discharge of terrible missiles. Within two minutes the lifting smoke disclosed her, reeling and lurching for the final plunge. Within one more, she rose upright, like some mortally-smitten giant, quivered an instant, and, with all her grim and hideously-screeching crew, went down, stern foremost, amid the parting waves of the boiling deep. These startling scenes had transpired so rapidly that the amazed crew of the merchantman had taken no thought of the pirate captain whom they had seen leaping on their deck; but they now turned to look for him, and, whether dead or alive, to take charge of him, to crown the fortunate result of this fearful encounter. There he stood at bay, with back turned to the foremast, facing his virtual captors, with a brandished sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, as if daring them to approach or fire on him. But they were spared the necessity of attempting either. A boat's crew of armed men from the frigate were already mounting the deck, to claim whoever of the pirates they found alive, as their trophies. The formidable desperado was pointed out to them; when, firing a volley over his head, to confuse without killing him, they rushed forward in the smoke, disarmed, bound, and dragged him along, to pass him down to their boat. As he was being urged across the deck, his eyes met those of Elwood. The recognition was mutual. It was Gaut Gurley! It was morning, and the bright sun was looking down upon an ocean as calm and peaceful as if its passive bosom had never been disturbed by the ensanguined tumults of warring men, or the commotions of battling elements. A youthful couple were standing by the rail, on the deck of the still anchored merchantman, and glancing up admiringly at the towering masts of the ship-of-war, which had also anchored for the night on the very spot from which she had dealt such destruction to the pirates, whose awful fate and the connected circumstances had been with them the topic of conversation. "This has been such a fearful ordeal to you, dear Fluella," said the young man, smilingly, "that I shall probably never be able again to induce you to leave home to cross the ocean, either for health or pleasure, shall I?" "For pleasure, no, my dear husband," affectionately responded the other; "no, with my happy New England home, never, for pleasure, Claud." "But this was for _health_," rejoined Elwood. "I have never told you how much I was concerned about you last summer, or that your physician warned me, as cold weather approached, he could not answer for your life through another winter at the North. It was this only that led me to urge you to accompany me to Cuba, to remain there till I came back for you in the spring, as I have now done. And, to say nothing of the gains which my two trips will add to the estate of which I am heir in expectation,--or rather, as my good uncle will have it, in possession with him,--to say nothing of this, I shall always be thankful for your coming, for it has so evidently restored you, I had almost said, to more of health and beauty than I have seen you exhibiting for the whole two and a half happy years of our married life." "Thank you, Claud, for the beautiful part of it," said the happy wife, snapping her handkerchief in his face, with an air of mock resentment; "but I am thinking of home. When shall we reach there?" "Well, let us calculate," replied the husband, beginning to catch the affectionate animation of the other: "this is the 22d of April; and I think I can promise you the enjoyment of a May-day in New England." "I hold you to that, sir," playfully rejoined the wife, "for I wish to be preparing for our summer residence at your cottage on my native lakes. My illness deprived me of that pleasure last summer, you know, husband mine." "Yes," said he, with kindling enthusiasm, "we will go, Fluella. I want to see the good old chief; I want to enjoy the visit I have promised me from my friend Carvil; I want to hear Phillips discourse on woodcraft, and Chanticleer Codman wake the echoes of the lakes by his marvellous crowing. Yes, yes, we will go, and make uncle and mother go with us, this time." "Uncle and mother!" cried Fluella, laughingly; "how odd that is getting to sound, Suppose I call your mother aunt? Have they not now been married long enough to be both entitled to the more endearing names of father and mother? and are they not happy enough and good enough to merit the dearest names?" "Yes," answered Elwood, "I will correct the habit, if you really wish it. Yes, yes; the once-styled crusty old bachelor, Arthur Elwood, and my mother, are indeed a happy couple. Did you ever know a happier?" "Yes, one," replied the hesitating, blushing wife, drawing down her husband's head, and slyly imprinting a kiss on his cheek. The conversation between the happy pair was here interrupted by the appearance of a boat putting off from the frigate, under the charge of a midshipman; who, having come on board and inquired out Elwood, now approached and presented him a letter, saying, as he departed, it was from the pirate prisoner, and would doubtless require no answer. The greatly surprised young man tore open the letter, and, in company with his wife, read, with mingled emotions of pain and indignation, the following singular but characteristic compound of malicious vaunt and shameless confession: "To CLAUD ELWOOD:--My career is ended, at last. Well, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have been nobody's fool nor nobody's tool. Early perceiving that nine out of ten were only the stupid instruments of the tenth man, the world over, I resolved to go into the system, and did, and improved on it so as to make _nineteen_ out of _twenty_ tools to _me_,--that is all. I have no great fault to find with men generally, though I always despised the whole herd; for I knew that, if they used me well, it was only because they dared not do otherwise. I don't write this, however, to preach upon that, but to let you know another thing, to chew upon. "You call me a murderer; and I want to tell you that _you_ are the _son_ of a murderer, and therefore stand on a par with my family, even at that. Your father, when we used to operate together in smuggling, being once hard chased, on an out-of-the-way road, by one of the custom-house crew, knocked him down with a club, and finished with the blow, to save a thousand dollars' worth of silk. But I sacredly kept his secret; yes, even to this day, besides making one good fortune for him, and being on the point of making him another. And yet he betrayed and turned against me. Yes, in that affair about the missing peltries, he betrayed me, out and out, and spoilt every thing. That was his unpardonable sin, with me. I resolved he should die for it; and he _did_. I didn't want to kill you, but couldn't suffer you to become a witness. No, I never had any thing against you, except for allowing matters to take the turn that drove my daughter to anticipate you in breaking off the match. But it was just as well, as it turned out. Avis, in the position of _lady abbess_ of a convent in one of your eastern cities, which it is settled she will have, will stand quite as high, I guess, as in the position of lady Elwood. "I have done, now, except to ask one favor,--the only one I will ever ask of _any_ man,--and that is, that you won't publish my name, and couple it with the unlucky miss-go of last night; so that my wife and daughter, who know I am in this region, but not my business, may never learn that the captain of the _Black Rover_ and I are one. As my brave boys are all gone down, and as _I_ shall have no trial to bring it out, it rests with you to say whether it is ever to be known or not; for, as I have said, I have no notion of being either tried or hung, any more than I had at the North. GAUT." On finishing this singular and remorseless missive, with its strange, painful, but as he feared too true disclosure of the secret of that fatal influence which had proved the ruin and final destruction of his father, Claud Elwood was too much troubled and overcome to utter a word of comment; and, with his pained and shuddering wife, he stood mute and thoughtful, until aroused by the stir on board, in preparations for weighing anchor, and the cheering announcement of the captain that a favoring breeze was springing up, and that within twenty minutes they would be, under the fairest of auspices, on their rejoicing way to their own beloved New England. But the cheering thought was not to be enjoyed without the drawback of being compelled to witness one more and a concluding horror. As Elwood and his beautiful companion were on the point of retiring from deck, their attention was suddenly arrested by a light, crashing sound, high up the tall side of the frigate. They looked, and caught sight of broken pieces of board or panelling flying out, as if beat or kicked from what appeared to have been a closed port-hole. Presently the body of a man, whom they at once recognized, was protruded through the ample aperture he had evidently thus effected, till he brought himself to a balance on the outer edge. Then came the sharp cry from some one of the frigate's officers: "Look out, there, for the pirate prisoner!" There was at once a lively stir on board, but too late. The next moment the heavily-manacled object of the alarm descended, like a swiftly-falling weight, to the water; and, with a dull plunge, the recoiling waves rolled back, forever closing over the _traitor_, the _robber_, the _murderer_, and the _pirate_, GAUT GURLEY!