Chapter One. Introduces the Hero.

To be generally helpful was one of the chief points in the character of Charlie Brooke.

He was evidently born to aid mankind. He began by helping himself to everything in life that seemed at all desirable. This was natural, not selfish.

At first there were few things, apparently, that did seem to his infant mind desirable, for his earliest days were marked by a sort of chronic crossness that seemed quite unaccountable in one so healthy; but this was eventually traced to the influence of pins injudiciously disposed about the person by nurse. Possibly this experience may have tended to develop a spirit of brave endurance, and might perhaps account for the beautiful modifications of character that were subsequently observed in him. At all events, sweet, patient amiability was a prevailing feature in the boy long before the years of infancy were over, and this heavenly aspect of him was pleasantly diversified, in course of time, by occasional displays of resolute—we might almost say heroic—self-will, which proved a constant source of mingled pride and alarm to his widowed mother.

From a very early period of life little Charlie manifested an intense desire, purpose, and capacity for what may be called his life-work of rescuing human beings from trouble and danger. It became a passion with him as years rolled on, and was among the chief means that brought about the changes in his chequered career.

Appropriately enough he began—almost in babyhood—by rescuing himself!

It happened thus. One day, when he had reached the immature age of five, he was left in the nursery for a few moments in company with a wash-tub, in which his mother had been cleansing the household linen.

Mrs Brooke, it may be remarked, although in the middle ranks of life, was very much below the middle ranks in financial prosperity, and had therefore to perform much household drudgery.

Charlie’s earnest desire to please and obey his mother constantly came into collision with that self-will to which we have referred. Separately, these qualities may perhaps work quietly, at least as regards their possessor, but unitedly they form a mixture which is apt to become explosive in early youth.

“Don’t touch the tub, Charlie; I’ll be back directly,” said Mrs Brooke, as she was leaving the nursery. “Don’t even go near it.”

“No, muvver, I won’t.”

He spoke with much decision, for he adored water—not to drink but to play with—and seemed to realise the danger of his position, and the necessity for self-control.

The temptation to avail himself of the chance, however, was almost too much for him. Feeling that an internal conflict was pending, he toddled to the fire, turned his back to it à la paterfamilias, and glared at the tub, resolved, come what might, to be “dood.” But fate was against him!

Suddenly he became aware that something more than radiated heat was operating in rear. He glanced behind. His cotton tunic was in flames! In the twinkling of an eye he was seated in the wash-tub, his hands clasped in horror as he thought of his guilt, and the flames thoroughly extinguished!

The solemn glare and pursed mouth with which he met his mother’s look of blank amazement may be imagined but cannot be described—he looked so quiet, too, and so evidently contented, for the warm water was congenial!

“O Charlie! did I not say that—”

“Yes, muvver, but I’m bu’nt.”

The fearsome and dripping black patch which presented itself to the agonised mother when she lifted him out of the tub sufficiently enlightened her and exonerated the child, but her anxiety was not relieved till she had stripped him naked and ascertained for certain that no scrap of his fair skin had been injured.

This may be said to have been the real commencement of Charlie Brooke’s career. We mention it chiefly to show that our hero was gifted with some power of ready resource even in childhood. He was also gifted with a fearless and daring disposition, a quietly enthusiastic spirit, a modest mien, and a strong muscular body.

Of course these admirable qualities were not fully developed in childhood, but the seeds were there. In due time the plants came up and the flowers bloomed.

We would here caution the reader—especially the youthful reader—against supposing that from this point our hero was engaged in rescue-work, and continued at it ever after without intermission. Like Samson, with his great strength, he exercised his powers only now and then—more than half unconscious of what was in him—and on many occasions without any definite purpose in view.

His first act of heroism was exercised, when he had reached the age of nine, in behalf of a kitten.

It was on a magnificent summer day, soon after he had been sent to the village school, that the incident occurred. Charlie was walking at the time with one of his school-fellows named Shank Leather.

Shank was a little older than himself, and a good enough fellow in his way, but much given to boasting, and possessed of very few of the fine qualities that characterised our hero. The two were out for a holiday-ramble, a long way from home, and had reached a river on the banks of which they sat down to enjoy their mid-day meal. The meal was simple, and carried in their pockets. It consisted of two inch-and-a-half-thick slices of bread, with two lumps of cheese to match.

“I wish this river was nearer home,” said Shank Leather, as they sat down under a spreading oak to dine.

“Why?” asked his companion, with a felicitous brevity and straightforwardness which occasionally marked his conversation.

“Because then I would have a swim in it everyday.”

“Can you swim?” asked Charlie, a slight elevation of the eyebrows indicating surprise not unmingled with admiration—for our hero was a hero-worshipper. He could not well have been a hero otherwise!

“Of course I can swim,” returned Shank; “that is to say, a little; but I feel sure that I’ll be a splendid swimmer some day.”

His companion’s look of admiration increased.

“What’ll you take to drink?” asked Shank, drawing a large flask from the pocket in which he had concealed it up to that moment with the express purpose of giving his companion a pleasant surprise.

It may be well to add that the variety of dunks implied in his question was imaginary. Shank had only one flask, but in the exuberance of convivial generosity he quoted his own father—who was addicted to “the bottle.”

“What is it?” asked Brooke, in curious expectancy.

“Taste and see,” said his friend, uncorking the flask.

Charlie tasted, but did not “see,” apparently, for he looked solemn, and tasted again.

“It’s liquorice-water,” said Shank, with the look of one who expects approval. “I made it myself!”

Nauseous in the extreme, it might have served the purpose of an emetic had not the digestion of the boys been ostrich-like, but, on hearing how it came into existence, Charlie put it a third time to his lips, took a good gulp, and then, nodding his head as he wiped his mouth with his cuff, declared that it was “wonderful.”

“Yes, isn’t it? There’s not many fellows could make stuff like that.”

“No, indeed,” assented the other heartily, as he attacked the bread and cheese. “Does your father know you made it?”

“Oh yes, and he tasted it too—he’d taste anything in the shape of drink—but he spat it out, and then washed his mouth with brandy an’ water. Mother took some too, and she said she had tasted worse drinks; and she only wished that father would take to it. That made father laugh heartily. Then I gave some to little May, and she said it was ‘So nice.’”

“Ay. That was like little May,” remarked Charlie, with a quiet laugh; “she’d say that a mess o’ tar an’ shoe-blacking was nice if you made it. But I say, Shank, let’s see you swim. I’d give anything if I could swim. Do, like a brick as you are. There’s a fine deep hole here under the bank.”

He pointed to a pool in the river where the gurgling eddies certainly indicated considerable depth of water, but his friend shook his head.

“No, Charlie,” he said, “you don’t understand the danger as I do. Don’t you see that the water runs into the hole at such a rate that there’s a tree-mendous eddy that would sweep any man off his legs—”

“But you’re goin’ to swim, you know,” interrupted his friend, “an’ have got to be off your legs anyhow!”

“That’s all you know,” returned the other. “If a man’s swept round by an eddy, don’t you know, he’ll be banged against things, and then the water rushes out of the hole with such a gush, an’ goes thunderin’ down below, over boulders and stones, and—an’—don’t you see?”

“That’s true, Shank; it does look dangerous, even for a man that can swim.”

He put such emphasis on the “man” that his comrade glanced sharply at him, but the genuine innocence of our hero’s face was too obvious to suggest irony. He simply saw that the use of the word man pleased his friend, therefore he used it.

Conversation was cut short at this point by the sudden appearance on the scene of two strangers—a kitten and a dog.

The assertion that “dogs delight to bark and bite” is, perhaps, too sweeping, but then it was made by a poet and poets have an acknowledged licence—though not necessarily a dog-licence. Certain it is, however, that this dog—a mongrel cur—did bark with savage delight, and display all its teeth, with an evident desire to bite, as it chased a delirious tortoise-shell kitten towards the river.

It was a round, soft, lively kitten, with the hair on its little body sticking straight out, its heart in its mouth, and horror in its lovely eyes. It made straight for the tree under which the dinner was going on. Both boys started up. Enemies in front and rear! Even a human general might have stood appalled. Two courses were still open—right and left. The kitten turned right and went wrong, for that was the river-side. No time for thought! Barking cur and yelling boys! It reached the edge of the pool, spread out all its legs with a caterwaul of despair, and went headlong into the water.

Shank Leather gazed—something like glee mingled with his look of consternation. Not so our hero. Pity was bursting his bosom. With one magnificent bound he went into the pool, caught the kitten in his right hand, and carried it straight to the bottom. Next moment he re-appeared on the surface, wildly beating the water with one hand and holding the kitten aloft in the other. Shank, to do him justice, plunged into the river up to his waist, but his courage carried him no further. There he stuck, vainly holding out a hand and shouting for help.

But no help was near, and it seemed as if the pair of strugglers were doomed to perish when a pitiful eddy swept them both out of the deep pool into the foaming rapid below. Shank followed them in howling despair, for here things looked ten times worse: his comrade being tossed from billow to breaker, was turned heels over head, bumped against boulders, stranded on shallows, overturned and swept away again—but ever with the left arm beating wildly, and the right hand with the kitten, held high in air.

But the danger, except from being dashed against the boulders, was not really as great as it seemed, for every time that Brooke got a foothold for an instant, or was driven on a rock, or was surged, right-end-up, on a shoot of water, he managed to gasp a little air—including a deal of water. The kitten, of course, had the same chances, and, being passive, perhaps suffered less.

At the foot of the rapid they were whirled, as if contemptuously, into an eddy. Shank was there, as deep as he dared venture. He even pushed in up to the arm-pits, and, catching his comrade by the hair, dragged him to bank.

“O Charlie, I’ve saved ye!” he exclaimed, as his friend crawled out and sat down.

“Ay, an’ you’ve saved the kitten too!” replied his friend, examining the poor animal.

“It’s dead,” said Shank; “dead as mutton.”

“No, only stunned. No wonder, poor beast!”

With tender care the rescuer squeezed the water from the fur of the rescued. Then, pulling open his vest and shirt, he was about to place the kitten in his bosom to warm it.

“No use doin’ that,” said Leather. “You’re as wet an’ nigh as cold as itself.”

“That’s true. Sit down here,” returned Brooke, in a tone of command which surprised his comrade. “Open your shirt.”

Again Shank obeyed wonderingly. Next moment he gave a gasp as the cold, wet creature was thrust into his warm bosom.

“It makes me shiver all over,” he said.

“Never mind,” replied his friend coolly, as he got up and wrung the water out of his own garments.

“It’s beginning to move, Charlie,” said Shank, after a few minutes.

“Give it here, then.”

The creature was indeed showing feeble symptoms of revival, so Brooke—whose bosom was not only recovering its own heat, but was beginning to warm the wet garments—thrust it into his own breast, and the two friends set off homeward at a run.

At the nearest house they made inquiry as to the owner of the kitten, but failed to find one. Our hero therefore resolved to carry it home. Long before that haven was reached, however, his clothes were nearly dry, and the rescued one was purring sweetly, in childlike innocence—all the horrors, sufferings, and agonies of the past forgotten, apparently, in the enjoyment of the present.

Chapter Two. The Shipwreck.

We have no intention of carrying our reader on step by step through all the adventures and deeds of Charlie Brooke. It is necessary to hasten over his boyhood, leaving untold the many battles fought, risks run, and dangers encountered.

He did not cut much of a figure at the village school—though he did his best, and was fairly successful—but in the playground he reigned supreme. At football, cricket, gymnastics, and, ultimately, at swimming, no one could come near him. This was partly owing to his great physical strength, for, as time passed by he shot upwards and outwards in a way that surprised his companions and amazed his mother, who was a distinctly little woman—a neat graceful little woman—with, like her stalwart son, a modest opinion of herself.

As a matter of course, Charlie’s school-fellows almost worshipped him, and he was always so willing to help and lead them in all cases of danger or emergency, that “Charlie to the rescue!” became quite a familiar cry on the playground. Indeed it would have been equally appropriate in the school, for the lad never seemed to be so thoroughly happy as when he was assisting some boy less capable than himself to master his lessons.

About the time that Charlie left school, while yet a stripling, he had the shoulders of Samson, the chest of Hercules, and the limbs of Apollo. He was tall also—over six feet—but his unusual breadth deceived people as to this till they stood close to him. Fair hair, close and curly, with bright blue eyes and a permanent look of grave benignity, completes our description of him.

Rowing, shooting, fishing, boxing, and swimming seemed to come naturally to him, and all of them in a superlative degree. Swimming was, perhaps, his most loved amusement and in this art he soon far outstripped his friend Leather. Some men are endowed with exceptional capacities in regard to water. We have seen men go into the sea warm and come out warmer, even in cold weather. Experience teaches that the reverse is usually true of mankind in northern regions, yet we once saw a man enter the sea to all appearance a white human being, after remaining in it upwards of an hour, and swimming away from shore; like a vessel outward bound, he came back at last the colour of a boiled lobster!

Such exceptional qualities did Charlie Brooke possess. A South Sea Islander might have envied but could not have excelled him.

It was these qualities that decided the course of his career just after he left school.

“Charlie,” said his mother, as they sat eating their mid-day meal alone one day—the mother being, as we have said, a widow, and Charlie an only child—“what do you think of doing, now that you have left school? for you know my income renders it impossible that I should send you to college.”

“I don’t know what to think, mother. Of course I intend to do something. If you had only influence with some one in power who could enable a fellow to get his foot on the first round of any sort of ladder, something might be done, for you know I’m not exactly useless, though I can’t boast of brilliant talents, but—”

“Your talents are brilliant enough, Charlie,” said his mother, interrupting; “besides, you have been sent into this world for a purpose, and you may be sure that you will discover what that purpose is, and receive help to carry it out if you only ask God to guide you. Not otherwise,” she added, after a pause.

“Do you really believe, mother, that every one who is born into the world is sent for a purpose, and with a specific work to do?”

“I do indeed, Charlie.”

“What! all the cripples, invalids, imbeciles, even the very infants who are born to wail out their sad lives in a few weeks, or even days?”

“Yes—all of them, without exception. To suppose the opposite, and imagine that a wise, loving, and almighty Being would create anything for no purpose seems to me the very essence of absurdity. Our only difficulty is that we do not always see the purpose. All things are ours, but we must ask if we would have them.”

“But I have asked, mother,” said the youth, with an earnest flush on his brow. “You know I have done so often, yet a way has not been opened up. I believe in your faith, mother, but I don’t quite believe in my own. There surely must be something wrong—a screw loose somewhere.”

He laid down his knife and fork, and looked out at the window with a wistful, perplexed expression.

“How I wish,” he continued, “that the lines had been laid down for the human race more distinctly, so that we could not err!”

“And yet,” responded his mother, with a peculiar look, “such lines as are obviously laid down we don’t always follow. For instance, it is written, ‘Ask, and it shall be given you,’ and we stop there, but the sentence does not stop: ‘Seek, and ye shall find’ implies care and trouble; ‘Knock, and it shall be opened unto you’ hints at perseverance, does it not?”

“There’s something in that, mother,” said Charlie, casting another wistful glance out of the window. “Come, I will go out and ‘seek’! I see Shank Leather waiting for me. We agreed to go to the shore together, for we both like to watch the waves roaring in on a breezy day like this.”

The youth rose and began to encase his bulky frame in a great pilot-cloth coat, each button of which might have done duty as an afternoon tea-saucer.

“I wish you would choose any companion to walk with but young Leather,” said the widow, with a sigh. “He’s far too like his father to do you any good.”

“Mother, would you have me give up an old playmate and school-fellow because he is not perfect?” asked the youth in grave tones as he tied on a sou’-wester.

“Well, no—not exactly, but—”

Not having a good reason ready, the worthy woman only smiled a remonstrance. The stalwart son stooped, kissed her and was soon outside, battling with the storm—for what he styled a breezy day was in reality a wild and stormy one.

Long before the period we have now reached Mrs Brooke had changed her residence to the sea-coast in the small town of Sealford. Her cottage stood in the centre of the village, about half-a-mile from the shore, and close to that of her bosom friend, Mrs Leather, who had migrated along with her, partly to be near her and partly for the sake of her son Shank, who was anxious to retain the companionship of his friend Brooke. Partly, also, to get her tippling husband away from old comrades and scenes, in the faint hope that she might rescue him from the great curse of his life.

When Charlie went out, as we have said, he found that Shank had brought his sister May with him. This troubled our hero a good deal, for he had purposed having a confidential talk with his old comrade upon future plans and prospects, to the accompaniment of the roaring sea, and a third party was destructive of such intention. Besides, poor May, although exceedingly unselfish and sweet and good, was at that transition period of life when girlhood is least attractive—at least to young men: when bones are obtrusive, and angles too conspicuous, and the form generally is too suggestive of flatness and longitude; while shyness marks the manners, and inexperience dwarfs the mind. We would not, however, suggest for a moment that May was ugly. By no means, but she had indeed reached what may be styled a plain period of life—a period in which some girls become silently sheepish, and others tomboyish; May was among the former, and therefore a drag upon conversation. But, after all, it mattered little, for the rapidly increasing gale rendered speech nearly impossible.

“It’s too wild a day for you, May,” said Brooke, as he shook hands with her; “I wonder you care to be out.”

“She doesn’t care to be out, but I wanted her to come, and she’s a good obliging girl, so she came,” said Shank, drawing her arm through his as they pressed forward against the blast in the direction of the shore.

Shank Leather had become a sturdy young fellow by that time, but was much shorter than his friend. There was about him, however, an unmistakable look of dissipation—or, rather, the beginning of it—which accounted for Mrs Brooke’s objection to him as a companion for her son.

We have said that the cottage lay about half-a-mile from the shore, which could be reached by a winding lane between high banks. These effectually shut out the view of the sea until one was close to it, though, at certain times, the roar of the waves could be heard even in Sealford itself.

Such a time was the present, for the gale had lashed the sea into wildest fury, and not only did the three friends hear it, as, with bent heads, they forced their way against the wind, but they felt the foam of ocean on their faces as it was carried inland sometimes in lumps and flakes. At last they came to the end of the lane, and the sea, lashed to its wildest condition, lay before them like a sheet of tortured foam.

“Grand! isn’t it?” said Brooke, stopping and drawing himself up for a moment, as if with a desire to combat the opposing elements.

If May Leather could not speak, she could at all events gaze, for she had superb brown eyes, and they glittered, just then, like glowing coals, while a wealth of rippling brown hair was blown from its fastenings, and flew straight out behind her.

“Look! look there!” shouted her brother with a wild expression, as he pointed to a part of the rocky shore where a vessel was dimly seen through the drift.

“She’s trying to weather the point,” exclaimed Brooke, clearing the moisture from his eyes, and endeavouring to look steadily.

“She’ll never weather it. See! the fishermen are following her along-shore,” cried young Leather, dropping his sister’s arm, and bounding away.

“Oh! don’t leave me behind, Shank,” pleaded May.

Shank was beyond recall, but our hero, who had also sprung forward, heard the pleading voice and turned back.

“Here, hook on to me,” he cried quickly, for he was in no humour to delay.

The girl grasped his arm at once, and, to say truth, she was not much of a hindrance, for, although somewhat inelegant, as we have said, she was lithe as a lizard and fleet as a young colt.

A few minutes brought them to the level shore where Brooke left May to shelter herself with some fisher-women behind a low wall, while he ran along to a spot where a crowd of fishermen and old salts, enveloped in oil-skins, were discussing the situation as they leaned against the shrieking wind.

“Will she weather it, Grinder, think you?” he asked of an elderly man, whose rugged features resembled mahogany, the result of having bid defiance to wind and weather for nigh half a century.

“She may, Mr Brooke, an’ she mayn’t,” answered the matter-of-fact man of the sea, in the gruff monotone with which he would have summoned all hands to close reef in a hurricane. “If her tackle holds she’ll do it. If it don’t she won’t.”

“We’ve sent round for the rocket anyhow,” said a smart young fisherman, who seemed to rejoice in opposing his broad chest to the blast, and in listening to the thunder of the waves as they rolled into the exposed bay in great battalions, chasing each other in wild tumultuous fury, as if each were bent on being first in the mad assault upon the shore.

“Has the lifeboat coxswain been called?” asked Charlie, after a few minutes’ silence, for the voice of contending elements was too great to render converse easy or agreeable.

“Yes, sir,” answered the man nearest to him, “but she’s bin called to a wreck in Mussel Bay, an’ that brig will be all right or in Davy Jones’s locker long afore th’ lifeboat ’ud fetch round here.”

Silence again fell on the group as they gazed out to sea, pushing eagerly down the beach until they were ankle-deep in the foam of each expended wave; for the brig was by that time close on the point of rocks, staggering under more sail than she could carry with safety.

“She’ll do it!” exclaimed the smart young fisherman, ready to cheer with enthusiastic hope.

“Done for! Lost!” cried one, while something like a groan burst from the others as they saw the brig’s topmasts go over the side, and one of her sails blown to ribbons. She fell away towards the rocks at once.

Like great black teeth these rocks seemed to leap in the midst of the foam, as if longing to grasp the ill-fated vessel, which had, indeed, all but weathered the dangerous point, and all might have been well if her gear had only held; but now, as if paralysed, she drifted into the bay where certain destruction awaited her.

Just at that moment a great cheer arose, for the rocket-cart, drawn by the men of the Coast-Guard, was seen rattling over the downs towards them.

Anxiety for the fate of the doomed brig was now changed into eager hope for the rescue of her crew. The fishermen crowded round the Coast-Guard men as they ran the cart close down to the water’s edge, and some of them—specially the smart young fellow already mentioned—made eager offer of their services. Charlie Brooke stood aloof, looking on with profound interest, for it was the first time he had ever seen the Manby rocket apparatus brought into action. He made no hasty offer to assist, for he was a cool youth—even while burning with impatient enthusiasm—and saw at a glance that the men of the Coast-Guard were well able to manage their own affairs and required no aid from him.

As the brig was coming straight in they could easily calculate where she would strike, so that the rocket men could set up their triangle and arrange their tackle without delay. This was fortunate, for the wreck was carried shoreward with great rapidity. She struck at last when within a short distance of the beach, and the faces of those on board could be distinctly seen, and their cries heard, as both masts snapped off and were swept over the side, where they tore at the shrouds like wild creatures, or charged the hulk like battering-rams. Instantly the billows that had borne the vessel on their crests burst upon her sides, and spurted high in air over her, falling back on her deck, and sweeping off everything that was moveable. It could be seen that only three or four men were on deck, and these kept well under the lee of the bulwarks near the stern where they were strongest.

“No passengers, I think,” said one of the fishermen; “no women, anyhow.”

“Not likely they’d be ’lowed on deck even if there was,” growled Grinder, in his monotone.

“Now, then, out o’ the way,” cried the leader of the Coast-Guard men, as he laid a rocket in its place. “Line all clear, Fred?”

“All clear.”

Next moment there was a burst of flame, a crash, and a vicious whizz as the powerful projectile leaped from its stand and sped out to sea, in grand defiance of the opposing gale, with its light line behind it.

A cheer marked its flight, but a groan told of its descent into the boiling sea, considerably to the left of the wreck.

“What a pity!” cried Shank Leather, who had come close to his friend when the rocket-cart arrived.

“No matter,” said Brooke, whose compressed lips and flashing eyes told of deep but suppressed feelings. “There are more rockets.”

He was right. While he was speaking, another rocket was placed and fired. It was well directed, but fell short. Another, and yet another, rose and fell, but failed to reach its mark, and the remainder of the rockets refused to go off from some unknown cause—either because they had been too long in stock or had become damp.

Meantime the brig was tossed farther and farther in, until she stuck quite fast. Then it became evident that she must soon break up, and her crew perish. Hasty plans and eager advice were proposed and given. Then the smart young fisherman suddenly sprang forward, and threw off his oil-coat and sou’-wester.

“Here! hold on!” he cried, catching up the end of the rocket line, and fastening it round his waist, while he kicked off his heavy boots.

“You can’t do it, Bill,” cried some.

“Too far to swim,” cried others.

“The seas ’ll knock the life out o’ ye,” said Grinder, “afore you’re clear o’ the sand.”

Despite these warnings the brave young fellow dashed into the foam, and plunged straight into the first mighty breaker that towered over his head. But he was too much excited to act effectively. He failed to time his plunge well. The wave fell upon him with a roar and crushed him down. In a few seconds he was dragged ashore almost insensible.

Example, whether good or bad, is infectious. Another strapping young fellow, stirred to emulation, ran forward, and, seizing the rope, tied it round his own waist, while they helped poor Bill up the beach and seated him on a sand-bank.

The second youth was more powerful than the first—and cooler. He made a better attempt, but only got past the first wave, when his comrades, seeing that he was exhausted, drew him back. Then a third—a broad burly youth—came forward.

At this point the soul of Shank Leather took fire, for he was by no means destitute of generous impulses, and he tried to get hold of the rope.

“Out o’ the way,” cried the burly youth, giving Leather a rough push that almost sent him on his back; “we don’t want no land-lubbers for this kind o’ work.”

Up to this point Charlie Brooke, although burning with eager desire to take some active part in the rescue, had restrained himself and held back, believing, with characteristic modesty, that the fishermen knew far better than he did how to face the sea and use their appliances; but when he saw his friend stagger backward, he sprang to the front, caught hold of the line, and, seizing the burly fisherman by the arm, exclaimed, “You’ll let this land-lubber try it, anyhow,” and sent him spinning away like a capsized nine-pin.

There was a short laugh, as well as a cheer at this; but next moment all were gazing at the sea in breathless anxiety, for Brooke had rushed deep into the surf. He paused one moment, as the great wave curled over him, then went through it head-first with such force that he shot waist-high out of the sea on the other side. His exceptional swimming-powers now served him well, for his otter-like rapidity of action enabled him to avoid the crushing billows either by diving through them at the right moment, or holding back until they fell, and left him only the mad swirling foam to contend with. This last was bad enough, but here his great muscular strength and his inexhaustible caloric, with his cork-like power of flotation, enabled him to hold his own without exhaustion until another opportunity of piercing an unbroken wave offered. Thus he gradually forced his way through and beyond the worst breakers, which are always those nearest shore. Had any one been close to him, and able calmly to watch his movements, it would have been seen that, great as were the youth’s powers, he did not waste them in useless battling with a force against which no man could effectively contend; that, with a cool head, he gave way to every irresistible force, swimming for a moment, as it were, with the current—or, rather, floating easily in the whirlpools—so as to conserve his strength; that, ever and anon, he struck out with all his might, rushing through foam and wave like a fish, and that, in the midst of it all, he saw and seized the brief moments in which he could take a gasping inhalation.

Those who watched him with breathless anxiety on shore saw little of all this as they paid out the line or perched themselves on tiptoe on the few boulders that here and there strewed the sand.

“Haul him back!” shouted the man who was farthest out on the line. “He’s used up!”

“No, he’s not, I know him well!” roared Shank Leather. “Pay out, men—pay out line!”

“Ay, ease away,” said Grinder, in a thunderous growl. “He’s a rigler walrus, he is. Niver see’d sich a feller since I left the southern seas. Ease away, boys.”

A cheer followed his remark, for at that moment it was seen that our hero had reached the tail of the eddy which was caused by the hull of the wreck, and that one of her crew had darted from the cover of the vessel’s bulwarks and taken shelter under the stump of the mainmast. His object was seen in a moment, for he unhooked a coil of rope from the belaying-pins, and stood ready to heave it to the approaching swimmer. In making even this preparation the man ran very great risk, for the stump was but a partial shelter—each wave that burst over the side sweeping wildly round it and leaping on the man higher than his waist, so that it was very difficult for him to avoid being torn from his position.

Charlie’s progress was now comparatively easy. A few vigorous strokes brought him under the lea of the wreck, which, however, was by no means a quiet spot, for each divided wave, rushing round bow and stern, met there in a tumult of foam that almost choked the swimmer, while each billow that burst over the wreck poured a small Niagara on his head.

How to get on board in such circumstances was a subject that had troubled Charlie’s mind as he drew near, but the action of the sailor unhooking the coil of rope at once relieved him. The moment he came within reach, the sailor, watching his opportunity between waves, threw out the coil. It was aimed by an accustomed hand and fell on the rescuer’s head. Another minute and young Brooke stood on the deck. Without waiting an instant he leaped under the shelter of the stump of the mainmast beside the seaman. He was only just in time, for a wave burst in thunder on the weather side of the quivering brig, and, pouring over the bulwarks, almost dragged him from the belaying-pins to which he clung.

The instant the strain was off, he passed a rope round his waist and gave the end of it to the sailor.

“Here, make it fast,” he said, beginning to haul with all his might on the line which he had brought from shore. “You’re the skipper—eh?”

“Yes. Don’t waste your breath in speech. I know what to do. All’s ready.”

These few words were an unspeakable relief to our hero, who was well aware that the working of the rocket apparatus required a slight amount of knowledge, and who felt from his manner and tone that the skipper was a thorough man. He glanced upwards as he hauled in the line, assisted by his companion, and saw that a stout rope with two loops on it had been fixed to the stump of the mast. Just as he noted this with satisfaction a large block with a thin line rove through it emerged from the boiling sea. It had been attached by the men on shore to the rocket line which Charlie had been hauling out with so much energy. Its name was indicated by the skipper.

“Here comes the whip,” he cried, catching hold of the block when it reached him. “Hold me up, lad, while I make it fast to them loops.”

While Charlie obeyed he saw that by fixing the tail-lines of the block quickly to the loops prepared for them, instead of winding them round the mast,—a difficult process in such a sea—much time was saved.

“There, our part o’ the job is done now,” said the skipper, pulling off his sou’-wester as he spoke and holding it up as a signal to the men on shore.

Meanwhile those to whom he signalled had been watching every movement with intense eagerness, and with the expressions of men whose gaze has to penetrate with difficulty through a haze of blinding spray.

“They’ve got the block now,” cried one man.

“Does that young feller know about fixin’ of it?” asked another.

“Clap a stopper on your mugs; they’re a-fixin’ of it now,” said old Grinder. “There’s the signal! Haul away, lads!”

We must explain here that the “whip” above mentioned was a double or endless line, passing through the block which had been hauled out to the wreck by our hero.

By means of this whip one end of a stout cable was sent off to the wreck, and on this cable a sling-lifebuoy was hung to a pulley and also run out to the wreck. The working of the apparatus, though simple enough to seamen, would entail a complicated, perhaps incomprehensible, description to landsmen: we therefore pass it by with the remark that, connection with the shore having been established, and the sling-lifebuoy—or life-saving machine—run out, the crew received it with what was meant for a hearty cheer, but which exhaustion modified to a feeble shout.

“Now, lads,” cried the skipper to his men, “look sharp! Let out the passengers.”

“Passengers?” exclaimed Charlie Brooke in surprise.

“Ay—my wife an’ little gurl, two women and an old gentleman. You don’t suppose I’d keep ’em on deck to be washed overboard?”

As he spoke two of the men opened the doors of the companion-hatch, and caught hold of a little girl of about five years of age, who was handed up by a woman.

“Stay! keep her under cover till I get hold of her,” cried the skipper.

As he was passing from the mast to the companion a heavy sea burst over the bulwarks, and swept him into the scuppers. The same wave wrenched the child from the grasp of the man who held it and carried it right overboard. Like an eel, rather than a man, Charlie cleft the foam close behind her, caught her by the skirt and bore her to the surface, when a few strokes of his free arm brought him close under the lee of the wreck just in time to prevent the agonised father from leaping after his child. There was terrible suspense for a few minutes. At one moment our hero, with his burden held high aloft, was far down in the hollow of the watery turmoil, with the black hull like a great wall rising above him, while the skipper in the main-chains, pale as death but sternly silent held on with his left hand and reached down with his right—every finger rigid and ready! Next moment a water-spout, so to speak, bore the rescuer upward on its crest, but not near enough—they went downward again. Once more the leaping water surged upwards; the skipper’s strong hand closed like the grip of death on the dress, and the child was safe while its rescuer sank away from it.

“Help him!” shouted the skipper, as he staggered to the shelter of the companion.

But Charlie required no help. A loose rope hanging over the side caught his eye: he seized it and was on deck again in a few seconds. A minute later and he was down in the cabin.

There, terror-stricken, sat the skipper’s wife, never venturing to move, because she had been told to remain there till called. Happily she knew nothing of the incident just described.

Beside her sat the other women, and, near to them, a stern old gentleman, who, with compressed lips, quietly awaited orders.

“Come, quick!” said Charlie, grasping by the arm one of the women.

It was the skipper’s wife. She jumped up right willingly and went on deck. There she found her child already in the life-buoy, and was instantly lifted in beside it by her husband, who looked hastily round.

“Come here, Dick,” he said to a little cabin-boy who clung to a stanchion near by. “Get in.”

The boy looked surprised, and drew back.

“Get in, I say,” repeated the skipper sternly.

“There’s more women, sir,” said the boy, still holding back.

“True—brave lad! but you’re wanted to keep these from getting washed out. I am too heavy, you know.”

The boy hesitated no longer. He squeezed himself into the machine beside the woman and child.

Then up at arm’s-length went the skipper’s sou’-wester as a signal that all was ready, and the fishermen began to haul the life-buoy to the shore.

It was an awful trip! Part of the distance, indeed, the trio were borne along well out of the sea, though the waves leaped hungrily up and sent spray over them, but as they drew near the shore they were dipped again and again into the foam, so that the little cabin boy needed all his energy and knowledge, as well as his bravery and strength, to prevent his charge being washed out. Amid ringing cheers from the fishermen—and a treble echo from the women behind the wall—they were at last safely landed.

“My lass, that friend o’ your’n be a braave cheeld,” said an old woman to May Leather, who crouched beside her.

“Ay, that he is!” exclaimed May, with a gush of enthusiasm in tone and eyes that made them all turn to look at her.

“Your brother?” asked a handsome, strapping young woman.

“No—I wish he was!”

“Hm! ha!” exclaimed the strapping young woman—whereat there was exchanged a significant laugh; but May took no notice of it, being too deeply engrossed with the proceedings on shore and sea.

Again the fishermen ran out the life-buoy and soon hauled it back with another woman; then a third. After that came the old gentleman, quite self-possessed and calm, though very pale and dishevelled; and, following him, the crew, one by one, were rescued. Then came the hero of the hour, and last of all, as in duty bound, the skipper—not much too soon, for he had barely reached the land when the brig was overwhelmed and engulfed in the raging sea.

Chapter Three. “It’s an Ill Wind that Blaws Naebody Guid.”

That many if not most names have originated in the character or condition of individuals seems obvious, else why is it that so many people take after their names? We have no desire to argue the question, but hasten on to remark that old Jacob Crossley was said to be—observe, we do not say that he was—a notable illustration of what we refer to.

Jacob was “as cross as two sticks,” if we are to believe Mrs Bland, his housekeeper—and Mrs Bland was worthy of belief, for she was an honest widow who held prevarication to be equivalent to lying, and who, besides having been in the old bachelor’s service for many years, had on one occasion been plucked by him from under the feet of a pair of horses when attempting the more dangerous than nor’-west passage of a London crossing. Gratitude, therefore, rendered it probable that Mrs Bland spake truly when she said that her master was as cross as two sticks. Of course we admit that her judgment may have been faulty.

Strange to say Mr Crossley had no reason—at least no very apparent reason—for being cross, unless, indeed, the mere fact of his being an old bachelor was a sufficient reason. Perhaps it was! But in regard to everything else he had, as the saying goes, nothing to complain of. He was a prosperous East India merchant—not a miser, though a cross old bachelor, and not a millionaire, though comfortably rich. His business was prosperous, his friends were numerous, his digestion was good, his nervous system was apparently all that could be desired, and he slept well!

Standing one morning in the familiar British position before his dining-room fire in London, he frowningly contemplated his housekeeper as that indefatigable woman removed the breakfast equipage.

“Has the young man called this morning?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Well, when he comes tell him I had business in the city and could wait no—”

A ring and a sharp knock interrupted him. A few moments later Charlie Brooke was ushered into the room. It was a smallish room, for Mr Crossley, although well off, did not see the propriety of wasting money on unnecessary space or rent, and the doorway was so low that Charlie’s hair brushed against the top as he entered.

“I called, Mr Crossley, in accordance with the wish expressed in your letter. Although, being a stranger, I do not—”

The young man stopped at this point and looked steadily at the old gentleman with a peculiarly questioning expression.

“You recognise me, I see,” said the old man, with a very slight smile.

“Well—I may be mistaken, but you do bear some resemblance to—”

“Just so, I’m the man that you hauled so violently out of the cabin of the wreck last week, and shoved so unceremoniously into the life-buoy, and I have sent for you, first, to thank you for saving my life, because they tell me that, but for your swimming off with a rope, we should certainly have all been lost; and, secondly, to offer you aid in any course of life you may wish to adopt, for I have been informed that you are not at present engaged in any special employment.”

“You are very kind, sir, very kind,” returned Charlie, somewhat embarrassed. “I can scarcely claim, however, to have saved your life, though I thankfully admit having had the opportunity to lend a hand. The rocket-men, in reality, did the work, for without their splendid working of the apparatus my swimming off would have been useless.”

Mr Crossley frowned while the youth was speaking, and regarded him with some suspicion.

“You admit, I suppose,” he rejoined sternly, “that if you had not swum off, the rocket apparatus would have been equally useless.”

“By no means,” returned Charlie, with that benignant smile that always accompanied his opposition in argument. “I do not admit that, because, if I had not done it, assuredly some one else would. In fact a friend of mine was on the point of making the attempt when I pulled him back and prevented him.”

“And why did you prevent him?”

“Because he was not so well able to do it as I.”

“Oh! I see. In other words, you have a pretty high opinion of your own powers.”

“Possibly I have,” returned the youth, somewhat sharply. “I lay claim to no exemption from the universal law of vanity which seems to affect the entire human race—especially the cynical part of it. At the same time, knowing from long experience that I am physically stronger, can swim better, and have greater power of endurance, though not greater courage, than my friend, it would be mere pretence were I to assume that in such matters I was his inferior. You asked me why I prevented him: I gave you the reason exactly and straightforwardly. I now repeat it.”

“Don’t be so ready to fire up, young man,” said Crossley, with a deprecating smile. “I had no intention of hurting your feelings.”

“You have not hurt them, sir,” returned Charlie, with almost provoking urbanity of manner and sweetness of voice, “you have only misunderstood me.”

“Well, well, let it pass. Tell me, now, can I do anything for you?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Eh?” exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise.

“Nothing, thank you,” repeated his visitor. “I did not save you for the purpose of being rewarded, and I refuse to accept reward for saving you.”

For a second or two Mr Crossley regarded his visitor in silence, with a conflicting mixture of frown and smile—a sort of acidulated-drop expression on his rugged face. Then he asked—

“What is the name of this friend whom you prevented from swimming off to us?”

“Shank Leather.”

“Is he a very great friend of yours?”

“Very. We have been playmates from childhood, and school-fellows till now.”

“What is he?—his profession, I mean?”

“Nothing at present. That is to say, he has, like myself, been trained to no special profession, and the failure of the firm in the counting-house of which we have both served for some months has cast us adrift at the same time.”

“Would it give you much satisfaction if I were to find good employment for your friend?”

“Indeed it would—the highest possible satisfaction,” exclaimed Charlie, with the first symptom of enthusiasm in his tone and look.

“What can your friend Shank Leather do?” asked the old man brusquely.

“Oh! many things. He’s capital at figures, thoroughly understands book-keeping, and—and is a hard-working fellow, whatever he puts his hand to.”

“Is he steady?”

Charlie was silent for a few moments.

“Well, one cannot be sure,” he answered, with some hesitation, “what meaning you attach to the word ‘steady.’ I—”

“Yes, yes, I see,” interrupted Crossley, consulting his watch. “No time to discuss meanings of words just now. Will you tell your friend to call on me here the day after to-morrow at six o’clock? You live in Sealford, I have been told; does he live near you?”

“Yes, within a few minutes’ walk.”

“Well, tell him to be punctual. Punctuality is the soul of business. Hope I won’t find your friend as independent as you seem to be! You are quite sure, are you, that I can do nothing for you? I have both money and influence.”

The more determined that our hero became to decline all offers of assistance from the man who had misconstrued his motives, the more of urbanity marked his manner, and it was with a smile of ineffable good-nature on his masculine features that he repeated, “Nothing, thank you—quite sure. You will have done me the greatest possible service when you help my friend. Yet—stay. You mentioned money. There is an institution in which I am much interested, and which you might appropriately remember just now.”

“What is that?”

“The Lifeboat Institution.”

“But it was not the Lifeboat Institution that saved me. It was the Rocket apparatus.”

“True, but it might have been a lifeboat that saved you. The rockets are in charge of the Coast-Guard and need no assistance, whereas the Lifeboat Service depends on voluntary contributions, and the fact that it did not happen to save Mr Crossley from a grave in the sea does not affect its claim to the nation’s gratitude for the hundreds of lives saved by its boats every year.”

“Admitted, my young friend, your reasoning is just,” said the old gentleman, sitting down at a writing table and taking a cheque-book from a drawer; “what shall I put down?”

“You know your circumstances best,” said Charlie, somewhat amused by the question.

“Most people in ordinary circumstances,” returned the old man slowly as he wrote, “contribute a guinea to such charities.”

“Many people,” remarked Charlie, with a feeling of pity rather than contempt, “contribute five, or even fifteen.”

“Ah, indeed—yes, well, Mr Brooke, will you condescend to be the bearer of my contribution? Fourteen Saint John Street, Adelphi, is not far from this, and it will save a penny of postage, you know!”

Mr Crossley rose and handed the cheque to his visitor, who felt half disposed—on the strength of the postage remark—to refuse it and speak his mind somewhat freely on the subject, but, his eye happening to fall on the cheque at the moment, he paused.

“You have made a mistake, I think,” he said. “This is for five hundred pounds.”

“I make no mistakes, Mr Brooke,” returned the old man sternly. “You said something about five or fifteen. I could not well manage fifteen hundred just now, for it is bad times in the city at present. Indeed, according to some people, it is always bad times there, and, to say truth, some people are not far wrong—at least as regards their own experiences. Now, I must be off to business. Good-bye. Don’t forget to impress on your friend the importance of punctuality.”

Jacob Crossley held out his hand with an expression of affability which was for him quite marvellous.

“You’re a much better man than I thought!” exclaimed Charlie, grasping the proffered hand with a fervour that caused the other to wince.

“Young sir,” returned Crossley, regarding the fingers of his right hand somewhat pitifully, “people whose physique is moulded on the pattern of Samson ought to bear in mind that rheumatism is not altogether unknown to elderly men. Your opinion of me was probably erroneous to begin with, and it is certainly false to end with. Let me advise you to remember that the gift of money does not necessarily prove anything except that a man has money to give—nay, it does not always prove even that, for many people are notoriously prone to give away money that belongs to somebody else. Five hundred pounds is to some men not of much more importance than five pence is to others. Everything is relative. Good-bye.”

While he was speaking Mr Crossley rang the bell and politely opened the dining-room door, so that our hero found himself in the street before he had quite recovered from his astonishment.

“Please, sir,” said Mrs Bland to her master after Charlie was gone, “Cap’en Stride is awaitin’ in the library.”

“Send him here,” said Crossley, once more consulting his watch.

“Well, Captain Stride, I’ve had a talk with him,” he said, as an exceedingly broad, heavy, short-legged man entered, with a bald head and a general air of salt water, tar, and whiskers about him. “Sit down. Have you made up your mind to take command of the Walrus?”

“Well, Mr Crossley, since you’re so very good,” said the sea-captain with a modest look, “I had feared that the loss o’—”

“Never mind the loss of the brig, Captain. It was no fault of yours that she came to grief. Other ship-owners may do as they please. I shall take the liberty of doing as I please. So, if you are ready, the ship is ready. I have seen Captain Stuart, and I find that he is down with typhoid fever, poor fellow, and won’t be fit for duty again for many weeks. The Walrus must sail not later than a week or ten days hence. She can’t sail without a captain, and I know of no better man than yourself; so, if you agree to take command, there she is, if not I’ll find another man.”

“I’m agreeable, sir,” said Captain Stride, with a gratified, meek look on his large bronzed face—a look so very different from the leonine glare with which he was wont to regard tempestuous weather or turbulent men. “Of course it’ll come rather sudden on the missus, but w’en it blows hard what’s a man got to do but make all snug and stand by?”

“Quite true, Stride, I have no doubt that you are nautically as well as morally correct, so I leave it to you to bring round the mistress, and consider that matter as settled. By the way, I hope that she and your little girl have not suffered from the wetting and rough handling experienced when being rescued.”

“Not in the least, sir, thankee. In fact I incline to the belief that they are rather more frisky than usual in consekince. Leastwise little Maggie is.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, about that young fellow.”

“By which I s’pose you mean Mr Brooke, sir?”

“The same. He has just left me, and upon my word, he’s about the coolest young fellow I ever met with.”

“That’s just what I said to the missus, sir, the very night arter we was rescued. ‘The way that young feller come off, Maggie,’ says I, ‘is most extraor’nar’. No fish that—’”

“Yes, yes, Stride, I know, but that’s not exactly what I mean: it’s his being so amazingly independent that—”

“’Zactly what I said, sir. ‘Maggie,’ says I, ‘that young feller seemed to be quite independent of fin or tail, for he came right off in the teeth o’ wind and tide—’”

“That’s not what I mean either, Captain,” interrupted the old gentleman, with slight impatience. “It’s his independent spirit I refer to.”

“Oh! I ax your pardon, sir.”

“Well, now, listen, and don’t interrupt me. But first let me ask, does he know that I am the owner of the brig that was lost?”

“Yes; he knows that.”

“Does he know that I also own the Walrus.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he don’t. Leastwise I didn’t tell him, an’ there’s nobody else down there as knows anything about you.”

“So far, good. Now, Stride, I want you to help me. The young goose is so proud, or I know not what, that he won’t accept any favours or rewards from me, and I find that he is out of work just now, so I’m determined to give him something to do in spite of himself. The present supercargo of the Walrus is a young man who will be pleased to fall in with anything I propose to him. I mean, therefore, to put him in another ship and appoint young Brooke to the Walrus. Fortunately the firm of Withers and Company does not reveal my name—I having been Company originally, though I’m the firm now, so that he won’t suspect anything, and what I want is, that you should do the engaging of him—being authorised by Withers and Company—you understand?”

“I follow you, sir. But what if he objects?”

“He won’t object. I have privately inquired about him. He is anxious to get employment, and has strong leanings to an adventurous life on the sea. There’s no accounting for taste, Captain!”

“Right you are, sir,” replied the Captain, with an approving nod. “That’s what I said only this mornin’ to my missus. ‘Maggie,’ says I, ‘salt water hasn’t a good taste, as even the stoopidest of mortals knows, but w’en a man has had to lick it off his lips at sea for the better part of half a century, it’s astonishin’ how he not only gits used to it, but even comes to like the taste of it.’ ‘Pooh!’ says she, ‘don’t tell me you likes it, for you don’t! It’s all a d’lusion an’ a snare. I hates both the taste an’ the smell of it.’ ‘Maggie,’ says I, quite solemn-like, ‘that may be so, but you’re not me.’ ‘No, thank goodness!’ says she—which you mustn’t suppose, sir, meant as she didn’t like me, for she’s a true-hearted affectionate creetur—though I say it as shouldn’t—but she meant that she’d have had to go to sea reg’lar if she had been me, an’ that would have done for her in about six weeks, more or less, for the first time she ever went she was all but turned inside—”

“If you’re going citywards,” interrupted Mr Crossley, again pulling out his watch, “we may as well finish our talk in the street.”

As Captain Stride was “quite agreeable” to this proposal, the two left the house together, and, hailing a hansom, drove off in the direction of the City.

Chapter Four. Drifting on the Rocks.

On the sea-shore, not far from the spot where the brig had been wrecked, Charlie Brooke and Shank Leather walked up and down engaged in earnest conversation soon after the interviews just described.

Very different was the day from that on which the wreck had taken place. It seemed almost beyond possibility that the serene sky above, and the calm, glinting ocean which rippled so softly at their feet, could be connected with the same world in which inky clouds and snowy foam and roaring billows had but a short time before held high revelry.

“Well, Charlie,” said his friend, after a pause, “it was very good of you, old boy, and I hope that I’ll do credit to your recommendation. The old man seems a decent sort of chap, though somewhat cross-grained.”

“He is kind-hearted, Shank; I feel quite sure of that, and hope sincerely that you will get on well with him.”

“‘With him!’” repeated Leather; “you don’t seem to understand that the situation he is to get for me is not in connection with his own business, whatever that may be. It is in some other City firm, the name of which he has not yet mentioned. I can’t myself understand why he is so close!”

“Perhaps because he has been born with a secretive nature,” suggested Charlie.

“May be so. However, that’s no business of mine, and it doesn’t do to be too inquisitive when a man is offering you a situation of two hundred a year. It would be like looking a gift-horse in the mouth. All I care about is that I’m to go to London next week and begin work—Why, you don’t seem pleased to hear of my good fortune,” continued Leather, turning a sharp look on his friend, who was gazing gravely at the sand, in which he was poking holes with his stick.

“I congratulate you, Shank, with all my heart, and you know it; but—I’m sorry to find that you are not to be in connection with Mr Crossley himself, for there is more good in him than appears on the surface. Did he then make no mention of the nature of his own business?”

“None whatever. To say truth, that mysteriousness or secrecy is the only point about the old fellow’s character that I don’t like,” said Leather, with a frown of virtuous disapproval. “‘All fair and above-board,’ that’s my motto. Speak out your mind and fear nothing!”

At these noble sentiments a faint smile, if we may say so, hovered somewhere in the recesses of Charlie Brooke’s interior, but not the quiver of a muscle disturbed the solemnity of his face.

“The secrecy of his nature seems even to have infected that skipper with—or rather by—whom he was wrecked,” continued Leather, “for when I asked him yesterday about the old gentleman, he became suddenly silent, and when I pressed him, he made me a rigmarole speech something like this: ‘Young man, I make it a rule to know nothin’ whatever about my passengers. As I said only two days past to my missus: “Maggie,” says I, “it’s of no use your axin’ me. My passengers’ business is their business, and my business is mine. All I’ve got to do is to sail my ship, an’ see to it that I land my passengers in safety.”’

“‘You made a pretty mess of your business, then, the last trip,’ said I, for I was bothered with his obvious determination not to give me any information.

“‘Right you are, young man,’ said he, ‘and it would have been a still prettier mess if your friend Mr Brooke hadn’t come off wi’ that there line!’

“I laughed at this and recovered my temper, but I could pump nothing more out of him. Perhaps there was nothing to pump.—But now tell me, how is it—for I cannot understand—that you refused all offers to yourself? You are as much ‘out of work’ just now as I am.”

“That’s true, Shank, and really I feel almost as incapable of giving you an answer as Captain Stride himself. You see, during our conversation Mr Crossley attributed mean—at all events wrong—motives to me, and somehow I felt that I could not accept any favour at his hands just then. I suspect I was too hasty. I fear it was false pride—”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Leather; “‘pride!’ I wonder in what secret chamber of your big corpus your pride lies.”

“Well, I don’t know. It must be pretty deep. Perhaps it is engrained, and cannot be easily recognised.”

“That last is true, Charlie. Assuredly it can’t be recognised, for it’s not there at all. Why, if you had been born with a scrap of false pride you and I could never have been friends—for I hate it!”

Shank Leather, in saying this, had hit the nail fairly on the head, although he had not intelligently probed the truth to the bottom. In fact a great deal of the friendship which drew these young men together was the result of their great dissimilarity of character. They acted on each other somewhat after the fashion of a well-adjusted piece of mechanism, the ratchets of selfishness and cog-wheels of vanity in Shank fitting easily into the pinions of good-will and modesty which characterised his friend, so that there was no jarring in their intercourse. This alone would not, perhaps, have induced the strong friendship that existed if it had not been coupled with their intimacy from childhood, and if Brooke had not been particularly fond of Shank’s invalid mother, and recognised a few of her good characteristics faintly reproduced in her son, while Shank fully appreciated in Charlie that amiable temperament which inclines its happy possessor to sympathise much with others, to talk little of self, to believe all things and to hope all things, to the verge almost of infantine credulity.

“Well, well,” resumed Charlie, with a laugh, “however that may be, I did decline Mr Crossley’s offers, but it does not matter much now, for that same worthy captain who bothered you so much has told me of a situation of which he has the gift, and has offered it to me.”

“You don’t say so! Is it a good one?”

“Yes, and well paid, I’m told, though I don’t know the exact amount of the salary yet.”

“And have you accepted?”

“I have. Mother agreed, after some demur, that it is better than nothing, so, like you, I begin work in a few days.”

“Well now, how strangely things do happen sometimes!” said Leather, stopping and looking out seaward, where the remains of the brig could still be distinguished on the rocks that had fixed her doom. “But for that fortunate wreck and our saving the people in her, you and I might still have been whistling in the ranks of the Great Unemployed—And what sort of a situation is it, Charlie?”

“You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you. It is to act as supercargo of the Walrus, which is commanded by Captain Stride himself.”

Young Leather’s countenance fell. “Why, Charlie,” he said, “that means that you’re going away to sea!”

“I fear it does.”

“Soon?”

“In a week or two.”

For some little time Leather did not speak. The news fell upon him with a shock of disagreeable surprise, for, apart from the fact that he really loved his friend, he was somehow aware that there were not many other young men who cared much for himself—in regard to which he was not a little surprised, for it never occurred to him that egotism and selfishness had anything to do with the coolness of his friends, or that none but men like our hero, with sweet tempers and self-forgetting dispositions, could by any possibility put up with him.

“Who are the owners of the Walrus, Charlie?” he asked, as they turned into the lane that led from the beach to the village.

“Withers and Company of London.”

“H’m—don’t know them. They must be trustful fellows, however, to take a captain into their employ who has just lost his vessel.”

“They have not taken him into their employ,” said Charlie. “Captain Stride tells me he has been in their service for more than a quarter of a century, and they exonerate him from all blame in the loss of the brig. It does seem odd to me, however, that he should be appointed so immediately to a new ship, but, as you remarked, that’s none of my business. Come, I’ll go in with you and congratulate your mother and May on your appointment.”

They had reached the door of Shank Leather’s house by that time. It was a poor-looking house, in a poor side street or blind alley of the village, the haunt of riotous children during the day-time, and of maddening cats at night. Stray dogs now and then invaded the alley, but, for the most part, it was to children and cats that the region was given over. Here, for the purpose of enabling the proverbial “two ends” to “meet,” dwelt a considerable population in houses of diminutive size and small accommodation. A few of these were persons who, having “seen better days,” were anxious to hide their poverty and existence from the “friends” of those better days. There was likewise a sprinkling of individuals and families who, having grown callous to the sorrows of earth, had reached that condition wherein the meeting of the two ends is a matter of comparative indifference, because they never met, and were never more expected to meet—the blank, annually left gaping, being filled up, somehow, by a sort of compromise between bankruptcy, charity, and starvation.

To the second of these the Leather family belonged. They had been brought to their sad condition by that prolific source of human misery—the bottle.

To do the family justice, it was only the father who had succumbed. He had been a gentleman; he was now a sot. His wife—delicate owing to bad treatment, sorrow, and insufficient nourishment—was, ever had been, and ever would be, a lady and a Christian. Owing to the last priceless condition she was still alive. It is despair that kills, and despair had been banished from her vocabulary ever since she had laid down the arms of her rebellion and accepted the Saviour of mankind as her guide and consolation.

But sorrow, suffering, toil had not departed when the demon despair fled away. They had, however, been wonderfully lightened, and one of the brightest gleams of hope in her sad life was that she might possibly be used as the means of saving her husband. There were other gleams of light, however, one of the brightest of them being that May, her only daughter, was loving and sympathetic—or, as she sometimes expressed it, “as good as gold.” But there was also a very dark spot in her life: Shank, her only son, was beginning to show a tendency to tread in his father’s steps.

Many golden texts were enshrined in the heart of poor Mrs Leather, and not a few of these—painted by the hand of May—hung on the walls of their little sitting-room, but the word to which she turned her eyes in seasons of profoundest obscurity, and which served her as a sheet-anchor in the midst of the wildest storms, was, “Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him.” And alongside of that text, whenever she thought of it or chanced to look at it, there invariably flashed another: “Immanuel, God with us.”

May and her mother were alone when the young men entered; the former was at her lessons, the latter busy with knitting-needles.

Knitting was the means by which Mrs Leather, with constant labour and inexhaustible perseverance, managed to fill up the gap between the before-mentioned “two ends,” which her dissolute husband failed to draw together. She could read or assist May with her lessons, while her delicate fingers, working below the table, performed miraculous gyrations with steel and worsted. To most male minds, we presume, this is utterly incomprehensible. It is well not to attempt the description of that which one does not understand. The good lady knitted socks and stockings, and mittens and cuffs, and comforters, and other things, in absolutely overwhelming quantities, so that the accumulation in the press in which she stored them was at times quite marvellous. Yet that press never quite filled up, owing to the fact that there was an incurable leak in it—a sort of secret channel—through which the products of her toil flowed out nearly as fast as she poured them in.

This leak in the worsted press, strange to say, increased wonderfully just after the wreck described in a previous chapter, and the rivulet to which it gave rise flowed in the direction of the back-door of the house, emptying itself into a reservoir which always took the form of a little elderly lady, with a plain but intensely lovable countenance, who had been, perhaps still was, governess in a family in a neighbouring town where Mrs Leather had spent some of her “better days.” Her name was Molloy.

Like a burglar Miss Molloy came in a stealthy manner at irregular intervals to the back-door of the house, and swept the press of its contents, made them up into a bundle of enormous size, and carried them off on the shoulders of an appropriately disreputable blackguard boy—as Shank called him—whom she retained for the purpose. Unlike a burglar, however, Miss Molloy did not “bolt with the swag,” but honestly paid for everything, from the hugest pair of gentlemen’s fishing socks to the smallest pair of children’s cuffs.

What Miss Molloy did with this perennial flow of woollen work, whom she came from, where she went to, who discovered her, and why she did it, were subjects of inquiry which baffled investigation, and always simmered in the minds of Shank and May, though the mind of Mrs Leather herself seemed to be little if at all exercised by it. At all events she was uncommunicative on the point, and her children’s curiosity was never gratified, for the mother was obdurate, and, torture being illegal at that time in England, they had no means of compelling disclosure. It was sometimes hinted by Shank that their little dog Scraggy—appropriately named!—knew more than he chose to tell about the subject, for he was generally present at the half-secret interviews, and always closed the scene with a sham but furious assault on the ever contemptuous blackguard boy. But Scraggy was faithful to his trust, and revealed nothing.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am, Mrs Leather, about Shank’s good fortune,” said Charlie, with a gentle shake of the hand, which Mr Crossley would have appreciated. Like the Nasmyth steam-hammer, which flattens a ton of iron or gently cracks a hazel-nut, our Herculean hero could accommodate himself to circumstances; “as your son says, it has been a lucky wreck for us.”

“Lucky indeed for him,” responded the lady, instantly resuming her knitting, which she generally kept down near her lap, well hidden by the table, while she looked at her visitor and talked, “but not very pleasant for those who have lost by it.”

“Pooh! mother, nobody has lost by it,” said Shank in his free-and-easy style. “The owners don’t lose, because of course it was insured; and the Insurance Companies can’t be said to lose, for the value of a small brig will be no more felt by them than the losing of a pin would be felt by yourself; and the captain won’t lose—except a few sea-garments and things o’ that kind—for he has been appointed to another ship already. By the way, mother, that reminds me that Charlie has also got a situation through this lucky wreck, for Captain Stride feels so grateful that he has offered him the situation of supercargo in his new ship.”

For once Mrs Leather’s knitting-needles came to a sudden stop, and she looked inquiringly at her young friend. So did May.

“Have you accepted it?”

“Well, yes. I have.”

“I’m so sorry,” said May; “I don’t know what Shank will do without you.”

At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door. May rose to open it, and Mrs Leather looked anxiously at her son.

A savage undertoned growl and an unsteady step told all too plainly that the head of the house had returned home.

With sudden interest in worsted fabrics, which he was far from feeling, Charlie Brooke turned his back to the door, and, leaning forward, took up an end of the work with which the knitter was busy.

“That’s an extremely pretty pattern, Mrs Leather. Does it take you long to make things of the kind?”

“Not long; I—I make a good many of them.”

She said this with hesitation, and with her eyes fixed on the doorway, through the opening of which her husband thrust a shaggy dishevelled head, with dissipation stamped on a countenance which had evidently been handsome once.

But Charlie saw neither the husband’s head nor the poor wife’s gaze, for he was still bending over the worsted-work in mild admiration.

Under the impression that he had not been observed, Mr Leather suddenly withdrew his head, and was heard to stumble up-stairs under the guidance of May. Then the bang of a door, followed by a shaking of the slimly-built house, suggested the idea that the poor man had flung himself on his bed.

“Shank Leather,” said Charlie Brooke, that same night as they strolled on the sea-shore, “you gave expression to some sentiments to-day which I highly approved of. One of them was ‘Speak out your mind, and fear nothing!’ I mean to do so now, and expect that you will not be hurt by my following your advice.”

“Well!” exclaimed Shank, with a dubious glance, for he disliked the seriousness of his friend’s tone.

“Your father—” began Charlie.

“Please don’t speak about him,” interrupted the other. “I know all that you can say. His case is hopeless, and I can’t bear to speak about it.”

“Well, I won’t speak about him, though I cannot agree with you that his case is hopeless. But it is yourself that I wish to speak about. You and I are soon to separate; it must be for a good long while—it may be for ever. Now I must speak out my mind before I go. My old playmate, school-fellow, and chum, you have begun to walk in your poor father’s footsteps, and you may be sure that if you don’t turn round all your hopes will be blasted—at least for this life—perhaps also for that which is to come. Now don’t be angry or hurt, Shank. Remember that you not only encouraged me, but advised me to speak out my mind.”

“Yes, but I did not advise you to form a false, uncharitable judgment of your chum,” returned Leather, with a dash of bitterness in his tone. “I admit that I’m fond of a social glass, and that I sometimes, though rarely, take a little—a very little—more than, perhaps, is necessary. But that is very different from being a drunkard, which you appear to assume that I am.”

“Nay, Shank, I don’t assume that. What I said was that you are beginning to walk in your dear father’s footsteps. No man ever yet became a drunkard without beginning. And I feel certain that no man ever, when beginning, had the most distant intention or expectation of becoming a drunkard. Your danger, dear old fellow, lies in your not seeing the danger. You admit that you like a social glass. Shank, I candidly make the same admission—I like it,—but after seeing your father, and hearing your defence, the danger has been so deeply impressed on me, that from this hour I resolve, God helping me, never more to taste a social glass.”

“Well, Charlie, you know yourself best,” returned his friend airily, “and if you think yourself in so great danger, of course your resolve is a very prudent one; but for myself, I admit that I see no danger, and I don’t feel any particular weakness of will in regard to temptation.”

“Ah, Shank, you remind me of an eccentric old lady I have heard of who was talking with a friend about the difficulties of life. ‘My dear,’ said the friend, ‘I do find it such a difficult thing to resist temptation—don’t you?’ ‘No,’ replied the eccentric old lady, ‘I don’t, for I never resist temptation, I always give way to it!’”

“I can’t quite make out how your anecdote applies to me, Charlie.”

“Don’t you see? You feel no weakness of will in regard to temptation because you never give your will an opportunity of resisting it. You always give way to it. You see, I am speaking out my mind freely—as you have advised!”

“Yes, and you take the whole of my advice, and fear nothing, else you would not risk a quarrel by doing so. But really, my boy, it’s of no use your troubling your head on that subject, for I feel quite safe, and I don’t mean to give in, so there’s an end on’t.”

Our hero persevered notwithstanding, and for some time longer sought to convince or move his friend both by earnest appeal and light pleasantry, but to all appearance without success, although he reduced him to silence. He left him at last, and went home meditating on the truth of the proverb that “a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.”

Chapter Five. All Things to All Men.

Under the influence of favouring breezes and bright skies the Walrus swept gaily over the ocean at the beginning of her voyage, with “stuns’ls slow and aloft, royals and sky-scrapers,” according to Captain Stride. At least, if these were not the exact words he used, they express pretty well what he meant, namely, a “cloud of canvas.”

But this felicitous state of things did not last. The tropics were reached, where calms prevailed with roasting heat. The Southern Atlantic was gained, and gales were met with. The celebrated Cape was doubled, and the gales, if we may say so, were trebled. The Indian Ocean was crossed, and the China Seas were entered, where typhoons blew some of the sails to ribbons, and snapped off the topmasts like pipe-stems. Then she sailed into the great Pacific, and for a time the Walrus sported pleasantly among the coral islands.

During all this time, and amid all these changes, Charlie Brooke, true to his character, was the busiest and most active man on board. Not that his own special duties gave him much to do, for, until the vessel should reach port, these were rather light; but our hero—as Stride expressed it—“must always be doing.” If he had not work to do he made it—chiefly in the way of assisting other people. Indeed there was scarcely a man or boy on board who did not have the burden of his toil, whatever it was, lightened in consequence of young Brooke’s tendency to put his powerful shoulder voluntarily to the wheel. He took the daily observations with the captain, and worked out the ship’s course during the previous twenty-four hours. He handled the adze and saw with the carpenter, learned to knot and splice, and to sew canvas with the bo’s’n’s mate, commented learnedly and interestingly on the preparation of food with the cook, and spun yarns with the men on the forecastle, or listened to the long-winded stories of the captain and officers in the cabin. He was a splendid listener, being much more anxious to ascertain exactly the opinions of his friends and mates than to advance his own. Of course it followed that Charlie was a favourite.

With his insatiable desire to acquire information of every kind, he had naturally, when at home, learned a little rough-and-tumble surgery, with a slight smattering of medicine. It was not much, but it proved to be useful as far as it went, and his “little knowledge” was not “dangerous,” because he modestly refused to go a single step beyond it in the way of practice, unless, indeed, he was urgently pressed to do so by his patients. In virtue of his attainments, real and supposed, he came to be recognised as the doctor of the ship, for the Walrus carried no medical man.

“Look here, Brooke,” said the only passenger on board—a youth of somewhat delicate constitution, who was making the voyage for the sake of his health,—“I’ve got horrible toothache. D’you think you can do anything for me?”

“Let’s have a look at it,” said Charlie, with kindly interest, though he felt half inclined to smile at the intensely lugubrious expression of the youth’s face.

“Why, Raywood, that is indeed a bad tooth; nothing that I know of will improve it. There’s a cavern in it big and black enough to call to remembrance the Black Hole of Calcutta! A red-hot wire might destroy the nerve, but I never saw one used, and should not like to try it.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Raywood. “I’ve been mad with pain all the morning, and can’t afford to be driven madder. Perhaps, somewhere or other in the ship there may be a—a—thingumy.”

“A whatumy?” inquired the other.

“A key, or—or—pincers,” groaned Raywood, “for extracting—oh! man, couldn’t you pull it out?”

“Easily,” said Charlie, with a smile. “I’ve got a pair of forceps—always carry them in case of need, but never use them unless the patient is very bad, and must have it out.”

Poor Raywood protested, with another groan, that his was a case in point, and it must come out; so Charlie sought for and found his forceps.

“It won’t take long, I suppose?” said the patient rather nervously, as he opened his mouth.

“Oh no. Only a moment or—”

A fearful yell, followed by a gasp, announced to the whole ship’s company that a crisis of some sort had been passed by some one, and the expert though amateur dentist congratulated his patient on his deliverance from the enemy.

Only three of the ship’s company, however, had witnessed the operation. One was Dick Darvall, the seaman who chanced to be steering at the time, and who could see through the open skylight what was being enacted in the cabin. Another was the captain, who stood beside him. The third was the cabin-boy, Will Ward, who chanced to be cleaning some brasses about the skylight at the time, and was transfixed by what we may style delightfully horrible sensations. These three watched the proceedings with profound interest, some sympathy, and not a little amusement.

“Mind your helm, Darvall,” said the Captain, stifling a laugh as the yell referred to burst on his ears.

“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the seaman, bringing his mind back to his duty, as he bestowed a wink on the brass-polishing cabin-boy.

“He’s up to everything,” said Darvall in a low voice, referring to our hero.

“From pitch-and-toss to manslaughter,” responded the boy, with a broad grin.

“I do believe, Mr Brooke, that you can turn your hand to anything,” said Captain Stride, as Charlie came on deck a few minutes later. “Did you ever study doctoring or surgery?”

“Not regularly,” answered Charlie; “but occasionally I’ve had the chance of visiting hospitals and dissecting-rooms, besides hearing lectures on anatomy, and I have taken advantage of my opportunities. Besides, I’m fond of mechanics; and tooth-drawing is somewhat mechanical. Of course I make no pretension to a knowledge of regular dentistry, which involves, I believe, a scientific and prolonged education.”

“May be so, Mr Brooke,” returned the captain, “but your knowledge seems deep and extensive enough to me, for, except in the matter o’ navigation, I haven’t myself had much schoolin’, but I do like to see a fellow that can use his hands. As I said to my missus, not two days before I left ’er: ‘Maggie,’ says I, ‘a man that can’t turn his hands to anything ain’t worth his salt. For why? He’s useless at sea, an’, by consequence, can’t be of much value on land.’”

“Your reasoning is unanswerable,” returned Charlie, with a laugh.

“Not so sure o’ that,” rejoined the captain, with a modestly dubious shake of his head; “leastwise, however unanswerable it may be, my missus always manages to answer it—somehow.”

At that moment one of the sailors came aft to relieve the man-at-the-wheel.

Dick Darvall was a grave, tall, dark, and handsome man of about five-and-twenty, with a huge black beard, as fine a seaman as one could wish to see standing at a ship’s helm, but he limped when he left his post and went forward.

“How’s the leg to-day, Darvall!” asked young Brooke, as the man passed.

“Better, sir, thankee.”

“That’s well. I’ll change the dressing in half-an-hour. Don’t disturb it till I come.”

“Thankee, sir, I won’t.”

“Now then, Raywood,” said Charlie, descending to the cabin, where his patient was already busy reading Maury’s Physical Geography of the Sea, “let’s have a look at the gum.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Raywood. “D’you know, I think one of the uses of severe pain is to make one inexpressibly thankful for the mere absence of it. Of course there is a little sensation of pain left, which might make me growl at other times, but that positively feels comfortable now by contrast!”

“There is profound sagacity in your observations,” returned Charlie, as he gave the gum a squeeze that for a moment or two removed the comfort; “there, now, don’t suck it, else you’ll renew the bleeding. Keep your mouth shut.”

With this caution the amateur dentist left the cabin, and proceeded to the fore-part of the vessel. In passing the steward’s pantry a youthful voice arrested him.

“Oh, please, sir,” said Will Ward, the cabin-boy, advancing with a slate in his hand, “I can’t make out the sum you set me yesterday, an’ I’m quite sure I’ve tried and tried as hard as ever I could to understand it.”

“Let me see,” said his friend, taking the slate and sitting down on a locker. “Have you read over the rule carefully?”

“Yes, sir, I have, a dozen times at least, but it won’t come right,” answered the boy, with wrinkles enough on his young brow to indicate the very depths of puzzlement.

“Fetch the book, Will, and let’s examine it.”

The book was brought, and at his teacher’s request the boy read:—

“Add the interest to the principal, and then multiply by—”

“Multiply?” said Charlie, interrupting. “Look!”

He pointed to the sum on the slate, and repeated “multiply.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the cabin-boy, with a gasp of relief and wide-open eyes, “I’ve divided!”

“That’s so, Will, and there’s a considerable difference between division and multiplication, as you’ll find all through life,” remarked the teacher, with a peculiar lift of his eyebrows, as he handed back the slate and went on his way.

More than once in his progress “for’ard” he was arrested by men who wished hint to give advice, or clear up difficulties in reference to subjects which his encouragement or example had induced them to take up, and to these claims on his attention or assistance he accorded such a ready and cheerful response that his pupils felt it to be a positive pleasure to appeal to him, though they each professed to regret giving him “trouble.” The boatswain, who was an amiable though gruff man in his way, expressed pretty well the feelings of the ship’s company towards our hero when he said: “I tell you, mates, I’d sooner be rubbed up the wrong way, an’ kicked down the fore hatch by Mr Brooke, than I’d be smoothed or buttered by anybody else.”

At last the fo’c’sl was reached, and there our surgeon found his patient, Dick Darvall, awaiting him. The stout seaman’s leg had been severely bruised by a block which had fallen from aloft and struck it during one of the recent gales.

“A good deal better to-day,” said Charlie. “Does it pain you much?”

“Not nearly as much as it did yesterday, sir. It’s my opinion that I’ll be all right in a day or two. Seems to me outrageous to make so much ado about it.”

“If we didn’t take care of it, my man, it might cost you your limb, and we can’t afford to bury such a well-made member before its time! You must give it perfect rest for a day or two. I’ll speak to the captain about it.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, sir,” objected the seaman. “I feel able enough to go about, and my mates’ll think I’m shirkin’ dooty.”

“There’s not a man a-board as’ll think that o’ Dick Darvall,” growled the boatswain, who had just entered and heard the last remark.

“Right, bo’s’n,” said Brooke, “you have well expressed the thought that came into my own head.”

“Have ye seen Samson yet, sir?” asked the boatswain, with an unusually grave look.

“No; I was just going to inquire about him. No worse, I hope?”

“I think he is, sir. Seems to me that he ain’t long for this world. The life’s bin too much for him: he never was cut out for a sailor, an’ he takes things so much to heart that I do believe worry is doin’ more than work to drive him on the rocks.”

“I’ll go and see him at once,” said our hero.

Fred Samson, the sick man referred to, had been put into a swing-cot in a berth amidships to give him as much rest as possible. To all appearance he was slowly dying of consumption. When Brooke entered he was leaning on one elbow, gazing wistfully through the port-hole close to his head. His countenance, on which the stamp of death was evidently imprinted, was unusually refined for one in his station in life.

“I’m glad you have come, Mr Brooke,” he said slowly, as his visitor advanced and took his thin hand.

“My poor fellow,” said Charlie, in a tone of low but tender sympathy, “I wish with all my heart I could do you any good.”

“The sight of your kind face does me good,” returned the sailor, with a pause for breath between almost every other word. “I don’t want you to doctor me any more. I feel that I’m past that, but I want to give you a message and a packet for my mother. Of course you will be in London when you return to England. Will you find her out and deliver the packet? It contains only the Testament she gave me at parting and a letter.”

“My dear fellow—you may depend on me,” replied Brooke earnestly. “Where does she live?”

“In Whitechapel. The full address is on the packet. The letter enclosed tells all that I have to say.”

“But you spoke of a message,” said Brooke, seeing that he paused and shut his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” returned the dying man eagerly, “I forgot. Give her my dear love, and say that my last thoughts were of herself and God. She always feared that I was trusting too much in myself—in my own good resolutions and reformation; so I have been—but that’s past. Tell her that God in His mercy has snapped that broken reed altogether, and enabled me to rest my soul on Jesus.”

As the dying man was much exhausted by his efforts to speak, his visitor refrained from asking more questions. He merely whispered a comforting text of Scripture and left him apparently sinking into a state of repose.

Then, having bandaged the finger of a man who had carelessly cut himself while using his knife aloft, Charlie returned to the cabin to continue an interrupted discussion with the first mate on the subject of astronomy.

From all which it will be seen that our hero’s tendencies inclined him to be as much as possible “all things to all men.”

Chapter Six. Disaster, Starvation, and Death.

The least observant of mortals must have frequently been impressed with the fact that events and incidents of an apparently trifling description often lead to momentous—sometimes tremendous—results.

Soon after the occurrence of the incidents referred to in the last chapter, a colony of busy workers in the Pacific Ocean were drawing towards the completion of a building on which they had been engaged for a long time. Like some lighthouses this building had its foundations on a rock at the bottom of the sea. Steadily, perseveringly, and with little cessation, the workers had toiled for years. They were small insignificant creatures, each being bent on simply performing the little bit of work which he, she, or it had been created to do probably without knowing or caring what the result might be, and then ending his, her, or its modest labours with life. It was when this marine building had risen to within eight or ten feet of the surface of the sea that the Walrus chanced to draw near to it, but no one on board was aware of the existence of that coral-reef, for up to the period we write of it had failed to attract the attention of chart-makers.

The vessel was bowling along at a moderate rate over a calm sea, for the light breeze overhead that failed to ruffle the water filled her topsails. Had the wind been stormy a line of breakers would have indicated the dangerous reef. As it was there was nothing to tell that the good ship was rushing on her doom till she struck with a violent shock and remained fast.

Of course Captain Stride was equal to the emergency. By the quiet decision with which he went about and gave his orders he calmed the fears of such of his crew as were apt to “lose their heads” in the midst of sudden catastrophe.

“Lower away the boats, lads. We’ll get her off right a way,” he said, in a quick but quiet tone.

Charlie Brooke, being a strong believer in strict discipline, at once ran to obey the order, accompanied by the most active among the men, while others ran to slack off the sheets and lower the topsails.

In a few minutes nearly all the men were in the boats, with hawsers fixed to the stern of the vessel, doing their uttermost to pull her off.

Charlie had been ordered to remain on deck when the crew took to the boats.

“Come here, Mr Brooke, I want you,” said the Captain, leading his young friend to the taffrail. “It’s pretty clear to me that the poor old Walrus is done for—”

“I sincerely hope not sir,” said Charlie, with anxious looks.

“A short time will settle the question,” returned the Captain, with unwonted gravity. “If she don’t move in a few minutes, I’ll try what heaving out some o’ the cargo will do. As supercargo, you know where it’s all stowed, so, if you’ll pint out to me which is the least valooable, an’ at the same time heaviest part of it, I’ll send the mate and four men to git it on deck. But to tell you the truth even if we do git her off I don’t think she’ll float. She’s an oldish craft, not fit to have her bottom rasped on coral rocks. But we’ll soon see.”

Charlie could not help observing that there was something peculiarly sad in the tone of the old man’s voice. Whether it was that the poor captain knew the case to be utterly hopeless, or that he was overwhelmed by this calamity coming upon him so soon after the wreck of his last ship, Charlie could not tell, but he had no time to think, for after he had pointed out to the mate the bales that could be most easily spared he was again summoned aft.

“She don’t move,” said the captain, gloomily. “We must git the boats ready, for if it comes on to blow only a little harder we’ll have to take to ’em. So do you and the stooard putt your heads together an’ git up as much provisions as you think the boats will safely carry. Only necessaries, of course, an’ take plenty o’ water. I’ll see to it that charts, compasses, canvas, and other odds and ends are ready.”

Again young Brooke went off, without saying a word, to carry out his instructions. Meanwhile one of the boats was recalled, and her crew set to lighten the ship by heaving part of the cargo overboard. Still the Walrus remained immovable on the reef, for the force with which she struck had sent her high upon it.

“If we have to take to the boats, sir,” said Charlie, when he was disengaged, “it may be well to put some medicines on board, for poor Samson will—”

“Ay, ay, do so, lad,” said the captain, interrupting; “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ that, an’ you may as well rig up some sort o’ couch for the poor fellow in the long-boat, for I mean to take him along wi’ myself.”

“Are you so sure, then, that there is no chance of our getting her off?”

“Quite sure. Look there.” He pointed, as he spoke, to the horizon to windward, where a line of cloud rested on the sea. “That’ll not be long o’ comin’ here. It won’t blow very hard, but it’ll be hard enough to smash the old Walrus to bits. If you’ve got any valooables aboard that you’d rather not lose, you’d better stuff ’em in your pockets now. When things come to the wust mind your helm, an’ look out as I used to say to my missus—”

He stopped abruptly and turned away. Evidently the thought of the “missus” was too much for him just then.

Charlie Brooke hurried off to visit the sick man, and prepare him for the sad change in his position that had now become unavoidable. But another visitor had been to see the invalid before him. Entering the berth softly, and with a quiet look, so as not to agitate the patient needlessly, he found to his regret, though not surprise, that poor Fred Samson was dead. There was a smile on the pale face, which was turned towards the port window, as if the dying man had been taking a last look of the sea and sky when Death laid a hand gently on his brow and smoothed away the wrinkles of suffering and care. A letter from his mother, held tightly in one hand and pressed upon his breast told eloquently what was the subject of his last thoughts.

Charlie cut a lock of hair from the sailor’s brow with his clasp-knife, and, taking the letter gently from the dead hand, wrapped it therein.

“There’s no time to bury him now. His berth must be the poor fellow’s coffin,” said Captain Stride, when the death was reported to him. “The swell o’ the coming squall has reached us already. Look alive wi’ the boats, men!”

By that time the rising swell was in truth lifting the vessel every few seconds and letting her down with a soft thud on the coral reef. It soon became evident to every one on board that the Walrus had not many hours to live—perhaps not many minutes—for the squall to which the Captain had referred was rapidly bearing down, and each successive thud became more violent than the previous one. Knowing their danger full well, the men worked with a will and in a few minutes three boats, well provisioned, were floating on the sea.

The need for haste soon became apparent, for the depth of water alongside was so insufficient that the long-boat—drawing as she did considerably more water than the others—touched twice when the swells let her drop into their hollows.

It was arranged that Charlie should go in the long-boat with the captain, Raywood the passenger, and ten men of the crew. The remainder were to be divided between the other two boats which were to be in charge of the first and second officers respectively.

“Jump in, Brooke,” cried the Captain, as he sat in the stern-sheets looking up at our hero, who was busily engaged assisting the first mate to complete the arrangements of his boat, “we’ve struck twice already. I must shove off. Is Raywood ready?”

“He’s in the cabin looking for something, sir; I’ll run and fetch him.”

“Stay! We’ve touched again!” shouted the Captain. “You an’ Raywood can come off with one o’ the other boats. I’ll take you on board when in deep water—shove off, lads.”

“Jump in with me, sir,” said the first mate, as he hastily descended the side.

“Come along, Raywood,” shouted Charlie, as he followed. “No time to lose!”

The passenger rushed on deck, scrambled down the side, and took his seat beside Charlie, just as the long threatened squall burst upon them.

The painter was cut, and they drifted into deep water with the second mate’s boat, which had already cast off.

Fortunate was it for the whole crew that Captain Stride had provided for every emergency, and that, among other safeguards, he had put several tarpaulins into each boat, for with these they were enabled to form a covering which turned off the waves and prevented their being swamped. The squall turned out to be a very severe one, and in the midst of it the three boats were so far separated that the prospect of their being able to draw together again until evening was very remote. Indeed the waves soon ran so high that it required the utmost attention of each steersman to keep his craft afloat, and when at last the light began to fade the boats were almost out of sight of each other.

“No chance, I fear, of our ever meeting again,” remarked the mate, as he cast a wistful look at the southern horizon where the sail of the long-boat could be barely seen like the wing of a sea-gull. “Your lot has been cast with us, Mr Brooke, so you’ll have to make the best of it.”

“I always try to make the best of things,” replied Charlie. “My chief regret at present is that Raywood and I, being two extra hands, will help to consume your provisions too fast.”

“Luckily my appetite is a poor one,” said Raywood, with a faint smile; “and it’s not likely to improve in the circumstances.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that sir,” returned the mate, with an air that was meant to be reassuring; “fresh air and exposure have effected wonders before now in the matter of health—so they say. Another pull on the halyards, Dick; that looks like a fresh squall. Mind your sheets, Will Ward.”

A prompt “Ay, ay, sir” from Dick Darvall and the cabin-boy showed that each was alive to the importance of the duty required of him, while the other men—of whom there were six—busied themselves in making the tarpaulin coverings more secure, or in baling out the water which, in spite of them, had found its way into the boat.

Charlie rose and seated himself on the thwart beside the fine-looking seaman Dick Darvall, so as to have a clearer view ahead under the sail.

“Long-boat nowhere to be seen now,” he murmured half to himself after a long look.

“No, sir—nor the other boat either,” said Darvall in a quiet voice. “We shall never see ’em no more.”

“I hope you are wrong,” returned Charlie; “indeed I feel sure that the weather will clear during the night, and that we shall find both boats becalmed not far off.”

“Maybe so, sir,” rejoined the sailor, in the tone of one willing to be, but not yet, convinced.

Our hero was right as to the first, but not as to the second, point. The weather did clear during the night, but when the sun arose next morning on a comparatively calm sea neither of the other boats was to be seen. In fact every object that could arrest the eye had vanished from the scene, leaving only a great circular shield of blue, of which their tiny craft formed the centre.

Chapter Seven. Adrift on the Sea.

“You are ill, Will Ward,” was Dick Darvall’s first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces.

“You’re another!” was the cabin-boy’s quick, facetious retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew.

“But you are ill, my boy,” repeated the seaman earnestly.

“No, Dick, not exactly ill,” returned Will, with a faint smile, “but I’m queer.”

Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them.

“Have ’ee a light, Jim?” asked a rugged man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him.

“No, Jack, I haven’t” answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them.

“Have you, Dick?” asked the rugged man in some anxiety.

“No, I haven’t,” replied Darvall, in a very serious voice, as he also took to slapping his pockets; “no—nor baccy!”

It was curious to note at this point how every seaman in that boat became suddenly sympathetic and wide awake, and took to hasty, anxious examination of all his pockets—vest jacket, and trousers. The result was the discovery of a good many clay pipes, more or less blackened and shortened, with a few plugs of tobacco, but not a single match, either fusee or congreve. The men looked at each other with something akin to despair.

“Was no matches putt on board wi’ the grub an’ other things?” asked Jim in a solemn tone.

“And no tobacco?” inquired the mate.

No one could answer in the affirmative. A general sigh—like a miniature squall—burst from the sailors, and relieved them a little. Jim put his pipe between his lips, and meekly began, if we may say so, to smoke his tobacco dry. At an order from the mate the men got out the oars and began to pull, for there was barely enough wind to fill the sail.

“No rest for us, lads, ’cept when it blows,” said the mate. “The nearest land that I know of is five hundred miles off as the crow flies. We’ve got a compass by good luck, so we can make for it, but the grub on board won’t hold out for quarter o’ that distance, so, unless we fall in with a ship, or fish jump aboard of us, ye know what’s before us.”

“Have we any spirits aboard?” asked the rugged man, in a growling, somewhat sulky, voice.

“Hear—hear!” exclaimed Jim.

“No, Jack,” returned the mate; “at least not for the purpose o’ lettin’ you have a short life an’ a merry one. Now, look here, men: it has pleased Providence to putt you an’ me in something of a fix, and I shouldn’t wonder if we was to have some stiffish experiences before we see the end of it. It has also pleased Providence to putt me here in command. You know I’m not given to boastin’, but there are times when it is advisable to have plain speakin’. There is a small supply of spirits aboard, and I just want to tell ’ee—merely as a piece of useful information, and to prevent any chance o’ future trouble—that as I’ve got charge o’ them spirits I mean to keep charge of ’em.”

The mate spoke in a low, soft voice, without the slightest appearance of threat or determination in his manner, but as he concluded he unbuttoned his pilot-cloth coat and pointed to the butt of a revolver which protruded from one of his vest pockets.

The men made no reply, but instinctively glanced at the two biggest and strongest men in the boat. These were Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall. Obviously, before committing themselves further, they wished, if possible, to read in the faces of these two what they thought of the mate’s speech. They failed to read much, if anything at all, for Charlie’s eyes were fixed in dreamy expressionless abstraction on the horizon, and Dick was gazing up into the clouds, with a look of intense benignity—suggesting that he was holding pleasant intercourse with any celestial creatures who might be resident there.

Without a word the whole crew bent to their oars, and resigned themselves to the inevitable. Perhaps if each man had expressed his true feelings at that moment he would have said that he was glad to know there was a firm hand at the helm. For there are few things more uncomfortable in any community, large or small, than the absence of discipline, or the presence of a weak will in a position of power.

“But I say, Will,” remarked Darvall, who pulled the stroke-oar, “you really do look ill. Is anything the matter with ’ee?”

“Nothin’, Dick; ’cept that I’m tired,” answered the cabin-boy.

“Breakfast will put that right” said our hero in an encouraging tone. “Let’s feel your pulse. Hm. Well, might be slower. Come, Captain,” he added, giving the mate his new title as he turned to him, “will you allow me to prescribe breakfast for this patient?”

“Certainly, Doctor,” returned the mate cheerily. “Come, lads, we’ll all have breakfast together.”

In a few minutes the biscuit and salt junk barrels were opened, and the mate measured out an exactly equal proportion of food to each man. Then, following the example of a celebrated commander, and in order to prevent dissatisfaction on the part of any with his portion, he caused one of the men to turn his back on the food, and, pointing to one of the portions said, “Who shall have this?”

“The Doctor, sir,” returned the man promptly.

The portion was immediately handed to Charlie Brooke amid a general laugh.

Thus every portion was disposed of, and the men sat down to eat in good humour, in spite of the too evident fact that they had been at once placed on short allowance, for, when each had finished, he assuredly wished for more, though no one ventured to give expression to the wish.

The only exception was the little cabin-boy, who made a brave attempt to eat, but utterly failed at the second mouthful.

“Come, Will,” said Charlie in a kindly tone, pretending to misunderstand the state of matters, “don’t try to deceive yourself by prolonging your breakfast. That won’t make more of it. See, here, I’m not up to eating much to-day, somehow, so I’ll be greatly obliged if you will dispose of half of mine as well as your own. Next time I am hungry, and you are not, I’ll expect you to do the same.”

But Will Ward could not be thus induced to eat. He was really ill, and before night was in a high fever. You may be sure that Dr Brooke, as every one now called him, did his best to help the little sufferer, but, of course, he could do very little, for all the medicines which he had prepared had been put into the long-boat, and, in a small open boat with no comforts, no medicines, and on short allowance of food, little could be done, except to give the boy a space of the floor on which to lie, to shield him from spray, and to cover him with blankets.

For a week the boat was carried over the sea by a fresh, steady breeze, during which time the sun shone out frequently, so that things seemed not so wretched as one might suppose to the shipwrecked mariners. Of course the poor cabin-boy was an exception. Although his feverish attack was a slight one he felt very weak and miserable after it. His appetite began to return, however, and it was evident that the short daily allowance would be insufficient for him. When this point was reached Dick Darvall one day, when rations were being served out, ventured to deliver an opinion.

“Captain and mates all,” he said, while a sort of bashful smile played upon his sunburnt features, “it do seem to me that we should agree, each man, to give up a share of our rations to little Will Ward, so that he may be able to feed up a bit an’ git the better o’ this here sickness. We won’t feel the want of such a little crumb each, an’ he’ll be ever so much the better for it.”

“Agreed,” chorused the men, apparently without exception.

“All right, lads,” said the mate, while a rare smile lighted up for a moment his usually stern countenance; “when the need for such self-denial comes I’ll call on ye to exercise it, but it ain’t called for yet, because I’ve been lookin’ after the interests o’ Will Ward while he’s been ill. Justice, you see, stands first o’ the virtues in my mind, an’ it’s my opinion that it wouldn’t be justice, but something very much the reverse, if we were to rob the poor boy of his victuals just because he couldn’t eat them.”

“Right you are, sir,” interposed Dick Darvall.

“Well, then, holdin’ these views,” continued the mate, “I have put aside Will Ward’s share every time the rations were served, so here’s what belongs to him—in this keg for the meat, and this bag for the biscuit—ready for him to fall-to whenever his twist is strong enough.”

There were marks of hearty approval, mingled with laughter, among the men on hearing this, but they stopped abruptly and listened for more on observing a perplexed look on their leader’s face.

“But there’s something that puzzles me about it, lads,” resumed the mate, “and it is this, that the grub has somehow accumulated faster than I can account for, considering the smallness o’ the addition to the lot each time.”

On hearing this the men were a little surprised, but Charlie Brooke burst into a short laugh.

“What!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say that the victuals have taken root and begun to grow, do you?”

“I don’t mean to say anything,” returned the mate quietly; “but I’m inclined to think a good deal if you’ve no objection, Doctor.”

“How d’ee feel now, Will?” said Charlie, stooping forward at the moment, for he observed that the boy—whose bed was on the floor at his feet—had moved, and was gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have grown enormously since their owner fell sick.

“I feel queer—and—and—I’m inclined to think, too,” returned Will in a faint voice.

Nothing more was said at that time, for a sudden shift in the wind necessitated a shift of the sail, but Dick Darvall nodded his head significantly, and it came to be understood that “Doctor” Brooke had regularly robbed himself of part of his meagre allowance in order to increase the store of the cabin-boy. Whether they were right in this conjecture has never been distinctly ascertained. But all attempts to benefit the boy were soon after frustrated, for, while life was little more than trembling in the balance with Will Ward, a gale burst upon them which sealed his fate.

It was not the rougher motion of the boat that did it, for the boy was used to that; nor the flashing of the salt spray inboard, for his comrades guarded him to some extent from that. During the alarm caused by a wave which nearly swamped the boat two of the crew in their panic seized the first things that came to hand and flung them overboard to prevent their sinking, while the rest baled with cans and sou’-westers for their lives. The portion of lading thus sacrificed turned out to be the staff of life—the casks of biscuit and pork!

It was a terrible shock to these unfortunates when the full extent of the calamity was understood, and the firmness of the mate, with a sight of the revolvers alone prevented summary vengeance being executed on the wretched men who had acted so hastily in their blind terror.

Only a small keg of biscuit remained to them. This was soon expended, and then the process of absolute starvation began. Every nook and cranny of the boat was searched again and again in the hope of something eatable being found, but only a small pot of lard—intended probably to grease the tackling—was discovered. With a dreadful expression in their eyes some of the men glared at it, and there would, no doubt, have been a deadly struggle for it if the mate had not said, “Fetch it here,” in a voice which none dared to disobey.

It formed but a mouthful to each, yet the poor fellows devoured it with the greed of ravening wolves, and carefully licked their fingers when it was done. The little cabin-boy had three portions allotted to him, because Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall added their allowance to his without allowing him to be aware of the fact.

But the extra allowance and kindness, although they added greatly to his comfort, could not stay the hand of Death. Slowly but surely the Destroyer came and claimed the young life. It was a sweet, calm evening when the summons came. The sea was like glass, with only that long, gentle swell which tells even in the profoundest calm of Ocean’s instability. The sky was intensely blue, save on the western horizon, where the sun turned it into gold. It seemed as if all Nature were quietly indifferent to the sufferings of the shipwrecked men, some of whom had reached that terrible condition of starvation when all the softer feelings of humanity seem dead, for, although no whisper of their intention passed their lips, their looks told all too plainly that they awaited the death of the cabin-boy with impatience, that they might appease the intolerable pangs of hunger by resorting to cannibalism.

Charlie Brooke, who had been comforting the dying lad all day, and whispering to him words of consolation from God’s book from time to time, knew well what those looks meant. So did the mate, who sat grim, gaunt and silent at his post, taking no notice apparently of what went on around him. Fortunately the poor boy was too far gone to observe the looks of his mates.

There was a can of paraffin oil, which had been thrown into the boat under the impression that it was something else. This had been avoided hitherto by the starving men, who deemed it to be poisonous. That evening the man called Jim lost control of himself, seized the can, and took a long draught of the oil. Whether it was the effect of that we cannot tell, but it seemed to drive him mad, for no sooner had he swallowed it than he uttered a wild shout, drew his knife, sprang up and leaped towards the place where the cabin-boy lay.

The mate, who had foreseen something of the kind, drew and levelled his revolver, but before he could fire Charlie had caught the uplifted arm, wrested the knife from the man, and thrust him violently back. Thus foiled Jim sprang up again and with a maniac’s yell leaped into the sea, and swam resolutely away.

Even in their dire extremity the sailors could not see a comrade perish with indifference. They jumped up, hastily got out the oars, and pulled after him, but their arms were very weak; before they could overtake him the man had sunk to rise no more.

It was while this scene was being enacted that the spirit of the cabin-boy passed away. On ascertaining that he was dead Charlie covered him with a tarpaulin where he lay, but no word was uttered by any one, and the mate, with revolver still in hand, sat there—grim and silent—holding the tiller as if steering, and gazing sternly on the horizon. Yet it was not difficult to divine the thoughts of those unhappy and sorely tried men. Some by their savage glare at the cover that concealed the dead body showed plainly their dreadful desires. Brooke, Darvall, and the mate showed as clearly by their compressed lips and stern brows that they would resist any attempt to gratify these.

Suddenly the mate’s brow cleared, and his eyes opened wide as he muttered, under his breath, “A sail!”

“A sail! a sail!” shrieked the man in the bow at the same moment, as he leaped up and tried to cheer, but he only gasped and fell back in a swoon into a comrade’s arms.

It was indeed a sail, which soon grew larger, and ere long a ship was descried bearing straight towards them before a very light breeze. In less than an hour the castaways stood upon her deck—saved.

Chapter Eight. Ingratitude.

A year or more passed away, and then there came a cablegram from New York to Jacob Crossley, Esquire, from Captain Stride. The old gentleman was at breakfast when he received it, and his housekeeper, Mrs Bland, was in the act of setting before him a dish of buttered toast when he opened the envelope. At the first glance he started up, overturned his cup of coffee, without paying the least attention to the fact, and exclaimed with emphasis— “As I expected. It is lost!”

“’Ow could you expect it, sir, to be anythink else, w’en you’ve sent it all over the table-cloth?” said Mrs Bland, in some surprise.

“It is not that, Mrs Bland,” said Mr Crossley, in a hurried manner; “it is my ship the Walrus. Of course I knew long ago that it must have been lost,” continued the old gentleman, speaking his thoughts more to himself than to the housekeeper, who was carefully spooning up the spilt coffee, “but the best of it is that the Captain has escaped.”

“Well, I’m sure, sir,” said Mrs Bland, condescending to be interested, and to ignore, if not to forget, the coffee, “I’m very glad to ’ear it, sir, for Captain Stride is a pleasant cheery sort of man, and would be agreeable company if ’e didn’t use so much sea-langwidge, and speak so much of ’is missis. An’ I’m glad to ’ear it too, sir, on account o’ that fine young man that sailed with ’im—Mr Book, I think, was—”

“No, Mrs Bland, it was Brooke; but that’s the worst of the business,” said the old gentleman; “I’m not quite sure whether young Brooke is among the saved. Here is what the telegram says:—

“‘From Captain Stride to Jacob Crossley. Just arrived, (that’s in New York, Mrs Bland); Walrus lost. All hands left her in three boats.

“‘Our boat made uninhabited island, and knocked to pieces. Eight months on the island. Rescued by American barque. Fate of other boats unknown. Will be home within a couple of weeks.’”

“Why, it sounds like Robinson Crusoe, sir, don’t it? which I read when I was quite a gurl, but I don’t believe it myself though they do say it’s all true. Young Mr Leather will be glad to ’ear the good noos of ’is friend—”

“But this is not good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news,” interrupted the old gentleman quickly. “Now I think of it, Mrs Bland, Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost ship—you understand, Mrs Bland?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus implied as to the capacity of her understanding. “Shall I bring you some more toast, sir?” she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this question she was returning good for evil.

“No, thank you. Now, Mrs Bland, don’t forget. Not a word about this to any one.”

“’Ooks an’ red-’ot pincers wouldn’t draw a syllable out of me, sir,” returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a very different effect upon him.

“Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all,” muttered Mr Crossley, walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and coppers. “I might have known that she could not hold her tongue. It would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride comes home to clear the matter up. Poor Mrs Brooke! No wonder she is almost broken down. This hoping against hope is so wearing. And she’s so lonely. To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this way. It would be almost better to know that he was dead. H’m! and there’s that good-for-nothing Shank. The rascal! and yet he’s not absolutely good for nothing—if he would only give up drink. Well, while there’s life there’s hope, thank God! I’ll give him another trial.”

The old man’s brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression.

Just then the door bell rang. Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room.

The youth was considerably changed since we last met him. The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye. It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders. But here the change for the better ended. In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared.

With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer.

“Be seated, Mr Leather,” said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied—

“Thank you, Mr Crossley, I’d rather stand.”

“As you please,” returned the other, restraining himself. “I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and—”

“Yes, sir,” said Shank, rudely interrupting, “and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak—as you are pleased to style a little jollification—as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don’t intend to return to your office. I’ve got a better situation.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Crossley in surprise.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Shank insolently.

It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness. But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley’s summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a “wigging.” He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently.

“I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a better situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may—for your mother’s sake as well as your own. This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call—which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment. But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, not so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and waiting to be gracious.”

The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow.

“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Mr Crossley.

“Nothing.”

“Then good-morning. As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you.”

Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him.

“Pray for me!” he muttered, as he walked slowly along. “It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all! The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!”

Chapter Nine. Shank Reveals Something More of his Character.

Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother’s door.

He entered without knocking.

“Shank!” exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath.

“Ay, mother, it’s me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. I always turn up, therefore I am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?”

“I’m glad to see you, dear Shank,” said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; “you know I’m always glad to see you, but I’m naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time.”

“Has anything happened?” asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity.

“Ay, May, something has happened,” answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; “I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That’s all.”

“Shank!”

“Just so. Don’t look so horrified, mother; you’ve no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides—ha! ha! old Crossley—close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley—is going to pray for me. Think o’ that, mother—going to pray for me!”

“Shank, dear boy,” returned his mother, “don’t jest about religious things.”

“You don’t call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!”

“Come, Shank,” returned Mrs Leather, with a deprecating smile, “be a good boy and tell me what you mean—and about this new situation.”

“I just mean that my friend and chum and old schoolfellow Ralph Ritson—jovial, dashing, musical, handsome Ralph—you remember him—has got me a situation in California.”

“Ralph Ritson?” repeated Mrs Leather, with a little sigh and an uneasy glance at her daughter, whose face had flushed at the mention of the youth’s name.

“Yes,” continued Shank, in a graver tone, for he had observed the flush on May’s face. “Ralph’s father, who is manager of a gold mine in California, has asked his son to go out and assist him at a good salary, and to take a clerk out with him—a stout vigorous fellow, well up in figures, book-keeping, carpenting, etcetera, and ready to turn his hand to anything, and Ralph has chosen me! What d’ee think o’ that?”

From her silence and expression it was evident that the poor lady’s thoughts were not quite what her son had hoped.

“Why don’t you congratulate me, mother?” he asked, somewhat petulantly.

“Would it not be almost premature,” she replied, with a forced smile, “to congratulate you before I know anything about the salary or the prospects held out to you? Besides, I cannot feel as enthusiastic about your friend Ralph as you do. I don’t doubt that he is a well-meaning youth, but he is reckless. If he had only been a man like your former friend, poor Charlie Brooke, it would have been different, but—”

“Well, mother, it’s of no use wishing somebody to be like somebody else. We must just take folk as we find them, and I find Ralph Ritson a remarkably fine, sensible fellow, who has a proper appreciation of his friends. And he’s not a bad fellow. He and Charlie Brooke were fond of each other when we were all schoolboys together—at least he was fond of Charlie, like everybody else. But whether we like him or not does not matter now, for the thing is fixed. I have accepted his offer, and thrown old Jacob overboard.”

“Dear Shank, don’t be angry if I am slow to appreciate this offer,” said the poor lady, laying aside her knitting and clasping her hands before her on the table, as she looked earnestly into her son’s face, “but you must see that it has come on me very suddenly, and I’m so sorry to hear that you have parted with good old Mr Crossley in anger—”

“We didn’t part in anger,” interrupted Shank. “We were only a little less sweet on each other than usual. There was no absolute quarrel. D’you think he’d have promised to pray for me if there was?”

“Have you spoken yet to your father?” asked the lady.

“How could I? I’ve not seen him since the thing was settled. Besides, what’s the use? He can do nothing for me, an’ don’t care a button what I do or where I go.”

“You are wrong, Shank, in thinking so. I know that he cares for you very much indeed. If he can do nothing for you now, he has at least given you your education, without which you could not do much for yourself.”

“Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him,” returned the youth, somewhat softened; “and I’m aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I’m not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody.”

“You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself,” said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, “and I don’t wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God’s blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps.”

This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth.

“Well, well, mother,” he said, rising, “don’t take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now—a mere matter of a few weeks—so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say ‘How do’ to his people. I’m going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news.”

“Stay, I’ll go with you—a bit of the way,” cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom—and girlish fashion—on her shoulders.

May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment’s notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother’s companions—we don’t know which—was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn’t cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay,—at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement.

“Dear Shank,” she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, “is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with—with Mr Ritson to California?”

“Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph’s name was mentioned? There, you’re flushing again! Are you in love with him?”

“No, certainly not,” answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh.

“Well, you needn’t flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?”

May was silent, and hung down her head.

“Come, May, you’ve never had any secrets from me. Surely you’re not going to begin now—on the eve of my departure to a foreign land?”

“I would rather not talk about him at all,” said the girl, looking up entreatingly.

But Shank looked down upon her sternly. He had assumed the parental rôle. “May, there is something in this that you ought not to conceal. I have a right to know it, as your brother—your protector.”

Innocent though May was, she could not repress a faint smile at the idea of a protector who had been little else than a cause of anxiety in the past, and was now about to leave her to look after herself, probably for years to come. But she answered frankly, while another and a deeper blush overspread her face—

“I did not mean to speak of it, Shank, as you knew nothing, and I had hoped would never know anything about it, but since you insist, I must tell you that—that Mr Ritson, I’m afraid, loves me at least he—”

“Afraid! loves you! How do you know?” interrupted Shank quickly.

“Well, he said so—the last time we met.”

“The rascal! Had he the audacity to ask you to marry him?—him—a beggar, without a sixpence except what his father gives him?”

“No, Shank, I would not let him get the length of that. I told him I was too young to—to think about such matters at all, and said that he must not speak to me again in such a way. But I was so surprised, flurried, and distressed, that I don’t clearly remember what I said.”

“And what did he say?” asked Shank, forgetting the parental rôle for a moment, and looking at May with a humorous smile.

“Indeed I can hardly tell. He made a great many absurd protestations, begged me to give him no decided answer just then, and said something about letting him write to me, but all I am quite sure of is that at last I had the courage to utter a very decided No, and then ran away and left him.”

“That was too sharp, May. Ralph is a first-rate fellow, with capital prospects. His father is rich and can give him a good start in life. He may come back in a few years with a fortune—not a bad kind of husband for a penniless lass.”

“Shank!” exclaimed May, letting go her brother’s arm and facing him with flashing eyes and heightened colour, “do you really think that a fortune would make me marry a man whom I did not love?”

“Certainly not, my dear sis,” said the youth, taking May’s hand and drawing it again through his arm with an approving smile. “I never for a moment thought you capable of such meanness, but that is a very different thing from slamming the door in a poor fellow’s face. You’re not in love with anybody else. Ralph is a fine handsome young fellow. You might grow to like him in time—and if you did, a fortune, of course, would be no disadvantage. Besides, he is to be my travelling companion, and might write to you about me if I were ill, or chanced to meet with an accident and were unable to write myself—don’t you know?”

“He could in that case write to mother,” said May, simply.

“So he could!” returned Shank, laughing. “I never thought o’ that, my sharp sister.”

They had reached the shore by that time. The tide was out; the sea was calm and the sun glinted brightly on the wavelets that sighed rather than broke upon the sands.

For some distance they sauntered in silence by the margin of the sea. The mind of each was busy with the same thought. Each was aware of that, and for some time neither seemed able to break the silence. The timid girl recovered her courage before the self-reliant man!

“Dear Shank,” she said, pressing his arm, “you will probably be away for years.”

“Yes, May—at least for a good long time.”

“Oh forgive me, brother,” continued the girl, with sudden earnestness, “but—but—you know your—your weakness—”

“Ay, May, I know it. Call it sin if you will—and my knowledge of it has something to do with my present determination, for, weak though I am, and bad though you think me—”

“But I don’t think you bad, dear Shank,” cried May, with tearful eyes; “I never said so, and never thought so, and—”

“Come, come, May,” interrupted the youth, with something of banter in his manner, “you don’t think me good, do you?”

“Well, no—not exactly,” returned May, faintly smiling through her tears.

“Well, then, if I’m not good I must be bad, you know. There’s no half-way house in this matter.”

“Is there not, Shank? Is there not very good and very bad?”

“Oh, well, if you come to that there’s pretty-good, and rather-bad, and a host of other houses between these, such as goodish and baddish, but not one of them can be a half-way house.”

“Oh yes, one of them can—must be.”

“Which one, you little argumentative creature?” asked Shank.

“Why, middling-good of course.”

“Wrong!” cried her brother, “doesn’t middling-bad stand beside it, with quite as good a claim to be considered half-way? However, I won’t press my victory too far. For the sake of peace we will agree that these are semi-detached houses in one block—and that will block the subject. But, to be serious again,” he added, stopping and looking earnestly into his sister’s face, “I wanted to speak to you on this weakness—this sin—and I thank you for breaking the ice. The truth is that I have felt for a good while past that conviviality—”

“Strong drink, brother, call it by its right name,” said May, gently pressing the arm on which she leaned.

“Well—have it so. Strong drink has been getting the better of me—mind I don’t admit it has got the better of me yet—only is getting—and convivial comrades have had a great deal to do with it. Now, as you know, I’m a man of some decision of character, and I had long ago made up my mind to break with my companions. Of course I could not very well do this while—while I was—well, no matter why, but this offer just seemed to be a sort of godsend, for it will enable me to cut myself free at once, and the sea breezes and Rocky Mountain air and gold-hunting will, I expect, take away the desire for strong drink altogether.”

“I hope it will—indeed I am sure it will if it is God’s way of leading you,” said May, with an air of confidence.

“Well, I don’t know whether it is God who is leading me or—”

“Did you not call it a god-send just now—”

“Oh, but that’s a mere form of speech, you know. However, I do know that it was on this very beach where we now stand that a friend led me for the first time to think seriously of this matter—more than a year ago.”

“Indeed—who was it?” asked May eagerly.

“My chum and old school-fellow, poor Charlie Brooke,” returned Shank, in a strangely altered voice.

Then he went on to tell of the conversation he and his friend had had on that beach, and it was not till he had finished that he became aware that his sister was weeping.

“Why, May, you’re crying. What’s the matter?”

“God bless him!” said May in fervent yet tremulous tones as she looked up in her brother’s face. “Can you wonder at my feeling so strongly when you remember how kind Charlie always was to you—to all of us indeed—ever since he was a little boy at school with you; what a true-hearted and steady friend he has always been. And you called him poor Charlie just now, as if he were dead.”

“True indeed, it is very, very sad, for we have great reason to fear the worst, and I have strong doubt that I shall never see my old chum again. But I won’t give up hope, for it is no uncommon thing for men to be lost at sea, for years even, and to turn up at last, having been cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, or something of that sort.”

The thoughts which seemed to minister consolation to Shank Leather did not appear to afford much comfort to his sister, who hung her head and made no answer, while her companion went on—

“Yes, May, and poor Charlie was the first to make me feel as if I were a little selfish, though that as you know, is not one of my conspicuous failings! His straightforwardness angered me a little at first, but his kindness made me think much of what he said, and—well, the upshot of it all is that I am going to California.”

“I am glad—so glad and thankful he has had so much influence over you, dear Shank, and now, don’t you think—that—that if Charlie were with you at this moment he would advise you not to go to Mr Smithers to consult about your plans?”

For a few moments the brother’s face betrayed a feeling of annoyance, but it quickly cleared away.

“You are right, May. Smithers is too much of a convivial harum-scarum fellow to be of much use in the way of giving sound advice. I’ll go to see Jamieson instead. You can have no objection to him—surely. He’s a quiet, sober sort of man, and never tries to tempt people or lead them into mischief—which is more than can be said of the other fellow.”

“That is a very negative sort of goodness,” returned May, smiling. “However, if you must go to see some one, Jamieson is better than Smithers; but why not come home and consult with mother and me?”

“Pooh! what can women know about such matters? No, no, May, when a fellow has to go into the pros and cons of Californian life it must be with men.”

“H’m! the men you associate with, having been at school and the desk all their lives up till now, must be eminently fitted to advise on Californian life! That did not occur to me at the first blush!” said May demurely.

“Go home, you cynical baggage, and help mother to knit,” retorted Shank, with a laugh. “I intend to go and see Jamieson.”

And he went. And the negatively good Jamieson, who never led people into temptation, had no objection to be led into that region himself, so they went together to make a passing call—a mere look in—on Smithers, who easily induced them to remain. The result was that the unselfish man with decision of character returned home in the early hours of morning—“screwed.”

Chapter Ten. Home-coming and Unexpected Surprises.

Upwards of another year passed away, and at the end of that time a ship might have been seen approaching one of the harbours on the eastern seaboard of America. Her sails were worn and patched. Her spars were broken and spliced. Her rigging was ragged and slack, and the state of her hull can be best described by the word ‘battered.’ Everything in and about her bore evidence of a prolonged and hard struggle with the elements, and though she had at last come off victorious, her dilapidated appearance bore strong testimony to the deadly nature of the fight.

Her crew presented similar evidence. Not only were their garments ragged, threadbare, and patched, but the very persons of the men seemed to have been riven and battered by the tear and wear of the conflict. And no wonder; for the vessel was a South Sea whaler, returning home after a three years’ cruise.

At first she had been blown far out of her course; then she was very successful in the fishing, and then she was stranded on the reef of a coral island in such a position that, though protected from absolute destruction by the fury of the waves, she could not be got off for many months. At last the ingenuity and perseverance of one of her crew were rewarded by success. She was hauled once more into deep water and finally returned home.

The man who had been thus successful in saving the ship, and probably the lives of his mates—for it was a desolate isle, far out of the tracks of commerce—was standing in the bow of the vessel, watching the shore with his companions as they drew near. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, clad in a red shirt and canvas trousers, while a wide-awake took the place of the usual seafaring cap. He stood head and shoulders above his fellows.

Just as the ship rounded the end of the pier, which formed one side of the harbour, a small boat shot out from it. A little boy sculled the boat, and, apparently, had been ignorant of the ship’s approach, for he gave a shout of alarm on seeing it, and made frantic efforts to get out of its way. In his wild attempts to turn the boat he missed a stroke and went backwards into the sea.

At the same moment the lookout on the ship gave the order to put the helm hard a-starboard in a hurried shout.

Prompt obedience caused the ship to sheer off a little, and her side just grazed the boat. All hands on the forecastle gazed down anxiously for the boy’s reappearance.

Up he came next moment with a bubbling cry and clutching fingers.

“He can’t swim!” cried one.

“Out with a lifebelt!” shouted another.

Our tall seaman bent forward as they spoke, and, just as the boy sank a second time, he shot like an arrow into the water.

“He’s all safe now,” remarked a seaman quietly, and with a nod of satisfaction, even before the rescuer had reappeared.

And he was right. The red-shirted sailor rose a moment later with the boy in his arms. Chucking the urchin into the boat he swam to the pier-head with the smooth facility and speed of an otter, climbed the wooden piles with the ease of an athlete, walked rapidly along the pier, and arrived at the head of the harbour almost as soon as his own ship.

“That’s the tenth life he’s saved since he came aboard—to say nothin’ o’ savin’ the ship herself,” remarked the Captain to an inquirer, after the vessel had reached her moorings. “An’ none o’ the lives was as easy to manage as that one. Some o’ them much harder.”

We will follow this magnificent seaman for a time, good reader.

Having obtained permission to quit the South Sea whaler he walked straight to the office of a steam shipping company, and secured a fore-cabin passage to England. He went on board dressed as he had arrived, in the red shirt, ducks, and wide-awake—minus the salt water. The only piece of costume which he had added to his wardrobe was a huge double-breasted pilot-cloth coat, with buttons the size of an egg-cup. He was so unused, however, to such heavy clothing that he flung it off the moment he got on board the steamer, and went about thereafter in his red flannel shirt and ducks. Hence he came to be known by every one as Red Shirt.

This man, with his dark-blue eyes, deeply bronzed cheeks, fair hair, moustache, and beard, and tall herculean form, was nevertheless so soft and gentle in his manners, so ready with his smile and help and sympathy, that every man, woman, and child in the vessel adored him before the third day was over. Previous to that day, many of the passengers, owing to internal derangements, were incapable of any affection, except self-love, and to do them justice they had not much even of that!

Arrived at Liverpool, Red Shirt, after seeing a poor invalid passenger safely to his abode in that city, and assisting one or two families with young children to find the stations, boats, or coaches that were more or less connected with their homes, got into a third-class carriage for London. On reaching the metropolis he at once took a ticket for Sealford.

Just as the train was on the point of starting, two elderly gentlemen came on the platform, in that eager haste and confusion of mind characteristic of late passengers.

“This way, Captain,” cried one, hailing the other, and pointing energetically with his brown silk umbrella to the Sealford carriages.

“No, no. It’s at the next platform,” returned the Captain frantically.

“I say it is here,” shouted the first speaker sternly. “Come, sir, obey orders!”

They both made for an open carriage-door. It chanced to be a third class. A strong hand was held out to assist them in.

“Thank you,” said the eldest elderly gentleman—he with the brown silk umbrella—turning to Red Shirt as he sat down and panted slightly.

“I feared that we’d be late, sir,” remarked the other elderly gentleman on recovering breath.

“We are not late, Captain, but we should have been late for certain, if your obstinacy had held another half minute.”

“Well, Mr Crossley, I admit that I made a mistake about the place, but you must allow that I made no mistake about the hour. I was sure that my chronometer was right. If there’s one thing on earth that I can trust to as reg’lar as the sun, it is this chronometer (pulling it out as he spoke), and it never fails. As I always said to my missus, ‘Maggie,’ I used to say, ‘when you find this chronometer fail—’ ‘Oh! bother you an’ your chronometer,’ she would reply, takin’ the wind out o’ my sails—for my missus has a free-an’-easy way o’ doin’ that—”

“You’ve just come off a voyage, young sir, if I mistake not,” said Crossley, turning to Red Shirt, for he had quite as free-and-easy a way of taking the wind out of Captain Stride’s sails as the “missus.”

“Yes; I have just returned,” answered Red Shirt, in a low soft voice, which scarcely seemed appropriate to his colossal frame. His red garment, by the way, was at the time all concealed by the pilot-coat, excepting the collar.

“Going home for a spell, I suppose?” said Crossley.

“Yes.”

“May I ask where you last hailed from?” said Captain Stride, with some curiosity, for there was something in the appearance of this nautical stranger which interested him.

“From the southern seas. I have been away a long while in a South Sea whaler.”

“Ah, indeed?—a rough service that.”

“Rather rough; but I didn’t enter it intentionally. I was picked up at sea, with some of my mates, in an open boat, by the whaler. She was on the outward voyage, and couldn’t land us anywhere, so we were obliged to make up our minds to join as hands.”

“Strange!” murmured Captain Stride. “Then you were wrecked somewhere—or your ship foundered, mayhap—eh?”

“Yes, we were wrecked—on a coral reef.”

“Well now, young man, that is a strange coincidence. I was wrecked myself on a coral reef in the very same seas, nigh three years ago. Isn’t that odd?”

“Dear me, this is very interesting,” put in Mr Crossley; “and, as Captain Stride says, a somewhat strange coincidence.”

“Is it so very strange, after all,” returned Red Shirt, “seeing that the Pacific is full of sunken coral reefs, and vessels are wrecked there more or less every year?”

“Well, there’s some truth in that,” observed the Captain. “Did you say it was a sunk reef your ship struck on?”

“Yes; quite sunk. No part visible. It was calm weather at the time, and a clear night.”

“Another coincidence!” exclaimed Stride, becoming still more interested. “Calm and clear, too, when I was wrecked!”

“Curious,” remarked Red Shirt in a cool indifferent tone, that began to exasperate the Captain.

“Yet, after all, there are a good many calm and clear nights in the Pacific, as well as coral reefs.”

“Why, young man,” cried Stride in a tone that made old Crossley smile, “you seem to think nothing at all of coincidences. It’s very seldom—almost never—that one hears of so many coincidences happening on this side o’ the line all at once—don’t you see.”

“I see,” returned Red Shirt; “and the same, exactly, may be said of the other side o’ the line. I very seldom—almost never—heard of so many out there; which itself may be called a coincidence, d’ee see? a sort of negative similarity.”

“Young man, I would suspect you were jesting with me,” returned the Captain, “but for the fact that you told me of your experiences first, before you could know that mine would coincide with them so exactly.”

“Your conclusions are very just, sir,” rejoined Red Shirt, with a grave and respectful air; “but of course coincidences never go on in an unbroken chain. They must cease sooner or later. We left our wreck in three boats. No doubt you—”

“There again!” cried the Captain in blazing astonishment, as he removed his hat and wiped his heated brow, while Mr Crossley’s eyes opened to their widest extent. “We left our wreck in three boats! My ship’s name was—”

“The Walrus,” said Red Shirt quietly, “and her Captain’s name was Stride!”

Old Crossley had reached the stage that is known as petrified with astonishment. The Captain, being unable to open his eyes wider, dropped his lower jaw instead.

“Surely,” continued Red Shirt, removing his wide-awake, and looking steadily at his companions, “I must have changed very much indeed when two of my—”

“Brooke!” exclaimed Crossley, grasping one of the sailor’s hands.

“Charlie!” gasped the Captain, seizing the other hand.

What they all said after reaching this point it is neither easy nor necessary to record. Perhaps it may be as well to leave it to the reader’s vivid imagination. Suffice it to say, that our hero irritated the Captain no longer by his callous indifference to coincidences. In the midst of the confusion of hurried question and short reply, he pulled them up with the sudden query anxiously put—

“But now, what of my mother?”

“Well—excellently well in health, my boy,” said Crossley, “but woefully low in spirits about yourself—Charlie. Yet nothing will induce her to entertain the idea that you have been drowned. Of course we have been rather glad of this—though most of our friends, Charlie, have given you up for lost long ago. May Leather, too, has been much the same way of thinking, so she has naturally been a great comfort to your mother.”

“God bless her for that. She’s a good little girl,” said Charlie.

“Little girl,” repeated both elderly gentlemen in a breath, and bursting into a laugh. “You forget, lad,” said the Captain, “that three years or so makes a considerable change in girls of her age. She’s a tall, handsome young woman now; ay, and a good-looking one too. Almost as good-lookin’ as what my missus was about her age—an’ not unlike my little Mag in the face—the one you rescued, you remember—who is also a strappin’ lass now.”

“I’m very glad to hear they are well, Captain,” said Charlie; “and, Shank, what of—”

He stopped, for the grave looks of his friends told him that something was wrong.

“Gone to the dogs,” said the Captain.

“Nay, not quite gone—but going—fast.”

“And the father?”

“Much as he was, Charlie, only somewhat more deeply sunk. The fact is,” continued Crossley, “it is this very matter that takes us down to Sealford to-day. We have just had fresh news of Shank—who is in America—and I want to consult with Mrs Leather about him. You see I have agents out there who may be able to help us to save him.”

“From drink, I suppose,” interposed our hero.

“From himself, Charlie, and that includes drink and a great deal more. I dare say you are aware—at least, if you are not, I now tell you—that I have long taken great interest in Mrs Leather and her family, and would go a long way, and give a great deal, to save Shank. You know—no, of course you don’t, I forgot—that he threw up his situation in my office—Withers and Company. (Ay, you may smile, my lad, but we humbugged you and got the better of you that time. Didn’t we, Captain?) Well, Shank was induced by that fellow Ralph Ritson to go away to some gold-mine or other worked by his father in California, but when they reached America they got news of the failure of the Company and the death of old Ritson. Of course the poor fellows were at once thrown on their own resources, but, instead of facing life like men, they took to gambling. The usual results followed. They lost all they had and went off to Texas or some such wild place, and for a long time were no more heard of. At last, just the other day, a letter came from Ritson to Mrs Leather, telling her that her son is very ill—perhaps dying—in some out o’ the way place. Ritson was nursing him, but, being ill himself, unable to work, and without means, it would help them greatly if some money could be sent—even though only a small sum.”

Charlie Brooke listened to this narrative with compressed brows, and remained silent a few seconds. “My poor chum!” he exclaimed at length. Then a flash of fire seemed to gleam in his blue eyes as he added, “If I had that fellow Ritson by the—”

He stopped abruptly, and the fire in the eyes died out, for it was no part of our hero’s character to boast—much less to speak harshly of men behind their backs.

“Has money been sent?” he asked.

“Not yet. It is about that business that I’m going to call on poor Mrs Leather now. We must be careful, you see. I have no reason, it is true, to believe that Ritson is deceiving us, but when a youth of no principle writes to make a sudden demand for money, it behoves people to think twice before they send it.”

“Ay, to think three times—perhaps even four or five,” broke in the Captain, with stern emphasis. “I know Ralph Ritson well, the scoundrel, an’ if I had aught to do wi’ it I’d not send him a penny. As I said to my—”

“Does your mother know of your arrival?” asked Mr Crossley abruptly.

“No; I meant to take her by surprise.”

“Humph! Just like you young fellows. In some things you have no more brains than geese. Being made of cast-iron and shoe-leather you assume that everybody else is, or ought to be, made of the same raw material. Don’t you know that surprises of this sort are apt to kill delicate people?”

Charlie smiled by way of reply.

“No, sir,” continued the old gentleman firmly, “I won’t let you take her by surprise. While I go round to the Leathers my good friend Captain Stride will go in advance of you to Mrs Brooke’s and break the news to her. He is accustomed to deal with ladies.”

“Right you are, sir,” said the gratified Captain, removing his hat and wiping his brow. “As I said, no later than yesterday to—”

A terrific shriek from the steam-whistle, and a plunge into the darkness of a tunnel stopped—and thus lost to the world for ever—what the Captain said upon that occasion.

Chapter Eleven. Tells of Happy Meetings and Serious Consultations.

Whether Captain Stride executed his commission well or not we cannot tell, and whether the meeting of Mrs Brooke with her long-lost son came to near killing or not we will not tell. Enough to know that they met, and that the Captain—with that delicacy of feeling so noticeable in seafaring men—went outside the cottage door and smoked his pipe while the meeting was in progress. After having given sufficient time, as he said, “for the first o’ the squall to blow over,” he summarily snubbed his pipe, put it into his vest pocket, and re-entered.

“Now, missus, you’ll excuse me, ma’am, for cuttin’ in atween you, but this business o’ the Leathers is pressin’, an’ if we are to hold a confabulation wi’ the family about it, why—”

“Ah, to be sure, Captain Stride is right,” said Mrs Brooke, turning to her stalwart son, who was seated on the sofa beside her. “This is a very, very sad business about poor Shank. You had better go to them, Charlie. I will follow you in a short time.”

“Mr Crossley is with them at this moment. I forgot to say so, mother.”

“Is he? I’m very glad of that,” returned the widow. “He has been a true friend to us all. Go, Charlie. But stay. I see May coming. The dear child always comes to me when there is anything good or sorrowful to tell. But she comes from the wrong direction. Perhaps she does not yet know of Mr Crossley’s arrival.”

“May! Can it be?” exclaimed Charlie in an undertone of surprise as he observed, through the window, the girl who approached.

And well might he be surprised, for this, although the same May, was very different from the girl he left behind him. The angles of girlhood had given place to the rounded lines of young womanhood. The rich curly brown hair, which used to whirl wildly in the sea-breezes, was gathered up in a luxuriant mass behind her graceful head, and from the forehead it was drawn back in two wavy bands, in defiance of fashion, which at that time was beginning to introduce the detestable modern fringe. Perhaps we are not quite un-biassed in our judgment of the said fringe, far it is intimately associated in our mind with the savages of North America, whose dirty red faces, in years past, were wont to glower at us from beneath just such a fringe, long before it was adopted by the fair dames of England!

In other respects, however, May was little changed, except that the slightest curl of sadness about her eyebrows made her face more attractive than ever, as she nodded pleasantly to the Captain, who had hastened to the door to meet her.

“So glad to see you, Captain Stride,” she said, shaking hands with unfeminine heartiness. “Have you been to see mother? I have just been having a walk before—”

She stopped as if transfixed, for at that moment she caught sight of Charlie and his mother through the open door.

Poor May flushed to the roots of her hair; then she turned deadly pale, and would have fallen had not the gallant Captain caught her in his arms. But by a powerful effort of will she recovered herself in time to avoid a scene.

“The sight of you reminded me so strongly of our dear Shank!” she stammered, when Charlie, hastening forward, grasped both her hands and shook them warmly. “Besides—some of us thought you were dead.”

“No wonder you thought of Shank,” returned Charlie, “for he and I used to be so constantly together. But don’t be cast down, May. We’ll get Shank out of his troubles yet.”

“Yes, and you know he has Ritson with him,” said Mrs Brooke; “and he, although not quite as steady as we could wish, will be sure to care for such an old friend in his sickness. But you’d better go, Charlie, and see Mrs Leather. They will be sure to want you and Captain Stride. May will remain here with me. Sit down beside me, dear, I want to have a chat with you.”

“Perhaps, ma’am, if I make so bold,” interposed the Captain, “Mr Crossley may want to have Miss May also at the council of war.”

“Mr Crossley! is he with my mother?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Yes, Miss May, he is.”

“Then I must be there. Excuse me, dear Mrs Brooke.”

And without more ado May ran out of the house. She was followed soon after by Charlie and the Captain, and Mrs Brooke was left alone, expressing her thankfulness and joy of heart in a few silent tears over her knitting.

There was a wonderful similarity in many respects between Mrs Brooke and her friend Mrs Leather. They both knitted—continuously and persistently. This was a convenient if not a powerful bond, for it enabled them to sit for hours together—busy, yet free to talk. They were both invalids—a sympathetic bond of considerable strength. They held the same religious views—an indispensable bond where two people have to be much together, and are in earnest. They were both poor—a natural bond which draws people of a certain kind very close together, physically as well as spiritually—and both, up to this time at least, had long-absent and semi-lost sons. Even in the matter of daughters they might be said, in a sense, to be almost equal, for May, loving each, was a daughter to both. Lastly, in this matter of similarity, the two ladies were good—good as gold, according to Captain Stride, and he ought to have been an authority, for he frequently visited them and knew all their affairs. Fortunately for both ladies, Mrs Brooke was by far the stronger-minded—hence they never quarrelled!

In Mrs Leather’s parlour a solemn conclave was seated round the parlour table. They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather’s face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details.

“I rather like the letter, considering who wrote it,” observed Mr Crossley, laying it down after a fourth perusal. “You see he makes no whining or discontented reference to the hardness of their luck, which young scapegraces are so fond of doing; nor does he make effusive professions of regret or repentance, which hypocrites are so prone to do. I think it bears the stamp of being genuine on the face of it. At least it appears to be straightforward.”

“I’m so glad you think so, Mr Crossley,” said Mrs Leather; “for Mr Ritson is such a pleasant young man—and so good-looking, too!”

The old gentleman and the Captain both burst into a laugh at this.

“I’m afraid,” said the former, “that good looks are no guarantee for good behaviour. However, I have made up my mind to send him a small sum of money—not to Shank, Mrs Leather, so you need not begin to thank me. I shall send it to Ritson.”

“Well, thank you all the same,” interposed the lady, taking up her knitting and resuming operations below the table, gazing placidly all the while at her friends like some consummate conjuror, “for Ralph will be sure to look after Shank.”

“The only thing that puzzles me is, how are we to get it sent to such an out-o’-the-way place—Traitor’s Trap! It’s a bad name, and the stupid fellow makes no mention of any known town near to it, though he gives the post-office. If I only knew its exact whereabouts I might get some one to take the money to him, for I have agents in many parts of America.”

After prolonged discussion of the subject, Mr Crossley returned to town to make inquiries, and the Captain went to take his favourite walk by the sea-shore, where he was wont, when paying a visit to Sealford, to drive the Leathers’ little dog half-mad with delight by throwing stones into the sea for Scraggy to go in for—which he always did, though he never fetched them out.

In the course of that day Charlie Brooke left his mother to take a stroll, and naturally turned in the direction of the sea. When half-way through the lane with the high banks on either side he encountered May.

“What a pleasant pretty girl she has become!” was his thought as she drew near.

“Nobler and handsomer than ever!” was hers as he approached.

The thoughts of both sent a flush to the face of each, but the colour scarcely showed through the bronzed skin of the man.

“Why, what a woman you have grown, May!” said Charlie, grasping her hand, and attempting to resume the old familiar terms—with, however, imperfect success.

“Isn’t that natural?” asked May, with a glance and a little laugh.

That glance and that little laugh, insignificant in themselves, tore a veil from the eyes of Charlie Brooke. He had always been fond of May Leather, after a fashion. Now it suddenly rushed upon him that he was fond of her after another fashion! He was a quick thinker and just reasoner. A poor man without a profession and no prospects has no right to try to gain the affections of a girl. He became grave instantly.

“May,” he said, “will you turn back to the shore with me for a little? I want to have a talk about Shank. I want you to tell me all you know about him. Don’t conceal anything. I feel as if I had a right to claim your confidence, for, as you know well, he and I have been like brothers since we were little boys.”

May had turned at once, and the tears filled her eyes as she told the sad story. It was long, and the poor girl was graphic in detail. We can give but the outline here.

Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the Walrus. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson’s death, they knew not which way to turn. It was a tremendous blow, and seemed to have rendered them reckless, for they soon took to gambling. At first they remained in New York, and letters came home pretty regularly, in which Shank always expressed hopes of getting more respectable work. He did not conceal their mode of gaining a livelihood, but defended it on the ground that “a man must live!”

For a time the letters were cheerful. The young men were “lucky.” Then came a change of luck, and a consequent change in the letters, which came less frequently. At last there arrived one from Shank, both the style and penmanship of which told that he had not forsaken the great curse of his life—strong drink. It told of disaster, and of going off to the “Rockies” with a party of “discoverers,” though what they were to discover was not mentioned.

“From that date till now,” said May in conclusion, “we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money.”

“I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man,” said Charlie sternly; “I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy.”

“Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won’t desert his wounded comrade,” returned May, with a blush.

The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours.

“I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination.”

“Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them,” said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic.

“Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor’s Trap were within a few miles of each other,” said Charlie, smiling gently. “They are hundreds of miles apart.”

“Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself.”

She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face.

“Don’t cry, May,” began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail.

“Hi! halloo! back your to-o-o-ps’ls. I’ll overhaul ye in a jiffy.”

How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, “like a grampus.”

That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone—their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night.

They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell.

“And now, mother,” said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, “what about the future?”

“Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room.”

“Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I—. She’s wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?”

“Indeed she is—and as good as she’s pretty,” returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son.

“She broke down when talking about Shank to-day, and I declare she looked quite beautiful! Evidently Shank’s condition weighs heavily on her mind.”

“Can you wonder, Charlie?”

“Of course not. It’s natural, and I quite sympathised with her when she exclaimed, ‘If I were only a man I would go to him myself.’”

“That’s natural too, my son. I have no doubt she would, poor dear girl, if she were only a man.”

“Do you know, mother, I’ve not been able to get that speech out of my head all this afternoon. ‘If I were a man—if I were a man,’ keeps ringing in my ears like the chorus of an old song, and then—”

“Well, Charlie, what then?” asked Mrs Brooke, with a puzzled glance.

“Why, then, somehow the chorus has changed in my brain and it runs— ‘I am a man! I am a man!’”

“Well?” asked the mother, with an anxious look.

“Well—that being so, I have made up my mind that I will go out to Traitor’s Trap and carry the money to Shank, and look after him myself. That is, if you will let me.”

“O Charlie! how can you talk of it?” said Mrs Brooke, with a distressed look. “I have scarcely had time to realise the fact that you have come home, and to thank God for it, when you begin to talk of leaving me again—perhaps for years, as before.”

“Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked.”

“I don’t know, Charlie,” returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son’s arm and stroked it. “As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank—but—but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning.”

“How pleasantly familiar that ‘Go to bed, Charlie,’ sounds,” said the son, laughing, as he rose up.

“You did not always think it pleasant,” returned the good lady, with a sad smile.

“That’s true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant now. Good-night, mother.”

“Good-night, my son, and God bless you.”

Chapter Twelve. Changes the Scene Considerably!

We must transport our reader now to a locality somewhere in the region lying between New Mexico and Colorado. Here, in a mean-looking out-of-the-way tavern, a number of rough-looking men were congregated, drinking, gambling, and spinning yarns. Some of them belonged to the class known as cow-boys—men of rugged exterior, iron constitutions, powerful frames, and apparently reckless dispositions, though underneath the surface there was considerable variety of character to be found.

The landlord of the inn—if we may so call it, for it was little better than a big shanty—was known by the name of David. He was a man of cool courage. His customers knew this latter fact well, and were also aware that, although he carried no weapon on his person, he had several revolvers in handy places under his counter, with the use of which he was extremely familiar and expert.

In the midst of a group of rather noisy characters who smoked and drank in one corner of this inn or shanty, there was seated on the end of a packing-case, a man in the prime of life, who, even in such rough company, was conspicuously rugged. His leathern costume betokened him a hunter, or trapper, and the sheepskin leggings, with the wool outside, showed that he was at least at that time a horseman. Unlike most of his comrades, he wore Indian moccasins, with spurs strapped to them. Also a cap of the broad-brimmed order. The point about him that was most striking at first sight was his immense breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, though in height he did not equal many of the men around him. As one became acquainted with the man, however, his massive proportions had not so powerful an effect on the mind of an observer as the quiet simplicity of his expression and manner. Good-nature seemed to lurk in the lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which latter had the peculiarity of turning down instead of up when he smiled; yet withal there was a stern gravity about him that forbade familiarity.

The name of the man was Hunky Ben, and the strangest thing about him—that which puzzled these wild men most—was that he neither drank nor smoked nor gambled! He made no pretence of abstaining on principle. One of the younger men, who was blowing a stiff cloud, ventured to ask him whether he really thought these things wrong.

“Well, now,” he replied quietly, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m no parson, boys, that I should set up to diskiver what’s right an’ what’s wrong. I’ve got my own notions on them points, you bet, but I’m not goin’ to preach ’em. As to smokin’, I won’t make a smoked herrin’ o’ my tongue to please anybody. Besides, I don’t want to smoke, an’ why should I do a thing I don’t want to just because other people does it? Why should I make a new want when I’ve got no end o’ wants a’ready that’s hard enough to purvide for? Drinkin’s all very well if a man wants Dutch courage, but I don’t want it—no, nor French courage, nor German, nor Chinee, havin’ got enough o’ the article home-growed to sarve my purpus. When that’s used up I may take to drinkin’—who knows? Same wi’ gamblin’. I’ve no desire to bust up any man, an’ I don’t want to be busted up myself, you bet. No doubt drinkin’, smokin’, an’ gamblin’ makes men jolly—them at least that’s tough an’ that wins!—but I’m jolly without ’em, boys,—jolly as a cottontail rabbit just come of age.”

“An’ ye look it, old man,” returned the young fellow, puffing cloudlets with the utmost vigour; “but come, Ben, won’t ye spin us a yarn about your frontier life?”

“Yes, do, Hunky,” cried another in an entreating voice, for it was well known all over that region that the bold hunter was a good story-teller, and as he had served a good deal on the frontier as guide to the United States troops, it was understood that he had much to tell of a thrilling and adventurous kind; but although the men about him ceased to talk and looked at him with expectancy, he shook his head, and would not consent to be drawn out.

“No, boys, it can’t be done to-day,” he said; “I’ve no time, for I’m bound for Quester Creek in hot haste, an’ am only waitin’ here for my pony to freshen up a bit. The Redskins are goin’ to give us trouble there by all accounts.”

“The red devils!” exclaimed one of the men, with a savage oath; “they’re always givin’ us trouble.”

“That,” returned Hunky Ben, in a soft voice, as he glanced mildly at the speaker,—“that is a sentiment I heer’d expressed almost exactly in the same words, though in Capatchee lingo, some time ago by a Redskin chief—only he said it was pale-faced devils who troubled him. I wonder which is worst. They can’t both be worst, you know!”

This remark was greeted with a laugh, and a noisy discussion thereupon began as to the comparative demerits of the two races, which was ere long checked by the sound of a galloping horse outside. Next moment the door opened, and a very tall man of commanding presence and bearing entered the room, took off his hat, and looked round with a slight bow to the company.

There was nothing commanding, however, in the quiet voice with which he asked the landlord if he and his horse could be put up there for the night.

The company knew at once, from the cut of the stranger’s tweed suit, as well as his tongue, that he was an Englishman, not much used to the ways of the country—though, from the revolver and knife in his belt, and the repeating rifle in his hand, he seemed to be ready to meet the country on its own terms by doing in Rome as Rome does.

On being told that he could have a space on the floor to lie on, which he might convert into a bed if he had a blanket with him, he seemed to make up his mind to remain, asked for food, and while it was preparing went out to attend to his horse. Then, returning, he went to a retired corner of the room, and flung himself down at full length on a vacant bench, as if he were pretty well exhausted with fatigue.

The simple fare of the hostelry was soon ready; and when the stranger was engaged in eating it, he asked a cow-boy beside him how far it was to Traitor’s Trap.

At the question there was a perceptible lull in the conversation, and the cow-boy, who was a very coarse forbidding specimen of his class, said that he guessed Traitor’s Trap was distant about twenty mile or so.

“Are you goin’ thar, stranger?” he asked, eyeing his questioner curiously.

“Yes, I’m going there,” answered the Englishman; “but from what I’ve heard of the road, at the place where I stayed last night, I don’t like to go on without a guide and daylight—though I would much prefer to push on to-night if it were possible.”

“Wall, stranger, whether possible or not,” returned the cow-boy, “it’s an ugly place to go past, for there’s a gang o’ cut-throats there that’s kep’ the country fizzin’ like ginger-beer for some time past. A man that’s got to go past Traitor’s Trap should go by like a greased thunderbolt, an’ he should never go alone.”

“Is it, then, such a dangerous place?” asked the Englishman, with a smile that seemed to say he thought his informant was exaggerating.

“Dangerous!” exclaimed the cow-boy. “Ay, an will be as long as Buck Tom an’ his boys are unhung. Why, stranger, I’d get my life insured, you bet, before I’d go thar again—except with a big crowd o’ men. It was along in June last year I went up that way; there was nobody to go with me, an’ I was forced to do it by myself—for I had to go—so I spunked up, saddled Bluefire, an’ sloped. I got on lovely till I came to a pass just on t’other side o’ Traitor’s Trap, when I began to cheer up, thinkin’ I’d got off square; but I hadn’t gone another hundred yards when up starts Buck Tom an’ his men with ‘hands up.’ I went head down flat on my saddle instead, I was so riled. Bang went a six-shooter, an’ the ball just combed my back hair. I suppose Buck was so took by surprise at a single man darin’ to disobey his orders that he missed. Anyhow I socked spurs into Bluefire, an’ made a break for the open country ahead. They made after me like locomotives wi’ the safety-valves blocked, but Bluefire was more’n a match for ’em. They kep’ blazin’ away all the time too, but never touched me, though I heard the balls whistlin’ past for a good while. Bluefire an’ me went, you bet, like a nor’-easter in a passion, an’ at last they gave it up. No, stranger, take my advice an’ don’t go past Traitor’s Trap alone. I wouldn’t go there at all if I could help it.”

“I don’t intend to go past it. I mean to go into it,” said the Englishman, with a short laugh, as he laid down his knife and fork, having finished his slight meal; “and, as I cannot get a guide, I shall be forced to go alone.”

“Stranger,” said the cow-boy in surprise, “d’ye want to meet wi’ Buck Tom?”

“Not particularly.”

“An’ are ye aware that Buck Tom is one o’ the most hardened, sanguinacious blackguards in all Colorado?”

“I did not know it before, but I suppose I may believe it now.”

As he spoke the Englishman rose and went out to fetch the blanket which was strapped to his saddle. In going out he brushed close past a man who chanced to enter at the same moment.

The newcomer was also a tall and strikingly handsome man, clothed in the picturesque garments of the cow-boy, and fully armed. He strode up to the counter, with an air of proud defiance, and demanded drink. It was supplied him. He tossed it off quickly, without deigning a glance at the assembled company. Then in a deep-toned voice he asked—

“Has the Rankin Creek Company sent that account and the money?”

Profound silence had fallen on the whole party in the room the moment this man entered. They evidently looked at him with profound interest if not respect.

“Yes, Buck Tom,” answered the landlord, in his grave off-hand manner; “They have sent it, and authorised me to pay you the balance.”

He turned over some papers for a few minutes, during which Buck Tom did not condescend to glance to one side or the other, but kept his eye fixed sternly on the landlord.

At that moment the Englishman re-entered, went to his corner, spread his blanket on the floor, lay down, put his wide-awake over his eyes, and resigned himself to repose, apparently unaware that anything special was going on, and obtusely blind to the quiet but eager signals wherewith the cow-boy was seeking to direct his attention to Buck Tom.

In a few minutes the landlord found the paper he wanted, and began to look over it.

“The company owes you,” he said, “three hundred dollars ten cents for the work done,” said the landlord slowly.

Buck nodded his head as if satisfied with this.

“Your account has run on a long while,” continued the landlord, “and they bid me explain that there is a debit of two hundred and ninety-nine dollars against you. Balance in your favour one dollar ten cents.”

A dark frown settled on Buck Tom’s countenance, as the landlord laid the balance due on the counter, and for a few moments he seemed in uncertainty as to what he should do, while the landlord stood conveniently near to a spot where one of his revolvers lay. Then Buck turned on his heel, and was striding towards the door, when the landlord called him back.

“Excuse my stopping you, Buck Tom,” he said, “but there’s a gentleman here who wants a guide to Traitor’s Trap. Mayhap you wouldn’t object to—”

“Where is he?” demanded Buck, wheeling round, with a look of slight surprise.

“There,” said the landlord, pointing to the dark corner where the big Englishman lay, apparently fast asleep, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.

Buck Tom looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments.

“H’m! well, I might guide him,” he said, with something of a grim smile, “but I’m travelling too fast for comfort. He might hamper me. By the way,” he added, looking back as he laid his hand on the door, “you may tell the Rankin Creek Company, with my compliments, to buy a new lock to their office door, for I intend to call on them some day soon and balance up that little account on a new system of ’rithmetic! Tell them I give ’em leave to clap the one dollar ten cents to the credit of their charity account.”

Another moment and Buck Tom was gone. Before the company in the tavern had quite recovered the use of their tongues, the hoofs of his horse were heard rattling along the road which led in the direction of Traitor’s Trap.

“Was that really Buck Tom?” asked Hunky Ben, in some surprise.

“Ay—or his ghost,” answered the landlord.

“I can swear to him, for I saw him as clear as I see you the night he split after me,” said the cowboy, who had warned the Englishman.

“Why didn’t you put a bullet into him to-night, Crux?” asked a comrade.

“Just so—you had a rare chance,” remarked another of the cow-boys, with something of a sneer in his tone.

“Because I’m not yet tired o’ my life,” replied Crux, indignantly. “Back Tom has got eyes in the back o’ his head, I do believe, and shoots dead like a flash—”

“Not that time he missed you at Traitor’s Trap, I think,” said the other.

“Of course not—’cause we was both mounted that time, and scurryin’ over rough ground like wild-cats. The best o’ shots would miss thar an’ thus. Besides, Buck Tom took nothin’ from me, an’ ye wouldn’t have me shoot a man for missin’ me—surely. If you’re so fond o’ killin’, why didn’t you shoot him yourself?—you had a rare chance!”

Crux grinned—for his ugly mouth could not compass a smile—as he thought thus to turn the tables on his comrade.

“Well, he’s got clear off, anyhow, returned the comrade, an’ it’s a pity, for—”

He was interrupted by the Englishman raising himself and asking in a sleepy tone if there was likely to be moonlight soon.

The company seemed to think him moon-struck to ask such a question, but one of them replied that the moon was due in half an hour.

“You’ve lost a good chance, sir,” said Crux, who had a knack of making all his communications as disagreeably as possible, unless they chanced to be unavoidably agreeable, in which case he made the worst of them. “Buck Tom hisself has just bin here, an’ might have agreed to guide you to Traitor’s Trap if you’d made him a good offer.”

“Why did you not awake me?” asked the Englishman in a reproachful tone, as he sprang up, grasped his blanket hastily, threw down a piece of money on the counter, and asked if the road wasn’t straight and easy for a considerable distance.

“Straight as an arrow for ten mile,” said the landlord, as he laid down the change which the Englishman put into an apparently well-filled purse.

“I’ll guide you, stranger, for five dollars,” said Crux.

“I want no guide,” returned the other, somewhat brusquely, as he left the room.

A minute or two later he was heard to pass the door on horseback at a sharp trot.

“Poor lad, he’ll run straight into the wolf’s den; but why he wants to do it puzzles me,” remarked the landlord, as he carefully cleaned a tankard. “But he would take no warning.”

“The wolf doesn’t seem half as bad as he’s bin painted,” said Hunky Ben, rising and offering to pay his score.

“Hallo, Hunky—not goin’ to skip, are ye?” asked Crux.

“I told ye I was in a hurry. Only waitin’ to rest my pony. My road is the same as the stranger’s, at least part o’ the way. I’ll overhaul an’ warn him.”

A few minutes more and the broad-shouldered scout was also galloping along the road or track which led towards the Rocky mountains in the direction of Traitor’s Trap.

Chapter Thirteen. Hunky Ben is Sorely Perplexed.

It was one of Hunky Ben’s few weaknesses to take pride in being well mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds—a black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading trip in Texas—and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare.

From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to himself—for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and on the plains, and found it somewhat “sociable-like” to mutter his thoughts audibly:

“You’ve not cotched him up after all, Ben,” he said. “Black Polly a’most equals a streak o’ lightnin’, but the Britisher got too long a start o’ ye, an’ he’s clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he’ll hear your foot-falls, Polly, an’ p’raps be scared into goin’ faster to his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an’ drive ahead so as to git to the Blue Fork before him, I’ll be able to stop the Buck’s little game, an’ save the poor fellow’s life. Buck is sure to stop him at the Blue Fork, for it’s a handy spot for a road-agent, (a highwayman) and there’s no other near.”

Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her to lightning.

The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred yards on the other side of the pass the track forked—hence the name. One fork led up to Traitor’s Trap, the other to the fort of Quester Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it.

It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and, at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination, however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow.

“Ho! ho!” thought Ben, “you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr Buck! Well, you’re not far wrong in such a place.”

Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off.

Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track, and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman’s form, but he knew that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher.

During all this time the Englishman—whom the reader has doubtless recognised as Charlie Brooke—was pushing on as fast as he could in the hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor’s Trap.

At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path.

He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words—

“Hands up!”

Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death, or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to shine full on his countenance.

The effect on Buck Tom was singular. Standing with his back to the moon, his expression could not be seen, but his arm dropped to his side as if it had been paralysed, and the revolver fell to the ground.

Never had Buck Tom been nearer to his end than at that moment, for Hunky Ben, seeing clearly what would be the consequence of the Englishman’s non-compliance with the command, was already pressing the trigger that would have sent a bullet into Buck Tom’s brain, but the Englishman’s strange conduct induced him to pause, and the effect on the robber caused him to raise his head and open wide his eyes—also his ears!

“Ah! Ralph Ritson, has it come to this?” said Charlie, in a voice that told only of pity and surprise.

For some moments Ralph did not speak. He was evidently stunned. Presently he recovered, and, passing his hand over his brow, but never taking his eyes off the handsome face of his former friend, he said in a low tone—

“I—I—don’t feel very sure whether you’re flesh and blood, Brooke, or a spirit—but—but—”

“I’m real enough to be able to shake hands, Ritson,” returned our hero, dismounting, and going up to his former friend, who suffered him to grasp the hand that had been on the point of taking his life. “But can it be true, that I really find you a—”

“It is true, Charlie Brooke; quite true—but while you see the result, you do not see, and cannot easily understand, the hard grinding injustice that has brought me to this. The last and worst blow I received this very night. I have urgent need of money—not for myself, believe me—and I came down to David’s store, at some personal risk, I may add, to receive payment of a sum due me for acting as a cow-boy for many months. The company, instead of paying me—”

“Yes, I know; I heard it all,” said Charlie.

“You were only shamming sleep, then?”

“Yes; I knew you at once.”

“Well, then,” continued Buck Tom (as we shall still continue to style him), “the disappointment made me so desperate that I determined to rob you—little thinking who you were—in order to help poor Shank Leather—”

“Does Shank stand in urgent need of help?” asked Charlie, interrupting.

“He does indeed. He has been very ill. We have run out of funds, and he needs food and physic of a kind that the mountains don’t furnish.”

“Does he belong to your band, Ritson?”

“Well—nearly; not quite!”

“That is a strange answer. How far is it to where he lies just now?”

“Six miles, about.”

“Come, then, I will go to him if you will show me the way,” returned Charlie, preparing to remount. “I have plenty of that which poor Shank stands so much in need of. In fact I have come here for the express purpose of hunting him and you up. Would it not be well, by the way, to ride back to the store for some supplies?”

“No need,” answered Buck Tom, stooping to pick up his revolver. “There’s another store not far from this, to which we can send to-morrow. We can get what we want there.”

“But what have you done with your horse?” asked Charlie; “I heard you start on one.”

“It is not far off. I’ll go fetch it.”

So saying the robber entered the bushes and disappeared. A few minutes later the clattering of hoofs was heard, and in another moment he rode up to the spot where our hero awaited him.

“Follow me,” he said; “the road becomes better half a mile further on.”

During all this time Hunky Ben had stood with his rifle ready, listening with the feelings of a man in a dream. He watched the robber and his victim ride quietly away until they were out of sight. Then he stood up, tilted his cap on one side, and scratched his head in great perplexity.

“Well, now,” he said at length, “this is about the queerest affair I’ve comed across since I was raised. It’s a marcy I was born with a quiet spirit, for another chip off the small end of a moment an’ Buck Tom would have bin with his fathers in their happy, or otherwise, huntin’ grounds! It’s quite clear that them two have bin friends, mayhap pards, in the old country. An’ Buck Tom (that’s Ritson, I think he called him) has bin driven to it by injustice, has he? Ah! Buck, if all the world that suffers injustice was to take to robbery it’s not many respectable folk would be left to rob. Well, well, my comin’ off in such a splittin’ hurry to take care o’ this Britisher is a wild-goose chase arter all! It’s not the first one you’ve bin led into anyhow, an’ it’s time you was lookin’ arter yer own business, Hunky Ben.”

While giving vent to these remarks in low muttering tones, the scout was quickly retracing his steps to the place where he had tied up Black Polly. Mounting her he returned to the main track, proceeded along it until he reached the place beyond the pass where the roads forked; then, selecting that which diverged to the left, he set off at a hard gallop in the direction of Quester Creek.

Chapter Fourteen. The Haunt of the Outlaws.

After riding through the Blue Fork Charlie and Buck Tom came to a stretch of open ground of considerable extent, where they could ride abreast, and here the latter gave the former some account of the condition of Shank Leather.

“Tell me, Ritson,” said Charlie, “what you mean by Shank ‘nearly’ and ‘not quite’ belonging to your band.”

The outlaw was silent for some time. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak out.

“Brooke,” he said, “it did, till this night, seem to me that all the better feelings of my nature—whatever they were—had been blotted out of existence, for since I came to this part of the world the cruelty and injustice that I have witnessed and suffered have driven me to desperation, and I candidly confess to you that I have come to hate pretty nigh the whole human race. The grip of your hand and tone of your voice, however, have told me that I have not yet sunk to the lowest possible depths. But that is not what I mean to enlarge on. What I wish you to understand is, that after Shank and I had gone to the dogs, and were reduced to beggary, I made up my mind to join a band of men who lived chiefly by their wits, and sometimes by their personal courage. Of course I won’t say who they are, because we still hang together, and there is no need to say what we are. The profession is variously named, and not highly respected.

“Shank refused to join me, so we parted. He remained for some time in New York doing odd jobs for a living. Then he joined a small party of emigrants, and journeyed west. Strange to say, although the country is wide, he and I again met accidentally. My fellows wanted to overhaul the goods of the emigrants with whom he travelled. They objected. A fight followed in which there was no bloodshed, for the emigrants fled at the first war-whoop. A shot from one of them, however, wounded one of our men, and one of theirs was so drunk at the time of the flight that he fell off his horse and was captured. That man was Shank. I recognised him when I rode up to see what some of my boys were quarrelling over, and found that it was the wounded man wanting to shove his knife into Shank.

“The moment I saw his face I claimed him as an old chum, and had him carried up to our headquarters in Traitor’s Trap. There he has remained ever since, in a very shaky condition, for the fall seems to have injured him internally, besides almost breaking his neck. Indeed I think his spine is damaged,—he recovers so slowly. We have tried to persuade him to say that he will become one of us when he gets well, but up to this time he has steadily refused. I am not sorry; for, to say truth, I don’t want to force any one into such a line of life—and he does not look as if he’d be fit for it, or anything else, for many a day to come.”

“But how does it happen that you are in such straits just now?” asked Charlie, seeing that Buck paused, and seemed unwilling to make further explanations.

“Well, the fact is, we have not been successful of late; no chances have come in our way, and two of our best men have taken their departure—one to gold-digging in California, the other to the happy hunting grounds of the Redskin, or elsewhere. Luck, in short, seems to have forsaken us. Pious folk,” he added, with something of a sneer, “would say, no doubt, that God had forsaken us.”

“I think pious people would not say so, and they would be wrong if they did,” returned Charlie. “In my opinion God never forsakes any one; but when His creatures forsake him He thwarts them. It cannot be otherwise if His laws are to be vindicated.”

“It may be so. But what have I done,” said Buck Tom fiercely, “to merit the bad treatment and insufferable injustice which I have received since I came to this accursed land? I cannot stand injustice. It makes my blood boil, and so, since it is rampant here, and everybody has been unjust to me, I have made up my mind to pay them back in their own coin. There seems to me even a spice of justice in that.”

“I wonder that you cannot see the fallacy of your reasoning, Ritson,” replied Charlie. “You ask, ‘What have I done?’ The more appropriate question would be, ‘What have I not done?’ Have you not, according to your own confession, rebelled against your Maker and cast Him off; yet you expect Him to continue His supplies of food to you; to keep up your physical strength and powers of enjoying life, and, under the name of Luck, to furnish you with the opportunity of breaking His own commands by throwing people in your way to be robbed! Besides which, have you not yourself been guilty of gross injustice in leading poor weak Shank Leather into vicious courses—to his great, if not irreparable, damage? I don’t profess to teach theology, Ralph Ritson, my old friend, but I do think that even an average cow-boy could understand that a rebel has no claim to forgiveness—much less to favour—until he lays down his arms and gives in.”

“Had any other man but you, Charlie Brooke, said half as much as you have just said to me, I would have blown his brains out,” returned the outlaw sternly.

“I’m very glad no other man did say it, then,” returned Charlie, “for your hands must be sufficiently stained already. But don’t let anger blind you to the fact, Ralph, that you and I were once old friends; that I am your friend still, and that, what is of far greater importance, the Almighty is still your friend, and is proving His friendship by thwarting you.”

“You preach a strange doctrine,” said Buck Tom, laughing softly, “but you must end your sermon here in the meantime, for we have reached the entrance to Traitor’s Trap, and have not room to ride further abreast. I will lead, and do you follow with care, for the path is none o’ the safest. My asking you to follow me is a stronger proof than you may think that I believe in your friendship. Most strangers whom I escort up this gorge are usually requested to lead the way, and I keep my revolver handy lest they should stray from the track!”

The defile or gorge which they had reached was not inappropriately named, for, although the origin of the name was unknown, the appearance of the place was eminently suggestive of blackness and treachery. Two spurs of the mountain range formed a precipitous and rugged valley which, even in daylight, wore a forbidding aspect, and at night seemed the very portal to Erebus.

“Keep close to my horse’s tail,” said Buck Tom, as they commenced the ascent. “If you stray here, ever so little, your horse will break his neck or legs.”

Thus admonished, our hero kept a firm hand on the bridle, and closed up as much as possible on his guide. The moon was by this time clouded over, so that, with the precipitous cliffs on either side, and the great mass of the mountains further up, there was only that faint sombre appearance of things which is sometimes described as darkness visible. The travellers proceeded slowly, for, besides the danger of straying off the path, the steepness of the ascent rendered rapid motion impossible. After riding for about three miles thus in absolute silence, they came to a spot where the track became somewhat serpentine, and Charlie could perceive dimly that they were winding amongst great fragments of rock which were here and there over-canopied by foliage, but whether of trees or bushes he could not distinguish. At last they came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a cliff.

“Dismount here,” said Buck in a low voice, setting the example.

“Is this the end of our ride?”

“It is. Give me the bridle. I will put up your horse. Stand where you are till I return.”

The outlaw led the horses away, leaving his former friend and schoolfellow in a curious position, and a not very comfortable frame of mind. When a man is engaged in action—especially if it be exciting and slightly dangerous—he has not time to think much about his surroundings, at least about their details, but now, while standing there in the intense darkness, in the very heart—as he had reason to believe—of a robber’s stronghold, young Brooke could not help questioning his wisdom in having thus thrown himself into the power of one who had obviously deteriorated and fallen very low since the time when in England they had studied and romped together. It was too late, however, to question the wisdom of his conduct. There he was, and so he must make the best of it. He did not indeed fear treachery in his former friend, but he could not help reflecting that the reckless and perhaps desperate men with whom that friend was now associated might not be easy to restrain, especially if they should become acquainted with the fact that he carried a considerable sum of money about him.

He was yet pondering his position when Buck Tom returned.

“Ralph Ritson,” he said, laying his hand on the arm of the outlaw, “you’ll forgive my speaking plainly to you, I know. With regard to yourself I have not a shadow of doubt that you will act the part of an honourable host, though you follow a dishonourable calling. But I have no guarantee that those who associate with you will respect my property. Now, I have a considerable sum of money about me in gold and silver, which I brought here expressly for the benefit of our poor friend Shank Leather. What would you advise me to do in regard to it?”

“Intrust it to my care,” said Buck promptly.

Charlie could not see the outlaw’s face very clearly, but he could easily detect the half-amused half-mocking tone in which the suggestion was made.

“My good fellow,” said Charlie, in a hearty voice, “you evidently think I am afraid to trust you. That is a mistake. I do not indeed trust to any remnant of good that is in your poor human nature, but I have confidence in the good feeling which God is arousing in you just now. I will freely hand over the money if you can assure me that you can guard it from your comrades.”

“This will make it secure from them,” returned Buck, with a short defiant laugh.

“Humph” exclaimed Charlie with a shrug. “I’ve not much confidence in that safeguard. No doubt, in certain circumstances, and on certain occasions, the revolver is a most important and useful instrument, but, taking it all round, I would not put much store by it. When you met me at the Blue Fork to-night, for instance, of what use was my revolver to me? And, for the matter of that, after you had dropped it on the road of what use was yours to you? It only wants one of your fellows to have more pluck and a quicker eye and hand than yourself to dethrone you at once.”

“Well, none of my fellows,” returned Buck Tom good-humouredly, “happen to have the advantage of me at present, so you may trust me and count this as one o’ the ‘certain occasions’ on which a revolver is a most important instrument.”

“I dare say you are right,” responded Charlie, smiling, as he drew from the breast of his coat a small bag and handed it to his companion.

“You know exactly, of course, how much is here?” asked Buck Tom.

“Yes, exactly.”

“That’s all right,” continued Buck, thrusting the bag into the bosom of his hunting coat; “now I’ll see if any o’ the boys are at home. Doubtless they are out—else they’d have heard us by this time. Just wait a minute.”

He seemed to melt into the darkness as he spoke. Another minute and he re-appeared.

“Here, give me your hand,” he said; “the passage is darkish at first.”

Charlie Brooke felt rather than saw that they had passed under a portal of some sort, and were advancing along a narrow passage. Soon they turned to the left, and a faint red light—as of fire—became visible in the distance. Buck Tom stopped.

“There’s no one in the cave but him, and he’s asleep. Follow me.”

The passage in which they stood led to a third and shorter one, where the light at its extremity was intense, lighting up the whole of the place so as to reveal its character. It was a corridor about seven feet high and four feet wide cut out of the solid earth; arched in the roof and supported here and there by rough posts to make it still more secure. Charlie at once concluded that it led to one of those concealed caverns, of which he had heard more than once while crossing the country, the entrances of which are made in zig-zag form in order to prevent the possibility of a ray of light issuing from the outside opening.

On reaching the end of the third passage he found that his conjecture was right, for the doorway or opening on his left hand conducted into a spacious cave, also hollowed out of the earth, but apparently against a perpendicular cliff, for the inner end of it was of unhewn rock. The roof of the cave was supported by pillars which were merely sections of pine-trees with the bark left on. These pillars and the earthen walls were adorned with antlers, skulls, and horns of the Rocky mountain sheep, necklaces of grizzly-bear’s claws, Indian bows and arrows, rifles, short swords, and various other weapons and trophies of the chase, besides sundry articles of clothing. At the inner end of the cave a large fireplace and chimney had been rudely built, and in this was roaring the pine-wood fire which had lighted them in, and which caused the whole interior to glow with a vivid glare that seemed to surpass that of noon-day.

A number of couches of pine-brush were spread round the walls, and on one of these lay a sleeping figure. The face was turned towards the visitor, who saw at a glance that it was that of his former friend and playmate—but it was terribly changed. Hard toil, suffering, sickness, dissipation, had set indelible marks on it, and there was a slight curve about the eyebrows which gave the idea of habitual pain. Yet strange to say, worn and lined though it was, the face seemed far more attractive and refined than it had ever been in the days of robust health.

Buck Tom went to the fire and began to stir the contents of a big pot that hung over it, while Charlie advanced and stood for some minutes gazing at the countenance of his friend, unwilling to disturb his slumbers, yet longing to cheer him with the glad news that he had come to succour him. He chanced, however, to touch a twig of the pine branches on which the sleeper lay, and Shank awoke instantly, raised himself on one elbow, and returned his friend’s gaze earnestly, but without the slightest symptom of surprise.

“O Charlie,” he said at last in a quiet voice, “I wish you hadn’t come to me to-night.”

He stopped, and Charlie felt quite unable to speak, owing to intense pity, mingled with astonishment, at such a reception.

“It’s too bad of you,” Shank went on, “worrying me so in my dreams. I’m weary of it; and if you only knew what a terrible disappointment it is to me when I awake and don’t find you there, you wouldn’t tantalise me so. You always look so terribly real too! Man, I could almost pledge my life that you are no deception this time, but—but I’m so used to it now that—”

“Shank, my dear boy,” said Charlie, finding words at last, “it is no deception—”

He stopped abruptly; for the intense look of eager anxiety, doubt, and hope in the thin expressive face alarmed him.

“Charlie!” gasped, rather than said, the invalid, “you—you never spoke to me before in my dreams, and—you never touched—the grip of your strong h— O God! can it be true?”

At this point Buck Tom suddenly left off his occupation at the fire and went out of the cave.

Chapter Fifteen. Lost and Found.

“Try to be calm, Shank,” said Charlie, in a soothing tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. “It is indeed myself this time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God’s mercy, I have found you.”

While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true.

“Yes,” he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper, “lost—and—and—found! Charlie, my friend—my chum—my—”

He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.

“Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn’t give way like that. You wouldn’t, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness—”

“Yes, I would! yes, I would!” interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; “I’d howl, I’d roar, I’d blubber like a very idiot, I’d do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me.”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t,” said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; “you wouldn’t do anything to please me.”

“What d’ye mean?” asked Shank, with a look of surprise.

“Well, I mean,” returned the other, gently, “that you won’t even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me.”

A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.

“There, Charlie,” he said, “I’ll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don’t let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I’m terrified lest you drift off again, and—and melt away.”

“No fear, Shank. I’ll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England.”

“Ah! old England! I’ll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me,”—he started up again, with a return of the excited look—“is father any better?”

“N–no, not exactly—but he is no worse. I’ll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent.”

The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers.

At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look.

“Have you the money with you?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” returned Shank, with something of a groan, “you are in a den of thieves!”

“I know it, my boy,” returned Charlie, with a smile, “and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson.”

“What!” exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; “you have met Ralph, then?”

“I have. He conducted me here.”

“And you have intrusted your money to him?”

“Yes—all of it; every cent!”

“Are you aware,” continued Shank, in a solemn tone, “that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom—the noted chief of the outlaws?”

“I know it.”

“And you trust him?”

“I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend.”

For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions passed over his wan visage. At last he spoke.

“I don’t know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right. It’s an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning—ay, even half an hour since—that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England.”

“But I did not intrust it to Buck Tom, knowing who and what he is,” returned Charlie, with a significant smile, “I put it into the hands of Ralph Ritson, knowing who and what he was.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charlie,” said Shank, squeezing the hand that held his, “and I believe it is that very trustfulness of yours which gives you so great power and influence with people. I know it has influenced me for good many a time in the past, and would continue to do so still if I were not past redemption.”

“No man is past redemption,” said the other quietly; “but I’m glad you agree with me about Ralph, for—”

He stopped abruptly, and both men turned their eyes towards the entrance to the cave.

“Did you hear anything?” asked Shank, in a low voice.

“I thought so—but it must have been the shifting of a log on the fire,” said the other, in a similarly low tone.

“Come, now, Charlie,” said Shank, in his ordinary tones, “let me hear something about yourself. You have not said a word yet about what you have been doing these three years past.”

As he spoke a slight noise was again heard in the passage, and, next moment Buck Tom re-entered carrying a lump of meat. Whether he had been listening or not they had no means of knowing, for his countenance was quite grave and natural in appearance.

“I suppose you have had long enough, you two, to renew your old acquaintance,” he said. “It behoves me now to get ready some supper for the boys against their return, for they would be ill-pleased to come home to an empty kettle, and their appetites are surprisingly strong. But you needn’t interrupt your conversation. I can do my work without disturbing you.”

“We have no secrets to communicate, Buck,” returned Shank, “and I have no doubt that the account of himself, which our old chum was just going to give, will be as interesting to you as to me.”

“Quite as interesting,” rejoined Buck; “so pray go on, Brooke. I can listen while I look after the cookery.”

Thus urged, our hero proceeded to relate his own adventures at sea—the wreck of the Walrus, the rescue by the whaler, and his various experiences both afloat and ashore.

“The man, Dick Darvall, whom I have mentioned several times,” said Charlie, in conclusion, “I met with again in New York, when I was about to start to come here, and as I wanted a companion, and he was a most suitable man, besides being willing to come, I engaged him. He is a rough and ready, but a handy and faithful, man, who had some experience in woodcraft before he went to sea, but I have been forced to leave him behind me at a ranch a good many miles to the south of David’s store, owing to the foolish fellow having tried to jump a creek in the dark and broken his horse’s leg. We could not get another horse at the time, and as I was very anxious to push on—being so near my journey’s end—and the ranch was a comfortable enough berth, I left him behind, as I have said, with directions to stay till I should return, or to push on if he could find a safe guide.”

While Charlie Brooke was relating the last part of his experience, it might have been observed that the countenance of Buck Tom underwent a variety of curious changes, like the sky of an April day. A somewhat stern frown settled on it at last but neither of his companions observed the fact being too much interested in each other.

“What was the name o’ the ranch where your mate was left?” asked Buck Tom, when his guest ceased speaking.

“The ranch of Roaring Bull,” answered Charlie. “I should not wonder,” he added, “if its name were derived from its owner’s voice, for it sounded like the blast of a trombone when he shouted to his people.”

“Not only his ranch but himself is named after his voice,” returned Buck. “His real name is Jackson, but it is seldom used now. Every one knows him as Roaring Bull. He’s not a bad fellow at bottom, but something overbearing, and has made a good many enemies since he came to this part of the country six years ago.”

“That may be so,” remarked Brooke, “but he was very kind to us the day we put up at his place, and Dick Darvall, at all events, is not one of his enemies. Indeed he and Roaring Bull took quite a fancy to each other. It seemed like love at first sight. Whether Jackson’s pretty daughter had anything to do with the fancy on Dick’s part of course I can’t say. Now, I think of it, his readiness to remain behind inclines me to believe it had!”

“Well, come outside with me, and have a chat about old, times. It is too hot for comfort here. I dare say our friend Shank will spare you for quarter of an hour, and the pot can look after itself. By the way, it would be as well to call me Buck Tom—or Buck. My fellows would not understand Ralph Ritson. They never heard it before. Have a cigar?”

“No, thank you, I have ceased to see the advantage of poisoning one’s-self merely because it is the fashion to do so.”

“The poison is wonderfully slow,” said Buck.

“But not less wonderfully sure,” returned Charlie, with a smile.

“As you will,” rejoined Buck, rising and going outside with his visitor.

The night was very still and beautiful, and, the clouds having cleared away, the moonbeams struggled through the foliage and revealed the extreme wildness and seclusion of the spot which had been chosen by the outlaws as their fortress.

Charlie now saw that the approach to the entrance of the cave was a narrow neck of rock resembling a natural bridge, with a deep gully on either side, and that the cliff which formed the inner end of the cavern overhung its base, so that if an enemy were to attempt to hurl rocks down from above these would drop beyond the cave altogether. This much he saw at a glance. The minute details and intricacies of the place of course could not be properly seen or understood in the flickering and uncertain light which penetrated the leafy canopy, and, as it were, played with the shadows of the fallen rocks that strewed the ground everywhere, and hung in apparently perilous positions on the mountain slopes.

The manner of the outlaw changed to that of intense earnestness the moment he got out to the open air.

“Charlie Brooke,” he said, with more of the tone and air of old familiar friendship than he had yet allowed himself to assume, “it’s of no use exciting poor Shank unnecessarily, so I brought you out here to tell you that your man Dick Darvall is in deadly peril, and nothing but immediate action on my part can save him; I must ride without delay to his rescue. You cannot help me in this. I know what you are going to propose, but you must trust and obey me if you would save your friend’s life. To accompany me would only delay and finally mar my plans. Now, will you—”

A peculiar whistle far down the gorge caused the outlaw to cease abruptly and listen.

The whistle was repeated, and Buck answered it at once with a look of great surprise.

“These are my fellows back already!” he said.

“You seem surprised. Did you, then, not expect them so soon?”

“I certainly did not; something must have gone wrong,” replied Buck, with a perplexed look. Then, as if some new idea had flashed upon him, “Now, look here, Brooke, I must ask you to trust me implicitly and to act a part. Your life may depend on your doing this.”

“The first I can do with ease, but as to the latter, my agreeing to do so depends on whether the action you require of me is honourable. You must forgive me, Rits—”

“Hush! Don’t forget that there is no such man as Ralph Ritson in these mountains. My life may depend on your remembering that. Of course I don’t expect you to act a dishonourable part,—all I want you to do just now is to lie down and pretend to go to sleep.”

“Truly, if that is all, I am ready,” said Charlie; “at all events I will shut my eyes and hold my tongue.”

“A useful virtue at times, and somewhat rare,” said Buck, leading his guest back into the cavern. “Now, then, Brooke, lie down there,” pointing to a couch of pine-brush in a corner, “and try to sleep if you can.”

Our hero at once complied, stretched himself at full length with his face to the light, and apparently went to sleep, but with his left arm thrown over his forehead as if to protect his eyes from the glare of the fire. Thus he was in a position to see as well as hear all that went on. Buck Tom went to the sick man and whispered something to him. Then, returning to the fire, he continued to stir the big pot, and sniff its savoury contents with much interest.

Chapter Sixteen. Friends and Foes—Plots and Counterplots—The Ranch in Danger.

In a few minutes the sound of heavy feet and gruff voices was heard in the outside passage, and next moment ten men filed into the room and saluted their chief heartily.

Charlie felt an almost irresistible tendency to open his eyes, but knew that the risk was too great, and contented himself with his ears. These told him pretty eloquently what was going on, for suddenly, the noise of voices and clattering of footsteps ceased, a dead silence ensued, and Charlie knew that the whole band were gazing at him with wide open eyes and, probably, open mouths. Their attention had been directed to the stranger by the chief. The silence was only momentary, however.

“Now, don’t begin to whisper, pards,” said Buck Tom, in a slightly sarcastic tone. “When will ye learn that there is nothing so likely to waken a sleeper as whisperin’? Be natural—be natural, and tell me, as softly as ye can in your natural tones, what has brought you back so soon. Come, Jake, you have got the quietest voice. The poor man is pretty well knocked up and needs rest. I brought him here.”

“Has he got much?” the sentence was completed by Jake significantly slapping his pocket.

“A goodish lot. But come, sit down and out wi’ the news. Something must be wrong.”

“Wall, I guess that somethin’ is wrong. Everything’s wrong, as far as I can see. The Redskins are up, an’ the troops are out, an’ so it seemed o’ no use our goin’ to bust up the ranch of Roarin’ Bull, seein’ that the red devils are likely to be there before us. So we came back here, an’ I’m glad you’ve got suthin’ in the pot, for we’re about as empty as kettledrums.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Buck, “didn’t I tell you not to trouble Roarin’ Bull—that he and his boys could lick you if you had been twenty instead of ten. But how came ye to hear o’ this cock-and-bull story about the Redskins?”

“We got it from Hunky Ben, an’ he’s not the boy to go spreadin’ false reports.”

Charlie Brooke ventured at this point to open his eye-lids the smallest possible bit, so that any one looking at him would have failed to observe any motion in them. The little slit however, admitted the whole scene to the retina, and he perceived that ten of the most cut-throat-looking men conceivable were seated in a semicircle in the act of receiving portions from the big pot into tin plates. Most of them were clothed in hunters’ leathern costume, wore long boots with spurs, and were more or less bronzed and bearded.

Buck Tom, alias Ralph Ritson, although as tall and strong as any of them, seemed a being of quite angelic gentleness beside them. Yet Buck was their acknowledged chief. No doubt it was due to the superiority of mind over matter, for those out-laws were grossly material and matter-of-fact!

“There must be some truth in the report if Hunky Ben carried it,” said Buck, looking up quickly, “but I left Ben sitting quietly in David’s store not many hours ago.”

“No doubt that’s true, Captain,” said Jake, as he ladled the soup into his capacious mouth; “nevertheless we met Hunky Ben on the pine-river prairie scourin’ over the turf like all possessed on Black Polly. We stopped him of course an’ asked the news.”

“‘News!’ cried he, ‘why, the Redskins have dug up the hatchet an’ riz like one man. They’ve clar’d out Yellow Bluff, an’ are pourin’ like Niagara down upon Rasper’s Creek. It’s said that they’ll visit Roarin’ Bull’s ranch to-morrow. No time for more talk, boys. Oratin’ ain’t in my line. I’m off to Quester Creek to rouse up the troops.’ Wi’ that Hunky wheeled round an’ went off like a runaway streak o’ lightnin’. I sent a couple o’ shots after him, for I’d took a fancy to Black Polly—but them bullets didn’t seem to hit somehow.”

“Boys,” cried Buck Tom, jumping up when he heard this, “if Hunky Ben said all that, you may depend on’t it’s true, an’ we won’t have to waste time this night if we’re to save the ranch of Roarin’ Bull.”

“But we don’t want to save the ranch of Roarin’ Bull, as far as I’m consarned,” said Jake rather sulkily.

Buck wheeled round on the man with a fierce glare, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he said in a tone of well-feigned surprise—

“What! you, Jake, of all men—such a noted lady-killer—indifferent about the fate of the ranch of Roaring Bull, and pretty Miss Mary Jackson in it at the mercy of the Redskins!”

“Well, if it comes to that, Captain, I’ll ride as far and as fast as any man to rescue a girl, pretty or plain, from the Redskins,” said Jake, recovering his good-humour.

“Well, then, cram as much grub as you can into you in five minutes, for we must be off by that time. Rise, sir,” said Buck, shaking Charlie with some violence. “We ride on a matter of life an’ death—to save women. Will you join us?”

“Of course I will!” cried Charlie, starting up with a degree of alacrity and vigour that favourably impressed the outlaws, and shaking off his simulated sleep with wonderful facility.

“Follow me, then,” cried Buck, hastening out of the cave.

“But what of Shank?” asked Charlie, in some anxiety, when they got outside. “He cannot accompany us; may we safely leave him behind?”

“Quite safely. This place is not known to the savages who are on the warpath, and there is nothing to tempt them this way even if it were. Besides, Shank is well enough to get up and gather firewood, kindle his fire, and boil the kettle for himself. He is used to being left alone. See, here is our stable under the cliff, and yonder stands your horse. Saddle him. The boys will be at our heels in a moment. Some of them are only too glad to have a brush wi’ the Redskins, for they killed two of our band lately.”

This last remark raised an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Charlie, for was he not virtually allying himself with a band of outlaws, with intent to attack a band of Indians of whom he knew little or nothing, and with whom he had no quarrel? There was no time, however, to weigh the case critically. The fact that savages were about to attack the ranch in which his comrade Dick Darvall was staying, and that there were females in the place, was enough to settle the question. In a minute or two he had saddled his horse, which he led out and fastened to a tree, and, while the outlaws were busy making preparations for a start, he ran back to the cave.

“Shank,” said he, sitting down beside his friend and taking his hand, “you have heard the news. My comrade Darvall is in great danger. I must away to his rescue. But be sure, old fellow, that I will return to you soon.”

“Yes, yes—I know,” returned Shank, with a look of great anxiety; “but, Charlie, you don’t know half the danger you run. Don’t fight with Buck Tom—do you hear?”

“Of course I won’t,” said Charlie, in some surprise.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” said Shank, with increasing anxiety. “Don’t fight in company with him.”

At that moment the voice of the outlaw was heard at the entrance shouting, “Come along, Brooke, we’re all ready.”

“Don’t be anxious about me, Shank; I’ll take good care,” said Charlie, as he hastily pressed the hand of the invalid and hurried away.

The ten men with Buck at their head were already mounted when he ran out.

“Pardon me,” he said, vaulting into the saddle, “I was having a word with the sick man.”

“Keep next to me, and close up,” said Buck, as he wheeled to the right and trotted away.

Down the Traitor’s Trap they went at what was to Charlie a break-neck but satisfactory pace, for now that he was fairly on the road a desperate anxiety lest they should be too late took possession of him. Across an open space they went at the bottom of which ran a brawling rivulet. There was no bridge, but over or through it went the whole band without the slightest check, and onward at full gallop, for the country became more level and open just beyond.

The moon was still shining although sinking towards the horizon, and now for the first time Charlie began to note with what a stern and reckless band of men he was riding, and a feeling of something like exultation arose within him as he thought on the one hand of the irresistible sweep of an onslaught from such men, and, on the other, of the cruelties that savages were known to practise. In short, rushing to the rescue was naturally congenial to our hero.

About the same time that the outlaws were thus hastening for once on an honourable mission—though some of them went from anything but honourable motives—two other bands of men were converging to the same point as fast as they could go. These were a company of United States troops, guided by Hunky Ben, and a large band of Indians under their warlike chief Bigfoot.

Jackson, alias Roaring Bull, had once inadvertently given offence to Bigfoot, and as that chief was both by nature and profession an unforgiving man he had vowed to have his revenge. Jackson treated the threat lightly, but his pretty daughter Mary was not quite as indifferent about it as her father.

The stories of Indian raids and frontier wars and barbarous cruelties had made a deep impression on her sensitive mind, and when her mother died, leaving her the only woman at her father’s ranch—with the exception of one or two half-breed women, who could not be much to her as companions—her life had been very lonely, and her spirit had been subjected to frequent, though hitherto groundless, alarms.

But pretty Moll, as she was generally called, was well protected, for her father, besides having been a noted pugilist in his youth, was a big, powerful man, and an expert with rifle and revolver. Moreover, there was not a cow-boy within a hundred miles of her who would not (at least thought he would not) have attacked single-handed the whole race of Redskins if Moll had ordered him to do so as a proof of affection.

Now, when strapping, good-looking Dick Darvall came to the ranch in the course of his travels and beheld Mary Jackson, and received the first broadside from her bright blue eyes, he hauled down his colours and surrendered with a celerity which would have mightily amused the many comrades to whom he had said in days of yore that his heart was as hard as rock, and he had never yet seen the woman as could soften it!

But Dick, more than most of his calling, was a modest, almost a bashful, man. He behaved to Mary with the politeness that was natural to him, and with which he would have approached any woman. He did not make the slightest attempt to show his admiration of her, though it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his “speaking” brown eyes may have said something without his permission! Mary Jackson, being also modest in a degree, of course did not reveal the state of her feelings, and made no visible attempt to ascertain his, but her bluff sagacious old father was not obtuse—neither was he reticent. He was a man of the world—at least of the back-woods world—and his knowledge of life, as there exhibited, was founded on somewhat acute experience. He knew that his daughter was young and remarkably pretty. He saw that Dick Darvall was also young—a dashing and unusually handsome sailor—something like what Tom Bowling may have been. Putting these things together, he came to the very natural conclusion that a wedding would be desirable; believing, as he did, that human nature in the Rockies is very much the same as to its foundation elements as it is elsewhere. Moreover, Roaring Bull was very much in want of a stout son-in-law at that time, so he fanned the flame which he fondly hoped was beginning to arise. This he did in a somewhat blundering and obvious manner, but Dick was too much engrossed with Mary to notice it and Mary was too ignorant of the civilised world’s ways to care much for the proprieties of life.

Of course this state of things created an awful commotion in the breasts of the cow-boys who were in the employment of Mary’s father and herded his cattle. Their mutual jealousies were sunk in the supreme danger that threatened them all, and they were only restrained from picking a quarrel with Dick and shooting him by the calmly resolute look in his brown eyes, coupled with his great physical power and his irresistible good-nature. Urbanity seemed to have been the mould in which the spirit of this man-of-the-sea had been cast and gentleness was one of his chief characteristics. Moreover, he could tell a good story, and sing a good song in a fine bass voice. Still further, although these gallant cow-boys felt intensely jealous of this newcomer, they could not but admit that they had nothing tangible to go upon, for the sailor did not apparently pay any pointed attention to Mary, and she certainly gave no special encouragement to him.

There was one cow-boy, however, of Irish descent, who could not or would not make up his mind to take things quietly, but resolved, as far as he was concerned, to bring matters to a head. His name was Pat Reilly.

He entered the kitchen on the day after Dick’s arrival and found Mary alone and busily engaged with the dinner.

“Miss Jackson,” said Pat, “there’s a question I’ve bin wantin’ to ax ye for a long time past, an’ with your lave I’ll putt it now.”

“What is it Mr Reilly?” asked the girl somewhat stiffly, for she had a suspicion of what was coming. A little negro girl in the back kitchen named Buttercup also had a suspicion of what was coming, and stationed herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which she could both hear and see.

“Mary, my dear,” said Pat insinuatingly, “how would you like to jump into double harness with me an’ jog along the path o’ life together?”

Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and waited for more.

Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm round Mary’s waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty little palm down on the cow-boy’s cheek with all her might—and that was considerable!

“Who’s a-firin’ off pistles in de kitchen?” demanded Buttercup in a serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway.

“Nobody, me black darlin’,” said Pat; “it’s only Miss Mary expressin’ her failin’s in a cheeky manner. That’s all!”

So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture, mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin’ Bull without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico.

But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to the rescue of the dwellers in Bull’s ranch, and the blood-thirsty Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on them.

One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger. This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at Quester Creek.

Chapter Seventeen. The Alarm and Preparations for Defence.

“From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won’t have much trouble in findin’ Traitor’s Trap,” remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands of Mary Jackson herself, “but I’m sorely afraid o’ the reception he’ll meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as you describe.”

“They’re the biggest hounds unhung,” growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak.

“You’re too hard on some of them, father,” said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.

“Always the way wi’ you wenches,” observed the father. “Some o’ the villains are good-lookin’, others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second—eh, lass?”

Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.

“Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father,” she returned; “but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band.”

“You are right, my lass,” rejoined her father. “They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry—though he can’t always manage that, an’ no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster ’tween this an’ Texas if all that’s said of him be true.”

“I wish my comrade was well out o’ their clutches,” said Dick, with a look of anxiety; “an’ it makes me feel very small to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ myself when I might be ridin’ on to help him if he should need help.”

“Don’t worry yourself on that score,” said the host. “You couldn’t find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable—which I’d do slick off if it was of any use. There’s not one o’ my boys on the ranch just now, but there’ll be four or five of ’em in to-morrow by daylight an’ I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around—every inch—an’ you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an’ give us a yarn, or a song.”

“I’m quite sure,” added Mary, by way of encouragement, “that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them.”

“But he’s not an outlaw, Miss Mary,” broke in Darvall. “Leastwise we have the best reason for believin’ that he’s detained among them against his will. Hows’ever, it’s of no use cryin’ over spilt milk. I’m bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin’, so, as I can’t get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn.”

The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad.

In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste.

All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room.

Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold.

They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back.

“Wall, Roaring Bull,” cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. “I’m glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an’ makin’ tracks for your ranch. But as they’ve not got here yet, they won’t likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin’? I’m half starved.”

“Ay, Crux, lots o’ chuck here. Come in an’ let’s hear all about it. Where got ye the news?”

“Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn’t thinkin’ o’ you at first but when a boy came in wi’ the news that a crowd o’ the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow—just as he was fixin’ to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry—he asked me to come on here an’ warn you.”

While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place.

“I’m glad you are here, Dick Darvall,” said the former, “for it’s a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o’ yellin’ Reds. My boys won’t be back till sun-up, an’ by that time the game may be played out.”

“D’ee think the Redskins ’ll attack us to-night then?” asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard.

“Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o’ time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won’t attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn’t sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o’ my steers have drifted down south, an’ I can’t afford to lose them—so, you see, there’s not a man left in the place but you an’ me an’ Crux to defend poor Mary.”

For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To live and, if need be, die for Mary was worth living for!

“Are you well supplied with arms an’ ammunition?” he asked.

“That am I, and we’ll need it all,” answered the host as he led Dick round to the back of the yard where another gate required fastening.

“I don’t see that it matters much,” said Dick in a questioning tone, “whether you shut the gates or not. With so few to defend the place the house will be our only chance.”

“When you’ve fought as much wi’ Reds as I have, Dick, you’ll larn that delay, even for five minutes, counts for a good deal.”

“Well, there’s somethin’ in that. It minds me o’ what one o’ my shipmates, who had bin in the London fire brigade, once said. ‘Dick,’ said he, ‘never putt off what you’ve got to do. Sometimes I’ve bin at a fire where the loss of only two minutes caused the destruction of a store worth ten thousand pound, more or less. We all but saved it as it was—so near were we, that if we had bin one minute sooner I do believe we’d have saved it.

“‘But when we was makin’ for that fire full sail, a deaf old apple-woman came athwart our bows an got such a fright that she went flop down right in front of us. To steer clear of her we’d got to sheer off so that we all but ran into a big van, and, what wi’ our lights an’ the yellin’, the horses o’ the van took fright and backed into us as we flew past, so that we a’most went down by the starn. One way or another we lost two minutes, as I’ve said, an’ the owners o’ that store lost about ten thousand pounds—more or less.’”

“That was a big pile, Dick,” observed the ranchman, as they turned from the gate towards the house, “not easy to replace.”

“True—my shipmate never seemed to be quite sure whether it was more or less that was lost, but he thought the Insurance offices must have found it out by that time. It’s a pity there’s only three of us, for that will leave one side o’ the house undefended.”

“All right Dick; you don’t trouble your head about that for Buttercup fights like a black tiger. She’s a’most as good as a man—only she can’t manage to aim, so it’s no use givin’ her a rifle. She’s game enough to fire it, but the more she tries to hit, the more she’s sure to miss. However she’s got a way of her own that sarves well enough to defend her side o’ the house. She always takes charge o’ the front. My Mary can’t fight, but she’s a heroine at loadin’—an’ that’s somethin’ when you’re hard pressed! Come, now, I’ll show ye the shootin’ irons an’ our plan of campaign.”

Roaring Bull led the way back to the room, or central hall, where they had supped, and here they found that the débris of their feast had already been cleared away, and that arms of various kinds, with ammunition, covered the board.

“Hospitable alike to friend and foe,” said Jackson gaily. “Here, you see, Mary has spread supper for the Reds!”

Darvall made no response to this pleasantry, for he observed that poor Mary’s pretty face was very pale, and that it wore an expression of mingled sadness and anxiety.

“You won’t be exposed to danger, I hope,” said Dick, in a low earnest tone, while Jackson was loudly discussing with Crux the merits of one of the repeating rifles—of which there were half-a-dozen on the table.

“Oh no! It is not that,” returned the girl sadly. “I am troubled to think that, however the fight goes, some souls, perhaps many, will be sent to their account unprepared. For myself, I shall be safe enough as long as we are able to hold the house, and it may be that God will send us help before long.”

“You may be quite sure,” returned Dick, with suppressed emotion, “that no Redskin shall cross this threshold as long as we three men have a spark o’ life left.”

A sweet though pitiful smile lighted up Mary’s pale face for a moment, as she replied that she was quite sure of that, in a tone which caused Darvall’s heart to expand, so that his ribs seemed unable to contain it, while he experienced a sensation of being stronger than Samson and bigger than Goliath!

“And I suppose,” continued Dick, “that the troops won’t be long of coming. Is the man—what’s his name, Humpy Ben—trustworthy?”

“Trustworthy!” exclaimed the maiden, with a flush of enthusiasm; “there is not a more trustworthy man on this side of the Rocky mountains, or the other side either, I am quite sure.”

Poor Darvall’s heart seemed suddenly to find plenty of room within the ribs at that moment, and his truthful visage must have become something of an index to his state of mind; for, to his surprise, Mary laughed.

“It seems to me so funny,” she continued, “to hear any one ask if Hunky—not Humpy—Ben is to be trusted.”

“Is he, then, such a splendid young fellow!” asked the seaman, with just the slightest touch of bitterness in his tone, for he felt as if a rock something like Gibraltar had been laid on his heart.

“Well, he’s not exactly young,” answered Mary, with a peculiar expression that made her questioner feel still more uncomfortable, “yet he is scarcely middle-aged, but he certainly is the most splendid fellow on the frontier; and he saved my life once.”

“Indeed! how was that?”

“Well, it was this way. I had been paying a short visit to his wife, who lives on the other side of the—”

“Come along, Darvall,” cried Roaring Bull at that moment. “The moon’s about down, an’ we’ll have to take our stations. We shall defend the outworks first to check them a bit and put off some time, then scurry into the house and be ready for them when they try to clear the fence. Follow me. Out wi’ the lights, girls, and away to your posts.”

“I’ll hear the end of your story another time, Miss Mary,” said Dick, looking over his shoulder and following his host and Crux to the outer door.

The seaman was conscious of a faint suspicion that Mary was wrestling with another laugh as he went off to defend the outworks, but he also, happily, felt that the Rock of Gibraltar had been removed from his heart!

Chapter Eighteen. Defence of the Ranch of Roaring Bull.

Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat.

It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first.

“They’ll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush,” Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. “They’re a’most sure to come up in front thinkin’ we’re all a-bed. Now, mind—don’t stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give ’em the notion there’s more of us. An’ don’t fire at nothin’. They’d think we was in a funk. An’ when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an’ as sly as a snake.”

After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment’s notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success.

For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front.

To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution “don’t fire at nothin’” rise to his memory.

The stockade was of peculiar construction, because its owner and maker was eccentric, and a mechanical genius. Not only were the pickets of which it was composed very strong and planted with just space between to permit of firing, but there was a planking of strong boards, waist high, all round the bottom inside, which afforded some protection to defenders by concealing them when they stooped and changed position.

While matters were in this state outside, Mary Jackson and Buttercup were standing at an upper window just opposite the front gate, the latter with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss of the last century, loaded with buckshot in her hands. Mary stood beside her sable domestic ready to direct her not as to how, but where and when, to use the ancient weapon.

“You must be very careful, Buttercup,” said Mary in a low voice, “not to fire till I tell you, and to point only where I tell you, else you’ll shoot father. And do keep your finger off the trigger! By the way, have you cocked it?”

“O missy, I forgit dat,” answered the damsel with a self-condemned look, as she corrected the error. “But don’ you fear, Missy Mary. I’s use’ to dis yar blunn’erbus. Last time I fire ’im was at a raven. Down hoed de raven, blow’d to atims, an’ down hoed me too—cause de drefful t’ing kicks like a Texas mule. But bress you, I don’ mind dat. I’s used to it!”

Buttercup gave a little sniff of grave scorn with her flat nose, as though to intimate that the ordinary ills of life were beneath her notice.

We have said that all fires had been extinguished, but this is not strictly correct, for in the room where the two maidens watched there was an iron stove so enclosed that the fire inside did not show, and as it was fed with charcoal there were neither flames nor sparks to betray its presence. On this there stood a large cast-iron pot full of water, the bubbling of which was the only sound that broke the profound stillness of the night, while the watchers scarcely breathed, so intently did they listen.

At last the patient and self-restraining Dick saw a dark object moving towards his side of the stockade, which he felt was much too real to be classed with the creatures of his imagination which had previously given him so much trouble. Without a moment’s hesitation the rifle flew to his shoulder, and the prolonged silence was broken by the sharp report, while an involuntary half-suppressed cry proved that he had not missed his mark. The dark object hastily retreated. A neighbouring cliff echoed the sounds, and two shots from his comrades told the sailor that they also were on the alert.

Instantly the night was rendered hideous by a series of wild yells and whoops, while, for a moment, the darkness gave place to a glare of light as a hundred rifles vomited their deadly contents, and the sound of many rushing feet was heard upon the open sward in front of the ranch.

The three male defenders had ducked their heads below the protecting breast-work when the volley was fired, and then, discarding all idea of further care, they skipped along their respective lines, yelling and firing the repeaters so rapidly, that, to any one ignorant of the true state of things, it must have seemed as if the place were defended by a legion of demons. To add to the hullabaloo Buttercup’s blunderbuss poured forth its contents upon a group of red warriors who were rushing towards the front gate, with such a cannon-like sound and such wonderful effect, that the rush was turned into a sudden and limping retreat. The effect indeed, was more severe even than Buttercup had intended, for a stray buckshot had actually taken a direction which had been feared, and grazed her master’s left arm! Happily the wound was very slight, and, to do the poor damsel justice, she could not see that her master was jumping from one place to another like a caged lion. Like the same animal, however, he gave her to understand what she had done, by shouting in a thunderous bass roar that fully justified his sobriquet—

“Mind your eye, Buttercup! Not so low next time!”

The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods—presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window.

The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk.

“If they manage to pile up enough o’ brush to clap a light to,” he grumbled to himself in an undertone, “it’s all up wi’ us.”

The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all.

The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson’s arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup’s weapon again thundered forth its defiance.

This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot’s career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter’s blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson’s rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed.

Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle—a preconcerted signal—on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed.

Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner.

“Hallo! Crux,” cried Dick, “that you?”

The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks.

“To your windows!” shouted Jackson, as he sprang up the wooden stair-case, three steps at a time. “Fresh rifles here, Mary!”

“Yes, father,” came in a silvery and most unwarlike voice from the hall below.

Another moment and three shots rang from the three sides of the house, and of the three Indians who were at the moment in the act of clambering over the stockade, one fell inside and two out. Happily, daylight soon began to make objects distinctly visible, and the Indians were well aware that it would now be almost certain death to any one who should attempt to climb over.

It is well known that, as a rule, savages do not throw away their lives recklessly. The moment it became evident that darkness would no longer serve them, those who were in the open retired to the woods, and potted at the windows of the ranch, but, as the openings from which the besieged fired were mere loop-holes made for the purpose of defence, they had little hope of hitting them at long range except by chance. Those of the besiegers who happened to be near the stockade took shelter behind the breast-work, and awaited further orders from their chief—ignorant of the fact that he had already fallen.

From the loop-holes of the room which Jackson had selected to defend, the shed with the saddled horses was visible, so that no one could reach it without coming under the fire of his deadly weapon. There was also a window in this room opening upon the back of the house and commanding the field which we have before mentioned as being undefended while the battle was waged outside. By casting a glance now and then through this window he could see any foe who might show himself in that direction. The only part of the fort that seemed exposed to great danger now was the front door, where the half-dozen savages, with a few others who had joined them, were still battering away at the impregnable door.

Dick, who held the garret above, could not see the door, of course, nor could he by any manoeuvre manage to bring his rifle to bear on it from his loop-hole, and he dared not leave his post lest more Indians should manage to scale the front stockade.

Buttercup, in the room below, had indeed a better chance at her window, but she was too inexpert in warfare to point the blunderbuss straight down and fire with effect, especially knowing, as she did, that the sight of her arm in the act would be the signal for a prompt fusillade. But the girl was not apparently much concerned about that, or anything else. The truth is that she possessed in an eminent and enviable degree the spirit of entire trust in a leader. She was under orders, and awaited the word of command with perfect equanimity! She even smiled slightly—if such a mouth could be said to do anything slightly—when Mary left her to take fresh rifles to the defenders overhead.

At last the command came from the upper regions, in tones that caused the very savages to pause a moment and look at each other in surprise. They did not pause long, however!

“Now, Buttercup,” thundered Roaring Bull, “give it ’em—hot!”

At the word the girl calmly laid aside her weapon, lifted the big iron pot with familiar and businesslike facility, and emptied it over the window.

The result is more easily imagined than described. A yell that must have been heard miles off was the prelude to a stampede of the most lively nature. It was intensified, if possible, by the further action of the negress, who, seizing the blunderbuss, pointed it at the flying crowd, and, shutting both eyes, fired! Not a buckshot took effect on the savages, for Buttercup, if we may say so, aimed too low, but the effect was more stupendous than if the aim had been good, for the heavy charge drove up an indescribable amount of peppery dust and small stones into the rear of the flying foe, causing another yell which was not an echo but a magnified reverberation of the first. Thus Buttercup had the satisfaction of utterly routing her foes without killing a single man!

Daylight had fairly set in by that time, and the few savages who had not succeeded in vaulting the stockade had concealed themselves behind the various outhouses.

The proprietor of the ranch began now to have some hope of keeping the Indians at bay until the troops should succour him. He even left his post and called his friends to a council of war, when a wild cheer was heard in the woods. It was followed by the sound of firing. No sooner was this heard than the savages concealed outside of the breastwork rose as one man and ran for the woods.

“It’s the troops!” exclaimed Dick hopefully.

“Troopers never cheer like that,” returned Jackson with an anxious look. “It’s more like my poor cow-boys, and, if so, they will have no chance wi’ such a crowd o’ Reds. We must ride to help them, an’ you’ll have to ride with us, Mary. We daren’t leave you behind, lass, wi’ them varmints skulkin’ around.”

“I’m ready, father,” said Mary with a decided look, though it was evident, from the pallor of her cheek, that she was ill at ease.

“Now, look here, Dick,” said Jackson, quickly, “you will go down and open the front gate. I’ll go with ’ee wi’ my repeater to keep an eye on the hidden reptiles, so that if one of them shows so much as the tip of his ugly nose he’ll have cause to remember it. You will go to my loophole, Crux, an keep your eyes open all round—specially on the horses. When the gate is open I’ll shout, and you’ll run down to the shed wi’ the women.—You understand?” Crux nodded.

Acting on this plan Dick ran to the gate; Jackson followed, rifle in hand, and, having reached the middle of the fort, he faced round; only just in time to see a gun barrel raised from behind a shed. Before he could raise his own weapon a shot was heard and the gun-barrel disappeared, while the Indian who raised it fell wounded on the ground.

“Well done, Crux!” he exclaimed, at the same moment firing his own rifle at a head which was peeping round a corner. The head vanished instantly and Darvall rejoined him, having thrown the gate wide open.

“Come round wi’ me an’ drive the reptiles out,” cried Jackson. At the same time he uttered a roar that a bull might have envied, and they both rushed round to the back of the outhouses where three Indians were found skulking.

At the sudden and unexpected onslaught, they fired an ineffectual volley and fled wildly through the now open gate, followed by several shots from both pursuers, whose aim, however, was no better than their own had been.

Meanwhile Crux and the girls, having reached the shed according to orders, mounted their respective steeds and awaited their comrades. They had not long to wait. Jackson and Dick came round the corner of the shed at full speed, and, without a word, leaped simultaneously into their saddles.

“Keep close to me, girls,—close up!” was all that Jackson said as he dashed spurs into his horse, and, sweeping across the yard and through the gate, made straight for that part of the woods where yells, shouts, and firing told that a battle was raging furiously.

Chapter Nineteen. The Rescue and its Consequences.

The ground in the neighbourhood of the ranch favoured the operations of an attacking party, for it was so irregular and so cumbered with knolls and clumps of trees that the defenders of the post scarce dared to make a sally, lest their retreat should be cut off by a detached party of assailants.

Hence Jackson would never have dreamed of quitting his house, or ceasing to act on the defensive, had he not been under the natural impression that it was his own returning cow-boys who had been attacked and out-numbered by the Indians. Great, therefore, was his surprise when, on rounding a bluff and coming into view of the battle-field, the party engaged with the Indians, though evidently white men, were neither his own men nor those of the US troops.

He had just made the discovery, when a band of about fifty warriors burst from the woods and rushed upon him.

“Back to back, boys! girls, keep close!” shouted Jackson, as he fired two shots and dropped two Indians. He pulled at a third, but there was no answering report, for the magazine of his repeater was empty.

Crux and Darvall turned their backs towards him and thus formed a sort of triangle, in the midst of which were the two girls. But this arrangement, which might have enabled them to hold out for some time, was rendered almost abortive by the ammunition having been exhausted.

“So much for bein’ in too great a hurry!” growled Jackson between his clenched teeth, as he clubbed his rifle and made a savage blow at the Indian who first came close to him. It was evident that the Indians were afraid to fire lest they should wound or kill the women; or, perhaps, understanding how matters stood, they wished to capture the white men alive, for, instead of firing at them, they circled swiftly round, endeavouring to distract their attention so as to rash in on them.

Bigfoot, who had recovered from his blow and escaped from the ranch, made a sudden dash at Dick when he thought him off his guard, but Dick was not easily caught off his guard in a fight. While in the act of making a furious demonstration at an Indian in front, which kept that savage off, he gave Bigfoot a “back-handed wipe,” as he called it, which tumbled the chief completely off his horse.

Just then a turn of affairs in favour of the whites was taking place on the battle-field beyond. The party there had attacked the savages with such fury as to scatter them right and left and they were now riding down at racing speed on the combatants, whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Two men rode well in advance of the party with a revolver in each hand.

“Why, it’s Charlie Brooke! Hurrah!” yelled Darvall with delight.

“An’ Buck Tom!” roared Jackson in amazement.

So sudden was the onset that the Indians were for a moment paralysed, and the two horsemen, firing right and left as they rode up, dashed straight into the very midst of the savages. In a moment they were alongside of their friends, while the rest of the outlaw band were already engaged on the outskirts of the crowd.

The very danger of the white men constituted to some extent their safety; for they were so outnumbered and surrounded that the Indians seemed afraid to fire lest they should shoot each other. To add to the confusion, another party of whites suddenly appeared on the scene and attacked the “Reds” with a wild cheer. This was Jackson’s little band of cow-boys. They numbered only eight; but the suddenness of their appearance tended further to distract the savages.

While the noise was at its height a sound, or rather sensation, of many feet beating the earth was felt. Next moment a compact line was seen to wheel round the bluff where the fight was going on, and a stentorian “Charge!” was uttered, as the United States cavalry, preceded by Hunky Ben, bore down with irresistible impetuosity on the foe.

But the Indians did not await this onset. They turned and fled, scattering as they went, and the fight was quickly turned into a total rout and hot pursuit, in which troopers, outlaws, travellers, ranch-men, scouts, and cow-boys joined. The cavalry, however, had ridden far and fast, so that the wiry little mustangs of the plains soon left them behind, and the bugle ere long recalled them all.

It was found on the assembling of the forces that not one of the outlaws had returned. Whether they were bent on wreaking their vengeance still more fully on their foes, or had good reason for wishing to avoid a meeting with troops, was uncertain; but it was shrewdly suspected that the latter was the true reason.

“But you led the charge with Buck Tom, sir,” said Jackson to Charlie, in considerable surprise, “though how you came to be in his company is more than I can understand.”

“Here’s somebody that can explain, maybe,” said one of the cow-boys, leading forward a wounded man whose face was covered with blood, while he limped as if hurt in the legs. “I found him tryin’ to crawl into the brush. D’ye know him, boys?”

“Why, it’s Jake the Flint!” exclaimed several voices simultaneously; while more than one hand was laid on a revolver, as if to inflict summary punishment.

“I claim this man as my prisoner,” said the commander of the troops, with a stern look that prevented any attempt at violence.

“Ay, you’ve got me at last,” said the outlaw, with a look of scorn. “You’ve bin a precious long time about it too.”

“Secure him,” said the officer, deigning no reply to these remarks.

Two troopers dismounted, and with a piece of rope began to tie the outlaw’s hands behind him.

“I arrest you also,” said the commander to Charlie, who suddenly found a trooper on each side of him. These took him lightly by each arm, while a third seized his bridle.

“Sir!” exclaimed our hero, while the blood rushed to his forehead, “I am not an outlaw!”

“Excuse me,” returned the officer politely, “but my duty is plain. There are a good many gentlemanly outlaws about at present. You are found joining in fight with a notorious band. Until you can clear yourself you must consider yourself my prisoner.—Disarm and bind him.”

For one moment Charlie felt an almost irresistible impulse to fell the men who held him, but fortunately the absurdity of his position forced itself on him, and he submitted, well knowing that his innocence would be established immediately.

“Is not this man one of your band, Jake?” asked the officer quietly.

“Yes, he is,” replied the man with a malevolent grin. “He’s not long joined. This is his first scrimmage with us.”

Charlie was so thunderstruck at this speech that he was led back to the ranch in a sort of dazed condition. As for Dick Darvall, he was rendered speechless, and felt disposed to regard the whole thing as a sort of dream, for his attempted explanations were totally disregarded.

Arrived at the house, Charlie and Jake were locked up in separate rooms, and sentries placed beneath their windows—this in addition to the security of hand-cuffs and roped arms. Then breakfast was prepared for the entire company, and those who had been wounded in the fight were attended to by Hunky Ben—a self-taught surgeon—with Mary and Buttercup to act as dressers.

“I say, Jackson,” observed Darvall, when the worthy ranch-man found leisure to attend to him, “of course you know that this is all nonsense—an abominable lie about my friend Brooke being an outlaw?”

“Of course I do, Dick,” said Jackson, in a tone of sympathy; “an’ you may be cock-sure I’ll do what I can to help ’im. But he’ll have to prove himself a true man, an’ there are some mysteries about him that it puzzles me to think how he’ll clear ’em up.”

“Mysteries?” echoed Dick.

“Ay, mysteries. I’ve had some talk wi’ Hunky Ben, an’ he’s as much puzzled as myself, if not more.”

“Well, then, I’m puzzled more than either of ye,” returned Dick, “for my friend and mate is as true a man—all straight an’ aboveboard—as ever I met with on sea or land.”

“That may be, boy, but there’s some mystery about him, somehow.”

“Can ye explain what the mystery is, Jackson?”

“Well, this is what Hunky Ben says. He saw your friend go off the other night alone to Traitor’s Trap, following in the footsteps o’ that notorious outlaw Buck Tom. Feelin’ sure that Buck meant to waylay your friend, Hunky followed him up and overshot him to a place where he thought it likely the outlaw would lay in wait. Sure enough, when he got there he found Buck squattin’ behind a big rock. So he waited to see what would turn up and be ready to rescue your friend. An’ what d’ye think did turn up?”

“Don’ know,” said Dick, with a look of solemn wonder.

“Why, when Buck stepped out an’ bid him throw up his hands, your friend merely looked at Buck and said somethin’ that Hunky couldn’t hear, an then Buck dropped his pistol, and your friend got off his horse, and they shook hands and went off as thick as thieves together. An’ now, as you’ve seen an’ heard, your friend turns up headin’ a charge of the outlaws—an’ a most notable charge it was—alongside o’ Buck Tom. Jake the Flint too claims him for a comrade. Pretty mysterious all that, ain’t it?”

“May I ask,” said Dick, with some scorn in his tone, “who is this Hunky Ben, that his word should be considered as good as a bank-note?”

“He’s the greatest scout an’ the best an’ truest man on the frontier,” replied Jackson.

“H’m! so Miss Mary seems to think too.”

“An’ Mary thinks right.”

“An’ who may this Jake the Flint be?” asked the sailor.

“The greatest scoundrel, cattle and horse stealer, and cut-throat on the frontier.”

“So then,” rejoined Dick, with some bitterness, “it would seem that my friend and mate is taken up for an outlaw on the word o’ the two greatest men on the frontier!”

“It looks like it, Dick, coupled, of course, wi’ your friend’s own actions. But never you fear, man. There must be a mistake o’ some sort, somewhere, an’ it’s sure to come out, for I’d as soon believe my Mary to be an outlaw as your friend—though I never set eyes on him before the other day. The fact is, Dick, that I’ve learned physiognomy since—”

“Fizzi-what-umy?” interrupted Dick.

“Physiognomy—the study o’ faces—since I came to live on the frontier, an’ I’m pretty sure to know an honest man from a rogue as soon as I see him an’ hear him speak—though I can’t always prove myself right.”

Dick and his host were thus conversing, and the soldiers were regaling themselves in the hall, the commander of the troops and Hunky Ben were engaged in earnest conversation with Charlie Brooke, who gave an account of himself that quite cleared up the mystery of his meeting, and afterwards being found associated with, the outlaws.

“It’s a queer story,” said Hunky Ben, who, besides being what his friends called a philosopher, was prone at times to moralise. “It’s a queer story, an’ shows that a man shouldn’t bounce at a conclusion till he’s larned all the ins an’ outs of a matter.”

“Of course, Mr Brooke,” said the officer, when Dick had finished his narration, “your companion knows all this and can corroborate what you have said?”

“Not all,” replied Charlie. “He is an old shipmate whom I picked up on arriving at New York, and only knows that I am in search of an old school-fellow who has given way to dissipation and got into trouble here. Of my private and family affairs he knows nothing.”

“Well, you have cleared yourself, Mr Brooke,” continued the Captain, whose name was Wilmot, “but I’m sorry to have to add that you have not cleared the character of your friend Leather, whose name has for a considerable time been associated with the notorious band led by your old school-fellow Ritson, who is known in this part of the country as Buck Tom. One of the worst of this gang of highwaymen, Jake the Flint, has, as you know, fallen into my hands, and will soon receive his deserts as a black-hearted murderer. I have recently obtained trustworthy information as to the whereabouts of the gang, and I am sorry to say that I shall have to ask you to guide me to their den in Traitor’s Trap.”

“Is it my duty to do this?” asked Charlie, with a troubled look at the officer.

“It is the duty of every honest man to facilitate the bringing of criminals to justice.”

“But I have strong reason for believing that my friend Leather, although reckless and dissipated, joined these men unwillingly—was forced to do it in fact—and has been suffering from the result of a severe injury ever since joining, so that he has not assisted them at all in their nefarious work. Then, as to Ritson, I am convinced that he repents of his course of conduct. Indeed, I know that his men have been rebellious of late, and this very Jake has been aspiring to the leadership of the gang.”

“Your feelings regarding these men may be natural,” returned the captain, “but my duty is to use you in this matter. Believing what you say of yourself I will treat you as a gentleman, but if you decline to guide me to the nest of this gang I must treat you still as a prisoner.”

“May I have a little time to think over the matter before answering?”

“So that you may have a chance of escaping me?” replied the Captain.

“Nothing was further from my thoughts,” said Charlie, with a flush of indignation.

“I believe you, Mr Brooke,” rejoined the Captain with gravity. “Let me know any time before twelve to-day what course you deem it right to take. By noon I shall sound boot and saddle, when you will be ready to start. Your nautical friend here may join us if he chooses.”

Now, while this investigation into the affairs of one prisoner was going on, the other prisoner, Jake, was busily employed investigating his own affairs with a view to escape.

How he fared in this investigation we reserve for another chapter.

Chapter Twenty. Jake The Flint In Difficulties.

The man who, at the time we write of, was known by the name of Jake the Flint had acquired the character of the most daring and cruel scoundrel in a region where villains were by no means rare. His exploits indicated a spirit that was utterly reckless of life, whether his own or that of his fellow-men, and many were the trappers, hunters, and Redskins who would have given a good deal and gone far to have the chance of putting a bullet in his carcass.

But, as is not unfrequently the case with such men, Jake seemed to bear a charmed life, and when knife, bullet, and rope, cut short the career of many less guilty men, Jake had hitherto managed to elude his captors—at one time by strategy, at another by a bold dash for life, and sometimes by “luck.” No one had a kind word for Jake, no one loved, though many feared, admired, and hated him. This may seem strange, for it is usually found that even in the case of the most noted outlaws there is a woman or a man, or both—who cling to them with affection.

Perhaps the fact that Jake was exceptionally harsh and cruel at all times, may account for this, as it accounted for his sobriquet of Flint. He was called by some of those who knew him a “God-forsaken man.” We merely state the fact, but are very far from adopting the expression, for it ill becomes any man of mortal mould to pronounce his fellow-man God-forsaken.

In the meantime we feel it to be no breach of charity to say that Jake had forsaken God, for his foul language and bloody deeds proved the fact beyond all question. He was deceitful as well as cruel, and those who knew him best felt sure that his acting under Buck Tom was a mere ruse. There is little doubt that he had done so for the purpose of obtaining an influence over a gang of desperadoes, ready to hand, as it were, and that the moment he saw his opportunity he would kill Buck Tom and take command. The only thing that had kept him from doing so sooner, it was thought, was the fact that Buck had the power to gain the affection of his men, as well as to cause them to fear him, so that Jake had not yet found the time ripe for action.

After the outlaw had been put into the room by himself, as already stated, the door locked, and a sentry posted below the window, he immediately turned with all his energy to examine into his circumstances and prospects. First of all his wrists were manacled. That, however, gave him little concern, for his hands were unusually small and delicate, and he knew from experience that he could slip them out of any handcuffs that would close easily on his wrists—a fact that he had carefully concealed, and of which men were not yet aware, as he had not yet been under the necessity of availing himself of the circumstance.

The rope with which he had been bound on the way to the ranch had been removed, the handcuffs being deemed sufficient. As the window of his prison was over thirty feet from the ground, and a sentinel with a carbine and revolver stood below, it was thought that the bird who had so frequently escaped his cage before was safe at last, and fairly on his way to the gallows.

Not so thought Jake the Flint. Despair did not seem to be a possibility to him. Accordingly, he examined his prison carefully, and with a hopeful smile. The examination was soon completed, for the room presented no facilities whatever for escape. There was no bed from which to take the sheets and blankets to extemporise a rope. No mattress to throw over the window so as to break a heavy man’s fall. No chimney by which to ascend to the roof, no furniture, indeed, of any kind beyond a deal chair and table. The door was of solid oak and bolted outside.

Obviously the window was his only chance. He went to it and looked out. The depth was too much, he knew, for even his strong bones to stand the shock; and the sentinel paced to and fro underneath with loaded carbine.

“If any one would only lay a feather-bed down there,” thought Jake, “I’d jump an’ take my chance.”

While he was gazing meditatively on the fair prospect of land and water that lay before him, one of the bolts of the door was withdrawn, then another, and the door slowly opened.

For an instant the outlaw gathered himself up for a rush, with a view to sell his life dearly, and he had even begun to draw one of his hands out of the manacles, when the folly and hopelessness of the attempt struck him. He quickly checked himself, and met his jailor (one of the troopers) with a smiling countenance as he entered and laid a loaf and a jug of water on the table.

The rattle of a musket outside told Jake that his jailor had not come alone.

Without a word the man turned, and was leaving the room, when Jake, in a voice of great humility, asked him to stop.

“You couldn’t remove these things, could you?” he said, holding out his fettered hands.

“No,” answered the trooper, sharply.

“Ah!” sighed Jake, “I feared it was agin the rules. You couldn’t let me have the use of a file, could you, for a few minutes? What! agin’ rules too? It’s a pity, for I’m used to brush my teeth with a file of a mornin’, an’ I like to do it before breakfast.”

Jake interlarded his speech with a variety of oaths, with which we will not defile the paper, but he could extract no further reply from the trooper than a glance of scorn.

Left to himself, Jake again went to the window, which was a small cottage one, opening inwards like a door. He opened it and looked out. The sentinel instantly raised his carbine and ordered him to shut it.

“Hullo! Silas, is that you?” cried Jake in surprise, but paying no attention to the threat, “I thought you had quit for Heaven durin’ the last skrimidge wi’ the Reds down in Kansas? Glad to see you lookin’ so well. How’s your wife an’ the child’n, Silas?”

“Come now, Jake,” said the trooper sternly, “you know it’s all up with you, so you needn’t go talkin’ bosh like that—more need to say your prayers. Stand back and shut the window, I say, else I’ll put a bullet through your gizzard.”

“Well now, Silas,” said Jake, remonstratively, and opening the breast of his red shirt as he spoke, “I didn’t expect that of an old friend like you—indeed I didn’t. But, see here, if you raaly are goin’ to fire take good aim an’ keep clear o’ the heart and liver. The gizzard lies hereabout (pointing to his breast) and easy to hit if you’ve a steady hand. I know the exact spot, for I’ve had the cuttin’ up of a good bunch o’ men in my day, an’ I can’t bear to see a thing muddled. But hold on, Silas, I won’t put ye to the pain o’ shootin’ me. I’ll shut the window if you’ll make me a promise.”

“What’s that?” demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine.

“You know I’m goin’ to my doom—that’s what poetical folk call it, Silas—an’ I want you to help me wind up my affairs, as the lawyers say. Well, this here (holding up a coin) is my last dollar, the remains o’ my fortin’, Silas, an’ this here bit o’ paper that I’m rappin’ round it, is my last will an’ testimonial. You’ll not refuse to give it to my only friend on arth, Hunky Ben, for I’ve no wife or chick to weep o’er my grave, even though they knew where it was. You’ll do this for me, Silas, won’t you?”

“All right—pitch it down.”

Jake threw the coin, which fell on the ground a few feet in front of the trooper, who stooped to pick it up.

With one agile bound the outlaw leaped from the window and descended on the trooper’s back, which was broken by the crashing blow, and Jake rolled over him with considerable violence, but the poor man’s body had proved a sufficient buffer, and Jake rose unhurt. Deliberately taking the carbine from the dead man’s hand, and plucking the revolver from his belt, he sauntered off in the direction of the stables. These being too small to contain all the troop-horses, some of the animals were picketed in an open shed, and several troopers were rubbing them down. The men took Jake for one of the cow-boys of the ranch, for he passed them whistling.

Entering the stable he glanced quickly round, selected the finest horse, and, loosing its halter from the stall, turned the animal’s head to the door.

“What are ye doin’ wi’ the captain’s horse?” demanded a trooper, who chanced to be in the neighbouring stall.

“The captain wants it. Hold his head till I get on him. He’s frisky,” said Jake, in a voice of authority.

The man was taken aback and obeyed; but as Jake mounted he turned suddenly pale.

The outlaw, observing the change, drew the revolver, and, pointing it at the trooper’s head, said, in a low savage voice, “A word, a sound, and your brains are on the floor!”

The man stood open-mouthed, as if petrified. Jake shook the reins of the fiery horse and bounded through the door-way, stooping to the saddle-bow as he went. He could see, even at that moment, that the trooper, recovering himself, was on the point of uttering a shout. Wheeling round in the saddle he fired, and the man fell with a bullet in his brain.

The shot of course aroused the whole ranch. Men rushed into the yard with and without arms in wild confusion, but only in time to see a flying horseman cross the square and make for the gate. A rattling irregular volley was sent after him, but the only effect it had was to cause the outlaw to turn round in the saddle and wave his hat, while he gave vent to a yell of triumph. Another moment and he was beyond the bluff and had disappeared.

“Boot and saddle!” instantly rang out at the ranch, and every preparation was made for pursuit, though, mounted as Jake was on the best horse of the troop, they could not hope to overtake him.

Hunky Ben, at his own particular request was permitted to go on in advance.

“You see, sir,” he said to the captain, “my Black Polly an’t quite as good as your charger, but she’s more used to this sort o’ country, an’ I can take the short cuts where your horse could hardly follow.”

“Go, Ben, and good luck go with you! Besides, we can do without you, now that we have Mr Brooke to guide us.”

“Come wi’ me, sir,” said Hunky Ben, as he passed Charlie on his way to the stables. “Don’t you hesitate, Mr Brooke, to guide the captain to the cave of Buck Tom. I’m goin’ on before you to hunt up the reptiles—to try an’ catch Jake the Flint.”

The scout chuckled inwardly as he said this.

“But why go in advance? You can never overtake the scoundrel with such a start and on such a horse.”

“Never you mind what I can or can’t do,” said Ben, entering the stable where the dead trooper still lay, and unfastening Black Polly. “I’ve no time to explain. All I know is that your friend Leather is sure to be hanged if he’s cotched, an’ I’m sure he’s an innocent man—therefore, I’m goin’ to save him. It’s best for you to know nothin’ more than that, for I see you’re not used to tellin’ lies. Can you trust me?”

“Certainly I can. The look of your face, Ben, even more than the character you bear, would induce me to trust you.”

“Well then, Mr Brooke, the first sign o’ trust is to obey orders without askin’ questions.”

“True, when the orders are given by one who has a right to command,” returned Charlie.

“Just so, an’ my right to command lies in the fact that the life o’ your friend Leather depends on your obedience.”

“I’m your humble servant, then. But what am I to do?”

“Do whatever Captain Wilmot orders without objectin’, an’ speak nothing but the truth. You don’t need to speak the whole truth, hows’ever,” added the scout thoughtfully, as he led out his coal-black steed. “Your friend Leather has got a Christian name of course. Don’t mention it. I don’t want to hear it. Say nothin’ about it to anybody. The time may come when it may be useful to drop the name of Leather and call your friend Mister whatever the tother name may be. Now mind what I’ve said to ye.”

As he spoke the last words the scout touched the neck of his beautiful mare, and in another minute was seen racing at full speed over the rolling plain.

Chapter Twenty One. Tells of a Cruel Deed, and Shows How Mysteriously Hunky Ben Behaved.

When Jake escaped from the ranch of Roaring Bull he tried the mettle of Captain Wilmot’s charger to the uttermost, for well he knew that the pursuit would be instant and vigorous; that his late comrade Charlie Brooke could guide the troops to the cavern in Traitor’s Trap, and that if his companions, who would doubtless ride straight back, were to escape, they must be warned in time. He also knew that the captain’s charger was a splendid one. In order to accomplish his purpose, therefore, he would ride it to death.

The distance between the ranch and the outlaws’ cave was not so great but that any mustang in the plains could have traversed it in a day, but the cruel man had made up his mind that the captain’s charger should do it in a few hours. It is not so much distance as pace that kills. Had any consideration whatever been extended to the noble creature by the ignoble brute who rode it, the good horse would have galloped to the head of the Trap almost without turning a hair. At first he strode out over the rolling prairie with the untiring vigour of a well-made frame and a splendid constitution, leaping the little cracks and inequalities of the ground in the exuberance of his strength; though there was no need to bound, and coursing over the knolls as easily as he cantered down the hollows, while his flashing eye betokened at once a courageous and a gentle spirit. But when the lower slopes of the hills were reached, and steepish gradients were met with here and there, the horse began to put back first one ear and then the other, and sometimes both, as if in expectation of the familiar “well done,” or pat on the neck, or check of the rein with which the captain had been wont to sanction a slackening of the pace, but no such grace was allowed him. On the contrary, when the first symptom appeared of a desire to reduce speed Jake drove his cruel spurs into the charger’s glossy side. With a wild snort and bound the horse stretched out again and spurned the ground as if in indignant surprise.

Then the breath began to labour slightly; the sweat to darken his rich brown coat, and the white foam to fleck his broad chest. Still Jake pressed him on with relentless fury. It could not be expected that a man who cared not for his fellows would have much consideration for his beast. Murder of a deeper dye than that of a horse was seething in the outlaw’s brain. This to him useless expedition, which had so nearly cost him his life, would be the last that Buck Tom should command. After blowing out his brains he would warn the others of the impending danger and lead them away to other and more favourable fields of enterprise.

At this point the good horse stumbled and almost threw his rider, who, with horrible curses, plied the spurs and tugged at the bit until blood was mingled with the flying foam. Never, save once—when Captain Wilmot was caught alone in the plains by Cheyenne Indians and had to fly for his life—had the good charger been urged to anything like such an effort as he was now called on to make, and then there was no cruelty mingled with the urging. The very tone of his master’s voice, as he patted the neck and shook the rein and gently touched him with the spur, must have convinced the intelligent creature that it was a matter of life or death—that there was a stern need-be for such haste.

Turning at last into the gorge of the Trap, the charger gasped and sobbed with distress as he faced the steep ascent and tried, with the unabated courage of a willing heart, to pull himself together while the unmerciful monster still drove in the spurs and galled his tender mouth. But the brave effort was unavailing. Stumbling over a root that crossed the path, the horse plunged forward, and fell with a crash, sending his rider over his head. Jake, alighting on his face and right shoulder, lay stunned for a few seconds. Then he jumped up, displaying torn garments and a face covered with blood.

Running to the horse’s head he seized the rein and shook it savagely, kicking the animal’s face with his heavy boots in his anxiety to make it rise, but the poor charger was beyond his cruelty by that time, for its neck had been broken by the fall.

Oh! it was one of those sights which are fitted to make even thoughtless men recognise the need of a Saviour for the human race, and to reject with something like scorn the doctrine—founded on wholly insufficient evidence—that there is no future of compensation for the lower animals!

The outlaw did not waste time in vain regrets. Bestowing a meaningless curse on the dead charger, he turned and went up the narrow glen at a smart pace, but did not overstrain himself, for he knew well that none of the troop-horses could have kept up with him. He counted on having plenty of time to warn his comrades and get away without hurry. But he reckoned without his host—being quite ignorant of the powers of Black Polly, and but slightly acquainted with those of her master Hunky Ben.

Indeed so agile were the movements of Polly, and so thoroughly was the scout acquainted with the by-paths and short cuts of that region, that he actually passed the fugitive and reached the head of Traitor’s Trap before him. This he managed by forsaking the roads, keeping a straighter line for the outlaws’ cave, and passing on foot over the shoulder of a hill where a horseman could not go. Thus he came down on the cavern, about half-an-hour before Jake’s arrival. Clambering to the crevice in the cliff against which the cave abutted, and sliding down into a hollow on its earthen roof, he cautiously removed a small stone from its position, and disclosed a hole through which he could both hear and see most of what took place inside.

Lest any one should wonder at the facility with which the ground lent itself to this manoeuvre, we may as well explain that the bold scout possessed one of those far-reaching minds which are not satisfied without looking into everything,—seeing to the bottom of, and peering round to the rear of, all things, as far as possible. He always acted on the principle of making himself acquainted with every road and track and by-path, every stream, pond, river, and spring in the land. Hence he was well aware of this haunt of outlaws, and, happening to be near it one day when its owners were absent, he had turned aside to make the little arrangement of a peep-hole, in the belief that it might possibly turn out to be of advantage in course of time!

The clump of shrubs and grass on the rugged bank, which formed the top of the cave, effectually concealed the natural hollow which he had deepened, and the overhanging mass of the rugged cliff protected it from rain and dew.

What Hunky Ben saw on looking through his peep-hole filled him with surprise and pity, and compelled him to modify his plans.

Almost below him on a brush couch, lay the tall form of Buck Tom, with the unmistakable hue of approaching death upon his countenance. Beside him, holding his head, kneeled the much-wasted figure of Leather—the reputed outlaw. Seated or standing around in solemn silence were six of the outlaws, most of whom bore tokens of the recent fight, in the form of bandage on head or limb.

“I brought you to this, Leather; God forgive me,” said the dying man faintly.

“No, you didn’t, Ralph,” replied the other, calling him by his old familiar name, “I brought myself to it. Don’t blame yourself, Ralph; you weren’t half so bad as me. You’d never have been here but for me. Come, Ralph, try to cheer up a bit; you’re not dying. It’s only faint you are, from loss of blood and the long gallop. When you’ve had a sleep and some food, you’ll feel stronger. We’ll fetch a doctor soon, an’ he’ll get hold o’ the bullet. Dear Ralph, don’t shake your head like that an’ look so solemn. Cheer up, old boy!”

Leather spoke with a sort of desperate fervour, but Ralph could not cheer up.

“No,” he said sadly, “there is no cheer for me. I’ve thrown my life away. There’s no hope—no mercy for me. I’ve been trying to recall the past, an’ what mother used to teach me, but it won’t come. There’s only one text in all the Bible that comes to me now. It’s this—‘Be sure your sin will find you out!’ That’s true, boys,” he said, turning a look on his comrades. “Whatever else may be false, that’s true, for I know it.”

“That’s so, dear Ralph,” said Leather earnestly, “but it’s no less true that—”

Just then a noise was heard in the outer passage; then hurrying footsteps. Instinctively every man drew his revolver and faced the door. Next moment Jake entered.

“Here, one of you; a drink—I’m fit to—ha!”

His eyes fell on the figure of Buck and he shrank back for a moment in silent surprise.

“Yes, Jake,” said the dying man, with a glance of pity not unmingled with scorn, “it has come sooner than you or I expected, and it will save you some trouble—maybe some regret. I’ve seen through your little game, Jake, and am glad I’ve been spared the necessity of thwarting you.”

He stopped owing to weakness, and Jake, recovering himself, hastily explained the reason of his sudden appearance.

“Fetch me a rag an’ some water, boys,” he continued. “It looks worse than it is—only skin deep. And we’ve not a moment to lose. Those who have a mind may follow me. Them that wants to swing may stop.”

“But how about Buck Tom?” asked one who was not quite so depraved as the others.

“What’s the use o’ askin’?” said Jake. “It’s all up with him, don’t you see? Besides, he’s safe enough. They’d never have the heart to hang a dying man.”

“An’ Leather!” cried another. “We mustn’t quit Leather. He’s game for many a fight yet. Come, Leather; we’ll help you along, for they’re sure to string you up on the nearest tree.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about me,” said Leather, looking round, for he still kneeled beside his old friend, “I don’t intend to escape. Look to yourselves, boys, an’ leave us alone.”

“Unless you’re all tired o’ life you’ll quit here an’ skip for the woods,” said Jake, as, turning round, he hurriedly left the place.

The others did not hesitate, but followed him at once, leaving Buck Tom, and his friend to shift for themselves.

During all this scene Hunky Ben had been intently gazing and listening—chiefly the latter. When the outlaws filed past him he found it extremely difficult to avoid putting a bullet into the Flint, but he restrained himself because of what yet remained to be done.

As soon as the outlaws were well out of sight Ben arose and prepared for action. First of all he tightened his belt. Then he pulled the hood of his coat well over his head, so that it effectually concealed his face, and, still further to accomplish the end in view, he fastened the hood in front with a wooden pin. Proceeding to the stable he found, as he had hoped and expected, that the outlaws had left one or two horse-cloths behind in their flight. In one of these he enveloped his person in such a way as to render it unrecognisable. Then he walked straight into the cave, and, without a word of warning, threw his strong arms a round Shank Leather and lifted him off the ground.

Of course Leather shouted and struggled at first, but as well might a kitten have struggled in the grip of a grizzly bear. In his worn condition he felt himself to be utterly powerless. Buck Tom made a feeble effort to rise and help him, but the mere effort caused him to fall back with a groan of helpless despair.

Swiftly his captor bore Leather up the side of the hill till he got behind a clump of trees, into the heart of which he plunged, and then set his burden down on his feet. At the same time, throwing back his hood and flinging away the horse-cloth, he stood up and smiled.

“Hunky Ben, or his ghost!” exclaimed Shank, forgetting his indignation in his amazement.

“You’re right, young man, though you’ve only see’d me once that I know of. But most men that see me once are apt to remember me.”

“Well, Hunky,” said Leather, while the indignation began to return, “you may think this very amusing, but it’s mean of a big strong man like you to take advantage of a fellow that’s as weak as a child from wounds an’ fever. Lend me one o’ your six-shooters, now, so as we may stand on somewhat more equal terms and—but a truce to boasting! I’m sure that you wouldn’t keep smiling at me like a Cheshire cat if there wasn’t something behind this.”

“You’re right, Mr Leather,” said Ben, becoming at once grave and earnest. “There is somethin’ behind it—ay, an’ somethin’ before it too. So much, that I have barely time to tell ’ee. So, listen wi’ both ears. There’s a bunch o’ men an’ troops close to the Trap even now, on their way to visit your cave. If they find you—you know what that means?”

“Death,” said Leather quietly.

“Ay, death; though ye don’t desarve it,” said Ben.

“But I do deserve it,” returned Shank in the same quiet voice.

“Well, may-hap you do,” rejoined the scout coolly, “but not, so far as I know, in connection wi’ your present company. Now, there’s Buck Tom—”

“Ay, what of him?” asked Shank, anxiously.

“Well, in the nat’ral course o’ timings, death is comin’ to him too, an’ that’ll save him from bein’ strung up—for they’re apt to do that sort o’ thing hereaway in a loose free-an-easy style that’s awkward sometime. I was within an inch of it myself once, all through a mistake—I’ll tell ’ee about that when I’ve got more time, maybe. Well, now, I’m keen to save you an’ Buck Tom if I can, and what I want you to understand is, that if you expect me to help you at a time when you stand considerable in need o’ help, you’ll have to do what I tell ’ee.”

“And what would you have me do?” asked Shank, with a troubled look.

“Remain here till I come for ’ee, and when you meet me in company say nothin’ about havin’ met me before.”

“Can I trust you, Hunky Ben?” said Shank, looking at him earnestly.

“If you can’t trust me, what d’ye propose to do?” asked the scout with a grin.

“You’re right, Ben. I must trust you, and, to say truth, from the little I know of you, I believe I’ve nothing to fear. But my anxiety is for Ralph—Buck Tom, I mean. You’re sure, I suppose, that Mr Brooke will do his best to shield him?”

“Ay, sartin sure, an’, by the way, don’t mention your Christian name just now—whatever it is—nor for some time yet. Good-day, an’ keep quiet till I come. We’ve wasted overmuch time a’ready.”

So saying, the scout left the coppice, and, flinging open his coat, re-entered the cave a very different-looking man from what he was when he left it.

“Hunky Ben!” exclaimed Buck, who had recovered by that time. “I wish you had turned up half-an-hour since, boy. You might have saved my poor friend Leather from a monster who came here and carried him away bodily.”

“Ay? That’s strange, now. Hows’ever, worse luck might have befel him, for the troops are at my heels, an’ ye know what would be in store for him if he was here.”

“Yes, indeed, I know it, Ben, and what is in store for me too; but Death will have his laugh at them if they don’t look sharp.”

“No, surely,” said the scout, in a tone of real commiseration, “you’re not so bad as that, are you?”

“Truly am I,” answered Buck, with a pitiful look, “shot in the chest. But I saw you in the fight, Ben; did you guide them here?”

“That’s what I did—at least I told ’em which way to go, an’ came on in advance to warn you in time, so’s you might escape. To tell you the plain truth, Ralph Ritson, I’ve bin told all about you by your old friend Mr Brooke, an’ about Leather too, who, you say, has bin carried off by a monster?”

“Yes—at least by a monstrous big man.”

“You’re quite sure o’ that?”

“Quite sure.”

“An’ You would know the monster if you saw him again?”

“I think I would know his figure, but not his face, for I did not see it.”

“Strange!” remarked the scout, with a simple look; “an’ you’re sartin sure you don’t know where Leather is now?”

“Not got the most distant idea.”

“That’s well now; stick to that an’ there’s no fear o’ Leather. As to yourself—they’ll never think o’ hangin’ you till ye can walk to the gallows—so cheer up, Buck Tom. It may be that ye desarve hangin’, for all I know; but not just at present. I’m a bit of a surgeon, too—bein’ a sort o’ Jack-of-all-trades, and know how to extract bullets. What between Mr Brooke an’ me an’ time, wonders may be worked, if you’re wise enough to keep a tight rein on your tongue.”

While the scout was speaking, the tramp of cavalry was heard outside, and a few minutes later Captain Wilmot entered the cave, closely followed by Charlie Brooke.

Chapter Twenty Two. The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.

We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him, had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he could not tell—of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies.

“And you have no idea,” continued the captain, “who the man is that carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?”

“Not the slightest,” returned Buck. “Had my revolver been handy and an ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn’t have had to ask the question.”

“Passing strange!” murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance. “Have you no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off to?”

“No more’n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot,” answered the scout. “You see there’s a good many paths by which men who knows the place could git out o’ the Trap, an’ once out o’ it there’s the whole o’ the Rockie range where to pick an’ choose.”

“But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?”

“That’s true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the brush when they don’t want to be overhauled. That wasn’t the way of it, however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an’ ridden to death as it was—an’ as I ’spected it would be—I knowed I had no chance o’ comin’ up wi’ the Flint, so I took advantage o’ my knowledge o’ the lay o’ the land, an’ pushed ahead by a straighter line—finishin’ the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That sent me well ahead o’ the Flint, an’ so I got here before him. Havin’ ways of eavesdroppin’ that other people don’t know on, I peeped into the cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o’ harkin’ back on my tracks an’ stoppin’ the Flint wi’ a bullet but I reflected ‘what good’ll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an’ putt them on the scent all the same.’ Then I tried to listen what their talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn’t bin listenin’ long when in tramps the Flint an’ sounds the alarm. Of course I might have sent him an p’r’aps one o’ the others to their long home from where I stood; but I’ve always had an objection to shoot a man behind his back. It has such a sneakin’ sort o’ feel about it! An’ then, the others—I couldn’t see how many there was—would have swarmed out on me, an’ I’d have had to make tracks for the scrub, an’ larn nothin’ more. So I fixed to keep quiet an’ hear and see all that I could—p’r’aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard nothin’ more worth tellin’. They only made some hurried, an’ by no means kindly, observations about poor Buck an’ Leather an’ went off over the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be well out o’ the way, so to speak, an’ when I got back here Leather was gone!”

“And you didn’t see the man that carried him off?”

“No, I didn’t see him.”

“You’d have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?”

“No, indeed, captain, I wouldn’t.”

“No! why not?” asked the captain with a peculiar smile.

“Well, because,” answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, “I wouldn’t shoot such a man on any account—no matter what he was doin’!”

“Indeed!” returned the other with a broadening smile. “I had no idea you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor devil.”

“What I fear an’ what I don’t fear,” returned the scout with quiet dignity, “is a matter which has never given me much consarn.”

“Well, don’t be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don’t for one moment question your courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a man or a ghost.”

“But I have told you,” broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire, “that Leather is not an outlaw.”

“I have only your word for that, and you know what that is worth,” returned the captain. “I don’t want to be hard on one apparently so near his end, and to say truth, I’m inclined to believe you, but we know that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company—whether a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal. If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now,” added the captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, “tell the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood.”

While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him.

“It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know,” said Leather, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, “you are a puzzle to me, for I can’t understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o’ lies—you that has got the name of bein’ the truest-hearted scout on the frontier!”

“You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather,” returned the scout with a simple look. “What lies have I told?”

“Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were eavesdroppin’ must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?”

“How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but it was no lie.”

Leather looked incredulous.

“Then you said,” he continued, “that you didn’t see the man that carried me away.”

“No more I did, boy. I never saw him!”

“What! not even in a looking-glass?”

“Not even in a lookin’-glass,” returned Hunky. “I’ve seed his reflection there many a time,—an’ a pretty good-lookin’ reflection it was—but I’ve never see’d himself—that I knows on! No, Leather, if Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw you carried off, I might ha’ been putt in a fix, but he didn’t ax me that. He axed if I’d seen the man that carried you off an’ I told the truth when I said I had not. Moreover I wasn’t bound to show him that he wasn’t fit to be a lawyer—specially when he was arter an innocent man, an’ might p’r’aps hang him without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of outlaws, an’ it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two perplexin’ duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind.”

“Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I’m innocent?”

“P’r’aps because ye putt such an innocent question,” replied Ben, with a little smile. “D’ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is goin’ to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my larnin’! It’s enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more about you than ye think—more p’r’aps than ye know about yerself. I don’t go for to say that you’re a born angel, wantin’ nothin’ but a pair o’ wings to carry ye off to the better land—by no means, but I do know that as regards jinin’ Buck Tom’s boys, or takin’ a willin’ part in their devilish work, ye are innocent an’ that’s enough for me.”

“I’m glad you know it and believe it, Ben,” said Leather, earnestly, “for it is true. I followed Buck, because he’s an old, old chum, and I did it at the risk of my life, an’ then, as perhaps you are aware, we were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with these men, but, O Ben, I don’t admit my innocence in anything else! My whole life—well, well—it’s of no use talkin’. Tell me, d’ye think there’s any chance o’ Buck getting over this?”

“He may. Nobody can tell. I’ll do my best for him. I never lose hope of a man, after what I’ve see’d in my experience, till the breath is fairly out of him.”

“Thank God for these words, Ben.”

“Yes,” continued the scout, “and your friend Brooke is at this moment sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great mysterious monster!”

“Then he doesn’t know it was you?” exclaimed Leather.

“In course not. An’ he doesn’t know you are within five hundred yards of him. An’ what’s more, you mustn’t let him know it was me, for that must be kept a dead secret, else it’ll ruin my character on the frontiers. We must surround it wi’ mystery, my boy, till all is safe. But I didn’t come up here to enjoy an evenin’s conversation. You’re not safe where you are, Leather. They’ll be scourin’ all round for you long before sun-up, so I must putt you where you’ll be able to look on an’ grin at them.”

“Where will that be?” asked Leather, with some curiosity.

“You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on the other side o’ the valley—where the water-shoot comes down?”

“Ay, it’s likely I do, for I’ve seen it every mornin’ for months past.”

“An’ you remember the hole near the top o’ the cliff?”

“Yes—that looks about the size of a crow?”

“Whatever it looks like it’s three times the size of a man, an’ it’s the mouth of a cave,” returned the scout. “Now, I’ll lead you to the track that’ll let you up to that cave. It’s a splendid place, full of all sorts o’ holes an’ places where a man couldn’t find you even if he know’d you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the mouth o’ the cave, an’ enjoy yourself lookin’ on at the hunt arter yourself. Here’s a bit o’ chuck I’ve brought to keep you from wearyin’, for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I’ll come up for ye. You needn’t show more o’ yourself, however, than the top o’ your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he’s bein’ hunted down. An’ mind, don’t leave the place till I come for you.”

Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed, with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws’ cave, and then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil they reached a plateau where the track—if it may be so styled—seemed to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern and in total darkness.

“We may rest a bit now,” said the scout. “There’s a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I’ll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o’ the track.”

“Are the holes dangerous?” asked Leather.

“They’re dangerous enough to be worth takin’ care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you’d never come out again. There, now, let’s go on, for if I don’t git back soon, they’ll be wonderin’ if the monster hasn’t run away wi’ me too, as well as you!”

After advancing a short distance in total darkness—Ben feeling his way carefully step by step—they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed.

“Sit ye down there, Leather,” said the scout, “see, or, rather, hear—for the eyes aren’t of much use just now—I’ve set down the grub an’ a flask o’ water beside ye. Don’t strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won’t be long o’ lettin’ ye see what’s goin’ on. You won’t weary, for it’ll be as good as a play, yourself bein’ chief actor an’ audience all at the same time!”

Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance.

Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons—the “Hells” of New York—with his profoundly admired “friend” and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now—scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life—especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose—or rather fell—from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself.

It was at this point—so Memory recalled to him—that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then—a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses—some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain.

So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance.

Chapter Twenty Three. The Troops Outwitted by the Scout and his Friends.

Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed.

The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble.

The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below.

“Hi! hallo!” he cried, “send Hunky Ben up here. I’ve found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it’ll need the scout’s nose to ferret it out.”

Leather’s heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben.

“Ay, ay,” he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, “Ay, ay. Hold on! Don’t be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an’ some o’ them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There’s a cave up there, I’ll lead ye to it.”

This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion.

One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place—all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot?

He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave!

If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly.

“Come along, Captain Wilmot,” he said, “give me your hand, sir. It’s not safe to walk alone here, even wi’ a light.”

“Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven’t you got a match?” asked the captain.

“Nothin’ that would burn more’n a few seconds. We’re better without a light, for a gust o’ wind might blow it out an’ leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t bring any of my men in here,” said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock.

“Ay—’tis as well you didn’t,” returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. “For there’s holes on both sides, an’ if one o’ your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an’ be done with it. There’s a glimmer o’ daylight at last. We’ll soon be at the other end now.”

“A horrible place, truly,” said the Captain, “and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here.”

“Didn’t I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn’t be convinced,” said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. “Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone.”

“You forget,” returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, “the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither.”

“Ah, true,” answered the scout, with solemn gravity. “There’s somethin’ in that.”

Wilmot laughed.

“What a splendid view,” he said, going forward to the opening—“and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by.”

“Ay, an’ by the pale-faces too,” said the scout. “Why, I’ve had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there’s small chance of findin’ a man once he’s in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole.”

“Or search for a needle in a haystack,” observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. “Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here.”

“I’m ginerally right when I speak about what I understand,” returned the scout calmly. “So now, Captain, if you’re satisfied, we may as well go an’ have a look at the other places I spoke of.”

Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away from him. The scene was not perhaps, as the scout had prophesied, quite “as good as a play,” but it certainly did become more and more entertaining as the searchers receded and distance lent enchantment to the view.

When at last the troops had disappeared, Shank bethought him of the food which Hunky Ben had so thoughtfully provided, and, sitting down on the brush couch, devoted himself to breakfast with a hearty appetite and a thankful spirit.

Meanwhile Captain Wilmot, having satisfied himself that the outlaws had fairly escaped him, and that Buck Tom was too ill to be moved, retired to a cool glade in the forest and held a council of war with the scout and Charlie Brooke.

“Now, Ben,” he said, dismounting and seating himself on a mossy bank, while a trooper took charge of the horses and retired with them to a neighbouring knoll, “it is quite certain that in the present unsettled state of the district I must not remain here idle. It is equally certain that it would be sudden death to Buck Tom to move him in his present condition, therefore some men must be left behind to take care of him. Now, though I can ill afford to spare any of mine, I feel that out of mere humanity some sacrifice must be made, for we cannot leave the poor fellow to starve.”

“I can relieve you on that point,” said the scout, “for if you choose I am quite ready to remain.”

“And of course,” interposed Charlie, “I feel it my duty to remain with my old friend to the end.”

“Well, I expected you to say something of this sort. Now,” said the captain, “how many men will you require?”

“None at all, Captain,” answered Ben decisively.

“But what if these scoundrels should return to their old haunt?” said Wilmot.

“Let them come,” returned the scout. “Wi’ Mr Brooke, an’ Dick Darvall, an’ three Winchesters, an’ half-a-dozen six-shooters, I’d engage to hold the cave against a score o’ such varmin. If Mr Brooke an’ Dick are willin’ to—”

“I am quite willing, Ben, and I can answer for my friend Dick, so don’t let that trouble you.”

“Well, then, that is settled. I’ll go off at once,” said the captain, rising and signing to the trooper to bring up the horses. “But bear in remembrance, Hunky Ben, that I hold you responsible for Buck Tom. If he recovers you must produce him.”

The scout accepted the responsibility; the arrangements were soon made; “boots and saddles” was sounded, and the troopers rode away, leaving Charlie Brooke, Dick Darvall, Buck Tom, and the scout in possession of the outlaws’ cave.

Chapter Twenty Four. The Meeting of Old Friends in Curious Circumstances.

When the soldiers were safely away Hunky Ben returned to the cave and brought Leather down.

Charlie Brooke’s love for his old school-fellow and playmate seemed to become a new passion, now that the wreck of life and limb presented by Shank had awakened within him the sensation of profound pity. And Shank’s admiration for and devotion to Charlie increased tenfold now that the terrible barrier of self had been so greatly eliminated from his own nature, and a new spirit put within him.

By slow degrees, and bit by bit, each came to know and understand the other under the influence of new lights and feelings. But their thoughts about themselves, and their joy at meeting in such peculiar circumstances, had to be repressed to some extent in the presence of their common friend Ralph Ritson—alias Buck Tom—for Charlie knew him only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and chum ever since they had landed in the New World.

The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck’s chest, through which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery.

Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture of that spirit which resolves to “die game.” The approach of death had indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even “the chief of sinners.” Therefore his hopelessness took the form of silent submission to the inevitable.

Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man’s perplexities.

“It’s all very well, Brooke,” said Buck Tom, “and very kind of you to interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for me. You don’t know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all my life—all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining for pardon now that the game is up. I deserve hell—or whatever sort o’ punishment is due—an’ I’m willing to take it.”

“Ralph Ritson,” said Brooke impressively, “you are a far greater sinner than you think or admit.”

“Perhaps I am,” returned the outlaw sadly, and with a slight expression of surprise. “Perhaps I am,” he repeated. “Indeed I admit that you are right, but—but your saying so is a somewhat strange way to comfort a dying man. Is it not?”

“I am not trying to comfort you. I am trying, by God’s grace, to convince you. You tell me that you have been a rebel all your days?”

“Yes; I admit it.”

“There are still, it may be, a few days yet to run, and you are determined, it seems, to spend these in rebellion too—up to the very end!”

“Nay, I do not say that. Have I not said that I submit to whatever punishment is due? Surely that is not rebellion. I can do nothing now to make up for a mis-spent life, so I am willing to accept the consequences. Is not that submission to God—at least as far as lies in my power?”

“No; it is not submission. Bear with me when I say it is rebellion, still deeper rebellion than ever. God says to you, ‘You have destroyed yourself but in me is your help.’ He says, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow.’ He says, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved,’ and assures you that ‘whoever will’ may come to Him, and that no one who comes shall be cast out—yet in the face of all that you tell me that the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for you! Ralph, my friend, you think that if you had a chance of living your life over again you would do better and so deserve salvation. That is exactly what God tells us we cannot do, and then He tells us that He Himself, in Jesus Christ, has provided salvation from sin for us, offers it as a free unmerited gift; and immediately we dive to the deepest depth of sin by deliberately refusing this deliverance from sin unless we can somehow manage to deserve it.”

“I cannot see it,” said the wounded man thoughtfully.

“Only God Himself, by His Holy Spirit, can enable you to see it,” said his companion; and then, in a low earnest voice, with eyes closed and his hand on his friend’s arm, he prayed that the outlaw might be “born again.”

Charlie Brooke was not one of those who make long prayers, either “for a pretence” or otherwise. Buck Tom smiled slightly when his friend stopped at the end of this one sentence.

“Your prayer is not long-winded, anyhow!” he said.

“True, Ralph, but it is comprehensive. It requires a good deal of expounding and explaining to make man understand what we say or think. The Almighty needs none of that. Indeed He does not need even the asking but He bids us ask, and that is enough for me. I have seen enough of life to understand the value of unquestioning obedience whether one comprehends the reason of an order or not.”

“Ay,” returned Buck quickly, “when he who gives the order has a right to command.”

“That is so much a matter of course,” rejoined Charlie, “that I would not think of referring to it while conversing with an intelligent man. By the way—which name would you like to be called, by Ralph or Buck?”

“It matters little to me,” returned the outlaw languidly, “and it won’t matter to anybody long. I should prefer ‘Ralph,’ for it is not associated with so much evil as the other, but you know our circumstances are peculiar just now, so, all things considered, I had better remain Buck Tom to the end of the chapter. I’ll answer to whichever name comes first when the roll is called in the next world.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of Hunky Ben bearing a deer on his lusty shoulders. He was followed by Dick Darvall.

“There,” said the former, throwing the carcass on the floor, “I told ye I wouldn’t be long o’ bringin’ in somethin’ for the pot.”

“Ay, an’ the way he shot it too,” said the seaman, laying aside his rifle, “would have made even a monkey stare with astonishment. Has Leather come back, by the way? I see’d him goin’ full sail through the woods when I went out this mornin’.”

“He has not yet returned,” said Charlie. “When I relieved him and sat down to watch by our friend here, he said he felt so much better and stronger that he would take his gun and see if he couldn’t find something for the pot. I advised him not to trust his feelings too much, and not to go far, but—ah, here he comes to answer for himself.”

As he spoke a step was heard outside, and next moment Shank entered, carrying a brace of rabbits which he flung down, and then threw himself on a couch in a state of considerable exhaustion.

“There,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “They’ve cost me more trouble than they’re worth, for I’m quite done up. I had no idea I had become so weak in the legs. Ralph, my dear fellow,” he added, forgetting himself for the moment as he rose and went to his friend’s side, “I have more sympathy with you, now that I have found out the extent of my own weakness. Do you feel better!”

“Yes, old boy—much—much better.”

“That’s all right. I’m convinced that—hallo! why, who shot the deer!”

“Hunky Ben has beat you,” said Charlie.

“Beat Leather!” exclaimed Darvall, “why, he beats all creation. I never see’d anything like it since I went to sea.”

“Since you came ashore, you should say. But come, Dick,” said Charlie, “let’s hear about this wonderful shooting. I’m sure it will amuse Buck—unless he’s too wearied to listen.”

“Let him talk,” said the invalid. “I like to hear him.”

Thus exhorted and encouraged the seaman recounted his day’s experience.

“Well, you must know, messmates,” said he, “that I set sail alone this mornin’, havin’ in my pocket the small compass I always carry about me—also my bearin’s before startin’, so as I shouldn’t go lost in the woods—though that wouldn’t be likely in such an narrow inlet as this Traitor’s Trap, to say nothin’ o’ the landmarks alow and aloft of all sorts. I carried a Winchester with me, because, not bein’ what you may call a crack shot, I thought it would give me a better chance to have a lot o’ resarve shots in the locker, d’ye see? I carried also a six-shooter, as it might come handy, you know, if I fell in wi’ a Redskin or a bear, an’ got to close quarters. Also my cutlass, for I’ve bin used to that aboard ship when I was in the navy.

“Well, away I went—makin’ sail down the valley to begin with, an’ then a long tack into the mountains right in the wind’s eye, that bein’ the way to get on the blind side o’ game. I hadn’t gone far when up starts a bird o’ some sort—”

“What like was it?” asked the scout.

“No more notion than the man in the moon,” returned the sailor. “What wi’ the flutter an’ scurry an’ leaves, branches an’ feathers—an’ the start—I see’d nothin’ clear, an’ I was so anxious to git somethin’ for the pot, that six shots went arter it out o’ the Winchester, before I was quite sure I’d begun to fire—for you must know I’ve larned to fire uncommon fast since I come to these parts. Hows’ever, I hit nothin’—”

“Not quite so bad as that, Dick,” interrupted the scout gravely.

“Well, that’s true, but you better tell that part of it yourself, Hunky, as you know more about it than me.”

“It wasn’t of much consequence,” said the scout betraying the slightest possible twinkle in his grey eyes, “but Dick has a knack o’ lettin’ drive without much regard to what’s in front of him. I happened to be more in front of him than that bird when he began to fire, an’ the first shot hit my right leggin’, but by good luck only grazed the bark. Of course I dropped behind a rock when the storm began and lay quiet there, and when a lull came I halloo’d.”

“Yes, he did halloo,” said Dick, resuming the narrative, “an’ that halloo was more like the yell of a bull of Bashan than the cry of a mortal man. It made my heart jump into my throat an’ stick there, for I thought I must have killed a whole Redskin tribe at one shot—”

“Six shots, Dick. Tell the exact truth an’ don’t contradic’ yourself,” said Hunky.

“No, it wasn’t,” retorted the seaman stoutly. “It was arter the first shot that you gave the yell. Hows’ever, I allow that the echoes kep’ it goin’ till the six shots was off—an’ I can tell you, messmates, that the hallooin’ an’ flutterin’ an’ scurryin’ an echoin’ an’ thought of Redskins in my brain all mixed up wi’ the blatterin’ shots, caused such a rumpus that I experienced considerable relief when the smoke cleared away an’ I see’d Hunky Ben in front o’ me laughin’ fit to bu’st his sides.”

“Well, to make a long yarn short, I joined Hunky and allowed him to lead, seein’ that he understands the navigation hereaway better than me.

“‘Come along,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll let you have a chance at a deer.’

“‘All right,’ says I, an’ away we went up one hill an’ down another—for all the world as if we was walkin’ over a heavy Atlantic swell—till we come to a sort o’ pass among the rocks.

“‘I’m goin’ to leave you here to watch,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll go round by the futt o’ the gully an’ drive the deer up. They’ll pass quite close, so you’ve only to—’

“Hunky stopped short as he was speakin’ and flopped down as if he’d bin shot-haulin’ me along wi’ him.

“‘Keep quiet,’ says he, in a low voice. ‘We’re in luck, an’ don’t need to drive. There’s a deer comin’ up at this very minute—a young one. You’ll take it. I won’t fire unless you miss.’

“You may be sure I kep’ quiet, messmates, arter that. I took just one peep, an’ there, sure enough, I saw a brown beast comin’ up the pass. So we kep’ close as mice. There was a lot o’ small bushes not ten yards in front of us, which ended in a cut—a sort o’ crack—in the hill-side, a hundred yards or more from the place where we was crouchin’.

“‘Now,’ whispers Hunky to—”

“I never whisper!” remarked the scout.

“Well, well; he said, in a low v’ice to me, says he, ‘d’ye see that openin’ in the bushes?’ ‘I do,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘it’s about ten yards off; be ready to commence firin’ when it comes to that openin’.’ ‘I will,’ says I. An’, sure enough, when the brown critter came for’id at a walk an’ stopped sudden wi’ a look o’ surprise as if it hadn’t expected to see me, bang went my Winchester four times, like winkin’, an’ up went the deer four times in the air, but niver a bit the worse was he. Snap I went a fifth time; but there was no shot, an’ I gave a yell, for I knew the cartridges was done. By that time the critter had reached the crack in the hill I told ye of, an’ up in the air he went to clear it, like an Indy-rubber ball. I felt a’most like to fling my rifle at it in my rage, when bang! went a shot at my ear that all but deaf’ned me, an’ I wish I may niver fire another shot or furl another t’gallant-s’l if that deer didn’t crumple up in the air an’ drop down stone dead—as dead as it now lays there on the floor.”

By the time Dick Darvall had ended his narrative—which was much more extensive than our report of it—steaks of the deer were sputtering in a frying-pan, and other preparations were being made for a hearty meal, to which all the healthy men did ample justice. Shank Leather did what he could, and even Buck Tom made a feeble attempt to join.

That night a strict watch was kept outside the cave—each taking it by turns, for it was just possible, though not probable, that the outlaws might return to their old haunt. No one appeared, however, and for the succeeding eight weeks the party remained there undisturbed, Shank Leather slowly but surely regaining strength; his friend, Buck Tom, as slowly and surely losing it; while Charlie, Dick, and Hunky Ben ranged the neighbouring forest in order to procure food. Leather usually remained in the cave to cook for and nurse his friend. It was pleasant work to Shank, for love and pity were at the foundation of the service. Buck Tom perceived this and fully appreciated it. Perchance he obtained some valuable light on spiritual subjects from Shank’s changed tone and manner, which the logic of his friend Brooke had failed to convey. Who can tell?

Chapter Twenty Five. Shows how the Seaman was sent on a Delicate Mission and how he Fared.

“Shank,” said Charlie one day as they were sitting in the sunshine near the outlaws’ cave, waiting for Dick and the scout to return to their mid-day meal, “it seems to me that we may be detained a good while here, for we cannot leave Ralph, and it is evident that the poor fellow won’t be able to travel for many a day—”

“If ever,” interposed Shank sorrowfully.

“Well, then, I think we must send down to Bull’s Ranch, to see if there are any letters for us. I feel sure that there must be some, and the question arises—who are we to send?”

“You must not go, Charlie, whoever goes. You are the only link in this mighty wilderness, that connects Ralph and me with home—and hope. Weak and helpless as we are, we cannot afford to let you out of our sight.”

“Well, but if I don’t go I can’t see my way to asking the scout to go, for he alone thoroughly understands the ways of the country and of the Indians—if any should chance to come this way. Besides, considering the pledge he is under to be accountable for Buck Tom, I doubt if he would consent to go.”

“The question is answered, then,” said Shank, “for the only other man is Dick Darvall.”

“True; and it strikes me that Dick will be very glad to go,” returned Charlie with a smile of peculiar meaning.

“Chapter_.xhtmlChapter_.xhtmlD’ye think he’s getting tired of us, Charlie?”

“By no means. But you know he has a roving disposition, and I think he has a sort of fondness for Jackson—the boss of the ranch.”

It was found when the question was put to him, that Dick was quite ready to set out on the mission required of him. He also admitted his fondness for Roaring Bull!

“But what if you should lose your way?” asked the scout.

“Find it again,” was Dick’s prompt reply.

“And what if you should be attacked by Indians?”

“Fight ’em, of course.”

“But if they should be too many to fight?”

“Why, clap on all sail an’ give ’em a starn chase, which is always a long one. For this purpose, however, I would have to command a good craft so I’d expect you to lend me yours, Hunky Ben.”

“What! my Polly?”

“Even so. Black Polly.”

The scout received this proposal gravely, and shook his head at first, for he was naturally fond of his beautiful mare, and, besides, doubted the sailor’s horsemanship, though he had perfect faith in his courage and discretion. Finally, however, he gave in; and accordingly, one fine morning at daybreak, Dick Darvall, mounted on Black Polly, and armed with his favourite Winchester, revolvers, and cutlass, “set sail” down Traitor’s Trap to visit his lady-love!

Of course he knew that his business was to obtain letters and gather news. But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was—Mary Jackson!

Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman—though a sailor. He had learned to ride when a boy, before going to sea, and his after-habit of riding the “white horses” of the Norseman, did not cause him to forget the art of managing the “buckers” of the American plains. To use his own words, he felt as much at home on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, as on the fo’c’sl of a man-of-war, so that the scout’s doubt of his capacity as a rider was not well founded.

Tremendous was the bound of exultation which our seaman felt, then, when he found himself on the magnificent black mare, with the fresh morning air fanning his temples, and the bright morning sun glinting through a cut in the eastern range.

Soon he reached the lower end of the valley, which, being steep, he had descended with tightened rein. On reaching the open prairie he gave the mare her head and went off with a wild whoop like an arrow from a bow.

Black Polly required neither spur nor whip. She possessed that charmingly sensitive spirit which seems to receive an electric shock from its rider’s lightest chirp. She was what you may call an anxiously willing steed, yet possessed such a tender mouth that she could be pulled up as easily as she could be made to go. A mere child could have ridden her, and Dick found in a few minutes that a slight check was necessary to prevent her scouring over the plains at racing speed. He restrained her, therefore, to a grand canter, with many a stride and bound interspersed, when such a thing as a rut or a little bush came in her way.

With arched neck, glistening eyes, voluminous mane, and flowing tail she flew onward, hour after hour, with many a playful shake of the head, and an occasional snort, as though to say, “This is mere child’s play; do let me put on a spurt!”

It may not be fair to credit such a noble creature with talking, or even thinking, slang, but Dick Darvall clearly understood her to say something of the sort, for after a while he reduced speed to a kind of india-rubber walk and patted her neck, saying—

“No, no, lass, you mustn’t use up your strength at the beginning. We’ve got a longish trip before us, Polly, an’ it won’t do to clap on all sail at the beginnin’ of the voyage.”

At David’s store Dick stopped for a short time to obtain a little refreshment for himself and Polly. There he found a group of cow-boys discussing the affairs of their neighbours, and enlarging noisily on things in general under the brain-clearing and reason-inspiring influence of strong drink! To these he recounted briefly the incidents of the recent raid of the troops into Traitor’s Trap, and learned that Jake the Flint had “drifted south into Mexico where he was plying the trade of cattle and horse stealer, with the usual accompaniments of that profession—fighting, murdering, drinking, etcetera.” Some of the deeds of this notorious outlaw, as narrated by the cow-boy Crux, who happened to be there, made the blood of Dick run cold—and Dick’s blood was not easily made to run otherwise than naturally by any one—except, of course, by Mary Jackson, who could at all events make it run hot, also fast or slow, very much according to her own sweet will!

But the seaman had no time to lose. He had still a long way to go, and the day was advancing. Remounting Black Polly he was soon out again on the prairie, sweeping over the grassy waves and down into the hollows with a feeling of hilarious jollity, that was born of high health, good-nature, pleasant circumstances, and a free-and-easy mind.

Nothing worthy of particular notice occurred after this to mar the pleasure of our sailor’s “voyage” over the prairie until he reached a belt of woodland, through which for half a mile he had to travel. Here he drew rein and began to traverse the bit of forest at a quiet amble, partly to rest Polly, and partly that he might more thoroughly enjoy the woodland scenery through the umbrageous canopy of which the sun was sending his slanting rays and covering the sward with a confused chequer-work of green and gold.

And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits.

“Come, Dick,” he exclaimed, “give us a song. Your voice ain’t, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there’s no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?”

Without replying to the question he struck up “Rule Britannia” in tones that did not justify his disparaging remark as to quality. He reached the other end of the wood and the end of the song at the same time. “Britons,” shouted he with unalterable determination—“Never, never, ne–ever, shall be—Redskins!”

This unnatural termination was not an intentional variation. It was the result of a scene that suddenly burst upon his view.

Far away on the prairie two riders were seen racing at what he would have styled a slant away from him. They were going at a pace that suggested fleeing for life.

“Redskins—arter somethin’,” murmured Dick, pulling up, and shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand, as he gazed earnestly at the two riders.

“No–n–no. They’re whites,” he continued, “one o’ them a man; t’other a woman. I can make that out, anyhow.”

As he spoke, the racing riders topped a far-off knoll; halted, and turned round as if to gaze back towards the north—the direction from which they had come. Then, wheeling round as if in greater haste than ever, they continued their headlong gallop and disappeared on the other side of the knoll.

Dick naturally turned towards the north to see, if possible, what the two riders were flying from. He was not kept long in doubt, for just then a band of horsemen was seen topping the farthest ridge in that direction, and bearing down on the belt of woodland, along the edge of which they galloped towards him.

There was no mistaking who they were. The war-whoop, sounding faint and shrill in the distance, and the wild gesticulations of the riders, told the story at once to our seaman—two pale-faces, pursued by a band of bloodthirsty savages!

Unskilled though he was in backwoods warfare, Dick was not unfamiliar with war’s alarms, nor was he wanting in common sense. To side with the weaker party was a natural tendency in our seaman. That the pursuers were red, and the pursued white, strengthened the tendency, and the fact that one of the latter was a woman settled the question. Instantly Dick shook the reins, drove his unarmed heels against the sides of Polly, and away they went after the fugitives like a black thunderbolt, if there be such artillery in nature!

A wild yell told him that he was seen.

“Howl away, ye land lubbers!” growled Dick. “You’ll have to fill your sails wi’ a stiffer breeze than howlin’ before ye overhaul this here craft.”

Just then he reached the crest of a prairie billow, whence he could see the fugitives still far ahead of him. Suddenly a suspicion entered the seaman’s mind, which made his heart almost choke him. What if this should be Mary Jackson and her father? Their relative size countenanced the idea, for the woman seemed small and the man unusually large.

In desperate haste Dick now urged on his gallant steed to her best pace, and well did she justify the praises that had been often bestowed on her by Hunky Ben. In a very brief space of time she was close behind the fugitives, and Dick was now convinced that his suspicions as to who they were was right. He rode after them with divided feelings—tremblingly anxious lest Mary should fall into the hands of their ruthless foes—exultantly glad that he had come there in time to fight, or die if need be, in her defence.

Suddenly the male fugitive, who had only glanced over his shoulder from time to time, pulled up, wheeled round, and quickly raised his rifle.

“Hallo! get on, man; don’t stop!” Dick yelled, in a voice worthy of Bull himself. Taking off his hat he waved it violently above his head. As he spoke he saw the woman’s arm flash upwards; a puff of smoke followed, and a bullet whistled close over his head.

Next moment the fugitives had turned and resumed their headlong flight. A few more minutes sufficed to bring Dick and the black mare alongside, for the latter was still vigorous in wind and limb, while the poor jaded animals which Mary and her father rode were almost worn out by a prolonged flight.

“Dick Darvall,” exclaimed Jackson, as the former rode up, “I never was gladder to see any man than I am to see you this hour, though but for my Mary I’d surely have sent you to kingdom come. Her ears are better than mine, you see. She recognised the voice an’ knocked up my rifle just as I pulled the trigger. But I’m afeared it’s too late, lad.”

The way in which the man said this, and the look of his pale haggard face, sent a thrill to the heart of Dick.

“What d’ye mean?” he said, looking anxiously at Mary, who with a set rigid expression on her pale face was looking straight before her, and urging her tired pony with switch and rein.

“I mean, lad, that we’ve but a poor chance to reach the ranch wi’ such knocked-up brutes as these. Of course we can turn at bay an’ kill as many o’ the red-devils as possible before it’s all over wi’ us, but what good would that do to Mary? If we could only check the varmins, there might be some hope, but—”

“Jackson!” exclaimed the seaman, in a firm tone, “I’ll do my best to check them. God bless you, Mary—good-bye. Heave ahead, now, full swing!”

As he spoke, Dick pulled up, while the others continued their headlong flight straight for the ranch, which was by the only a few miles distant.

Wheeling round, Dick cantered back to the knoll over which they had just passed and halted on the top of it. From this position he could see the band, of about fifty Indians, careering towards him and yelling with satisfaction, for they could also see him—a solitary horseman—clear cut against the bright sky.

Dick got ready his repeating rifle. We have already mentioned the fact that he had learned to load and fire this formidable weapon with great rapidity, though he had signally failed in his attempts to aim with it. Being well aware of his weakness, he made up his mind in his present desperate extremity not to aim at all! He had always felt that the difficulty of getting the back and front sights of the rifle to correspond with the object aimed at was a slow, and, in his case, an impossible process. He therefore resolved to simply point his weapon and fire!

“Surely,” he muttered to himself even in that trying moment, “surely I can’t altogether miss a whole bunch o’ fifty men an’ horses!”

He waited until he thought the savages were within long range, and then, elevating his piece a little, fired.

The result justified his hopes. A horse fell dead upon the plain, and its owner, although evidently unwounded, was for the time hors de combat.

True to his plan, Dick kept up such a quick continuous fire, and made so much noise and smoke, that it seemed as if a whole company of riflemen were at work instead of one man, and several horses on the plain testified to the success of the pointing as compared with the aiming principle!

Of course the fire was partly returned, and for a time the stout seaman was under a pretty heavy rain of bullets, but as the savages fired while galloping their aim was necessarily bad.

This fusillade had naturally the effect of checking the advance of the Indians—especially when they drew near to the reckless man, who, when the snap of his rifle told that his last cartridge was off, wheeled about and fled as fast as Black Polly could lay hoofs to the plain.

And now he found the value of the trustworthy qualities of his steed, for, instead of guiding her out of the way of obstacles, he gave her her head, held tight with his legs, and merely kept an eye on the ground in front to be ready for any swerve, bound, or leap, that might be impending. Thus his hands were set free to re-charge the magazine of his rifle, which he did with deliberate rapidity.

The truth is, that recklessness has a distinct tendency to produce coolness. And there is no one who can afford to be so deliberate, and of whom other men are so much afraid, as the man who has obviously made up his mind to die fighting.

While Dick was loading-up, Black Polly was encouraged by voice and heel to do her best, and her best was something to see and remember! When the charging was finished, Dick drew rein and trotted to the next knoll he encountered, from which point he observed with some satisfaction that the fugitives were still pressing on, and that the distance between them and their foe had slightly increased.

But the seaman had not much time to look or think, for the band of Redskins was drawing near. When they came within range he again opened fire. But this time the savages divided, evidently with the intention of getting on both sides of him, and so distracting his attention. He perceived their object at once, and reserved his fire until they turned and with frantic yells made a simultaneous dash on him right and left. Again he waited till his enemies were close enough, and then opened fire right and left alternately, while the Indians found that they had outwitted themselves and scarcely dared to fire lest the opposite bands should hit each other.

Having expended the second supply of ammunition, Dick wheeled round and took to flight as before. Of course the mare soon carried him out of range, and again he had the satisfaction of observing that the fugitives had increased their distance from the foe.

“One more check o’ this kind,” thought Dick, “and they’ll be safe—I think.”

While thus thinking he was diligently re-charging, and soon cantered to the top of a third knoll, where he resolved to make his final stand. The ranch was by that time dimly visible on the horizon, and the weary fugitives were seen struggling towards it. But Dick found, on halting and looking back, that the Indians had changed their tactics. Instead of directing their attention to himself, as on the previous occasions, they had spread out to the right and left and had scattered, besides keeping well out of range.

“What are the sinners up to now?” muttered the seaman in some perplexity.

He soon perceived that they meant to go past him altogether, if possible, and head towards the fugitives in separate groups.

“Ay, but it’s not possible!” exclaimed Dick, answering his own thoughts as he turned swiftly, and stretched out after his friends. Seeing this, the savages tried to close in on him from both sides, but their already winded ponies had no chance against the grand Mexican mare, which having been considerately handled during the day’s journey was comparatively fresh and in full vigour.

Shooting ahead he now resolved to join his friends and a feeling of triumph began to rise within his breast as he saw them pushing steadily onward. The ranch, however, was still at a considerable distance, while the Indians were rapidly gaining ground.

At that moment to Dick’s horror, the pony which Mary Jackson rode stumbled and fell, sending its rider over its head. But the fair Mary, besides being a splendid horsewoman, was singularly agile and quick in perception. For some time she had anticipated the catastrophe, and, at the first indication of a stumble, leaped from the saddle and actually alighted on her feet some yards ahead. Of course she fell with some violence, but the leap broke her fall and probably saved her neck. She sprang up instantly, and grasping the reins, tried to raise her pony. It was too late. The faithful creature was dead.

Jackson, pulling up, wheeled round and was back at her side instantly. Almost at the same moment Dick Darvall came up, threw the mare almost on her haunches, leaped from the saddle, and ran to Mary. As he did so, the crash of a pistol shot at his ear almost deafened him, and a glance showed him that Jackson had shot his horse, which fell dead close to his daughter’s pony.

“Kill your horse, Dick,” he growled sharply, as he exerted his great strength to the utmost, and dragged the haunches of his own steed close to the head of the other. “It’s our only chance.”

Dick drew his revolver, and aimed at the heart of Black Polly, but for the soul of him he could not pull the trigger.

“No—I won’t!” he cried, grasping the lasso which always hung at the saddle-bow. “Hobble the fore-legs!”

There was such determination in the sailor’s command, that Jackson felt bound to obey. At the same moment Dick bound the horse’s hind-legs. He fully understood what Jackson intended, and the latter was as quick to perceive the seaman’s drift. Seizing the reins, while his friend caught hold of the lasso, Dick cried, “Out o’ the way, Mary!” and with a mighty effort the two men threw the mare on her side.

“First-rate!” cried Jackson, while his companion held down the animal’s head. “It couldn’t have dropped better. Jump inside, Mary, an’ lie down flat behind your pony. Let Mary have the reins, Dick. She knows how to hold its head down without showin’ herself.”

Even while he was speaking, Jackson and Dick leaped into the triangle of horses thus formed, and, crouching low, disappeared from the sight of the savages, who now came on yelling with triumph, for they evidently thought themselves sure of their victims by that time.

“Are ye a good shot, Dick?” asked Jackson, as he gazed sternly at the approaching foe.

“No—abominably bad.”

“Fire low then. You may catch the horses if ye miss the Redskins. Anyhow you’ll hit the ground if you aim low, an’ it’s wonderful what execution a bullet may do arter hittin’ mother Earth.”

“I never aim,” replied the sailor. “Only a waste o’ time. I just point straight an’ fire away.”

“Do it, then,” growled roaring Bull, with something that sounded like a short laugh.

At the same moment he himself took quick aim at the foe and fired; the leading horse and man immediately rolled upon the plain.

As both men were armed with repeating rifles the fusillade was rapid, and most of the savages, who seldom fight well in the open, were repulsed. But several of them, headed apparently by their chief, rode on fearlessly until within pistol-shot.

Then the two defenders of this peculiar fortress sprang up with revolvers in each hand.

“Lie close, Mary,” cried Jackson as he fired, and the chief’s horse rolled over, almost reaching their position with the impetus of the charge. The chief himself lay beside his horse, for another shot had ended his career. As two other horses had fallen, the rest of the band wheeled aside and galloped away, followed by a brisk fire from the white men, who had again crouched behind their breast-work and resumed their rifles.

Bullets were by that time flying over them in considerable numbers, for those Indians who had not charged with their chief had, after retiring to a safe distance, taken to firing at long range. At this work Dick’s rifle and straight pointing were of little use, so he reserved his fire for close quarters, while Jackson, who was almost a certain shot at average ranges, kept the savages from drawing nearer.

“Lie closer to the pony, Miss Mary,” said Dick, as a shot passed close over the girl and whistled between him and his comrade. “Were you hurt in the fall?”

“No, not in the least. Don’t you think they’ll hear the firing at the ranch, father?”

“Ay, lass, if there’s anybody to hear it, but I sent the boys out this mornin’ to hunt up a bunch o’ steers that have drifted south among Wilson’s cattle, an’ I fear they’ve not come back yet. See, the reptiles are goin’ to try it again!”

As he spoke, the remnant of the Redskins who pressed home the first charge, having held a palaver, induced the whole band to make another attempt, but they were met with the same vigour as before—a continuous volley at long range, which emptied several saddles, and then, when the plucky men of the tribe charged close, the white men stood up, as before, and plied them with revolvers so rapidly that they were fain to wheel aside and retire.

“Ammunition’s gettin’ low,” said Dick, in an anxious tone.

“Then I’ll waste no more,” growled Jackson, “but only fire when I’m safe to hit.”

As he spoke a distant cheer was heard, and, looking back, they saw, with a rebound of hope, that a band of five or six cow-boys were coming from the ranch and galloping full swing to the rescue. Behind them, a few seconds later, appeared a line of men who came on at a swinging trot.

“Troopers, I do believe!” exclaimed Jackson.

“Thank God!” said Mary, with a deep sigh of relief as she sat up to look at them. The troopers gave a cheer of encouragement as they thundered past to the attack, but the Indians did not await the onset. At the first sight of the troops they fled, and in a few minutes pursued and pursuers alike were out of sight—hidden behind the prairie waves.

“I can’t tell you how thankful I am that I didn’t shoot the mare,” said Dick, as they unfastened the feet of Black Polly and let her rise. “I’d never have been able to look Hunky Ben in the face again arter it.”

“Well, I’m not sorry you spared her,” said Jackson; “as for the two that are dead, they’re no great loss—yet I’ve a kind o’ regret too, for the poor things served us well.”

“Faithfully—even to death,” added Mary, in a sorrowful tone as she stooped to pat the neck of her dead pony.

“Will you mount, Miss Mary, and ride home?” asked the sailor.

“Thank you—no, I’d rather walk with father. We have not far to go now.”

“Then we’ll all walk together,” said Jackson.

Dick threw Black Polly’s bridle over his arm, and they all set off at a smart walk for the ranch of Roaring Bull, while the troops and cow-boys chased the Redskins back into the mountains whence they had come.

Chapter Twenty Six. Treats of Various Interesting Matters, and Tells of News from Home.

Dick Darvall now learned that, owing to the disturbed state of the country, Captain Wilmot had left a small body of men to occupy Bull’s ranch for a time; hence their presence at the critical moment when Jackson and his daughter stood so much in need of their assistance. He also found that there were two letters awaiting the party at Traitor’s Trap—one for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mr S. Leather. They bore the postmarks of the old country.

“You’d better not start back wi’ them for three or four days, Dick,” said Jackson, when they were seated that evening in the hall of the ranch, enjoying a cup of coffee made by the fair hands of Mary.

Dick shook his head. “I’m acting post-boy just now” said he, “an’ it would ill become me to hang off an’ on here waitin’ for a fair wind when I can beat into port with a foul one.”

“But if the Redskins is up all round, as some o’ the boys have reported, it’s not merely a foul wind but a regular gale that’s blowin’, an’ it would puzzle you to beat into port in the teeth o’ that.”

“I think,” remarked Mary, with an arch smile, “that Mr Darvall had better ‘lay to’ until the troops return to-night and report on the state of the weather.”

To this the gallant seaman declared that he would be only too happy to cast anchor altogether where he was for the rest of his life, but that duty was duty, and that, blow high or blow low, fair weather or foul, duty had to be attended to.

“That’s true, O high-principled seaman!” returned Jackson; “and what d’ye consider your duty at the present time?”

“To deliver my letters, O Roarin’ Bull!” replied Dick.

“Just so, but if you go slick off when Redskins are rampagin’ around, you’ll be sure to get nabbed an’ roasted alive, an’ so you’ll never deliver your letters.”

“It’s my duty to try,” said Dick. “Hows’ever,” he added, turning to Mary with a benignant smile, “I’ll take your advice, Miss Mary, an’ wait for the report o’ the soldiers.”

When the troopers returned, their report was, that the Redskins, after being pretty severely handled, had managed to reach the woods, where it would have been useless to follow them so close upon night; but it was their opinion that the band, which had so nearly captured the boss of the ranch and his daughter, was merely a marauding band, from the south, of the same Indians who had previously attacked the ranch, and that, as for the Indians of the district, they believed them to be quite peaceably disposed.

“Which says a good deal for them,” remarked the officer in command of the troops, “when we consider the provocation they receive from Buck Tom, Jake the Flint, and such-like ruffians.”

“The moon rises at ten to-night, Dick,” said Jackson, as they went together to the stables to see that the horses were all right.

“That’s so,” said the sailor, who noticed something peculiar in the man’s tone; “what may be the reason o’ your reference to that bit of astronomy?”

“Why, you see,” returned the other, “post-boys in these diggin’s are used to travellin’ night an’ day. An’ the troopers’ report o’ the weather might be worse. You was sayin’ somethin’ about duty, wasn’t you?”

“Right, Jackson,” returned Dick, “but Black Polly is not used to travellin’ night an’ day. If she was, I’d take her back to-night, for moonlight is good enough for a man that has twice taken soundin’s along the road, an’ who’s well up in all the buoys, beacons, an’ landmarks, but it would be cruelty to the good mare.”

“Duty first, Dick, the mare second. You don’t need to trouble about her. I’ll lend ye one o’ my best horses an’ take good care o’ Black Polly till Hunky Ben claims her.”

“Thank ’ee, Jackson, but I’ll not part wi’ Black Polly till I’ve delivered her to her owner. I won’t accept your invite to stop here three or four days, but neither will I start off to-night. I’ve too much regard for the good mare to do that.”

“Ho! ho!” thought his host, with an inward chuckle, “it’s not so much the mare as Mary that you’ve a regard for, my young sailor!”

But in spite of his name the man was much too polite to express this opinion aloud. He merely said, “Well, Dick, you know that you’re welcome to squat here as long or as short a time as you like, an’ use the best o’ my horses, if so disposed, or do the postboy business on Black Polly. Do as ye like wi’ me an’ mine, boy, for it’s only fair to say that but for your help this day my Mary an’ me would have bin done for.”

They reached the stable as he was speaking, and Jackson at once turned the conversation on the horses, thus preventing a reply from Dick—in regard to which the latter was not sorry.

In the stall the form of Black Polly looked grander than ever, for her head nearly touched the roof as she raised it and turned a gleaming eye on the visitors, at the same time uttering a slight whinny of expectation.

“Why, I do believe she has transferred her affections to you, Dick,” said Jackson. “I never heard her do that before except to Hunky Ben, and she’s bin many a time in that stall.”

“More likely that she expected Ben had come to bid her good-night,” returned the sailor.

But the way in which the beautiful creature received Dick’s caresses induced Jackson to hold to his opinion. It is more probable, however, that some similarity of disposition between Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben had commended itself to the mare, which was, as much as many a human being, of an amiable, loving disposition. She thoroughly appreciated the tenderness and forbearance of her master, and, more recently, of Dick. No doubt the somewhat rough way in which she had been thrown to the ground that day may have astonished her, but it evidently had not soured her temper.

That night Dick did not see much of Mary. She was far too busy attending to, and providing for, the numerous guests at the ranch to be able to give individual attention to any one in particular—even had she been so disposed.

Buttercup of course lent able assistance to her mistress in these domestic duties, and, despite her own juvenility—we might perhaps say, in consequence of it—gave Mary much valuable advice.

“Dat man’s in a bad way,” said she, as, with her huge lips pouting earnestly, she examined the contents of a big pot on the fire. The black maiden’s lips were so pronounced and expressive that they might almost be said to constitute her face!

“What man?” asked Mary, who, with her sleeves tucked up to the elbows, was manipulating certain proportions of flour, water, and butter.

“Why, Dick, oh course. He’s de only man wuth speakin’ about.”

Mary blushed a little in spite of herself, and laughed hilariously as she replied—

“Dear me, Butter, I didn’t think he had made such a deep impression on you.”

“’S not on’y on me he’s made a ’mpress’n,” returned the maid, carelessly. “He makes de same ’mpress’n on eberybody.”

“How d’you know?” asked Mary.

“’Cause I see,” answered the maid.

She turned her eyes on her mistress as she spoke, and immediately a transformation scene was presented. The eyes dwindled into slits as the cheeks rose, and the serious pout became a smile so magnificent that ivory teeth and scarlet gums set in ebony alone met the gaze of the beholder.

“Buttercup,” exclaimed Mary, stamping her little foot firmly, “it’s boiling over!”

She was right. Teeth and gums vanished. The eyes returned, so did the pout, and the pot was whipped off the fire in a twinkling, but not before a mighty hiss was heard and the head of the black maiden was involved in a cloud of steam and ashes!

“I told you so!” cried Mary, quoting from an ancient Manuscript.

“No, you di’n’t,” retorted her servitor, speaking from the depths of her own consciousness.

We refrain from following the conversation beyond this point, as it became culinary and flat.

Next day Dick Darvall, refreshed—and, owing to some quite inexplicable influences, enlivened—mounted Black Polly and started off alone for Traitor’s Trap, leaving his heart and a reputation for cool pluck behind him.

Of course he was particularly watchful and circumspect on the way up, but saw nothing to call for a further display of either pluck or coolness. On arriving at the cave he found his friends there much as he had left them. Buck Tom, owing to the skilled attentions which he had received from that amateur surgeon, Hunky Ben, and a long refreshing sleep—the result of partial relief from pain—was a good deal better; and poor Leather, cheered by the hope thus raised of his friend’s recovery, was himself considerably improved in health and spirits.

Fortunately for his own peace of mind, it never seemed to occur to Shank that a return to health meant for Buck Tom, death on the gallows. Perhaps his own illness had weakened Shank’s powers of thought. It may be, his naturally thoughtless disposition helped to render him oblivious of the solemn fact, and no one was cruel enough to remind him of it. But Buck himself never forgot it; yet he betrayed no symptom of despondency, neither did he indicate any degree of hope. He was a man of resolute purpose, and had the power of subduing—at least of absolutely concealing—his feelings. To those who nursed him he seemed to be in a state of gentle, colourless resignation.

Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben, having been out together, had returned well laden with game; and Leather was busy at the fire preparing a savoury mess of the same for his sick friend when Dick arrived.

“News from the old country!” he exclaimed, holding up the letters on entering the cave. “Two for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mister Leather!”

“They might have been more polite to me. Hand it here,” said the latter, endeavouring to conceal under a jest his excitement at the sight of a letter from home; for his wild life had cut him off from communication for a very long time.

“One of mine is from old Jacob Crossley,” said Charlie, tearing the letter open with eager interest.

“An’ mine is from sister May,” exclaimed Shank.

If any one had observed Buck Tom at that moment, he would have seen that the outlaw started and rose almost up on one elbow, while a deep flush suffused his bronzed countenance. The action and the flush were only momentary, however he sank down again and turned his face to the wall.

Charlie also started and looked at Shank when the name of May was mentioned, and the eye of Hunky Ben was on him at the moment. But Hunky of course could not interpret the start. He knew little of our hero’s past history—nothing whatever about May. Being a western scout, no line of his mahogany-looking face indicated that the start aroused a thought of any kind.

While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives, Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting occasion, when all the party could listen.

“Dick, you’re a trump,” said the scout.

“I’m a lucky fellow, anyhow,” returned Dick.

“In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o’ Redskins without a scratch; why—”

“Pooh!” interrupted the sailor, “that’s not the luck I’m thinkin’ of. Havin’ overhauled Roarin’ Bull an’ his little girl in time to help rescue them, that’s what I call luck—d’ee see?”

“Yes, I see,” was Hunky Ben’s laconic reply.

Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull’s little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign, and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness.

“Capital—first-rate!” exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter when he had finished it.

“Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort,” said Leather, as he folded his epistle.

“Then there’s nothing but good news?” said Charlie.

“Nothing. I suppose it’s the same with you, to judge from your looks,” returned Shank.

“Exactly. Perhaps,” said Charlie, “it may interest you all to hear my letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the owner of the Walrus, though you’ve never seen him.”

“All right. I remember; fire away,” said Dick.

“It is dated from his office in London,” continued our hero, “and runs thus:—

“MY DEAR BROOKE,—We were all very glad to hear of your safe arrival in New York, and hope that long before this reaches your hand you will have found poor Leather and got him to some place of comfort, where he may recover the health that we have been given to understand he has lost.

“I chanced to be down at Sealford visiting your mother when your letter arrived; hence my knowledge of its contents. Mrs Leather and her daughter May were then as usual. By the way, what a pretty girl May has become! I remember her such a rumpled up, dress-anyhow, harum-scarum sort of a girl, that I find it hard to believe the tall, graceful, modest creature I meet with now is the same person! Captain Stride says she is the finest craft he ever saw, except that wonderful ‘Maggie,’ about whose opinions and sayings he tells us so much.

“But this is a double digression. To return: your letter of course gave us all great pleasure. It also gave your mother and May some anxiety, where it tells of the necessity of your going up to that wild-west place, Traitor’s Trap, where poor Leather is laid up. Take care of yourself, my dear boy, for I’m told that the red savages are still given to those roasting, scalping, and other torturing that one has read of in the pages of Fenimore Cooper.

“By the way, before I forget it, let me say, in reference to the enclosed bill, it is a loan which I have obtained for Leather, at very moderate interest, and when more is required more can be obtained on the same terms. Let him understand this, for I don’t wish that he should think, on the one hand, that he is drawing on his mother’s slender resources, or, on the other hand, that he is under obligation to any one. I send the bill because I feel quite sure that you started on this expedition with too little. It is drawn in your name, and I think you will be able to cash it at any civilised town—even in the far west!

“Talking of Captain Stride—was I talking of him? Well, no matter. As he is past work now, but thinks himself very far indeed from that condition, I have prevailed on him to accept a new and peculiar post arising out of the curious evolutions of the firm of Withers and Company which satisfies the firm completely and suits the captain to a T. As the work can be done anywhere, a residence has been taken for him in Sealford, mid-way between that of your mother and Mrs Leather, so that he and his wife and little girl can run into either port when so disposed. As Mrs L, however (to use his own phraseology), is almost always to be found at anchor in the Brooke harbour, he usually kills both with the same visit. I have not been to see him yet in the new abode, and do not know what the celebrated Maggie thinks of it.

“When you find Leather, poor fellow, tell him that his mother and sister are very well. The former is indefatigable in knitting those hundreds of socks and stockings for poor people, about which there has been, and still is, and I think ever will be, so much mystery. The person who buys them from her must be very deep as well as honest, for no inquiries ever throw any fresh light on the subject, and he—or she, whichever it is—pays regularly as the worsted work is delivered—so I’m told! It is a little old lady who pays—but I’ve reason to believe that she’s only a go-between—some agent of a society for providing cheap clothing for the poor, I fancy, which the poor stand very much in need of, poor things! Your good mother helps in this work—at least so I am told, but I’m not much up in in the details of it yet. I mean to run down to see them in a few days and hear all about it.

“Stride, I forgot to say, is allowed to smoke a pipe in your mother’s parlour when he pays her a visit. This is so like her amiability, for she hates tobacco as much as I do. I ventured on a similarly amiable experiment one day when the worthy Captain dined with me, but the result was so serious that I have not ventured to repeat it. You remember my worthy housekeeper, Mrs Bland? Well, she kicked over the traces and became quite unmanageable. I had given Stride leave to smoke after dessert, because I had a sort of idea that he could nor digest his food without a pipe. You know my feelings with regard to young fellows who try to emulate chimneys, so you can understand that my allowing the Captain to indulge was no relaxation of my principles, but was the result of a strong objection I had to spoil the dinner of a man who was somewhat older than myself by cramming my principles down his throat.

“But the moment that Mrs Bland entered I knew by the glance of her eye, as well as by the sniff of her nose, that a storm was brewing up—as Stride puts it—and I was not wrong. The storm burst upon me that evening. It’s impossible, and might be tedious, to give you all the conversation that we had after Stride had gone, but the upshot was that she gave me warning.

“‘But, my good woman,’ I began—

“‘It’s of no use good-womaning me, Mr Crossley,’ said she, ‘I couldn’t exist in a ’ouse w’ere smokin’ is allowed. My dear father died of smokin’—at least, if he didn’t, smokin’ must ’ave ’ad somethink to do with it, for after the dear man was gone a pipe an’ a plug of the nasty stuff was found under ’is piller, so I can’t stand it; an’ what’s more, Mr Crossley, I won’t stand it! Just think, sir, ’ow silly it is to put a bit of clay in your mouth an’ draw smoke through it, an’ then to spit it out again as if you didn’t like it; as no more no one does on beginnin’ it, for boys only smoke to look like men, an’ men only smoke because they’ve got up the ’abit an’ can’t ’elp it. W’y, sir, you may git up any ’abit. You may git the ’abit of walkin’ on your ’ands an’ shakin’ your legs in the hair if you was to persevere long enough, but that would only prove you a fool fit for a circus or a lunatic asylum. You never see the hanimals smokin’. They knows better. Just fancy! what would you think if you saw the cab ’osses all a-settin’ on their tails in the rank smokin’ pipes an’ cigars! What would you think of a ’oss w’en ’is cabby cried, “Gee-up, there’s a fare a ’owlin’ for us,” an’ that ’oss would say, “Hall right, cabby, just ’old on, hold man, till I finish my pipe”? No, Mr Crossley, no, I—’

“‘But, my good soul!’ I burst in here, ‘do listen—’

“‘No use good-soulin’ me, Mr Crossley. I tell you I won’t stand it. My dear father died of it, an’ I can’t stand it—’

“‘I hate it, Mrs Bland, myself!’

“I shouted this interruption in such a loud fierce tone that the good woman stopped and looked at me in surprise.

“‘Yes, Mrs Bland,’ I continued, in the same tone, ‘I detest smoking. You know I always did, but now more than ever, for your reasoning has convinced me that there are some evil consequences of smoking which are almost worse than smoking itself! Rest assured that never again shall the smell of the noxious weed defile the walls of this house.’

“‘Lauk, sir!’ said Mrs Bland.

“I had subdued her, Charlie, by giving in with dignity. I shall try the same role next breeze that threatens.

“I almost feel that I owe you an apology for the length of this epistle. Let me conclude by urging you to bring poor Leather home, strong and well. Tell him from me that there is a vacant situation in the firm of Withers and Company which will just suit him. He shall have it when he returns—if God spares me to see him again. But I’m getting old, Charlie, and we know not what a day may bring forth.”

“A kind—a very kind letter,” said Leather earnestly, when his friend had finished reading.

“Why, he writes as if he were your own father, Brooke,” remarked Buck Tom, who had been listening intently. “Have you known him long?”

“Not long. Only since the time that he gave me the appointment of supercargo to the Walrus, but the little I have seen of him has aroused in me a feeling of strong regard.”

“My sister May refers to him here,” said Leather, with a peculiar smile, as he re-opened his letter. “The greater part of this tells chiefly of private affairs which would not interest any of you, but here is a passage which forms a sort of commentary on what you have just heard:—

“‘You will be amused to hear,’ she writes, ‘that good Captain Stride has come to live in Sealford. Kind old Mr Crossley has given him some sort of work connected with Withers and Company’s house which I can neither understand nor describe. Indeed, I am convinced it is merely work got up on purpose by Mr Crossley as an excuse for giving his old friend a salary, for he knows that Captain Stride would be terribly cast down if offered a pension, as that would be equivalent to pronouncing him unfit for further duty, and the Captain will never admit himself to be in that condition till he is dying. Old Jacob Crossley—as you used to call him—thinks himself a very sagacious and “deep” man, but in truth there never was a simpler or more transparent one. He thinks that we know nothing about who it is that sends the old lady to buy up all the worsted-work that mother makes, but we know perfectly well that it is himself, and dear mother could never have gone on working with satisfaction and receiving the money for it all if we had not found out that he buys it for our fishermen, who are said really to be very much in need of the things she makes.

“‘The dear old man is always doing something kind and considerate in a sly way, under the impression that nobody notices. He little knows the power of woman’s observation! By the way, that reminds me that he is not ignorant of woman’s powers in other ways. We heard yesterday that his old and faithful—though rather trying—housekeeper had quarrelled with him about smoking! We were greatly surprised, for we knew that the old gentleman is not and never was, a smoker. She threatened to leave, but we have since heard, I am glad to say, that they have made it up!

“H’m! there’s food for meditation in all that,” said Dick Darvall, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his vest pocket.

Chapter Twenty Seven. Hunky Ben and Charlie get Beyond their Depth, and Buck Tom gets Beyond Recall.

While hunting together in the woods near Traitor’s Trap one day Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence that commanded a wide view over the surrounding country.

“’Tis a glorious place, Ben,” said Brooke, leaning his rifle against a tree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in the beautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. “When I think of the swarms of poor folk in the old country who don’t own a foot of land, have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them out here and plant them down where God has spread His blessings so bountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature pays high wages to those who obey her laws.”

“No doubt there’s room enough here,” returned the scout sitting down and laying his rifle across his knees. “I’ve often thowt on them subjects, but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness, a man can’t git all the information needful to larn him about things in the old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man should choose to starve in the cities when there’s the free wilderness to roam about in. I mind havin’ a palaver once wi’ a stove-up man when I was ranchin’ down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was his name, an’ a real kind-hearted fellow he was too—only he couldn’t keep his hand off that curse o’ mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him my puzzlements about this matter, an’ he up fist an’ come down on the table wi’ a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they’d all come alive, an’ caused a plate o’ mush in front of him to spread itself all over the place—but he cared nothin’ for that, he was so riled up by the thowts my obsarvation had shook up.

“‘Hunky Ben,’ says he, glowerin’ at me like a bull wi’ the measles, ‘the reason we stay there an’ don’t come out here or go to the other parts o’ God’s green ’arth is ’cause we can’t help ourselves an’ don’t know how—or what—don’t know nothin’ in fact!’

“‘That’s a busted-up state o’ ignorance, no doubt’ said I, in a soothin’ sort o’ way, for I see’d the man was riled pretty bad by ancient memories, an’ looked gittin’ waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caught in a free fight the night before, which didn’t improve his looks. ‘You said we just now,’ says I. ‘Was you one o’ them?’

“‘Of course I was,’ says he, tamin’ down a little, ‘an’ I’d bin one o’ them yet—if not food for worms by this time—if it hadn’t bin for a dook as took pity on me.’

“‘What’s a dook?’ says I.

“‘A dook?’ says he. ‘Why, he’s a dook, you know; a sort o’ markis—somewheres between a lord an’ a king. I don’t know zackly where, an hang me if I care; but they’re a bad lot are some o’ them dooks—rich as Pharaoh, king o’ J’rus’lem, an’ hard as nails—though I’m bound for to say they ain’t all alike. Some on ’em’s no better nor costermongers, others are men; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us all an’ will call us all to the same account, an’ that the same kind o’ worms ’ll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on me was a true blue. He wasn’t one o’ the hard sort as didn’t care a rush for us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o’ the butter-mouths as dursen’t say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like a man, an’ he knew well enough that I’d bin born in the London slums, an’ that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caught her death o’ cold through havin’ to pawn her only pair o’ boots to pay my school fees an’ then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day to answer for not sendin’ her boy to the board school—her send me to school!—she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an’ him out o’ work, too, an’ all on us starvin’. My dook, when he hear about it a’most bust wi’ passion. I hear ’im arterwards talkin’ to a overseer, or somebody, “confound it,” says he—no, not quite that, for my dook he never swore, only he said somethin’ pretty stiff—“these people are starvin’,” says he, “an’ pawnin’ their things for food to keep ’em alive, an’ they can’t git work nohow,” says he, “an’ yet you worry them out o’ body an’ soul for school fees!” I didn’t hear no more, for the overseer smoothed ’im down somehows. But that dook—that good man, Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an’ sent me off wi’ his blessin’ an’ a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi’ me, an when I got to the other side I got hold of another bottle, an’ another—an’ there stands the last of ’em.’

“An’ wi’ that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such a crack wi’ his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.

“‘Well done, Screw!’ cried the boy at the bar, laughin’; ‘have another bottle?’

“Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by that time, an’, says he, ‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. A shot like that deserves another!’

“Ah me!” continued the scout, “it do take the manhood out of a fellow, that drink. Even when his indignation’s roused and he tries to shake it off, he can’t do it.”

“Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a case.”

The scout gravely shook his head. “Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that there’s a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I’ve heard parsons as well as you say that—as if the Almighty condescended to help us only when we’re in bad straits. Now, though I’m but a scout and pretend to no book larnin’, it comes in strong upon me that if God made us an’ measures our movements, an’ gives us every beat o’ the pulse, an’ counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in every case and at all times; that we can’t save ourselves from mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him.”

“I have thought of that too, sometimes,” said Charlie, sitting down on the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity, “but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?”

“It don’t seem so to me,” replied the scout, “I’m not speakin’, you see, so much of doin’ as of escapin’. No doubt we are perfectly free to will, but it don’t follow that we are free to act. I’m quite free to will to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an’ if I carry out my will an’ do it, why, I’m quite free there too—an’ also responsible. But I ain’t free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so—leastwise if I do it won’t stick. The consekinces o’ my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He does allow to get rid of a limb or two, an’ grow new ones! So, you see, I’m responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein’ free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he’s not free to cure himself. He can’t do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an’ my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain.”

“How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?”

“It’s not for the like o’ me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an’ ins o’ all mysteries. Yet I will p’int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people ‘honestly’ strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin’ the key the wrong way, he’ll strive till doomsday without openin’ the door! It’s my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin’ to his Maker.”

During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground. Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. “A footprint here,” he said, “that tells of recent visitors.”

“Friends, Ben, or foes?” asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. “Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks.”

“Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don’t see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o’ the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft—an’ the heel; surely ye see the heel!”

“A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?”

“Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I’ve had to track him more than once an’ would spot it among a thousand.”

“If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn’t it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence.”

“No fear o’ that,” replied the scout, rising from his inspection, “the futt p’ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin’ the night, an’ found that we kep’ too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin’. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an’ see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an’ then returned to his comrades.”

So saying, the scout “hoofed it” through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke’s powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time.

“Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin’ partiklar was up an’ nothin’ at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us.”

“But not so well for the fish in the other waters,” remarked Charlie.

“True, but we can’t help that. Come, we may as well return now.”

While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down.

“Come here, Leather,” he gasped faintly.

Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.

“D’you want anything?” he asked.

“Nothing, Shank. Where’s Dick?”

“Outside; cutting some firewood.”

“Don’t call him. I’m glad we are alone,” said the outlaw, seizing his friend’s hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. “I’m dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?”

“Forgive you, Ralph! Ay—long, long ago I—” He could not finish the sentence.

“I know you did, Shank,” returned the dying man, with a faint smile. “How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I’ve but one word to say when I get there, and that is—guilty! I—I loved your sister, Shank. Ay—you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now. God bless you—Shank—and—May.”

With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.

Chapter Twenty Eight. Chase, Capture, and End of Jake the Flint.

It was growing dark when Brooke and the scout reached the cave that evening and found that Buck Tom was dead; but they had barely time to realise the fact when their attention was diverted by the sudden arrival of a large band of horsemen—cowboys and others—the leader of whom seemed to be the cow-boy Crux.

Hunky Ben and his friends had, of course, made rapid preparations to receive them as foes, if need were; but on recognising who composed the cavalcade, they went out to meet them.

“Hallo! Hunky,” shouted Crux, as he rode up and leaped off his steed, “have they been here?”

“Who d’ye mean?” demanded the scout.

“Why, Jake the Flint, to be sure, an’ his murderin’ gang. Haven’t ye heard the news?”

“Not I. Who d’ye think would take the trouble to come up here with noos?”

“They’ve got clear off, boys,” said Crux, in a voice of great disappointment. “So we must off saddle, an’ camp where we are for the night.”

While the rest of the party dismounted and dispersed to look for a suitable camping-ground, Crux explained the reason of their unexpected appearance.

After the Flint and his companions had left their mountain fastness, as before described, they had appeared in different parts of the country and committed various depredations; some of their robberies having been accompanied with bloodshed and violence of a nature which so exasperated the people that an organised band had at length been gathered to go in pursuit of the daring outlaw. But Jake was somewhat Napoleonic in his character, swift in his movements, and sudden in his attacks; so that, while his exasperated foes were searching for him in one direction, news would be brought of his having committed some daring and bloody deed far off in some other quarter. His latest acts had been to kill and rob a post-runner, who happened to be a great favourite in his locality, and to attack and murder, in mere wanton cruelty, a family of friendly Indians, belonging to a tribe which had never given the whites any trouble. The fury of the people, therefore, was somewhat commensurate with the wickedness of the man. They resolved to capture him, and, as there was a number of resolute cow-boys on the frontier, to whom life seemed to be a bauble to be played with, kept, or cast lightly away, according to circumstances, it seemed as if the effort made at this time would be successful.

The latest reports that seemed reliable were to the effect that, after slaying the Indians, Jake and his men had made off in the direction of his old stronghold at the head of Traitor’s Trap. Hence the invasion by Crux and his band.

“You’ll be glad to hear—or sorry, I’m not sure which—” said the scout, “that Buck Tom has paid his last debt.”

“What! defunct?” exclaimed Crux.

“Ay. Whatever may have bin his true character an’ deeds, he’s gone to his account at last.”

“Are ye sure, Hunky?”

“If ye don’t believe me, go in there an’ you’ll see what’s left of him. The corp ain’t cold yet.”

The rugged cow-boy entered at once, to convince himself by ocular demonstration.

“Well,” said he, on coming out of the cave, “I wish it had been the Flint instead. He’ll give us some trouble, you bet, afore we bring him to lie as flat as Buck Tom. Poor Buck! They say he wasn’t a bad chap in his way, an’ I never heard of his bein’ cruel, like his comrades. His main fault was castin’ in his lot wi’ the Flint. They say that Jake has bin carousin’ around, throwin’ the town-folk everywhere into fits.”

That night the avengers in search of Jake the Flint slept in and around the outlaws’ cave, while the chief of the outlaws lay in the sleep of death in a shed outside. During the night the scout went out to see that the body was undisturbed, and was startled to observe a creature of some sort moving near it. Ben was troubled by no superstitious fears, so he approached with the stealthy, cat-like tread which he had learned to perfection in his frontier life. Soon he was near enough to perceive, through the bushes, that the form was that of Shank Leather, silent and motionless, seated by the side of Buck Tom, with his face buried in his hands upon his knees. A deep sob broke from him as he sat, and again he was silent and motionless. The scout withdrew as silently as he had approached, leaving the poor youth to watch and mourn over the friend who had shared his hopes and fears, sins and sorrows, so long—long at least in experience, if not in numbered years.

Next morning at daybreak they laid the outlaw in his last resting-place, and then the avengers prepared to set off in pursuit of his comrades.

“You’ll join us, I fancy,” said Crux to Charlie Brooke.

“No; I remain with my sick friend Leather. But perhaps some of my comrades may wish to go with you.”

It was soon arranged that Hunky Ben and Dick Darvall should join the party.

“We won’t be long o’ catchin’ him up,” said Crux, “for the Flint has become desperate of late, an’ we’re pretty sure of a man when he gets into that fix.”

The desperado to whom Crux referred was one of those terrible human monsters who may be termed a growth of American frontier life, men who, having apparently lost all fear of God, or man, or death, carry their lives about with hilarious indifference, ready to risk them at a moment’s notice on the slightest provocation, and to take the lives of others without a shadow of compunction. As a natural consequence, such maniacs, for they are little else, are feared by all, and even brave men feel the necessity of being unusually careful while in their company.

Among the various wild deeds committed by Jake and his men was one which led them into serious trouble and proved fatal to their chief. Coming to a village, or small town, one night they resolved to have a regular spree, and for this purpose encamped a short way outside the town till it should be quite dark. About midnight the outlaws, to the number of eight, entered the town, each armed with a Winchester and a brace of revolvers. Scattering themselves, they began a tremendous fusillade, as fast as they could fire, so that nearly the whole population, supposing the place was attacked by Indians, turned out and fled to the mountains behind the town. The Flint and his men made straight for the chief billiard room, which they found deserted, and there, after helping themselves to all the loose cash available, they began to drink. Of course they soon became wild under the influence of the liquor, but retained sense enough to mount their horses and gallop away before the people of the place mustered courage to return and attack the foe.

It was while galloping madly away after this raid that the murderous event took place which ended in the dispersal of the gang.

Daylight was creeping over the land when the outlaws left the town. Jake was wild with excitement at what had occurred, as well as with drink, and began to boast and swear in a horrible manner. When they had ridden a good many miles, one of the party said he saw some Redskins in a clump of wood they were approaching.

“Did ye?” cried Jake, flourishing his rifle over his head and uttering a terrible oath, “then I’ll shoot the first Redskin I come across.”

“Better not, Jake,” said one of his men. “They’re all friendly Injins about here.”

“What’s the odds to me!” yelled the drunken wretch. “I’ll shoot the first I see as I would a rabbit.”

At that moment they were passing a bluff covered with timber, and, unfortunately, a poor old Indian woman came out of the wood to look at the horsemen as they flew past.

Without an instant’s hesitation Jake swerved aside, rode straight up to the old creature, and blew out her brains.

Accustomed as they were to deeds of violence and bloodshed, his comrades were overwhelmed with horror at this, and, fearing the consequences of the dastardly murder, rode for life away over the plains.

But the deed had been witnessed by the relatives of the poor woman. Without sound or cry, fifty Red men leaped on their horses and swept with the speed of light along the other side of the bluff, which concealed them from the white men’s sight. Thus they managed to head them, and when Jake and his gang came to the end of the strip of wood, the Red men, armed with rifle and revolver, were in front of them.

There was something deadly and unusual in the silence of the Indians on this occasion. Concentrated rage seemed to have stopped their power to yell. Swift as eagles they swooped down and surrounded the little band of white men, who, seeing that opposition would be useless, and, perhaps, cowed by the sight of such a cold-blooded act offered no resistance at all, while their arms were taken from them.

With lips white from passion, the Indian chief in command demanded who did the deed. The outlaws pointed to Jake, who sat on his horse with glaring eyes and half-open mouth like one stupefied. At a word from the chief, he was seized, dragged off his horse, and held fast by two powerful men while a third bound his arms. A spear was driven deep into the ground to serve as a stake, and to this Jake was tied. He made no resistance. He seemed to have been paralysed, and remained quite passive while they stripped him naked to the waist. His comrades, still seated on their horses, seemed incapable of action. They had, no doubt, a presentiment of what was coming.

The chief then drew his scalping knife, and passed it swiftly round the neck of the doomed man so as to make a slight incision. Grasping the flap raised at the back of the neck, he tore a broad band of skin from Jake’s body, right down his back to his waist. A fearful yell burst from the lips of the wretched man, but no touch of pity moved the hearts of the Red men, whose chief prepared to tear off another strip of skin from the quivering flesh.

At the same moment the companions of the Flint wheeled their horses round, and, filled with horror, fled at full speed from the scene.

The Red men did not attempt to hinder them. There was no feud at that time between the white men and that particular tribe. It was only the murderer of their old kinswoman on whom they were bent on wreaking their vengeance, and with terrible cruelty was their diabolical deed accomplished. The comrades of the murderer, left free to do as they pleased, scattered as they fled, as if each man were unable to endure the sight of the other, and they never again drew together.

On the very next day Crux and his band of avengers were galloping over the same region, making straight for the town which the outlaws had thrown into such consternation, and where Crux had been given to understand that trustworthy news of the Flint’s movements would probably be obtained.

The sun was setting, and a flood of golden light was streaming over the plains, when one of the band suggested that it would be better to encamp where they were than to proceed any further that night.

“So we will, boy,” said Crux, looking about for a suitable spot, until his eye fell on a distant object that riveted his attention.

“A strange-looking thing, that,” remarked the scout who had observed the object at the same moment. “Somethin’ like a man, but standin’ crooked-like in a fashion I never saw a man stand before, though I’ve seen many a queer sight in my day.”

“We’ll soon clear up the mystery,” said Crux, putting spurs to his horse and riding straight for the object in question, followed by the whole cavalcade.

“Ay, ay, bloody work bin goin’ on here, I see,” muttered the scout as they drew near.

“The accursed Redskins!” growled Crux.

We need scarcely say that it was the dead body of Jake they had thus discovered, tied to the spear which was nearly broken by the weight of the mutilated carcass. Besides tearing most of the skin off the wretched man’s body, the savages had scalped Jake; but a deep wound over the region of the heart showed that they had, at all events, ended his sufferings before they left him.

While the avengers—whose vengeance was thus forestalled—were busy scraping a shallow grave for the remains of the outlaw, a shout was raised by several of the party who dashed after something into a neighbouring copse. An Indian had been discovered there, and the cruelties which had been practised on the white man had, to a great extent, transferred their wrath from the outlaw to his murderers. But they found that the rush was needless, for the Indian who had been observed was seated on the ground beside what appeared to be a newly formed grave, and he made no attempt to escape.

He was a very old and feeble man, yet something of the fire of the warrior gleamed from his sunken eyes as he stood up and tried to raise his bent form into an attitude of proud defiance.

“Do you belong to the tribe that killed this white man?” said Hunky Ben, whose knowledge of most of the Indian dialects rendered him the fitting spokesman of the party.

“I do,” answered the Indian in a stern yet quavering voice that seemed very pitiful, for it was evident that the old man thought his last hour had come, and that he had made up his mind to die as became a dauntless Indian brave.

At that moment a little Indian girl, who had hitherto lain quite concealed in the tangled grass, started up like a rabbit from its lair and dashed into the thicket. Swiftly though the child ran, however, one of the young men of the party was swifter. He sprang off in pursuit, and in a few moments brought her back.

“Your tribe is not at war with the pale-faces,” continued the scout, taking no notice of this episode. “They have been needlessly cruel.”

For some moments the old man gazed sternly at his questioner as if he heard him not. Then the frown darkened, and, pointing to the grave at his feet, he said—

“The white man was more cruel.”

“What had he done?” asked the scout.

But the old man would not reply. There came over his withered features that stony stare of resolute contempt which he evidently intended to maintain to the last in spite of torture and death.

“Better question the child,” suggested Dick Darvall, who up to that moment had been too much horrified by what he had witnessed to be able to speak.

The scout looked at the child. She stood trembling beside her captor, with evidences of intense terror on her dusky countenance, for she was only too well accustomed to the cruelties practised by white men and red on each other to have any hope either for the old man or herself.

“Poor thing!” said Hunky Ben, laying his strong hand tenderly on the girl’s head. Then, taking her hand, he led her gently aside, and spoke to her in her own tongue.

There was something so unexpectedly soft in the scout’s voice, and so tender in his touch, that the little brown maid was irresistibly comforted. When one falls into the grasp of Goodness and Strength, relief of mind, more or less, is an inevitable result. David thought so when he said, “Let me fall now into the hand of the Lord.” The Indian child evidently thought so when she felt that Hunky Ben was strong and perceived that he was good.

“We will not hurt you, my little one,” said the scout, when he had reached a retired part of the copse, and, sitting down, placed the child on his knee. “The white man who was killed by your people was a very bad man. We were looking for him to kill him. Was it the old man that killed him?”

“No,” replied the child, “it was the chief.”

“Why was he so cruel in his killing?” asked the scout.

“Because the white man was a coward. He feared to face our warriors, but he shot an old woman!” answered the little maid; and then, inspired with confidence by the scout’s kind and pitiful expression, she related the whole story of the savage and wanton murder perpetrated by the Flint, the subsequent vengeance of her people, and the unchecked flight and dispersion of Jake’s comrades. The old woman who had been slain, she said, was her grandmother, and the old man who had been captured was her grandfather.

“Friends, our business has been done for us,” said the scout on rejoining his comrades, “so we’ve nothing to do but return home.”

He then told them in detail what the Indian girl had related.

“Of course,” he added, “we’ve no right to find fault wi’ the Redskins for punishin’ the murderer arter their own fashion, though we might wish they had bin somewhat more merciful—”

“No, we mightn’t,” interrupted Crux stoutly. “The Flint got off easy in my opinion. If I had had the doin’ o’t, I’d have roasted him alive.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Crux,” returned Ben, with a benignant smile. “Young chaps like you are always, accordin’ to your own showin’, worse than the devil himself when your blood’s roused by indignation at cruelty or injustice, but you sing a good deal softer when you come to the scratch with your enemy in your power.”

“You’re wrong, Hunky Ben,” retorted Crux firmly. “Any man as would blow the brains out of a poor old woman in cold blood, as the Flint did, desarves the worst that can be done to him.”

“I didn’t say nowt about what he desarves,” returned the scout; “I was speakin’ about what you would do if you’d got the killin’ of him.”

“Well, well, mates,” said Dick Darvall, a little impatiently, “seems to me that we’re wastin’ our wind, for the miserable wretch, bein’ defunct, is beyond the malice o’ red man or white. I therefore vote that we stop palaverin’, ’bout ship, clap on all sail an’ lay our course for home.”

This suggestion met with general approval, and the curious mixture of men and races, which had thus for a brief period been banded together under the influence of a united purpose, prepared to break up.

“I suppose you an’ Darvall will make tracks for Traitor’s Trap,” said Crux to Hunky Ben.

“That’s my trail to be,” answered the scout. “What say you, Black Polly? Are ye game for such a spin to-night?”

The mare arched her glossy neck, put back both ears, and gave other indications that she would have fully appreciated the remarks of her master if she had only understood them.

“Ah! Bluefire and I don’t talk in that style,” said Crux, with a laugh. “I give him his orders an’ he knows that he’s got to obey. He and I will make a bee-line for David’s Store an’ have a drink. Who’ll keep me company?”

Several of the more reckless among the men intimated their willingness to join the toper. The rest said they had other business on hand than to go carousin’ around.

“Why, Crux,” said one who had been a very lively member of the party during the ride out, “d’ye know, boy, that it’s writ in the book o’ Fate that you an’ I an’ all of us, have just got so many beats o’ the pulse allowed us—no more an’ no less—an’ we’re free to run the beats out fast or slow, just as we like? There’s nothin’ like drink for makin’ ’em go fast!”

“I don’t believe that, Robin Stout,” returned Crux; “an’ even if I did believe it I’d go on just the same, for I prefer a short life and a merry one to a long life an’ a wishy-washy miserable one.”

“Hear! hear!” exclaimed several of the topers.

“Don’t ye think, Crux,” interposed Darvall, “that a long life an’ a happy one might be better than either?”

“Hear! hear!” remarked Hunky Ben, with a quiet laugh.

“Well, boys,” said one fine bright-looking young fellow, patting the neck of his pony, “whether my life is to be long or short, merry, wishy-washy or happy, I shall be off cow-punching for the next six months or so, somewhere about the African bend, on the Colorado River, in South Texas, an’ I mean to try an’ keep my pulse a-goin’ without drink. I’ve seen more than enough o’ the curse that comes to us all on account of it, and I won’t be caught in that trap again.”

“Then you’ve bin caught in it once already, Jo Pinto?” said a comrade.

“Ay, I just have, but, you bet, it’s the last time. I don’t see the fun of makin’ my veins a channel for firewater, and then finishin’ off with D.T., if bullet or knife should leave me to go that length.”

“I suppose, Pinto,” said Crux, with a smile of contempt, “that you’ve bin to hear that mad fellow Gough, who’s bin howlin’ around in these parts of late?”

“That’s so,” retorted Pinto, flushing with sudden anger. “I’ve been to hear J.B. Gough, an’ what’s more I mean to take his advice in spite of all the flap-jack soakers ’tween the Atlantic and the Rockies. He’s a true man, is Gough, every inch of him, and men and women that’s bin used chiefly to cursin’ in time past have heaped more blessin’s on that man’s head than would sink you, Crux,—if put by mistake on your head—right through the lowest end o’ the bottomless pit.”

“Pretty deep that, anyhow!” exclaimed Crux, with a careless laugh, for he had no mind to quarrel with the stout young cow-boy whose black eyes he had made to flash so keenly.

“It seems to me,” said another of the band, as he hung the coils of his lasso round the horn of his Mexican saddle, “that we must quit talkin’ unless we make up our minds to stop here till sun-up. Who’s goin’ north? My old boss is financially busted, so I’ve hired to P.T. Granger, who has started a new ranch at the head o’ Pugit’s Creek. He wants one or two good hands I know, an’ I’ve reason to believe he’s an honest man. I go up trail at thirty dollars per month. The outfit’s to consist of thirty hundred head of Texas steers, a chuck wagon and cook, with thirty riders includin’ the boss himself an’ six horses to the man.”

A couple of stout-looking cow-boys offered to join the last speaker on the strength of his representations, and then, as the night bid fair to be bright and calm, the whole band scattered and galloped away in separate groups over the moonlit plains.

Chapter Twenty Nine. They Return to the Ranch of Roaring Bull, where Something Serious Happens to Dick Darvall.

When Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben returned from the expedition which we have just described, they found all right at the cave, except that a letter to Leather had been sent up from Bull’s ranch which had caused him much grief and anxiety.

“I have been eagerly awaiting your return, Ben,” said Charlie Brooke, when he and the scout went outside the cave to talk the matter over, “for the news in this letter has thrown poor Leather back considerably, and, as he will continue to fret about it and get worse, something must be done.”

He paused for a few moments, and the scout gravely waited for him to resume.

“The fact is,” continued Charlie, “that poor Leather’s father has been given far too much to the bottle during a great part of his life, and the letter just received tells us that he has suddenly left home and gone no one knows where. Now, my friend Leather and his father were always very fond of each other, and the son cannot forgive himself for having at various times rather encouraged his father in drinking, so that his conscience is reproaching him terribly, as you may well believe, and he insists on it that he is now quite able to undertake the voyage home. You and I know, Ben, that in his present state it would be madness for him to attempt it; yet to lie and fret here would be almost as bad. Now, what is your advice?”

For some moments the scout stood silent with his eyes on the ground and his right hand grasping his chin—his usual attitude when engaged in meditation.

“Is there enough o’ dollars,” he asked, “to let you do as ye like?”

“No lack of dollars, I dare say, when needed,” replied Charlie.

“Then my advice,” returned the scout promptly, “is to take Leather straight off to-morrow mornin’ to Bull’s ranch; make him comfortable there, call him Mister Shank,—so as nobody’ll think he’s been the man called Leather, who’s bin so long ill along wi’ poor Buck Tom’s gang,—and then you go off to old England to follow his father’s trail till you find him. Leather has great belief in you, sir, and the feelin’ that you are away doin’ your best for him will do more to relieve his mind and strengthen his body than tons o’ doctor’s stuff. Dick Darvall could remain to take care of him if he has no objection.”

“I rather think he would be well pleased to do so,” replied Charlie, with a laugh of significance, which the scout quietly subjected to analysis in what he styled his brain-pan, and made a note of the result in his mental memorandum book!

“But I doubt if Leather—”

“Shank,” interrupted the scout. “Call him Shank from now, so’s we may all git used to it; tho’ p’r’aps it ain’t o’ much importance, for most o’ the men that saw him here saw him in uncommon bad condition an’ would hardly know him again, besides, they won’t likely be at Bull’s ranch, an’ the captain an’ troops that were here have been ordered down south. Still one can never be too careful when life and death may be i’ the balance. Your friend niver was one o’ the outlaws, but it mightn’t be easy to prove that.”

“Well, then,” resumed our hero, “I was going to say that I fear Shank won’t be able to stand the journey even to the ranch.”

“No fear of that, sir. We’ll carry him down to the foot o’ the Trap, an’ when we git out on the plain mount him on one o’ the horses left by poor Buck—the one that goes along so quiet that they’ve given it the name o’ the Wheelbarrow.”

“Should I speak to him to-night about our plan, Ben?”

“No. If I was you I’d only say we’re goin’ to take him down to Bull’s ranch i’ the mornin’. That’ll take his mind a bit off the letter, an’ then it’ll give him an extra lift when you tell him the rest o’ the plan.”

In accordance with this arrangement, on the following morning a litter was made with two stout poles and a blanket between. On this the invalid was laid after an early breakfast; another blanket was spread over him, and the scout and Dick, taking it up between them, carried him out of Traitor’s Trap, while Charlie Brooke, riding Jackson’s horse, led the Wheelbarrow by the bridle. As for Black Polly, she was left to follow at her own convenience, a whistle from Hunky Ben being at any moment sufficient to bring her promptly to her master’s side.

On reaching the plain the litter was laid aside, the blankets were fastened to the horses, and Shank prepared, as Dick said, to board Wheelbarrow.

“Now then, Shank,” said the seaman, while helping his friend, “don’t be in a hurry. Nothin’ was ever done well in a hurry either afloat or ashore. Git your futt well into the stirrup an’ don’t take too much of a spring, else you’ll be apt to go right over on the starboard side. Hup you go!”

The worthy sailor lent such willing aid that there is little doubt he would have precipitated the catastrophe against which he warned, had not Hunky Ben placed himself on the “starboard side” of the steed and counteracted the heave. After that all went well; the amble of the Wheelbarrow fully justified the title, and in due course the party arrived at the ranch of Roaring Bull, where the poor invalid was confined to his room for a considerable time thereafter, and became known at the ranch as Mr Shank.

One evening Charlie Brooke entered the kitchen of the ranch in search of his friend Dick Darvall, who had a strange fondness for Buttercup, and frequently held converse with her in the regions of the back-kitchen.

“I dun know whar he is, massa Book,” answered the sable beauty when appealed to, “he’s mostly somewhar around when he’s not nowhar else.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he was,” returned Charlie with a hopeful smile. “I suppose Miss Mary’s not around anywhere, is she?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t; but she ain’t here, massa,” said the black maid earnestly.

“You are a truthful girl, Butter—stick to that, and you’ll get on in life.”

With this piece of advice Charlie left the kitchen abruptly, and thereby missed the eruption of teeth and gums that immediately followed his remark.

Making his way to the chamber of his sick friend, Charlie sat down at the open window beside him.

“How d’you feel this evening, my boy?” he asked.

“A little better, but—oh dear me!—I begin to despair of getting well enough to go home, and it’s impossible to avoid being worried, for, unless father is sought for and found soon he, will probably sink altogether. You have no idea, Charlie, what a fearful temptation drink becomes to those who have once given way to it and passed a certain point.”

“I don’t know it personally—though I take no credit for that—but I have some idea of it, I think, from what I have seen and heard. But I came to relieve your mind on the subject, Shank. I wanted to speak with Dick Darvall first to see if he would fall in with my plan, but as I can’t find him just now I thought it best to come straight to you about it. Hallo! There is Dick.”

“Where?” said Shank, bending forward so as to see the place on which his friend’s eyes were fixed.

“There, don’t you see? Look across that bit of green sward, about fifty yards into the bush, close to that lopped pine where a thick shrub overhangs a fallen tree—”

“I see—I see!” exclaimed Shank, a gleeful expression banishing for a time the look of suffering and anxiety that had become habitual to him. “Why, the fellow is seated beside Mary Jackson!”

“Ay, and holding a very earnest conversation with her, to judge from his attitude,” said Charlie. “Probably inquiring into the market-price of steers—or some absorbing topic of that sort.”

“He’s grasping her hand now!” exclaimed Shank, with an expanding mouth.

“And she lets him hold it. Really this becomes interesting,” observed Charlie, with gravity. “But, my friend, is not this a species of eavesdropping? Are we not taking mean advantage of a pair who fondly think themselves alone? Come, Shank, let us turn our backs on the view and try to fix our minds on matters of personal interest.”

But the young men had not to subject themselves to such a delicate test of friendship, for before they could make any attempt to carry out the suggestion, Dick and Mary were seen to rise abruptly and hasten from the spot in different directions. A few minutes later Buttercup was observed to glide upon the scene and sit down upon the self-same fallen tree. The distance from the bedroom window was too great to permit of sounds reaching the observers’ ears, or of facial contortions meeting their eyes very distinctly, but there could be no doubt as to the feelings of the damsel, or the meaning of those swayings to and fro of her body, the throwing back of her head, and the pressing of her hands on her sides. Suddenly she held out a black hand as if inviting some one in the bush to draw near. The invitation was promptly accepted by a large brown dog—a well-known favourite in the ranch household.

Rover—for such was his name—leaped on the fallen tree and sat down on the spot which had previously been occupied by the fair Mary. The position was evidently suggestive, for Buttercup immediately began to gesticulate and clasp her hands as if talking very earnestly to the dog.

“I verily believe,” said Shank, “that the blacking-ball is re-enacting the scene with Rover! See! she grasps his paw, and—”

“My friend,” said Charlie, “we are taking mean advantage again! And, behold! like the other pair, they are flitting from the scene, though not quite in the same fashion.”

This was true, for Buttercup, reflecting, probably, that she might be missed in the kitchen, had suddenly tumbled Rover off the tree and darted swiftly from the spot.

“Come now, Shank,” said Charlie, resuming the thread of discourse which had been interrupted, “it is quite plain to Dick and to myself that you are unfit to travel home in your present state of health, so I have made up my mind to leave you here in the care of honest Jackson and Darvall, and to go home myself to make inquiries and search for your father. Will this make your mind easy? For that is essential to your recovery at the present time.”

“You were always kind and self-sacrificing, Charlie. Assuredly, your going will take an enormous weight off my mind, for you are much better fitted by nature for such a search than I am—to say nothing of health. Thank you, my dear old boy, a thousand times. As for Dick Darvall,” added Shank, with a laugh, “before this evening I would have doubted whether he would be willing to remain with me after your departure, but I have no doubt now—considering what we have just witnessed!”

“Yes, he has found ‘metal more attractive,’” said Charlie, rising. “I will now go and consult with him, after which I will depart without delay.”

“You’ve been having a gallop, to judge from your heightened colour and flashing eyes,” said Charlie to Dick when they met in the yard, half-an-hour later.

“N–no—not exactly,” returned the seaman, with a slightly embarrassed air. “The fact is I’ve bin cruisin’ about in the bush.”

“What! lookin’ for Redskins?”

“N–no; not exactly, but—”

“Oh! I see. Out huntin’, I suppose. After deer—eh?”

“Well, now, that was a pretty fair guess, Charlie,” said Dick, laughing. “To tell ye the plain truth, I have been out arter a dear—full sail—an’—”

“And you bagged it, of course. Fairly run it down, I suppose,” said his friend, again interrupting.

“Well, there ain’t no ‘of course’ about it, but as it happened, I did manage to overhaul her, and coming to close quarters, I—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Charlie a third time, with provoking coolness. “You ran her on to the rocks, Dick—which was unseamanlike in the extreme—at least you ran the dear aground on a fallen tree and, sitting down beside it, asked it to become Mrs Darvall, and the amiable creature agreed, eh?”

“Why, how on earth did ’ee come for to know that?” asked Dick, in blazing astonishment.

“Well, you know, there’s no great mystery about it. If a bold sailor will go huntin’ close to the house, and run down his game right in front of Mr Shank’s windows, he must expect to have witnesses. However, give me your flipper, mess-mate, and let me congratulate you, for in my opinion there’s not such another dear on all the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. But now that I’ve found you, I want to lay some of my future plans before you.”

They had not been discussing these plans many minutes, when Mary was seen crossing the yard in company with Hunky Ben.

“If Hunky would only stop, we’d keep quite jolly till you return,” observed Dick, in an undertone as the two approached.

“We were just talking of you, Ben,” observed Charlie, as they came up.

“Are you goin’ for a cruise, Miss Mary?” asked the seaman in a manner that drew the scout’s attention.

“No,” replied Mary with a little laugh, and anything but a little blush, that intensified the attention of the scout. He gave one of his quiet but quick glances at Dick and chuckled softly.

“So soon!” he murmured to himself; “sartinly your sea-dog is pretty slick at such matters.”

Dick thought he heard the chuckle and turned a lightning glance on the scout, but that sturdy son of the forest had his leathern countenance turned towards the sky with profoundest gravity. It was characteristic of him, you see, to note the signs of the weather.

“Mr Brooke,” he said, with the slow deliberate air of the man who forms his opinions on solid grounds, “there’s goin’ to be a bu’st up o’ the elements afore long, as sure as my name’s Hunky.”

“That’s the very thing I want to talk about with you, Ben, for I meditate a long journey immediately. Come, walk with me.”

Taking the scout’s arm he paced with him slowly up and down the yard, while Dick and Mary went off on a cruise elsewhere.

Chapter Thirty. Changes the Scene Somewhat Violently, and Shows our Hero in a New Light.

The result of our hero’s consultation with the scout was not quite as satisfactory as it might have been. Charlie had hoped that Hunky Ben would have been able to stay with Shank till he should return from the old country, but found, to his regret, that that worthy was engaged to conduct still further into the great western wilderness a party of emigrants who wished to escape the evils of civilisation, and to set up a community of their own which should be founded on righteousness, justice, and temperance.

“You see, sir,” said the scout, “I’ve gi’n them my promise to guide them whenever they’re ready to start, so, as they may git ready and call for my services at any moment, I must hold myself free o’ other engagements. To say truth, even if they hadn’t my promise I’d keep myself free to help ’em, for I’ve a likin’ for the good man—half doctor, half parson as well as Jack-of-all-trades—as has set the thing agoin’—moreover, I’ve a strong belief that all this fightin’, an’ scalpin’, an’ flayin’ alive, an roastin’, an’ revenge, ain’t the way to bring about good ends either among Red men or white.”

“I agree with you heartily, Ben, though I don’t very well see how we are to alter it. However, we must leave the discussion of that difficulty to another time. The question at present is, what hope is there of your staying here even for a short time after I leave? for in Dick Darvall’s present condition of mind he is not much to be depended on, and Jackson is too busy. You see, I want Shank to go out on horseback as much as possible, but in this unsettled region and time he would not be safe except in the care of some one who knew the country and its habits, and who had some sort of sympathy with a broken-down man.”

“All I can say, Mr Brooke, is that I’ll stay wi’ your friend as long as I can,” returned the scout, “an’ when I’m obleeged to make tracks for the west, I’ll try to git another man to take my place. Anyhow, I think that Mr Reeves—that’s the name o’ the good man as wants me an’ is boss o’ the emigrants—won’t be able to git them all ready to start for some weeks yet.”

Charlie was obliged to content himself with this arrangement. Next day he was galloping eastward—convoyed part of the way by the scout on Black Polly and Dick Darvall on Wheelbarrow. Soon he got into the region of railways and steam-boats, and, in a few weeks more was once again in Old England.

A post-card announced his arrival, for Charlie had learned wisdom from experience, and feared to take any one “by surprise”—especially his mother.

We need not describe this second meeting of our hero with his kindred and friends. In many respects it resembled the former, when the bad news about Shank came, and there was the same conclave in Mrs Leather’s parlour, for old Jacob Crossley happened to be spending a holiday in Sealford at the time.

Indeed he had latterly taken to spending much of his leisure time at that celebrated watering-place, owing, it was supposed, to the beneficial effect which the sea-air had on his rheumatism.

But May Leather knew better. With that discriminating penetration which would seem to be the natural accompaniment of youth and beauty, she discerned that the old gentleman’s motive for going so frequently to Sealford was a compound motive.

First, Mr Crossley was getting tired of old bachelorhood, and had at last begun to enjoy ladies’ society, especially that of such ladies as Mrs Leather and Mrs Brooke, to say nothing of May herself and Miss Molloy—the worsted reservoir—who had come to reside permanently in the town and who had got the “Blackguard Boy” into blue tights and buttons, to the amazement and confusion of the little dog Scraggy, whose mind was weakened in consequence—so they said. Second, Mr Crossley was remarkably fond of Captain Stride, whom he abused like a pick-pocket and stuck to like a brother, besides playing backgammon with him nightly, to the great satisfaction of the Captain’s “missus” and their “little Mag.” Third, Mr Crossley had no occasion to attend to business, because business, somehow, attended to itself, and poured its profits perennially into the old gentleman’s pocket—a pocket which was never full, because it had a charitable hole in it somewhere which let the cash run out as fast as it ran in. Fourth and last, but not least, Mr Crossley found considerable relief in getting away occasionally from his worthy housekeeper Mrs Bland. This relief, which he styled “letting off the steam” at one time, “brushing away the cobwebs” at another, was invariably followed by a fit of amiability, which resulted in a penitent spirit, and ultimately took him back to town where he remained till Mrs Bland had again piled enough of eccentricity on the safety valve to render another letting off of steam on the sea-shore imperative.

What Charlie learned at the meeting held in reference to the disappearance of old Mr Isaac Leather was not satisfactory. The wretched man had so muddled his brain by constant tippling that it had become a question at last whether he was quite responsible for his actions. In a fit of remorse, after an attack of delirium tremens, he had suddenly condemned himself as being a mean contemptible burden on his poor wife and daughter. Of course both wife and daughter asserted that his mere maintenance was no burden on them at all—as in truth it was not when compared with the intolerable weight of his intemperance—and they did their best to soothe him. But the idea seemed to have taken firm hold of him, and preyed upon his mind, until at last he left home one morning in a fit of despair, and had not since been heard of.

“Have you no idea, then, where he has gone?” asked Charlie.

“No, none,” said Mrs Leather, with a tear trembling in her eye.

“We know, mother,” said May, “that he has gone to London. The booking clerk at the station, you know, told us that.”

“Did the clerk say to what part of London he booked?”

“No, he could not remember.”

“Besides, if he had remembered, that would be but a slight clue,” said Mr Crossley. “As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as for a man in London.”

“As well go to sea without rudder or compass,” observed Captain Stride.

“Nevertheless,” said Charlie, rising, “I will make the attempt.”

“Hopeless,” said Crossley. “Sheer madness,” added Stride. Mrs Leather shook her head and wept gently. Mrs Brooke sighed and cast down her eyes. Miss Molloy—who was of the council, being by that time cognisant of all the family secrets—clasped her hands and looked miserable. Of all that conclave the only one who did not throw cold water on our hero was pretty little brown-eyed May. She cast on him a look of trusting gratitude which blew a long smouldering spark into such a flame that the waters of Niagara in winter would have failed to quench it.

“I can’t tell you yet, friends, what I intend to do,” said Charlie. “All I can say is that I’m off to London. I shall probably be away some time, but will write to mother occasionally. So good-bye.”

He said a good deal more, of course, but that was the gist of it.

May accompanied him to the door.

“Oh! thank you—thank you!” she said, with trembling lip and tearful eyes as she held out her hand, “I feel sure that you will find father.”

“I think I shall, May. Indeed I also feel sure that I shall—God helping me.”

At the ticket office he found that the clerk remembered very little. He knew the old gentleman well by sight, indeed, but was in the habit of selling tickets to so many people that it was impossible for him to remember where they booked to. In fact the only thing that had fixed Mr Leather at all in his memory was the fact that the old man had dropped his ticket, had no money to take another, and had pleaded earnestly to let him have one on trust, a request with which he dared not comply—but fortunately, a porter found and restored the ticket.

“Is the porter you refer to still here?” asked Charlie.

Yes, he was there; and Charlie soon found him. The porter recollected the incident perfectly, for the old gentleman, he said, had made a considerable fuss about the lost ticket.

“And you can’t remember the station he went to?”

“No, sir, but I do remember something about his saying he wanted to go to Whitechapel—I think it was—or Whitehall, I forget which, but I’m sure it was white something.”

With this very slender clue Charlie Brooke presented himself in due time at Scotland Yard, at which fountain-head of London policedom he gave a graphic account of the missing man and the circumstances attending his disappearance. Thence he went to the headquarters of the London City Mission; introduced himself to a sympathetic secretary there, and was soon put in communication with one of the most intelligent of those valuable self-sacrificing and devoted men who may be styled the salt of the London slums. This good man’s district embraced part of Whitechapel.

“I will help you to the extent of my power, Mr Brooke,” he said, “but your quest will be a difficult one, perhaps dangerous. How do you propose to go about it?”

“By visiting all the low lodging-houses in Whitechapel first,” said Charlie.

“That will take a long time,” said the City Missionary, smiling. “Low lodging-houses are somewhat numerous in these parts.”

“I am aware of that, Mr Stansfield, and mean to take time,” returned our hero promptly. “And what I want of you is to take me into one or two of them, so that I may see something of them while under your guidance. After that I will get their streets and numbers from you, or through you, and will then visit them by myself.”

“But, excuse me, my friend,” returned the missionary, “your appearance in such places will attract more attention than you might wish, and would interfere with your investigations, besides exposing you to danger, for the very worst characters in London are sometimes to be found in such places. Only men of the police force and we city missionaries can go among them with impunity.”

“I have counted the cost, Mr Stansfield, and intend to run the risk; but thank you, all the same, for your well-meant warning. Can you go round one or two this afternoon?”

“I can, with pleasure, and will provide you with as many lodging-house addresses as I can procure. Do you live far from this?”

“No, quite close. A gentleman, who was in your Secretary’s office when I called, recommended a small lodging-house kept by a Mrs Butt in the neighbourhood of Flower and Dean Street. You know that region well, I suppose?”

“Ay—intimately; and I know Mrs Butt too—a very respectable woman. Come, then, let us start on our mission.”

Accordingly Mr Stansfield introduced his inexperienced friend into two of the principal lodging-houses in that neighbourhood. They merely passed through them, and the missionary, besides commenting on all that they saw, told his new friend where and what to pay for a night’s lodging. He also explained the few rules that were connected with those sinks into which the dregs of the metropolitan human family ultimately settle. Then he accompanied Charlie to the door of his new lodging and bade him good-night.

It was a dingy little room in which our hero found himself, having an empty and rusty fire-grate on one side and a window on the other, from which there was visible a landscape of paved court. The foreground of the landscape was a pump, the middle distance a wash-tub, and the background a brick wall, about ten feet distant and fifteen feet high. There was no sky to the landscape, by reason of the next house. The furniture was in keeping with the view.

Observing a small sofa of the last century on its last legs in a corner, Charlie sat down on it and rose again instantly, owing apparently to rheumatic complaints from its legs.

“La! sir,” said the landlady, who had followed him into the room, “you don’t need to fear anythink. That sofar, sir, ’as bin in my family for three generations. The frame was renoo’d before I was born, an’ the legs I ’ad taken off an’ noo ones putt on about fifteen year ago last Easter as ever was. My last lodger ’ee went through the bottom of it, w’ich obliged me to ’ave that renoo’d, so it’s stronger than ever it were. If you only keep it well shoved up agin the wall, sir, it’ll stand a’most any weight—only it won’t stand jumpin’ on. You mustn’t jump on it, sir, with your feet!”

Charlie promised solemnly that he would not jump on it either with his feet or head, and then asked if he could have tea and a fire. On being informed that he could have both, he drew out his purse and said—

“Now, Mrs Butt, I expect to stay here for two or three weeks—perhaps longer. My name is Brooke. I was advised to come here by a gentleman in the offices of the City Mission. I shall have no visitors—being utterly unknown in this neighbourhood—except, perhaps, the missionary who parted from me at the door—”

“Mr Stansfield, sir?” said the landlady.

“Yes. You know him?”

“I’ve knowed ’im for years, sir. I shall only be too pleased to ’ave any friend of ’is in my ’ouse, I assure you.”

“That’s well. Now, Mrs Butt, my motive in coming here is to discover a runaway relation—”

“La! sir—a little boy?”

“No, Mrs Butt, a—”

“Surely not a little gurl, sir,” said the landlady, with a sympathetic expression.

“It is of no consequence what or who the runaway relation is, Mrs Butt; I merely mention the fact in order that you may understand the reason of any little eccentricity you may notice in my conduct, and not perplex your mind about it. For instance, I shall have no regular hours—may be out late or early—it may be even all night. You will give me a pass-key, and I will let myself in. The only thing I will probably ask for will be a cup of tea or coffee. Pray let me have one about an hour hence. I’m going out at present. Here is a week’s rent in advance.”

“Shall I put on a fire, sir?” asked Mrs Butt.

“Well, yes—you may.”

“Toast, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” said Charlie, opening the outer door.

“’Ot or cold, sir?”

“’Ot, and buttered,” cried Charlie, with a laugh, as he shut the door after him and rendered further communication impossible.

Wending his way through the poor streets in the midst of which his lodging was situated, our hero at last found an old-clothes store, which he entered.

“I want a suit of old clothes,” he said to the owner, a Jew, who came forward.

The Jew smiled, spread out his hands after the manner of a Frenchman, and said, “My shop, sir, is at your disposal.”

After careful inspection Charlie selected a fustian coat of extremely ragged appearance, with trousers to match, also a sealskin vest of a mangy complexion, likewise a soiled and battered billycock hat so shockingly bad that it was difficult to imagine it to have ever had better days at all.

“Are they clean?” he asked.

“Bin baked and fumigated, sir,” answered the Jew solemnly.

As the look and smell of the garments gave some countenance to the truth of this statement, Charlie paid the price demanded, had them wrapped up in a green cotton handkerchief, and carried them off.

Arrived at his lodging he let himself in, entered his room, and threw the bundle in a corner. Then he rang for tea.

It was growing dark by that time, but a yellow-cotton blind shut out the prospect, and a cheery fire in the grate lighted up the little room brightly, casting a rich glow on the yellow-white table-cloth, which had been already spread, and creating a feeling of coziness in powerful contrast to the sensation of dreariness which had assailed him on his first entrance. When Mrs Butt had placed a paraffin lamp on the table, with a dark-brown teapot, a thick glass sugar-bowl, a cream-jug to match, and a plate of thick-buttered toast that scented the atmosphere deliciously, our hero thought—not for the first time in his life—that wealth was a delusion, besides being a snare.

“‘One wants but little here below,’” he mused, as he glanced round the apartment; “but he wants it longer than that,” thought he, as his eyes wandered to the ancient sofa, which was obviously eighteen inches too short for him.

“I ’ope you’ve found ’im, sir,” said Mrs Butt anxiously, as she was about to retire.

“Found who?”

“Your relation, sir; the little boy—I mean gurl.”

“No, I have found neither the boy nor the girl,” returned the lodger sharply. “Haven’t even begun to look for them yet.”

“Oh! beg parding, sir, I didn’t know there was two of ’em.”

“Neither are there. There’s only one. Fetch me some hot water, Mrs Butt, your tea is too good. I never take it strong.”

The landlady retired, and, on returning with the water, found her lodger so deep in a newspaper that she did not venture to interrupt him.

Tea over, Charlie locked his door and clothed himself in his late purchase, which fitted him fairly well, considering that he had measured it only by eye. Putting on the billycock, and tying the green cotton kerchief loosely round his neck to hide his shirt, he stepped in front of the looking-glass above the mantelpiece.

At sight of himself he was prepared to be amused, but he had not expected to be shocked! Yet shocked he certainly was, for the transformation was so complete that it suddenly revealed to him something of the depth of degradation to which he might fall—to which many a man as good as himself, if not better, had fallen. Then amusement rose within him, for he was the very beau-ideal of a typical burglar, or a prize-fighter: big, square-shouldered, deep-chested, large-chinned. The only parts that did not quite correspond to the type were his straight, well-formed nose and his clear blue eyes, but these defects were put right by slightly drooping his eyelids, pushing his billycock a little back on his head, and drawing a lock of hair in a drunken fashion over his forehead.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Slipping his latchkey into his pocket he went out of the house and closed the door softly. Then he rang the bell.

“Is the gen’leman at ’ome?” he asked of Mrs Butt, in a gruff, hoarse voice, as if still engaged in a struggle with a bad cold.

“What gentleman?” asked Mrs Butt eyeing him suspiciously.

“W’y, the gen’leman as sent for me to give ’im boxin’ lessons—Buck or Book, or some sitch name.”

“Brooke, you mean,” said Mrs Butt still suspicious, and interposing her solid person in the doorway.

“Ay, that’s the cove—the gen’leman I mean came here this arternoon to lodge wi’ a Missis Butt or Brute, or suthin’ o’ that sort—air you Mrs Brute?”

“Certainly not,” answered the landlady, with indignation; “but I’m Mrs Butt.”

“Well, it’s all the same. I ax yer parding for the mistake, but there’s sitch a mixin’ up o’ Brutes an’ Brookes, an’ Butts an’ Bucks, that it comes hard o’ a man o’ no edication to speak of to take it all in. This gen’leman, Mr Brute, ’e said if ’e was hout w’en I called I was to wait, an’ say you was to make tea for two, an’ ’ave it laid in the bedroom as ’e’d require the parlour for the mill.”

The man’s evident knowledge of her lodger’s affairs, and his gross stupidity, disarmed Mrs Butt. She would have laughed at his last speech if it had not been for the astounding conclusion. Tea in the bedroom and a mill in the parlour the first night was a degree of eccentricity she had not even conceived of.

“Come in, then, young man,” she said, making way. “You’ll find Mr Brooke in the parlour at his tea.”

The prize-fighter stepped quickly along the dark passage into the parlour, and while the somewhat sluggish Mrs Butt was closing the door she overheard her lodger exclaim—

“Ha! Jem Mace, this is good of you—very good of you—to come so promptly. Mrs Butt,” shouting at the parlour door, “another cup and plate for Mr Mace, and—and bring the ham!”

“The ’am!” repeated Mrs Butt softly to herself, as she gazed in perplexity round her little kitchen, “did ’e order a ’am?”

Unable to solve the riddle she gave it up and carried in the cup and saucer and plate.

“I beg your parding, sir, you mentioned a ’am,” she began, but stopped abruptly on seeing no one there but the prize-fighter standing before the fire in a free-and-easy manner with his hands in his breeches pockets.

The light of the street-lamps had very imperfectly revealed the person of Jem Mace. Now that Mrs Butt saw him slouching in all his native hideousness against her mantelpiece in the full blaze of a paraffin lamp, she inwardly congratulated herself that Mr Brooke was such a big strong man—almost a match, she thought, for Mace!

“I thought you said the gen’leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?” said Mace inquiringly.

“So ’e—was,” answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; “didn’t I ’ear ’im a-shakin’ ’ands wi’ you, an’ a-shoutin’ for ’am?”

“Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you ’eard; all I know is that I’ve not seed ’im yet.”

“’E must be in the bedroom,” said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.

“No ’e ain’t there,” returned the prize-fighter; “I’ve bin all over it—looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key’ole;—p’r’aps,” he added, turning quickly, “’e may be up the chimbly!”

The expression on poor Mrs Butt’s face now alarmed Charlie, who instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner.

“Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless,” he said, “in testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few minutes ago of playing such a practical—”

“Well, well, Mr Brooke,” broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at this point, “I do assure you as I’d never ’ave know’d you from the worst character in W’itechapel. I wouldn’t have trusted you—not with a sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem Mace have given me a turn that— But why disguise yourself in this way, Mr Brooke?”

“Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and as you have taken it so amiably I’m glad I tried my hand here first, for it will make me feel much more at ease.”

“And well it may, sir. I only ’ope it won’t get you into trouble, for if the p’leece go lookin’ for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit ruffian, where you ’appen to be, they’re sure to run you in. The only think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your ’ands an’ face is too clean.”

“That is easily remedied,” said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at unseasonable hours of night.

Chapter Thirty One. Failure and a New Scent.

Although our hero’s plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic, there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums.

It is not our intention to carry the reader through the Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest. Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one who led him to the goal he aimed at.

Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life—or, rather, of living death—in the slums of the great city which caused him many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found—as so many had found before him—that the demon Drink was at the bottom of most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the already roaring flame of sin.

It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their curiosity without giving offence.

It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone.

On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must recount the incident.

There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character, who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however, he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness—such as making way for Zook—so he was called—when he wanted to get to the general fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera.

There was another habitué of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook’s superiority in everything except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with Stoker on Zook’s account more than once, and had tried to make peace between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his own business.

One evening, towards the close of our hero’s search among the lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment, tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement.

“Here, Zook,” said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, “I’ve bought more than I can eat, as usual! I’ve got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?”

“It’s all fish that comes to my net, Charlie,” said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow.

We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible alias.

A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of “shame” was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.

“Who cried shame?” demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.

“I did not,” said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, “for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I do cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant.”

“An’ pray who are you?” returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic.

“I am one who likes fair play,” said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, “and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won’t worry him any more, and I’m sure he’ll forgive you!”

“Hear! hear!” cried several of the on-lookers.

“Perhaps I may forgive ’im,” said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose— “I’d do a’most anything to please Charlie!”

This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt.

“No, Mister Charlie,” he said, “I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’d tell a big lie if I did, and I’ll worry him just as much as I please. But I’ll tell ’e what I’ll do. If you show yourself as ready wi’ your bunches o’ fives as you are wi’ yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I’ll say to Zook that I’m sorry and won’t worry ’im any more.”

There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken. Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully’s insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible, rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly recalled the turning of the “other cheek” to the smiter, but the fact that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself, prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly—like the lightning flash—there arose to him the words, “Smite a scorner and the simple will beware!” Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes calmly to the face of his opponent he said— “I accept your challenge.”

“No, no, Charlie!” cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone, “you’ll do nothing of the sort. The man’s a old prize-fighter! You haven’t a chance. Why, I’ll fight him myself rather than let you do it.”

And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness—but took good care to keep well out of his reach.

“It’s a bargain, then,” said Charlie, holding out his hand.

“Done!” answered the bully, grasping it.

“Well, then, the sooner we settle this business the better,” continued Charlie. “Where shall it come off?”

“Prize-fightin’s agin the law,” suggested an old pauper, who seemed to fear they were about to set to in the kitchen.

“So it is, old man,” said Charlie, “and I would be the last to engage in such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there’s no prize. It’s simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and tyranny.”

There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it permitted of the fight being gone about quietly.

In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind—some because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.

Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring. Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt—an old striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.

“I’m not a professional,” he said, as he stepped forward; “you’ve no objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?”

“None whatever,” replied Stoker, with a patronising air; “p’r’aps it may be as well for fear you should kitch cold.”

Charlie smiled, and held out his hand— “You see,” he said, “that at least I understand the civilities of the ring.”

There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and stood on guard.

“I am quite willing even yet,” said Charlie, while in this attitude, “to settle this matter without fighting if you’ll only agree to leave Zook alone in future.”

This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, “No!” and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie’s face.

Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent’s nose.

“Hah! a hammytoor!” exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.

Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the degradation of his position—a feeling which neither his disreputable appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.

But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce. Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive, and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified.

“If you will have it—take it!” he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a “stinger on the beak!”

The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly described as a bulb.

Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the “hammytoor” stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever—panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.

Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie—as the juvenile bystander remarked—“went for him,” planted a blow under each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice.

Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him.

“My poor man,” he said, “are you much hurt?”

“Oh! you’ve no need to fear for me,” said Stoker recovering himself a little, and sitting up—“but I throw up the sponge. Stoker’s day is over w’en ’e’s knocked out o’ time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to bile ’is pot unmorlested in futur’.”

“Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man,” said Charlie, laughing. “Here, two of you, help to take him down and wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster,” he added, pulling out his purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already mentioned, “go out and buy sausages for the whole company.”

The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie, in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent’s sudden recovery and submission, had totally forgotten his rôle and was ordering the people about like one accustomed to command.

As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that establishment in less than an hour thereafter.

When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of “better days” when pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must be told, to feel discouraged.

“Charlie,” said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, “or p’r’aps I should say Mister Charlie, the game’s up wi’ you, whatever it was.”

“What d’you mean, Zook?”

“Well, I just mean that it’s o’ no manner o’ use your tryin’ to sail any longer under false colours in this here establishment.”

“I must still ask you to explain yourself,” said Charlie, with a puzzled look.

“Well, you know,” continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance, “w’en a man in ragged clo’se orders people here about as if ’e was the commander-in-chief o’ the British Army, an’ flings yellow boys about as if ’e was chancellor o’ the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for all ’ands, ’e may be a gentleman—wery likely ’e is,—but ’e ain’t a redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin’-’ouse kitchens. W’atever little game may ’ave brought you ’ere, sir, it ain’t poverty—an’ nobody will be fool enough in this ’ouse to believe it is.”

“You are right, Zook. I’m sorry I forgot myself,” returned Charlie, with a sigh. “After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little game—as you call it—was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if I were going to win.”

Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the newspaper somewhat disconsolately.

“It’s bin all along o’ takin’ up my cause,” said the little man, with something like a whimper in his voice. “You’ve bin wery kind to me, sir, an’ I’d give a lot, if I ’ad it, an’ would go a long way if I wasn’t lame, to ’elp you.”

Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said, brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor Zook the cause of his being there—concealing nothing except names.

“You’ll ’scuse me, sir,” said the little man, after the narrative was finished, “but I think you’ve gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places.”

“Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house, seemed to me the natural place to look for him in.”

“’Ave you bin to the work-’ouses, sir?”

“Yes—at least to all in this neighbourhood.”

“What! in that toggery?” asked the little man, with a grin.

“Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs.”

“Well, sir, it’s my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this scent an’ find nuthin’; but there’s a old ’ooman as I knows on that might be able to ’elp you. Mind I don’t say she could, but she might. Moreover, if she can she will.”

“How?” asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend.

“Why, this way. She’s a good old soul who lost ’er ’usband an’ ’er son—if I ain’t mistaken—through drink, an’ ever since, she ’as devoted ’erself body an’ soul to save men an’ women from drink. She attends temperance meetin’s an’ takes people there—a’most drags ’em in by the scruff o’ the neck. She keeps ’er eyes open, like a weasel, an’ w’enever she sees a chance o’ what she calls pluckin’ a brand out o’ the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin’ ’er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an’ another to submit to her treatment, an’ then she locks ’em up in ’er ’ouse—though it ain’t a big un—an’ treats ’em, as she calls it. She’s got one there now, it’s my belief, though w’ether it’s a he or a she I can’t tell. Now, she may ’ave seen your friend goin’ about—if ’e stayed long in Whitechapel.”

“It may be so,” returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. “When could I see this old woman?”

“First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir.”

“Very well; then you’ll come and breakfast with me at eight?”

“I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this ’ere ’ouse, sir, or in a resterang?”

“Neither. In my lodgings, Zook.”

Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time.

Chapter Thirty Two. Success and Future Plans.

Punctual to the minute Zook presented himself to Mrs Butt next morning and demanded audience.

Mrs Butt had been forewarned of the impending visit, and, although she confessed to some uncomfortable feelings in respect of infection and dirt, received him with a gracious air.

“You’ve come to breakfast, I understand?”

“Well, I believe I ’ave,” answered the little man, with an involuntary glance at his dilapidated clothes; “’avin’ been inwited—unless,” he added, somewhat doubtfully, “the inwite came in a dream.”

“You may go in and clear up that point for yourself,” said the landlady, as she ushered the poor man into the parlour, where he was almost startled to find an amiable gentleman waiting to receive him.

“Come along, Zook, I like punctuality. Are you hungry?”

“’Ungry as a ’awk, sir,” replied Zook, glancing at the table and rubbing his hands, for there entered his nostrils delicious odours, the causes of which very seldom entered his throat. “W’y, sir, I know’d you was a gent, from the wery first!”

“I have at least entered my native shell,” said Charlie, with a laugh. “Sit down. We’ve no time to waste. Now what’ll you have? Coffee, tea, pork-sausage, ham and egg, buttered toast, hot rolls. Just help yourself, and fancy you’re in the lodging-house at your own table.”

“Well, sir, that would be a stretch o’ fancy that would strain me a’most to the bustin’ p’int. Coffee, if you please. Oh yes, sugar an’ milk in course. I never let slip a chance as I knows on. W’ich bread? well, ’ot rolls is temptin’, but I allers ’ad a weakness for sappy things, so ’ot buttered toast—if you can spare it.”

“Spare it, my good man!” said Charlie, laughing. “There’s a whole loaf in the kitchen and pounds of butter when you’ve finished this, not to mention the shops round the corner.”

It was a more gratifying treat to Charlie than he had expected, to see this poor man eat to his heart’s content of viands which he so thoroughly appreciated and so rarely enjoyed. What Zook himself felt, it is impossible for well-to-do folk to conceive, or an ordinary pen to describe; but, as he sat there, opposite to his big friend and champion, stowing away the good things with zest and devotion of purpose, it was easy to believe that his watery eyes were charged with the tears of gratitude, as well as with those of a chronic cold to which he was subject.

Breakfast over, they started off in quest of the old woman with teetotal proclivities.

“How did you come to know her?” asked Charlie, as they went along.

“Through a ’ouse in the city as I was connected with afore I got run over an’ lamed. They used to send me with parcels to this old ’ooman. In course I didn’t know for sartin’ w’at was in the parcels, but ’avin’ a nose, you see, an’ bein’ able to smell, I guessed that it was a compound o’ wittles an’ wursted work.”

“A strange compound, Zook.”

“Well, they wasn’t ’zactly compounded—they was sometimes the one an’ sometimes the other; never mixed to my knowledge.”

“What house was it that sent you?”

“Withers and Company.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charlie in surprise. “I know the house well. The head of it is a well-known philanthropist. How came you to leave them? They never would have allowed an old servant to come to your pass—unless, indeed, he was—”

“A fool, sir, or wuss,” interrupted Zook; “an’ that’s just what I was. I runned away from ’em, sir, an’ I’ve been ashamed to go back since. But that’s ’ow I come to know old Missis Mag, an’ it’s down ’ere she lives.”

They turned into a narrow passage which led to a small court at the back of a mass of miserable buildings, and here they found the residence of the old woman.

“By the way, Zook, what’s her name?” asked Charlie.

“Mrs Mag Samson.”

“Somehow the name sounds familiar to me,” said Charlie, as he knocked at the door.

A very small girl opened it and admitted that her missis was at ’ome; whereupon our hero turned to his companion.

“I’ll manage her best without company, Zook,” he said; “so you be off; and see that you come to my lodging to-night at six to hear the result of my interview and have tea.”

“I will, sir.”

“And here, Zook, put that in your pocket, and take a good dinner.”

“I will, sir.”

“And—hallo! Zook, come here. Not a word about all this in the lodging-house;—stay, now I think of it, don’t go to the lodging-house at all. Go to a casual ward where they’ll make you take a good bath. Be sure you give yourself a good scrub. D’ye hear?”

“Yes, sir.” He walked away murmuring, “More ’am and hegg an’ buttered toast to-night! Zook, you’re in luck to-day—in clover, my boy! in clover!”

Meanwhile, Charlie Brooke found himself in the presence of a bright-eyed little old woman, who bade him welcome with the native grace of one who is a born, though not a social, lady, and beautified by Christianity. Her visitor went at once straight to the point.

“Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Samson,” he said, taking the chair to which the old woman pointed, “but, indeed, I feel assured that you will, when I state that the object of my visit is to ask you to aid in the rescue of a friend from drink.”

“No man intrudes on me who comes on such an errand; but how does it happen, sir, that you think I am able to aid you?”

To this Charlie replied by giving her an account of his meeting and conversation with Zook, and followed that up with a full explanation of his recent efforts and a graphic description of Isaac Leather.

The old woman listened attentively, and, as her visitor proceeded, with increasing interest not unmingled with surprise and amusement.

When he had concluded, Mrs Samson rose, and, opening a door leading to another room, held up her finger to impose silence, and softly bade him look in.

He did so. The room was a very small one, scantily furnished, with a low truckle-bed in one corner, and there, on the bed, lay the object of his quest—Isaac Leather! Charlie had just time to see that the thin pale face was not that of a dead, but of a sleeping, man when the old woman gently pulled him back and re-closed the door.

“That’s your man, I think.”

“Yes, that’s the man—I thank God for this most astonishing and unlooked-for success.”

“Ah! sir,” returned the woman, sitting down again, “most of our successes are unlooked for, and, when they do come, we are not too ready to recognise the hand of the Giver.”

“Nevertheless you must admit that some incidents do seem almost miraculous,” said Charlie. “To have found you out in this great city, the very person who had Mr Leather in her keeping, does seem unaccountable, does it not?”

“Not so unaccountable as it seems to you,” replied the old woman, “and certainly not so much of a miracle as it would have been if you had found him by searching the lodging-houses. Here is the way that God seems to have brought it about. I have for many years been a pensioner of the house of Withers and Company, by whom I was employed until the senior partner made me a sort of female city-missionary amongst the poor. I devoted myself particularly to the reclaiming of drunkards—having special sympathy with them. A friend of mine, Miss Molloy, also employed by the senior partner in works of charity, happened to be acquainted with Mr Leather and his family. She knew of his failing, and she found out—for she has a strange power, that I never could understand, of inducing people to make a confidant of her,—she found out (what no one else knew, it seems) that poor Mr Leather wished to put himself under some sort of restraint, for he could not resist temptation when it came in his way. Knowing about me, she naturally advised him to put himself in my hands. He objected at first, but agreed at last on condition that none of his people should be told anything about it. I did not like to receive him on such conditions, but gave in because he would come on no other. Well, sir, you came down here because you had information which led you to think Mr Leather had come to this part of the city. You met with a runaway servant of Withers and Company—not very wonderful that. He naturally knows about me and fetches you here. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see,” replied Charlie, with an amused expression; “still I cannot help looking on the whole affair as very wonderful, and I hope that that does not disqualify me from recognising God’s leading in the matter.”

“Nay, young sir,” returned the old woman, “that ought rather to qualify you for such recognition, for are not His ways said to be wonderful—ay, sometimes ‘past finding out’? But what we know not now, we shall know hereafter. I thought that when my poor boy went to sea—”

“Mrs Samson!” exclaimed Charlie, with a sudden start, “I see it now! Was your boy’s name Fred?”

“It was.”

“And he went to sea in the Walrus, that was wrecked in the Southern Ocean!”

“Yes,” exclaimed the old woman eagerly.

“Then,” said Charlie, drawing a packet from the breast-pocket of his coat, “Fred gave me this for you. I have carried it about me ever since, in the hope that I might find you. I came to London, but found you had left the address written on the packet, and it never occurred to me that the owners of the Walrus would know anything about the mother of one of the men who sailed in her. I have a message also from your son.”

The message was delivered, and Charlie was still commenting on it, when the door of the inner room opened and Isaac Leather stood before them.

“Charlie Brooke!” he exclaimed, in open-eyed amazement, not unmingled with confusion.

“Ay, and a most unexpected meeting on both sides,” said Charlie, advancing and holding out his hand. “I bring you good news, Mr Leather, of your son Shank.”

“Do you indeed?” said the broken-down man, eagerly grasping his young friend’s hand. “What have you to tell me? Oh Charlie, you have no idea what terrible thoughts I’ve had about that dear boy since he went off to America! My sin has found me out, Charlie. I’ve often heard that said before, but have never tally believed it till now.”

“God sends you a message of mercy, then,” said our hero, who thereupon began to relieve the poor man’s mind by telling him of his son’s welfare and reformation.

But we need not linger over this part of the story, for the reader can easily guess a good deal of what was said to Leather, while old Mrs Samson was perusing the letter of her dead son, and tears of mingled sorrow and joy coursed down her withered cheeks.

That night however, Charlie Brooke conceived a vast idea, and partially revealed it at the tea-table to Zook—whose real name, by the way, was Jim Smith.

“’Ave you found ’er, sir?” said Mrs Butt, putting the invariable, and by that time annoying, question as Charlie entered his lodging.

“No, Mrs Butt, I haven’t found ’er, and I don’t expect to find ’er at all.”

“Lawk! sir, I’m so sorry.”

“Has Mr Zook come?”

“Yes, sir ’e’s inside and looks impatient. The smell o’ the toast seems a’most too strong a temptation for ’im; I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Look here, Zook,” said Charlie, entering his parlour, “go into that bedroom. You’ll find a bundle of new clothes there. Put them on. Wrap your old clothes in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. Tea will be ready when you are.”

The surprised pauper did as he was bid, without remark, and re-entered the parlour a new man!

“My own mother, if I ’ad one, wouldn’t know me, sir,” he said, glancing admiringly at his vest.

“Jim Smith, Esquire,” returned Charlie, laughing. “I really don’t think she would.”

“Zook, sir,” said the little man, with a grave shake of the head; “couldn’t think of changin’ my name at my time of life; let it be Zook, if you please, sir, though in course I’ve no objection to esquire, w’en I ’ave the means to maintain my rank.”

“Well, Zook, you have at all events the means to make a good supper, so sit down and go to work, and I’ll talk to you while you eat,—but, stay, hand me the bundle of old clothes.”

Charlie opened the window as he spoke, took hold of the bundle, and discharged it into the back yard.

“There,” he said, sitting down at the table, “that will prove an object of interest to the cats all night, and a subject of surprise to good Mrs Butt in the morning. Now, Zook,” he added, when his guest was fairly at work taking in cargo, “I want to ask you—have you any objection to emigrate to America?”

“Not the smallest,” he said, as well as was possible through a full mouth. “Bein’ a orphling, so to speak, owin’ to my never ’avin’ ’ad a father or mother—as I knows on—there’s nothin’ that chains me to old England ’cept poverty.”

“Could you do without drink?”

“Sca’sely, sir, seein’ the doctors say that man is about three parts—or four, is it?—made up o’ water; I would be apt to grow mummified without drink, wouldn’t I, sir?”

“Come, Zook—you know that I mean strong drink—alcohol in all its forms.”

“Oh, I see. Well, sir, as to that, I’ve bin in the ’abit of doin’ without it so much of late from needcessity, that I don’t think I’d find much difficulty in knocking it off altogether, if I was to bring principle to bear.”

“Well, then,” continued Charlie, ”(have some more ham?) I have just conceived a plan. I have a friend in America who is a reformed drunkard. His father in this country is also, I hope, a reformed drunkard. There is a good man out there, I understand, who has had a great deal to do with reformed drunkards, and he has got up a large body of friends and sympathisers who have determined to go away into the far west and there organise a total abstinence community, and found a village or town where nothing in the shape of alcohol shall be admitted except as physic.

“Now, I have a lot of friends in England who, I think, would go in for such an expedition if—”

“Are they all reformed drunkards, sir?” asked Zook in surprise, arresting a mass of sausage in its course as he asked the question.

“By no means,” returned Charlie with a laugh, “but they are earnest souls, and I’m sure will go if I try to persuade them.”

“You’re sure to succeed, sir,” said Zook, “if your persuasions is accompanied wi’ sassengers, ’am, an’ buttered toast,” remarked the little man softly, as he came to a pause for a few seconds.

“I’ll bring to bear on them all the arguments that are available, you may be sure. Meanwhile I shall count you my first recruit.”

“Number 1 it is, sir, w’ich is more than I can say of this here slice,” said Zook, helping himself to more toast.

While the poor but happy man was thus pleasantly engaged, his entertainer opened his writing portfolio and began to scribble off note after note, with such rapidity that the amazed pauper at his elbow fairly lost his appetite, and, after a vain attempt to recover it, suggested that it might be as well for him to retire to one of the palatial fourpence-a-night residences in Dean and Flower Street.

“Not to-night. You’ve done me a good turn that I shall never forget” said Charlie, rising and ringing the bell with needless vigour.

“Be kind enough, Mrs Butt, to show Mr Zook to his bedroom.”

“My heye!” murmured the pauper, marching off with two full inches added to his stature. “Not in there, I suppose, missis,” he said facetiously, as he passed the coal-hole.

“Oh, lawks! no—this way,” replied the good woman, who was becoming almost imbecile under the eccentricities of her lodger. “This is your bedroom, and I only ’ope it won’t turn into a band-box before morning, for of all the transformations an’ pantimimes as ’as took place in this ’ouse since Mr Brooke entered it, I—”

She hesitated, and, not seeing her way quite clearly to the fitting end of the sentence, asked if Mr Zook would ’ave ’ot water in the morning.

“No, thank you, Missis,” replied the little man with dignity, while he felt the stubble on his chin; “’avin left my razors at ’ome, I prefers the water cold.”

Leaving Zook to his meditations, Mrs Butt retired to bed, remarking, as she extinguished the candle, that Mr Brooke was still “a-writin’ like a ’ouse a fire!”

Chapter Thirty Three. Sweetwater Bluff.

We must now leap over a considerable space, not only of distance, but of time, in order to appreciate fully the result of Charlie Brooke’s furious letter-writing and amazing powers of persuasion.

Let the reader try to imagine a wide plateau, dotted with trees and bushes, on one of the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, where that mighty range begins to slide into union with the great prairies. It commands a view of mingled woodland and rolling plain, diversified by river and lake, extending to a horizon so faint and far away as to suggest the idea of illimitable space.

Early one morning in spring, five horsemen, emerging from a belt of woodland, galloped to the slope that led to the summit of this plateau. Drawing rein, they began slowly to ascend. Two of the cavaliers were young, tall, and strong;—two were portly and old, though still hearty and vigorous; one, who led them, on a coal-black steed, was a magnificent specimen of the backwoodsman, and one, who brought up the rear, was a thin little man, who made up for what he wanted in size by the energy and vigour of his action, as, with hand and heel, he urged an unwilling horse to keep up with the rest of the party.

Arrived at the summit of the plateau, the leading horseman trotted to its eastern edge, and halted as if for the purpose of surveying the position.

“Here we are at last,” he said, to the tallest of his comrades; “Sweetwater Bluff—and the end of our journey!”

“And a most noble end it is!” exclaimed the tall comrade. “Why, Hunky Ben, it far surpasses my expectations and all you have said about it.”

“Most o’ the people I’ve had to guide over this trail have said pretty much the same thing in different words, Mr Brooke,” returned the scout, dismounting. “Your wife will find plenty o’ subjects here for the paintin’ she’s so fond of.”

“Ay, May will find work here to keep her brushes busy for many a day to come,” replied Charlie, “though I suspect that other matters will claim most of her time at first, for there is nothing but a wilderness here yet.”

“You’ve yet to larn, sir, that we don’t take as long to fix up a town hereaway as you do in the old country,” remarked Hunky Ben, as old Jacob Crossley ambled up on the staid creature which we have already introduced as Wheelbarrow.

Waving his hand with enthusiasm the old gentleman exclaimed, “Glorious!” Indeed, for a few minutes he sat with glistening eyes and heaving chest, quite unable to give vent to any other sentiment than “glorious!” This he did at intervals. His interest in the scene, however, was distracted by the sudden advent of Captain Stride, whose horse—a long-legged roan—had an awkward tendency, among other eccentricities, to advance sideways with a waltzing gait, that greatly disconcerted the mariner.

“Woa! you brute. Back your tops’ls, won’t you? I never did see sitch a craft for heavin’ about like a Dutch lugger in a cross sea. She sails side on, no matter where she’s bound for. Forges ahead a’most entirely by means of leeway, so to speak. Hallo! woa! Ketch a grip o’ the painter, Dick, an’ hold on till I git off the hurricane deck o’ this walrus—else I’ll be overboard in a—. There—” The captain came to the ground suddenly as he spoke, without the use of stirrup, and, luckily, without injury.

“Not hurt I hope?” asked Dick Darvall, assisting his brother-salt to rise.

“Not a bit of it, Dick. You see I’m a’most as active as yourself though double your age, if not more. I say, Charlie, this is a pretty look-out. Don’t ’ee think so, Mr Crossley? I was sure that Hunky Ben would find us a pleasant anchorage and safe holding-ground at last, though it did seem as if we was pretty long o’ comin’ to it. Just as we was leavin’ the waggins to ride on in advance I said to my missus—says I—Maggie, you may depend—”

“Hallo! Zook,” cried Charlie, as the little man of the slums came limping up, “what have you done with your horse?”

“Cast ’im loose, sir, an’ gi’n ’im leave of absence as long as ’e pleases. It’s my opinion that some the ’osses o’ the western prairies ain’t quite eekal to some o’ the ’osses I’ve bin used to in Rotten Row. Is this the place, Hunky? Well, now,” continued the little man, with flashing eyes, as he looked round on the magnificent scene, “it’ll do. Beats W’itechapel an’ the Parks any ’ow. An’ there’s lots o’ poultry about, too!” he added, as a flock of wild ducks went by on whistling wings. “I say, Hunky Ben, w’at’s yon brown things over there by the shores o’ the lake?”

“Buffalo,” answered the scout.

“What! wild uns?”

“There’s no tame ones in them diggin’s as I knows on. If there was, they’d soon become wild, you bet.”

“An’ w’at’s yon monster crawlin’ over the farthest plain, like the great sea-serpent?”

“Why, man,” returned the scout, “them’s the waggins. Come, now, let’s to work an’ git the fire lit. The cart wi’ the chuck an’ tents’ll be here in a few minutes, an’ the waggins won’t be long arter ’em.”

“Ay, wi’ the women an’ kids shoutin’ for grub,” added Zook, as he limped after the scout, while the rest of the little band dispersed—some to cut firewood, others to select the best positions for the tents. The waggons, with a supply of food, arrived soon after under the care of Roaring Bull himself, with two of his cowboys. They were followed by Buttercup, who bestrode, man-fashion, a mustang nearly as black as herself and even more frisky.

In a wonderfully short time a number of white tents arose on the plateau and several fires blazed, and at all the fires Buttercup laboured with superhuman effect, assisted by the cowboys, to the unbounded admiration of Zook, who willingly superintended everything, but did little or nothing. A flat rock on the highest point was chosen for the site of a future block-house or citadel, and upon this was ere long spread a breakfast on a magnificent scale. It was barely ready when the first waggons arrived and commenced to lumber up the ascent, preceded by two girls on horseback, who waved their hands, and gave vent to vigorous little feminine cheers as they cantered up the slope.

These two were our old friends whom we knew as May Leather and Mary Jackson, but who must now be re-introduced to the reader as Mrs Charlie Brooke and Mrs Dick Darvall. On the same day they had changed their names at the Ranch of Roaring Bull, and had come to essay wedded life in the far west.

We need hardly say that this was the great experimental emigrant party, led by the Reverend William Reeves, who had resolved to found a colony on total abstinence principles, and with as many as possible of the sins of civilisation left behind. They found, alas! that sin is not so easily got rid of; nevertheless, the effort was not altogether fruitless, and Mr Reeves carried with him a sovereign antidote for sin in the shape of a godly spirit.

The party was a large one, for there were many men and women of the frontier whose experiences had taught them that life was happier and better in every way without the prevalent vices of gambling and drinking.

Of course the emigrants formed rather a motley band. Among them, besides those of our friends already mentioned, there were our hero’s mother and all the Leather family. Captain Stride’s daughter as well as his “Missus,” and Mr Crossley’s housekeeper, Mrs Bland. That good woman, however, had been much subdued and rendered harmless by the terrors of the wilderness, to which she had been recently exposed. Miss Molloy was also there, with an enormous supply of knitting needles and several bales of worsted.

Poor Shank Leather was still so much of an invalid as to be obliged to travel in a spring cart with his father, but both men were rapidly regaining physical strength under the influence of temperance, and spiritual strength under a higher power.

Soon the hammer, axe, and saw began to resound in that lovely western wilderness; the net to sweep its lakes; the hook to invade its rivers; the rifle to crack in the forests, and the plough to open up its virgin soil. In less time, almost, than a European would take to wink, the town of Sweetwater Bluff sprang into being; stores and workshops, a school and a church, grew, up like mushrooms; seed was sown, and everything, in short, was done that is characteristic of the advent of a thriving community. But not a gambling or drinking saloon, or a drop of firewater, was to be found in all the town.

In spite of this, Indians brought their furs to it; trappers came to it for supplies; emigrants turned aside to see and rest in it; and the place soon became noted as a flourishing and pre-eminently peaceful spot.

Chapter Thirty Four. The Last.

But a little cloud arose ere long on the horizon of Sweetwater Bluff. Insignificant at first, it suddenly spread over the sky and burst in a wild storm.

The first intimation of its approach came from Charlie Brooke one quiet autumn evening, in that brief but delightful season known as the Indian Summer.

Charlie entered his garden that evening with a fowling-piece on his shoulder, and two brace of prairie hens at his girdle. May was seated at her cottage door, basking in sunshine, chatting with her mother—who was knitting of course—and Shank was conversing with Hunky Ben, who rested after a day of labour.

“There, May, is to-morrow’s dinner,” said Charlie, throwing the birds at his wife’s feet, and sitting down beside her. “Who d’you think I passed when I was out on the plains to-day, Hunky? Your old friend Crux the Cowboy.”

“He’s no friend o’ mine,” said the scout, while something like a frown flitted across his usually placid brow. “I’m not over-pleased to hear that he’s comin’, for it’s said that some old uncle or aunt o’ his—I forget which—has left him a lot o’ dollars. I hope he ain’t comin’ to spend ’em here, for he’d never git along without gamblin’ an’ drinkin’.”

“Then, I can tell you that he is just coming to stay here,” returned Charlie, “for he has several waggons with him, and a dozen men. I asked him where he was going to, and he said, to locate himself as a store-keeper at Sweetwater Bluff; but he did not seem inclined to be communicative, so I left him and galloped on to report the news. What d’you think about it?”

“I think it’ll be a bad day for Sweetwater Bluff when Crux comes to settle in it. Howsoever, this is a free country, an’ we’ve no right to interfere with him so long as he don’t break the laws. But I doubt him. I’m afeard he’ll try to sell drink, an’ there’s some o’ our people who are longin’ to git back to that.”

The other members of the party, and indeed those heads of the town generally who knew Crux, were of much the same opinion, but some of them thought that, being in a free country, no one had a right to interfere. The consequence was that Crux and his men were permitted to go to work. They hired a shed in which to stow their goods, while they were engaged in building a store, and in course of time this was finished; but there was a degree of mystery about the ex-cowboy’s proceedings which baffled investigation, and people did not like to press inquiry too far; for it was observed that all the men who had accompanied Crux were young and powerful fellows, well armed with rifle and revolver.

At last however, the work was finished, and the mystery was cleared up, for, one fine morning, the new store was opened as a drinking and gambling saloon; and that same evening the place was in full swing—sending forth the shouts, songs, cursing and demoniac laughter for which such places are celebrated.

Consternation filled the hearts of the community, for it was not only the men brought there by Crux who kept up their revels in the new saloon, but a sprinkling of the spirited young fellows of the town also, who had never been very enthusiastic in the temperance cause, and were therefore prepared to fall before the first temptation.

At a conference of the chief men of the town it was resolved to try to induce Crux to quit quietly, and for this end to offer to buy up his stock-in-trade. Hunky Ben, being an old acquaintance, was requested to go to the store as a deputation.

But the ex-cowboy was inexorable. Neither the offer of money nor argument had any effect on him.

“Well, Crux,” said the scout, at the conclusion of his visit, “you know your own affairs best but, rememberin’ as I do, what you used to be, I thought there was more of fair-play about you.”

“Fair-play! What d’ye mean?”

“I mean that when folk let you alone, you used to be willin’ to let them alone. Here has a crowd o’ people come back all this way into the Rockies to escape from the curse o’ strong drink and gamblin’, an’ here has Crux—a lover o’ fair-play—come all this way to shove that curse right under their noses. I’d thowt better of ye, Crux, lad.”

“It don’t matter much what you thowt o’ me, old man,” returned the cowboy, somewhat sharply; “an’, as to fair-play, there’s a lot of men here who don’t agree wi’ your humbuggin’ notions about temperance an’ tee-totalism—more of ’em, maybe, than you think. These want to have the drink, an’ I’ve come to give it ’em. I see nothin’ unfair in that.”

Hunky Ben carried his report back to the council, which for some time discussed the situation. As in the case of most councils, there was some difference of opinion: a few of the members being inclined to carry things with a high hand—being urged thereto by Captain Stride—while others, influenced chiefly by Mr Reeves, were anxious to try peaceable means.

At last a sub-committee was appointed, at Hunky Ben’s suggestion, to consider the whole matter, and take what steps seemed advisable. Hunky was an adroit and modest man—he could not have been a first-rate scout otherwise! He managed not only to become convener of the committee, but succeeded in getting men chiefly of his own opinion placed on it. At supper that night in Charlie’s cottage, while enjoying May’s cookery and presence, and waited on by the amused and interested Buttercup, the sub-committee discussed and settled the plan of operations.

“It’s all nonsense,” said Hunky Ben, “to talk of tryin’ to persuade Crux. He’s as obstinate as a Texas mule wi’ the toothache.”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed Captain Stride, smiting the table with his fist. “We mustn’t parley with him, but heave him overboard at once! I said so to my missus this very day. ‘Maggie,’ says I—”

“And what do you think, Charlie?” asked Mr Crossley.

“I think with Hunky Ben, of course. He knows Crux, and what is best to be done in the circumstances. The only thing that perplexes me, is what shall we do with the liquor when we’ve paid for it? A lot of it is good wine and champagne, and, although useless as a beverage, it is useful as a medicine, and might be given to hospitals.”

“Pour it out!” exclaimed Shank, almost fiercely.

“Ay, the hospitals can look out for themselves,” added Shank’s father warmly.

“Some hospitals, I’ve bin told, git on well enough without it altogether,” said Dick Darvall. “However, it’s a subject that desarves consideration.—Hallo! Buttercup, what is it that tickles your fancy an’ makes your mouth stretch out like that?”

Buttercup became preternaturally grave on the instant, but declined to tell what it was that tickled her fancy.

Shortly after the party rose and left the house, Hunky Ben remarking, with a quiet laugh, that deeds of darkness were best hatched at night.

What the conspirators hatched became pretty evident next day, for, during the breakfast hour, a band of forty horsemen rode slowly down the sloping road which led to the plains, and on the side of which Crux had built his saloon.

Crux and his men turned out in some surprise to watch the cavalcade as it passed. The band was led by Charlie Brooke, and the scout rode in advance on Black Polly as guide.

“Is it the Reds or the Buffalo you’re after to-day, Hunky, with such a big crowd?” asked Crux.

“Halt!” cried Charlie, at that moment.

The forty men obeyed, and, turning suddenly to the left, faced the saloon.

“Hands up!” said Charlie, whose men at the same moment pointed their rifles at Crux and his men. These were all too familiar with the order to dare to disobey it.

Our hero then ordered a small detachment of his men to enter the saloon and fetch out all rifles and pistols, and those of Crux’s people who chanced to have their weapons about them, were disarmed. Another detachment went off to the stables behind the saloon.

While they were thus engaged, Charlie addressed Crux.

“We have decided to expel you, Crux, from this town,” he said, as he drew an envelope from his pocket. “We have tried to convince you that, as the majority of the people here don’t want you, it is your duty to go. As you don’t seem to see this, we now take the law into our own hands. We love fair-play, however, so you will find in this envelope a cheque which we have reason to believe is fully equal to the value of your saloon and all its contents. Your lost time and trouble is your own affair. As you came without invitation, you must go without compensation. Here are your rifles, and revolvers, emptied of cartridges, and there are your horses saddled.”

As he spoke, one detachment of his men handed rifles and revolvers to the party, who were stricken dumb with amazement. At the same time, their horses, saddled and bridled, were led to the front and delivered to them.

“We have no provisions,” said Crux, at last recovering the use of his tongue; “and without ammunition we cannot procure any.”

“That has been provided for,” said our hero, turning to Hunky Ben.

“Ay, Crux,” said the scout, “we don’t want to starve you, though the ’arth wouldn’t lose much if we did. At the other end o’ the lake, about five mile from here, you’ll find a red rag flyin’ at the branch of a tree. In the hole of a rock close beside it, you’ll find three days’ provisions for you and your men, an’ a lot of ammunition.”

“Now, mount and go,” said Charlie, “and if you ever show face here again, except as friends, your blood be on your own heads!”

Crux did not hesitate. He and his men saw that the game was up; without another word they mounted their horses and galloped away.

While this scene was being enacted a dark creature, with darker designs, entered the drinking saloon and descended to the cellar. Finding a spirit-cask with a tap in it, Buttercup turned it on, then, pulling a match-box out of her pocket she muttered, “I t’ink de hospitals won’t git much ob it!” and applied a light. The effect was more powerful than she had expected. The spirit blazed up with sudden fury, singeing off the girl’s eyebrows and lashes, and almost blinding her. In her alarm Buttercup dashed up to the saloon, missed her way, and found herself on the stair leading to the upper floor. A cloud of smoke and fire forced her to rush up. She went to the window and yelled, on observing that it was far too high to leap. She rushed to another window and howled in horror, for escape was apparently impossible.

Charlie heard the howl. He and his men had retired to a safe distance when the fire was first observed—thinking the place empty—but the howl touched a chord in our hero’s sympathetic breast, which was ever ready to vibrate. From whom the howl proceeded mattered little or nothing to Charlie Brooke. Sufficient that it was the cry of a living being in distress. He sprang at once through the open doorway of the saloon, through which was issuing a volume of thick smoke, mingled with flame.

“God help him! the place’ll blow up in a few minutes,” cried Hunky Ben, losing, for once, his imperturbable coolness, and rushing wildly after his friend. But at that moment the thick smoke burst into fierce flame and drove him back.

Charlie sprang up the staircase three steps at a time, holding his breath to avoid suffocation. He reached the landing, where Buttercup ran, or, rather, fell, almost fainting, into his arms. At the moment an explosion in the cellar shook the building to its foundation, and, shattering one of the windows, caused a draught of air to drive aside the smoke. Charlie gasped a mouthful of air and looked round. Flames were by that time roaring up the only staircase. A glance from the nearest window showed that a leap thence meant broken limbs, if not death, to both. A ladder up to a trap-door suggested an exit by the roof. It might only lead to a more terrible leap, but meanwhile it offered relief from imminent suffocation. Charlie bore the half-dead girl to the top rung, and found the trap-door padlocked, but a thrust from his powerful shoulder wrenched hasp and padlock from their hold, and next moment a wild cheer greeted him as he stood on a corner of the gable. But a depth of forty or fifty feet was below him with nothing to break his fall to the hard earth.

“Jump!” yelled one of the onlookers. “No, don’t!” cried another, “you’ll be killed.”

“Hold your noise,” roared Hunky Ben, “and lend a hand here—sharp!—the house’ll blow up in a minute.”

He ran as he spoke towards a cart which was partly filled with hay. Seizing the trams he raised them. Willing hands helped, and the cart was run violently up against the gable—Hunky shouting to some of the men to fetch more hay.

But there was no time for that. Another explosion took place inside the building, which Charlie knew must have driven in the sides of more casks and let loose fresh fuel. A terrible roar, followed by ominous cracking of the roof, warned him that there was no time to lose. He looked steadily at the cart for a moment and leaped. His friends held their breath as the pair descended. The hay would not have sufficed to break the fall sufficiently, but happily the cart was an old one. When they came down on it like a thunderbolt, the bottom gave way. Crashing through it the pair came to the ground, heavily indeed, but uninjured!

The fall, which almost stunned our hero, had the curious effect of reviving Buttercup, for she muttered something to the effect that, “dat was a mos’ drefful smash,” as they conveyed her and her rescuer from the vicinity of danger.

This had scarcely been done when the house blew up—its walls were driven outwards, its roof was blown off, its bottles were shattered, all its baleful contents were scattered around, and, amid an appropriate hurricane of blue fire, that drinking and gambling saloon was blown to atoms.

Would that a like fate might overtake every similar establishment in the world!

This was the first and last attempt to disturb the peace of Sweetwater Bluff. It is said, indeed, that Crux and some of his men did, long afterwards, make their appearance in that happy and flourishing town, but they came as reformed men, not as foes—men who had found out that in very truth sobriety tends to felicity, that honesty is the best policy, and that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

The End.

Chapter One.

Adventures in California.

Begins with Differences of Opinion.

If ever there was a man in this world who was passionately fond of painting and cut out for a painter, that man was Frank Allfrey; but fate, in the form of an old uncle, had decided that Frank should not follow the bent of his inclinations.

We introduce our hero to the reader at the interesting age of eighteen, but, long before that period of life, he had shown the powerful leaning of his spirit. All his school-books were covered with heads of dogs, horses, and portraits of his companions. Most of his story-books were illustrated with coloured engravings, the colouring of which had been the work of his busy hand, and the walls of his nursery were decorated with cartoons, done in charcoal, which partial friends of the family sometimes declared were worthy of Raphael.

At the age of thirteen, his uncle—for the poor fellow was an orphan—asked him one day what he would like to be. This was an extraordinary condescension on the part of Mr Allfrey, senior, who was a grim, hard-featured man, with little or no soul to speak of, and with an enormously large ill-favoured body. The boy, although taken by surprise—for his uncle seldom addressed him on any subject,—answered promptly, “I’d like to be an artist, sir.”

“A what?”

“An artist.”

“Get along, you goose!”

This was all that was said at the time, and as it is the only conversation which is certainly known to have taken place between the uncle and nephew during the early youth of the latter, we have ventured, at the risk of being tedious, to give the whole of it.

Frank was one of those unfortunates who are styled “neglected boys.” He was naturally sharp-witted, active in mind and body, good-tempered, and well disposed, but disinclined to study, and fond of physical exertion. He might have been a great man had he been looked after in youth, but no one looked after him. He was an infant when his father and mother died and left him to the care of his uncle, who cared not for him but left him to care for himself, having, as he conceived, done his duty towards him when he had supplied him with food, clothing, and lodging, and paid his school fees. No blame, therefore, to poor Frank that he grew up a half-educated youth, without fixed habits of study or thought, and with little capacity for close or prolonged mental exertion.

Mr Allfrey entertained the ridiculous idea that there were only three grand objects of ambition in life, namely, to work, to eat and drink, and to sleep. At least, if he did not say in definite terms that such was his belief, he undoubtedly acted as though it were. His mind appeared to revolve in a sort of small circle. He worked in order that he might eat and drink; he ate and drank that he might be strengthened for work, and he slept in order to recruit his energies that he might be enabled to work for the purposes of eating and drinking. He was a species of self-blinded human-horse that walked the everlasting round of a business-mill of his own creating. It is almost unnecessary to add that he was selfish to the back-bone, and that the only individual who did not see the fact was himself.

When Frank reached the age of eighteen, Mr Allfrey called him into his private “study,”—so called because he was in the habit of retiring regularly at fixed periods every day to study nothing there,—and, having bidden him sit down, accosted him thus:—

“Well, boy, have you thought over what I said to you yesterday about fixing upon some profession? You are aware that you cannot expect to lead a life of idleness in this world. I know that you are fit for nothing, but fit or not fit, you must take to something without delay.”

Frank felt a sensation of indignation at being spoken to thus rudely, and in his heart he believed that if he was indeed fit for nothing, his sad condition was due much more to his uncle’s neglect than to his own perversity. He did not, however, give utterance to the thought, because he was of a respectful nature; he merely flushed and said,—“Really, uncle, you do me injustice. I may not be fit for much, and every day I live I feel bitterly the evil of a neglected education, but—”

“It’s well, at all events,” interrupted Mr Allfrey, “that you admit the fact of your having neglected it. That gives you some chance of amendment.”

Frank flushed again and drew his breath shortly; after a moment’s silence he went on:—

“But if I am not fit for much, I am certainly fit for something. I have only a smattering of Latin and Greek, it is true, and a very slight knowledge of French, but, if I am to believe my teacher’s reports, I am not a bad arithmetician, and I know a good deal of mathematics, besides being a pretty fair penman.”

“Humph! well, but you know you have said that you don’t want to enter a mercantile or engineer’s office, and a smattering of Latin and Greek will not do for the learned professions. What, therefore, do you propose to yourself, the army, eh? it is the only opening left, because you are now too old for the navy.”

“I wish to be an artist,” said Frank with some firmness.

“I thought so; the old story. No, sir, you shall never be an artist—at least not with my consent. Why, do you suppose that because you can scribble caricatures on the fly-leaves of your books you have necessarily the genius of Rubens or Titian?”

“Not quite,” replied Frank, smiling in spite of himself at the irascibility of the old gentleman, “and yet I presume that Rubens and Titian began to paint before either themselves or others were aware of the fact that they possessed any genius at all.”

“Tut, tut,” cried Mr Allfrey impatiently, “but what have you ever done, boy, to show your ability to paint?”

“I have studied much, uncle,” said Frank eagerly, “although I have said little to you about the matter, knowing your objection to it; but if you would condescend to look at a few of my drawings from nature, I think—”

“Drawing from nature,” cried Mr Allfrey with a look of supreme contempt, “what do I care for nature? What have you to do with nature in this nineteenth century? Nature, sir, is only fit for savages. There is nothing natural now-a-days. Why, what do you suppose would become of my ledger and cash-book, my office and business, if I and my clerks raved about nature as you do? A fig for nature!—the less you study it the better. I never do.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Frank respectfully, “if I refuse to believe you, because I have heard you frequently express to friends your admiration of the view from your own drawing-room window—”

“Of course you have, you goose, and you ought to have known that that was a mere bit of conventional humbug, because, since one is constrained unavoidably to live in a world full of monstrous contradictions, it is necessary to fall in with its habits. You ought to know that it is customary to express admiration for a fine view.”

“You spoke as if you felt what you said,” replied Frank, “and I am certain that there are thousands of men in the position of yourself and your clerks who delight in nature in all her varied aspects; who, because they unfortunately see so little of her in town, make it their ambition to have cottages in the country when they can afford it, and many of whom decorate their walls with representations of nature.”

“Frank,” said Mr Allfrey, somewhat solemnly, as he turned his gaze full on the animated face of his nephew, “if I could get you put into a lunatic asylum without a doctor’s certificate I would do so without delay, but, that being impossible just now—although I think it will be not only possible but necessary ere long—I have to make you a final proposal. It is this:— that, as you express such a powerful objection to enter an office in this country, you should go abroad and see whether a three-legged stool is more attractive in foreign parts than it is in England. Now, I happen to have a friend in California. If your geography has not been neglected as much as your Latin, you will remember that this country lies on the western seaboard of North America, not far from those gold-fields which have been recently turning the world upside-down. Will you go?”

“I shall be delighted to go,” said Frank with enthusiasm.

“Eh!” exclaimed Mr Allfrey, with a look of surprise, as if he could not understand the readiness with which his nephew agreed to the proposal, “why, how’s this? I had fully expected you to refuse. Remember, boy, it is not to be a romantic gold-digger, which is another name for a born idiot, that I would send you out to California. It is to be a clerk, a quill-driver. D’you understand?”

“I understand, uncle, perfectly,” replied Frank with a smile. “The fact is that I had made up my mind, lately, not to oppose your wishes any longer, but to agree to go into an office at home. Of course it is more agreeable to me to think of going into one abroad.”

“I’m glad you take such a sensible view of the matter, Frank,” said Mr Allfrey, much mollified.

“Besides,” continued Frank, “I have read a good deal about that country of late, and the descriptions of the magnificence of the scenery have made me long to have an opportunity of painting it and—”

He paused abruptly and started up, for his uncle had seized a book, which usually lay open on his desk, and was in fact a sort of dummy intended to indicate the “study” that was supposed to go on there. Next moment Frank sprang laughing into the passage, and the book flew with a crash against the panels of the door as he shut it behind him, leaving Mr Allfrey to solace himself with a large meerschaum, almost the only unfailing friend that he possessed.

Thus it came to pass that Frank Allfrey went out to the gold regions of California.

Chapter Two.

Frank discusses his Prospects with a Friend.

We pass over our hero’s long voyage round “the Horn,” and introduce him in a totally new scene and under widely different circumstances—seated near a magnificent tree of which he is making a study, and clad in a white linen coat and pantaloons and a broad-brimmed straw hat.

Just the day before, the “House” to which he had been sent had failed. Two years had he spent in grinding at its account books, perched on a three-legged stool, and now he found himself suddenly cast loose on the world. Of course when the stool was knocked from under him his salary was stopped, and he was told by his employers that it would be necessary for him to go elsewhere to earn a subsistence.

This was rather a startling piece of advice, and for a time Frank felt much depressed, but on returning to his lodgings the day he received his dismissal, his eye fell on his palette and brushes, which he at once seized, and, hastening out to his favourite tree, was soon so thoroughly absorbed in the study of “nature” that his sorrows vanished like morning mist.

After three hours’ steady work he arose refreshed in soul and comforted.

Thereafter he returned to his lodgings and sat down to think over his prospects. His cogitations were temporarily interrupted, and afterwards materially assisted, by a short thick-set man of about thirty years of age who entered with a deferential air, and pulled his forelock.

“Come in, Joe. I was just thinking over my future plans, and I daresay you can assist me, being, I suppose, in the same fix with myself.”

Joe Graddy had been a porter in the “House” which had failed, and was indeed in the “same fix,” as Frank said, with himself.

“I’ve comed, sir,” said Joe, “to ax yer advice, an’ to offer ye my sarvice, it it’s of any use,” said the porter, who was a shrewd straightforward man, and had originally been a sailor.

“If you had come to offer me advice and ask my services,” said Frank, “I would have been better pleased to see you. However, sit down and let me hear what you have to say.”

“Well, sir,” said Joe; “this is wot I’ve got for to say, that we are in what the Yankees call a pretty considerable fix.”

“I know it, Joe; but how do you think we are to get out of the fix?”

“That’s just wot I comed for to ax,” said the man; “and when you’ve told me how, I’ll lend a hand to weigh anchor an’ set sail. The fact is, I’m in want of a place, and I’m willing to engage with you, sir.”

Frank Allfrey experienced a strange mingling of feelings when he heard this. Of course he felt much gratified by the fact that a man so grave and sensible as Joe Graddy should come and deferentially offer to become his servant at a time when he possessed nothing but the remnant of a month’s salary; and when he considered his own youth, he felt amazed that one so old and manly should volunteer to place himself under his orders. The fact is that Frank was not aware that his straightforward earnest manner had commended him very strongly to those with whom he had lately come in contact. He was one of those attractive men whose countenances express exactly what they feel, who usually walk with a quick earnest step, if we may say so, and with a somewhat downcast contemplative look. Frank knew well enough that he was strong and tall, unusually so for his age, and therefore did not continually assert the fact by walking as if he was afraid to fall forward, which is a common practice among men who wish to look bigger than they are. Besides, being an ardent student of nature, Frank was himself natural, as well as amiable, and these qualities had endeared him to many people without his being aware of it.

“Why, Joe!” he exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

“I mean wot I says, sir.”

“Are you aware,” said Frank, smiling, “that I do not possess a shilling beyond the few dollars that I saved off my last month’s salary?”

“I s’posed as much, sir.”

“Then if you engage with me, as you express it, how do you expect to be paid?”

“I don’t expect to be paid, sir.”

“Come, Joe, explain your meaning, for I don’t pretend to be a diviner of men’s thoughts.”

“Well, sir, this is how it is. W’en we got the sack the other day, says I to myself, says I, now you’re afloat on the world without rudder, compass, or charts, but you’ve got a tight craft of your own,—somewhat scrubbed, no doubt, with rough usage, but sound,—so it’s time for you to look out for rudder, compass, and charts, and it seems to me that thems to be found with young Mister Allfrey, so you’d better go an’ git him to become skipper o’ your ship without delay. You see, sir, havin’ said that to myself, I’ve took my own advice, so if you’ll take command of me, sir, you may steer me where you please, for I’m ready to be your sarvant for love, seein’ that you han’t got no money.”

“Most obliging of you,” said Frank, laughing, “and by this offer I understand that you wish to become my companion.”

“Of coorse, in a country o’ this kind,” replied Graddy, “it’s difficult,—I might a’most say unpossible,—to be a man’s sarvant without bein’ his companion likewise.”

“But here is a great difficulty at the outset, Joe. I have not yet made up my mind what course to pursue.”

“Just so, sir,” said the ex-seaman, with a look of satisfaction, “I know’d you wouldn’t be doin’ that in a hurry, so I’ve comed to have a talk with ’e about it.”

“Very good, sit down,” said Frank, “and let us consider it. In the first place, I regret to say that I have not been taught any trade, so that I cannot become a blacksmith or a carpenter or anything of that sort. A clerk’s duties I can undertake, but it seems to me that clerks are not much wanted here just now. Porterage is heavy work and rather slow. I may be reduced to that if nothing better turns up, but it has occurred to me that I might try painting with success. What would you say to that, Joe?”

The man looked at Frank in surprise. “Well,” said he, “people don’t look as if they wanted to paint their houses here, an’ most of ’em’s got no houses.”

“Why, man, I don’t mean house-painting. It is portrait and landscape painting that I refer to,” said Frank, laughing.

Joe shook his head gravely. “Never do, Mr Frank—”

“Stop! if you and I are to be companions in trouble, you must not call me Mister Frank, you must drop the mister.”

“Then I won’t go with ’e, sir, that’s all about it,” said Joe firmly.

“Very well, please yourself,” said Frank, with a laugh; “but if painting is so hopeless, what would you advise?”

“The diggin’s,” answered Joe.

“I thought so,” said Frank, shaking his head.

“Most men out of work rush to the diggings. Indeed, many men are fools enough to leave their work to go there, but I confess that I don’t like the notion. It has always appeared to me such a pitiful thing to see men, who are fit for better things, go grubbing in the mud for gold.”

“But what are men to do, Mr Frank, w’en they can’t git no other work?”

“Of course it is better to dig than to idle or starve, or be a burden on one’s friends; nevertheless, I don’t like the notion of it. I suppose, however, that I must try it just now, for it is quite certain that we cannot exist here without gold. By the way, Joe, have you got any more?”

“Not a rap, sir.”

“H’m, then I doubt whether I have enough to buy tools, not to speak of provisions.”

“I’ve bin’ thinkin’ about that, sir,” said Joe, “and it seems to me that our only chance lie in settin’ up a grog and provision store!”

“A grog and provision store!”

“Yes, sir, the fact is that I had laid in a stock of pipes and baccy, tea and brandy, for winter’s use this year. Now as things have turned out, I shan’t want these just at this minute, so we can sell ’em off to the diggers at a large profit. We might make a good thing of it, sir, for you’ve no notion wot prices they’ll give for things on the road to the diggin’s—”

Frank here interrupted his friend with a hearty laugh, and at the same time declared that he would have nothing to do with the grog and provision store; that he would rather take to porterage than engage in any such enterprise.

“Well, then, sir, we won’t say no more about that, but wot coorse would ye advise the ship’s head to be laid?”

Frank was silent for a few minutes as he sat with downcast eyes, absorbed in meditation. Then he looked up suddenly, and said, “Joe, I’ll give you a definite answer to that question to-morrow morning. To-night I will think over it and make arrangements. Meanwhile, let it suffice that I have made up my mind to go to the diggings, and if you remain in the same mind to-morrow, come here all ready for a start.”

The ruddy countenance of the sturdy ex-porter beamed with gratification as he rose and took his leave of Frank, who heard him, as he walked away, making sundry allusions in nautical phraseology to having his anchor tripped at last, and the sails shook out, all ready for a start with the first o’ the flood-tide in the morning!

Chapter Three.

Describes an Incident of Devouring Interest, an Unexpected Visit, and a Violent Assault.

When next morning arrived, Joe Graddy, true to his word, appeared with the first—if not of the “flood-tide,” at least of the morning sun, and Frank told him that, on the previous evening, he had made arrangements to go to the diggings in company with a party that was to start the following day; that he had already made purchases of the few things which they would require on the journey, and that the only thing remaining to be done was to pack up.

“Now, Joe, you must go at once to the principal guide and make arrangements with him as to that brandy and tea on which you expect to found your future fortunes. I told him to expect a visit from you early in the day.”

“Wotiver you do, do it at once,” said Joe, putting on his straw hat with an energetic slap. “That’s one of my mottos. I’ll go an’ carry it into practice.”

The following day saw Frank and his man set forth with a party of about thirty men, all of whom were clad in blue or red flannel shirts, straw hats, big boots, and other rough garments; with rifles on their shoulders, and bowie-knives and pistols in their belts. These were men of various nations; Californians, Chinamen, Malays, Americans, Scotch, and English, and many of them looked not only rough but savage. In truth, they were as diverse in their characters as in their appearance, some of them being men who had evidently moved in good society, while others were as evidently of the lowest—probably the convict—class. They had all, however, been thrown together by the force of a common interest. All were bound for the gold-mines, and it was necessary that they should travel in company for mutual protection and assistance.

There were two guides, who had charge of ten pack-mules loaded with provisions for the storekeepers at some remote diggings. These guides were stern, powerful, bronzed fellows, who had to make their way among rough men in difficult circumstances, and they seemed to be quite prepared to do so, being fearless, resolute, and armed to the teeth.

Joe Graddy had obtained permission, on promise of payment, to place his little fortune on the backs of the mules, so that he and Frank had nothing to carry save their weapons and blankets, besides a tin cup each at their girdles, and a water-bag.

“Come, I like this sort of thing,” said one of the party, an Englishman, when the order was given to start. “If it is all like this it will be uncommonly jolly.”

“I guess it ain’t all like this, stranger,” said one of the Americans with a good-humoured grin.

One of the guides laughed, and the other ejaculated “humph!” as they set forward.

There was indeed some ground for the remark of the Englishman, for the country through which they passed was most beautiful, and the weather delicious. Their track lay over an undulating region of park-like land covered with short grass; clumps of bushes were scattered here and there about the plain, and high above these towered some magnificent specimens of the oak, sycamore, and Californian cypress, while in the extreme distance rose the ranges of the “golden” mountains—the Sierra Nevada—in the midst of which lay the treasures of which they were in search.

All the members of the party were on foot, and, being fresh, full of hope, and eager to reach their destination. They chatted gaily as they marched over the prairie.

On the way the good-humoured American seemed to take a fancy to Frank, with whom he had a great deal of animated conversation. After asking our hero every possible question in regard to himself and intentions, he told him that he was Yankee,—a piece of superfluous information, by the way;—that his name was Jeffson, that he was a store-keeper at one of the farthest off diggings, that the chief part of the loading of one of the mules belonged to him, and that he was driving a considerable business in gold-dust without the trouble of digging for it.

Towards evening they came to a very small hole in the plain, which was dignified with the name of a well. Here they stopped to replenish their water-casks.

“Take as much as you can carry, men,” said the principal guide, “we’ve a long march to the next well, over sandy ground, and sometimes there ain’t much water in it.”

They all followed this advice with the exception of one man, a coarse savage-looking fellow, with a huge black beard and matted locks, who called himself Bradling, though there was ground for doubting whether that was the name by which he had been at first known in the world. This man pulled out an enormous brandy-flask, and with a scoffing laugh said:—

“This is the water for me, mister guide, pure and unmixed, there’s nothin’ like it.”

He nodded as he spoke, and put the flask to his lips, while the guide, who made no rejoinder, eyed him with a grave, stern expression of countenance.

That night they all encamped under the shade of a small clump of trees, kindled several large fires, and, heartily glad to be relieved of their back-burdens, sat down to enjoy supper. After it was over pipes were smoked and stories told, until it was time to retire to rest. Then each man lay down under his blanket, the sky being his canopy, and the howling of the wolves his lullaby.

It seemed to each sleeper, when awakened next morning, that he had only just closed his eyes, so sound had been his repose, and there was a great deal of violent yawning, stretching, grumbling, and winking before the whole party was finally aroused and ready to set forth. However, they got under way at last, and early in the forenoon came to the edge of a sandy plain, which appeared to be interminable, with scarcely a blade of grass on it. Here they halted for a few minutes.

“How wide is the plain, guide?” inquired Frank.

“Forty miles,” replied the man, “and there’s not a drop of water to be had till the end of the first twenty. We’ll get there about sundown, and replenish our kegs, if it’s not all gone dry. Let me warn you, however, to use the water you have sparingly.”

“Do we encamp at the end o’ the first twenty?” asked Jeffson.

“Yes, you’ll find it a long enough day’s march.”

No one made any reply, but by their looks they appeared to think nothing of a twenty-mile walk. They found, however, that such a distance, traversed over loose sand ankle-deep, and under a burning sun, was not what any of them had been accustomed to.

On entering the plain they observed that the heat had opened cracks and fissures in the earth, which omitted a fiery heat. At intervals pyramids of sand arose, which were borne with great velocity through the air, sometimes appearing in the shape of columns sixty feet high, which moved majestically over the plain. Ere long some of these clouds of sand enveloped them, and they were accompanied by hot winds, which seemed to shrivel up, not only the skin, but the very vitals of the travellers. The pores of their skin closed, producing feverish heat in the blood and terrible thirst, while their eyes became inflamed by the dazzling glare of the sun on the white sand.

Of course most of the party applied pretty frequently to their water-kegs and bottles. Even Bradling gave up his brandy, and was content to refresh himself with the little of the pure element which chanced to remain in his formerly despised, but now cherished, water-bottle. The guides carried skins of water for themselves and the mules, but these they opened very seldom, knowing full well the torments that would ensue if they should run short before getting across the scorching desert.

Thus they went on hour after hour, becoming more and more oppressed at every step. The improvident among them drank up the precious water too fast, and towards evening began to sigh for relief, and to regard with longing eyes the supplies of their more self-denying companions. They consoled themselves, however, to some extent, with thoughts of the deep draughts they hoped to obtain at night.

Our hero and Joe were among those who reserved their supplies.

As night approached the thirst of the travellers increased to a terrible extent, insomuch that they appeared to forget their fatigue, and hurried forward at a smart pace, in the eager hope of coming to the promised water-hole. Great, therefore, was their dismay when the guides told them that it was impossible to reach the place that night, that the mules were too much knocked up, but that they would get to it early on the following day.

They said little, however, seeming to be too much depressed to express their disappointment in words, but their haggard looks were fearfully eloquent. Some of those who had wasted their supplies earnestly implored their more prudent comrades to give them a little, a “very little,” of the precious element, and two or three were generous enough to give away a few drops of the little that still remained to them.

The place where they had halted was without a scrap of vegetation, and as there was no wood wherewith to kindle a fire, they were compelled to encamp without one. To most of the travellers, however, this was a matter of little importance, because they were too much exhausted to eat. Those who had water drank a mouthful sparingly, and then lay down to sleep. Those who had none also lay down in gloomy silence. They did not even indulge in the usual solace of a pipe, for fear of adding to the burning thirst with which they were consumed.

At day-break they were aroused by the guides, and rose with alacrity, feeling a little refreshed, and being anxious to push on to the water-hole, but when the sun rose and sent its dazzling rays over the dreary waste, giving promise of another dreadful day, their spirits sank again. Seeing this the principal guide encouraged them by saying that the water-hole was not more than three miles distant.

Onward they pushed with renewed energy and hope. At last they reached the place, and found that the hole was dry!

With consternation depicted on their haggard countenances the men looked at the guide.

“Dig, men, dig,” he said, with a troubled look on his bronzed face, “there may be a little below the surface.”

They did dig with shovels, spades, knives, sticks, hands, anything, and they dug as never men did for gold. All the gold in California would they have given at that time for a cupful of cold water, but all the gold in the world could not have purchased one drop from the parched sand. Never was despair more awfully pictured on men’s faces as they gazed at one another after finding that their efforts were unavailing. Their case was truly pitiable, and they turned to the guide as if they expected commiseration; but the case had become too desperate for him to think of others. In a stern, hard voice he cried—

“Onwards, men! onwards! The nearest stream is forty miles off. None of those who have water can spare a drop, and death lies in delay. Every man for himself now. Onward, men, for your lives!”

Saying this he applied the whip to the poor mules, which, with glazed eyes and hanging ears, snorted with agony, and dropped down frequently as they went along, but a sharp thrust of the goad forced them to rise again and stumble forward.

“God help the poor wretches,” murmured Joe Graddy to Frank as they staggered along side by side. “Is our supply nearly out—could we not give them a drop?”

Frank stopped suddenly, and, with desperate energy, seized the keg which hung over his shoulder, and shook it close to the ear of his companion.

“Listen,” he said, “can we afford to spare any with forty miles of the desert before us? It is our life! we must guard it.”

Graddy shook his head, and, admitting that the thing was out of the question, went silently forward. It was all that Frank himself could do to refrain from drinking the little that remained, for his very vitals seemed on fire. Indeed, in this respect, he suffered more than some of his companions, for while those of them who had not charge of the water-kegs and bottles experienced the pain of suffering and hopeless longing, he himself had the additional misery of having to resist temptation, for at any moment he could have obtained temporary relief by gratifying his desires at the expense of his companions.

Overpowered with heat, and burnt up with thirst, those without water to moisten their parched lips and throats could scarcely keep pace with the guide. By degrees they threw away their possessions—their blankets, their clothes,—until the plain behind was strewn with them.

“Don’t go so fast,” groaned one.

“Won’t ye halt a while?” said another uttering a curse—then, suddenly changing his tone, he implored them to halt.

“We cannot halt. It is death to halt,” said the guide, in a tone so resolute and callous that those who were enfeebled lost heart altogether, and began to lag behind.

At that time the man Bradling, who had become nearly mad with drinking brandy, ran in succession to each of those who had water, and offered all that he possessed of the former for one mouthful of the latter. His flushed face, glassy eyes, and haggard air, told how terrible was his extremity; but although some might have felt a touch of commiseration not one was moved to relieve him. The law of self-preservation had turned the hearts of all to stone. Yet not quite to stone, for there were one or two among them who, although nothing would induce them to give a single drop to a comrade, were content to do with less in order that they might relieve a friend!

One man in his desperation attempted to lick the bodies of the mules, hoping to obtain relief from the exudations of their skins, but the dust on them rendered this unavailing.

Suddenly Bradling darted at the water-skin hanging by the side of the guide’s mule, and swore he would have it or die.

“You’ll die, then,” observed the guide quietly, cocking a pistol and presenting it at his head.

Bradling hesitated and looked at the man. There was a cold stony stare, without the least excitement, in his look, which convinced him that his attempt, if continued, would end in certain death. He fell back at once with a deep groan.

Onward they pressed, hour after hour, until, in many of them, exhausted nature began to give way. They became slightly delirious, and, finding that they could not keep up with the party, a few determined, if left behind, to keep together. Among the number was Bradling, and terrible were the imprecations which he hurled after the more fortunate as they parted. It seemed cruel; but to remain with them would have done no good, while it would have sacrificed more lives. Bradling seemed to regard Frank as his chief enemy, for he shouted his name as he was moving off, praying God to send down the bitterest curses on his head.

A sudden impulse moved the heart of Frank. He turned back, poured about half a wine-glassful of water into a tin can and gave it to the unfortunate man, who seized and drained it greedily, licking the rim of the can and gazing into it, to see that not a drop had escaped him, with an eagerness of manner that was very painful to behold.

“God bless you,” he said to Frank with a deep sigh.

“Do you think,” said Frank earnestly, “that God will curse and bless at your bidding?”

“I don’t know, and don’t care,” replied the man, “but I say God bless you. Go away and be content with that.”

Frank had already lost too much time. He turned and hastened after the others as fast as possible.

“They won’t last long,” said the guide harshly, as he came up. “The wolves or the redskins will soon finish them. You were a fool to waste your water on them.”

“You are a fool to give your opinion to one who neither asks nor cares for it,” retorted Frank.

The man took no notice of the reply, and Frank afterwards felt somewhat ashamed of being so hasty, for at night, when they encamped, the guide advised him, in a friendly way, to keep a sharp look-out on the water, as those who had finished theirs during the day would be not unlikely to make an attack on those who had any left. Frank thanked him; but being too much fatigued to mount guard, he and Graddy, with his Yankee friend Jeffson, slept together, rolled in their blankets, with pistols in their hands and the water-bottles attached to them. Nothing disturbed them, however, during the night, save the howling of wolves, and the imploring cries, irritated exclamations, and angry discontent of the suffering men, which latter sounds were far more terrible than the cries of wild beasts.

A little before day-break some who could not rest sprang up and continued their journey, walking at their utmost speed until they sighted the woodland. Then, indeed, did a new sensation of delight fill their souls as they gazed upon the green verdure. Even the mules, though their eyes were bandaged, seemed to know that water was near. They snuffed the breeze, pricked up their ears, and neighed loudly. On reaching the woods, and sighting the river, a momentary halt was called to cast off the burdens of the mules. This was speedily done, and then they all rushed—men and mules together—deep into the stream and luxuriated in the cool water!

When they had slaked their thirst to the uttermost, Graddy proposed that a party should be sent back to the relief of those left behind, and offered to join it. Frank seconded this proposal, and the Yankee, Jeffson, volunteered to join it. A German named Meyer, who had borne his sufferings with great fortitude, also volunteered, as did a Scotchman named Douglas.

“You may propose what you please,” said the guide, when he heard them talking, “but I will not wait for you.”

“Why not?” inquired Frank somewhat angrily. “Because I was not hired for such work. It is my business to push on to the mines, and push on I will, follow who pleases.”

“Bot fat if ve compel you for to stay?” asked the German with an indignant air.

“Then you will guide yourselves as you best may, I will refuse to go a step further. Is it fair that I should be hired for a special job and then be asked to turn aside and risk my life for the sake of men who have chosen to throw their own lives away, and who are no doubt dead by this time?”

A number of the travellers applauded this sentiment, and it was evident that the philanthropists were very much in the minority, but here Frank stepped in and turned the scale, at least to some extent.

“Men,” said he, raising his clenched fist, “I know not what your notions of humanity may be, or your ideas of justice, but this I know, that the man who has the power to help a fellow-mortal in deadly distress and holds back his hand, is worse than a beast, for he has reason to guide him, and a beast has not. I and my comrade Joe Graddy, at least, will remain behind, even though we should be left alone, but I am convinced that we shall not be left alone. Meanwhile,” he added, addressing the guide, “I shall pay you my share of what is due, after which you may go, and I shall wish you no worse luck than that your conscience may go with you and be a lively companion.”

“There is more to be said than that,” observed the Yankee at this point. “You are so very fond of fulfilling your duty, mister guide, that I have concluded to relieve you of some of it. One of these mules is loaded entirely with my goods. Now, I guess, I’ll remain behind with Mister Allfrey, and keep the mule at a reasonable valuation.”

“I’ll not part with him at any price,” said the guide with a sneer. “I’ll carry your goods to the diggings or I’ll unstrap them, stranger, and let you carry them the best way you can, but I’m not bound to sell my mules to you.”

“Now, men,” cried the Yankee, springing forward and addressing his comrades, “I appeal to you all in the name of fair-play! Here am I, willin’ to pay this man a fair price for his mule. There’s not a pick or shovel belongin’ to any one else on its back, so I’m doin’ damage to nobody by the proposal. This critter is bent on refusin’ me out of spite; now, I propose to settle the question here with the rifle or pistol or bowie-knife. He is welcome to choose his weapon—it matters nothin’ to me, and whichever falls loses the day.”

There was a burst of laughter at this, and the majority insisted that the guide should give in, while a few, who were fond of excitement, suggested that the two should be allowed to fight it out, but this the guide refused to do; and when his comrade, the second guide, stepped forward and said he would join those who wanted to remain, he grumblingly agreed to part with the mule for its full value.

The bargain was soon made. The one party continued their journey; the other, with an abundant supply of water, returned to those who had been left behind, and reached them in time to save their lives.

That night, as Frank and Graddy lay together under the same blanket, the latter observed that, “he had travelled a goodish bit over the univarse, but that he had niver before comed across nothin’ like the experiences of the last two days; and that, if the end of their diggin’ for goold woe to be as bad as the begginin’, the sooner they set about diggin’ their graves the better!”

With which sentiment Frank Allfrey heartily agreed, and thereafter fell asleep.

Chapter Four.

Describes an Incident of Devouring Interest, an Unexpected Visit, and a Violent Assault.

Next day our gold-hunters and the rescued men reached the forest, and after resting a short time to recruit, continued their journey to the diggings.

The particular part towards which their steps were directed was Bigbear Gully, a small and comparatively unknown, because recently discovered, gorge, opening out of the great Sacramento valley. On the way they passed through a country the very reverse of that which had so nearly cost them their lives. It was well wooded and watered, and abounded with game of various kinds, particularly hares, deer, quails, and other creatures; shooting these afforded pleasant pastime to the sporting characters of the party, and consuming them was enjoyed by all without exception!

Rance, the guide, now that he was separated from his comrade, turned out to be a capital fellow, and, during the remainder of the journey, did much to make the travellers harmonise. The party now consisted of our hero and Joe Graddy, Jeffson the Yankee, Douglas the Scot, Meyer the German, and Bradling; all of whom, excepting the last, were good and true men. As for Bradling, no one could make out what he was, for at times he was amiable and polite, while at other times he was savage and morose.

One night the travellers reached a part of the mountains which was densely covered with wood. As there was no moon, and it was almost impossible to see a step before them, Rance called a halt.

“We must sleep here,” he said to Jeffson. “I had half expected to make out Bigbear Gully to-night, but the road is not safe; too many precipices and steep parts, which require to be passed in daylight.”

“Very good, Rance; then we had better set about encamping.”

“’Tis a dreary-looking place,” said Frank Allfrey, glancing round him.

“’Twill look more cheery when the fire is kindled,” said Jeffson.

“Dismal enough to give a man the blues just now, anyhow,” observed Joe Graddy.

This was undoubtedly true. There is, perhaps, nothing more desolate, more cheerless, more oppressive to the spirits, than the influence of the woods at night. They are so dark, so black-looking and dismal, that one is led irresistibly to contrast them with home and its bright fireside and well-remembered faces—just as the starving man is led by his condition to dream of rich feasts. In both cases the result is the same. The dream of food makes the starving man’s case more terrible, and the thought of home makes the dreariness of the dark wilderness more dismal.

But what magic there is in a spark of light! The first burst of flame drives all the sad lonesome feelings away, and the blaze of the increasing fire creates positively a home-feeling in the breast. The reason of this is plain enough. Before the fire is kindled the eye wanders restlessly through the dim light that may chance to straggle among the trees. The mind follows the eye, and gets lost among indistinct objects which it cannot understand. The feelings and the faculties are scattered—fixed upon nothing, except perhaps on this, that the wanderer is far, very far, from home. But when the bright glare of the fire springs up, everything beyond the circle of light becomes pure black. The thoughts and feelings are confined within that chamber with the ebony walls, and are forcibly attracted and made to rest upon the tree-stems, the leaves, the flowers, and other objects that glow in the ruddy blaze. Thus the thoughts are collected, and the wanderer feels, once more, something of the home-feeling.

It was not long before our travellers realised this agreeable change. The depression of their spirits vanished with the darkness and rose with the leaping flames, until some of the members of the party became quite facetious. This was especially the case when supper had been disposed of and the pipes were lighted. It was then that Rance became chatty and anecdotal in his tendencies, and Jeffson told marvellous stories of Yankee-land, and Douglas, who devoted himself chiefly to his pipe, became an attentive listener and an awkward tripper up of the heels of those who appeared to be “drawing the long-bow,” and Meyer looked, if possible, more solid and amiable than at other times, and Frank enjoyed himself in a general way, and made himself generally agreeable, while Joe Graddy became profoundly sententious. Even Bradling’s nature appeared to be softened, for he looked less forbidding and grumpy than at other times, and once condescended to remark that a life in the woods was not such a bad one after all!

“Not such a bad one!” cried Joe Graddy; “why, messmate, is that all you’ve got to say about it? Now I’ll give ’e my opinion on that head. This is where it lies—see here.” (Joe removed his pipe from his mouth and held up his fore-finger by way of being very impressive.) “I’ve travelled pretty well now in every quarter of the globe; gone right round it in fact, and found that it is round after all,—’cause why? I went in, so to speak, at one end from the west’ard an’ comed out at the same end from the east’ard, though I must confess it all appeared to me as flat’s a pancake, always exceptin’ the mountainous parts of it, w’ich must be admitted to be lumpy. Hows’ever, as I wos sayin’, I’ve bin a’most all over the world—I’ve smoked wi’ the Turks, an’ hobnobbled with John Chinaman, an’ scrambled through the jungles of the Indies, an’ gone aloft the Himalayas—”

“What, have you seen the Himalayas?” asked Jeffson, with a doubtful look.

“How could I be among ’em without seein’ of ’em?” replied Joe.

“Ah, das is goot—vair goot,” said Meyer, opening his huge mouth very wide to let out a cloud of smoke and a quiet laugh.

“Well, but you know,” said Jeffson, apologetically, “a poor fellow livin’ out here in the wilderness ain’t just always quite up in the gee-graphical changes that take place on the airth. When was it that they cut a ship canal up to the Himalayas, and in what sort o’ craft did ye sail there?”

“I didn’t go for to say I sailed there at all,” retorted Joe; “I walked it partly, and went part o’ the way on elephants an’ horses, and went aloft o’ them there mountains pretty nigh as far up as the main-topmast cross-trees of ’em; I’ve also slep’ in the snow-huts of the Eskimos, an’ bin tossed about in a’most every sort o’ craft that swims, but wot I’ve got to say is this, that of all the things I ever did see, travellin’ in Californy beats ’em all to sticks and stivers.”

“You’ve got a somewhat indefinite way of stating things,” observed Douglas. “D’ee mean to say that it beats them in a good or a bad way?”

“I means wot I says,” replied Joe, with a stern expression of countenance, as he relighted his pipe with the burnt end of a piece of stick. “I means that it beats ’em both ways;—if ye haven’t got schoolin’ enough to understand plain English, you’d better go home again an’ get your edicashun completed.”

“I’d do that at once, Joe, if I could only make sure o’ finding the schoolmaster alive that reared you.”

“Ha! goot,” observed the German. “Him must be von notable krakter.”

Further conversation on this point was cut short by the sudden appearance within the circle of light of an Indian, who advanced in a half-crouching attitude, as if he feared a bad reception, yet could not resist the attraction of the fire.

At that time some of the tribes in the neighbourhood of Bigbear Gully had committed numerous depredations at the diggings, and had murdered several white men, so that the latter had begun to regard the Red Men as their natural enemies. Indeed some of the more violent among them had vowed that they would treat them as vermin, and shoot down every native they chanced to meet, whether he belonged to the guilty tribe or not. The Indian who now approached the camp-fire of the white men knew that he had good ground to fear the nature of his reception, and there is no doubt that it would have been an unpleasant one had it not been for the fact that his appearance was pitiable in the extreme.

He was squalid, dirty, and small, and so attenuated that it was evident he had for some time been suffering from starvation. He wore no clothing, carried no arms of any kind, and was so utterly abject, and so evidently incapable of doing harm to any one, that none of the party thought it worth while to rise, or lay hands on a weapon. When he appeared, Joe Graddy merely pointed to him with the stem of his pipe and said—

“There’s a beauty, ain’t it? another of the cooriosities of Californy!”

“Starvin’,” observed Rance.

“Poor wretch!” exclaimed Frank, as the man advanced slowly with timid steps, while his large sunken eyes absolutely glared at the broken meat which lay scattered about.

“Give him von morsel,” suggested Meyer.

“Give him a bullet in his dirty carcase,” growled Bradling.

The Indian stopped when within ten paces of the fire and grinned horribly.

“Here, stop up your ghastly mouth wi’ that,” cried Jeffson, tossing a lump of salt-pork towards him.

He caught it with the dexterity of a monkey, and, squatting down on the trunk of a fallen tree, devoured it with the ravenous ferocity of a famishing hyena. The piece of pork would have been a sufficient meal for any ordinary man, but it quickly vanished down the throat of the savage, who licked his fingers, and, with eyes which required no tongue to interpret their meaning, asked for more!

“Look out!” cried Joe Graddy, tossing him a sea biscuit as one throws a quoit.

The Indian caught it deftly; crash went his powerful teeth into the hard mass, and in an incredibly short time it was—with the pork!

The whole party were so highly amused by this, that they “went in,” as Jeffson said, “for an evening’s entertainment.” One tossed the poor man a cut of ham, another a slice of pork, a third a mass of bread, and so they continued to ply him with victuals, determined to test his powers to the uttermost.

“Try another bit of pork,” said Douglas, laughing, as he threw him a cut as large as the first; “you’ve finished all the cooked meat now.”

The Indian caught it eagerly, and began to devour it as though he had eaten nothing.

“He’s tightening up like a drum,” observed Jeffson, handing him a greasy wedge off a raw flitch of bacon.

“Him vill boost,” said Meyer, staring at the Indian and smoking slowly, owing to the strength of his amazement.

“Jack the Giant Killer was a joke to him,” muttered Graddy.

“A bottomless pit,” observed Rance, referring to his stomach.

The Indian, however, proved that Rance was wrong by suddenly coming to a dead halt and dropping the last morsel he was in the act of raising to his mouth. He then heaved a deep sigh and looked round on the whole party with a radiant smile, which was literally sparkling by reason of the firelight which glittered on his greasy countenance.

“What! stuffed full at last?” exclaimed Jeffson, as they all burst into a fit of laughter.

“Ay, chock full to the beams,” said Joe Graddy; “moreover, hatches battened down, topsails shook out, anchor up, and away!”

This was indeed the case. Having eaten as much as he could hold, the poor Indian attempted to rise and walk off, but he suddenly fell down, and rolled about groaning and rubbing himself as if in great agony. The alarmed travellers began to fear that the poor little man had absolutely, as Joe said, eaten himself to death. He recovered, however, in a few minutes, rose again with some difficulty, and went off in the midst of a splendid burst of moonlight which appeared to have come out expressly to light him on his way! His gait was awkward, and he was obliged to sit down every twenty or thirty yards like a man resting under a heavy load. When last seen on his diminutive legs he looked like a huge bloated spider waddling into the obscurity of the forest.

“How disgusting!” perhaps exclaims the reader. True, yet not much more disgusting than the gormandising which goes on among too many civilised men, who, besides possessing better knowledge, have got dyspepsia to inform them that they daily act the part of the Californian savage, while many learned doctors, we believe, tell them that it is not so much quality as quantity that kills.

That eventful night did not terminate, however, with the departure of the Indian. Another scene was enacted, but, unlike the popular mode of theatrical procedure, the farce was followed by a tragedy.

Before lying down to rest, the fire was drawn together, fresh logs were heaped upon it, and a great blaze was made to scare away the wolves. Frank, Jeffson, and Douglas, then rolled themselves in their blankets, and lay down with their feet towards the fire and their rifles beside them. The others lighted their pipes for a finishing whiff—a nightcap as Joe styled it.

They had not sat long thus, making occasional quiet remarks, as fatigued and sleepy men are wont to do before going to rest, when they were startled by the sound of heavy footsteps in the woods. Rance, whose duty it was to keep watch the first part of the night, instantly leaped up and cocked his rifle, while the sleepers awoke, raised themselves on their elbows, and looked about somewhat bewildered.

Before any one had time to act or speak, a man, clad in the flannel shirt, heavy boots, etcetera, of a miner, strode into the circle of light, with the air of one whose intentions are peaceful.

“Evening, strangers,” he said, looking round and setting the butt of a long rifle on the ground; “I’ve got lost. You’ll not object to let me rest a bit by your fire, I daresay—hallo!”

The latter exclamation was uttered when the stranger’s eyes fell on Bradling, who was gazing at him with the expression of a man who had seen a ghost. At the same time the stranger threw forward his rifle, and his countenance became unusually pale.

For two seconds each looked at the other in profound silence, which was only broken by the sharp click of the lock as the stranger cocked his piece.

Like a flash of lightning Bradling plucked a revolver from his belt, pointed full at the man’s breast and fired. He fell without uttering a cry, and his rifle exploded as he went down, but the ball passed harmlessly over the heads of the party.

For a few seconds the travellers stood as if paralysed, and Bradling himself remained motionless, gazing sullenly on his victim. Then Frank Allfrey leaped upon him, and grasping him by the throat wrenched the pistol out of his hand.

“Murderer!” he exclaimed, tightening his hold, as Bradling struggled to release himself.

“I’m no murderer,” gasped Bradling; “you saw as well as I did that the fellow threatened to shoot me. Besides, he is not dead.”

“That’s true,” said Joe Graddy, turning towards the fallen man, whom Rance and some of the others were examining, and who had showed some symptoms of returning consciousness; “but his wound is a bad one, and if you ain’t a murderer yet, pr’aps it won’t be long afore ye are one.”

Hearing this Frank flung Bradling violently off, and turned to examine the wounded man. As he did so the other pointed his pistol deliberately at Frank’s back, fired, and then sprang into the woods. Before he had quite disappeared, however, each man who could seize his gun or pistol in time fired a shot after him, but apparently without effect, for although they examined the bushes carefully afterwards no marks of blood could be found.

Fortunately the miscreant missed Frank, yet so narrowly that the ball had touched his hair as it whistled past his ear.

The wounded man was as carefully tended as was possible in the circumstances, but neither on that night nor the following day did he recover sufficiently to be able to give any account of himself. He was left at the first “ranch” they came to next day, with directions from Frank that he should be cared for and sent back to Sacramento city as soon as possible. Our hero was unable of course to pay his expenses, but he and all the party contributed a small sum, which, with the gold found on the stranger’s person, was sufficient to satisfy the ranchero, who appeared to be a more amiable man than the rest of his class. To secure as far as possible the faithful performance of his duty, Frank earnestly assured him that if he was attentive to the man he would give him something additional on his return from the diggings.

“That’s very good of you, sir,” said the ranchero with a peculiar smile, “but I wouldn’t promise too much if I were you. Mayhap you won’t be able to fulfil it. All gold-diggers don’t make fortunes.”

“Perhaps not,” said Frank; “but few of them, I believe, fail to make enough to pay off their debts.”

“H’m, except those who die,” said the ranchero.

“Well, but I am not going to die,” said Frank with a smile.

“I hope not. All the young and strong ones seem to think as you do when they go up; but I have lived here, off an’ on, since the first rush and all I can say is that I have seen a lot more men go up to the diggin’s than ever I saw come down from ’em; and, of those who did return, more were poor than rich, while very few of ’em looked either as stout or as cheerful as they did when passing up.”

“Come, shut up your potato-trap, old man, and don’t try to take the heart out of us all in that fashion,” said Jeffson; “but let’s have a feed of the best you have in the house, for we’re all alive and kicking as yet, anyhow, and not too poor to pay our way; and, I say, let’s have some home-brewed beer if you can, because we’ve got a German with us, and a haggis also for our Scotchman.”

“You have forgotten roast-beef for the Englishman,” said Frank, laughing.

“I daresay you won’t want sauce,” observed the host with an air of simplicity; “my meat never seems to want it when there’s a Yankee in the room.”

Saying this the worthy ranchero went to work, and speedily supplied the travellers with a meal consisting of hard biscuit and rancid pork, with a glass of bitter brandy to wash it down; for which he charged them the sum of eight shillings a head.

Chapter Five.

The Travellers meet with Indians, and are led to wish that they had not gone seeking for Gold.

It was the evening of a hot sultry day, when our travellers, fatigued and foot-sore, arrived at the entrance of a small valley not far distant from the intended scene of their future operations. Here they determined to encamp for the night on the margin of a small stream, where there was grass for the mule and shelter under the trees for the men. On making their way, however, to the place, they observed an Indian village down on a plain below, and, being uncertain as to the numbers or the temper of the natives, they were about to cross the stream and continue their journey a little further, when a party of six Indians suddenly made their appearance in front, and advanced fearlessly, making signs of friendship.

It was found that they understood and could talk a little Spanish, which Rance spoke fluently. After a short conversation, the guide thought that it would be quite safe to stay beside them. The encampment therefore was made, and supper prepared.

While this was in progress Frank and Joe went to the top of a neighbouring mound to survey the village. It was a curious residence for human beings. Joe’s remark that it resembled “a colony of big moles” was not inappropriate, for the huts, of which there were about forty, were not unlike huge mole-hills.

These huts, it was found, they formed by excavating circular holes in the earth, about twelve feet in diameter and four feet deep, then bending over these a number of stout saplings, which they bound together with tendrils of the vine, they formed a dome-shaped roof, which was plastered with a thick coat of clay. An opening in one side of each formed a door, through which entrance could be made by creeping. On the roofs of these curious dwellings many of the natives were seated, evidently awaiting the result of the deputation’s conference with the white men.

The main object that the Indians appeared to have in view was the obtaining of fire-arms, and it was observed that they cast longing eyes upon the rifles which leaned on the trees beside the fire. Rance therefore advised every man to look carefully after his weapons, while he talked with the chief, and told him that he had no guns or ammunition to spare. In order to please him, however, he gave him an old rusty carbine, which was bent in the barrel, and nearly useless, in exchange for a few fresh fish.

“My white brother is liberal,” said the delighted savage in bad Spanish, as he surveyed the weapon with admiration, “but it is necessary to have black powder and balls.”

“I have none to spare,” replied Rance, “but the settlements of the white men are not far off. Besides, the Indian chief is wise. He does not require to be told that white men come here continually, searching for gold, and that they bring much powder and ball with them. Let gold be offered, and both may be obtained.”

The chief took this remark for a hint, and at once offered some gold-dust in exchange for powder and shot, but Rance shook his head, knowing that, if obtained, the ammunition would in all probability be used against himself. The chief was therefore obliged to rest content in the mean time with the harmless weapon.

Meanwhile, another party of seven or eight Indians had gone towards Frank and Joe, and by signs made them to understand that there was something worth shooting on the other side of a cliff not fifty yards off. Our hero and his nautical friend were both of unsuspicious natures, and being much amused by the ludicrous gesticulations of the savages in their efforts to enlighten them, as well as curious to ascertain what it could be that was on the other side of the cliff, they accompanied them in that direction.

The moment they had passed out of sight of the camp a powerful savage leaped on Frank from behind, and, grasping him round the throat with both arms, endeavoured to throw him, while another Indian wrenched the rifle out of his hand. At the same moment Joe Graddy was similarly seized. The savages had, however, underrated the strength of their antagonists. Frank stooped violently forward, almost to the ground, and hurled the Indian completely over his head. At the same time he drew a revolver from his belt, fired at and wounded the other Indian, who dropped the rifle, and doubled like a hare into the bushes. The others fled right and left, as Frank sprang forward and recovered his weapon—all save the one whose unhappy lot it had been to assault Joe Graddy, and who was undergoing rapid strangulation, when Frank ran to his rescue.

“Have mercy on him, Joe!” he cried.

“Marcy! why should I have marcy on such a dirty—lie still, then,” said Joe sternly, as he pressed his knee deeper into the pit of the Indian’s stomach, and compressed his throat with both hands until his tongue protruded, and both eyes seemed about to start from their sockets.

“Come, come, Joe; you volunteered to be my servant, so you are bound to obey me.”

Saying this, Frank seized the angry tar by the collar, and dragged him forcibly off his victim, who, after a gasp or two, rose and limped away.

“He has got quite enough,” continued Frank, “to keep you vividly in his remembrance for the rest of his life, so we must hasten to the camp, for I fear that the Indians won’t remain friendly after this unfortunate affair.”

Grunting out his dissatisfaction pretty freely, Joe accompanied his friend to the camp-fire, where their comrades were found in a state of great alarm about their safety. They had heard the shots and shouts, and were on the point of hastening to the rescue. The chief and his companions, meanwhile, were making earnest protestations that no evil was intended.

When Frank and Joe appeared, Rance turned angrily on the chief, and ordered him and his men to quit the camp instantly. This they hesitated to do for a little, and the chief made fresh efforts to calm the irritated guide, but Rance knew that he had to deal with treacherous men, and repeated his order to be off at the same time throwing forward his rifle in a threatening manner. Whereupon the chief flew into a violent rage, and, after using a good deal of abusive language, returned to his village, where he immediately summoned a council of war, and, by his violent gesticulations and frequent looking and pointing towards the camp, left no doubt on the minds of the travellers as to his intentions.

Rance therefore made the best preparations possible in the circumstances to repel an attack.

Their position was very critical, for the Indians numbered about a hundred men, while their own party consisted only of six. But they had the one great advantage over their enemies—the possession of fire-arms, and felt much confidence in consequence.

“Get out all your weapons, big and little,” said Rance, as he loaded his rifle, “and fire ’em off to begin with. It will show them that we are well prepared.”

Accordingly they commenced letting off their pieces, and what with rifles, double shot-guns, double and single barrelled pistols, and revolvers, they made up the formidable number of fifty-three discharges, which had a very warlike effect when fired in quick and regular succession.

Carrying these in their hands, and disposed round their persons, intermixed with short swords and long bowie-knives, the whole party mounted guard, bristling like human hedge-hogs, and, placed at equal intervals on each side of the camp, marched about for an hour or two, without seeing or hearing anything more of their enemies.

At last their mule became a little restive, putting them on the alert, and shortly afterwards an arrow whizzed past Joe’s ear. He instantly presented his carbine in the direction whence it came, and fired. The shot was answered by a perfect shower of arrows, which pierced the clothes of some of the white men, and slightly wounded Douglas in the left arm, but fortunately did no further damage. The discharge was followed by a quick movement in the bushes, rendered audible by the crushing of dried leaves and breaking of branches. This guided the whites in their aim, and a volley was poured into the bush, followed by several random shots from revolvers.

Soon after all noise was hushed, and a brief examination of the surrounding bushes was made, but it could not be ascertained that any damage had been done to the Indians, who always make it a point, when possible, to carry off their dead to prevent their being scalped—a dishonour they fear almost as much as death.

“Now, one half of us may sleep,” said Rance, when the party was again collected round the fire.

“Sleep!” exclaimed Frank.

“Ay, there’s nothing more to fear from the rascals to-night, if we keep a good look-out—and that may be done as effectively by three of us as by six. If we each get a wink of an hour or two, we shall be quite fit to travel or to fight in the morning. So let me advise you to lose no time about it.—Not badly hurt, sir, I hope?” he added, addressing Douglas.

“Nothing to speak of,” answered the Scot, “only a graze of the skin.”

“Well, get away to rest. You can take the second watch, and it is not likely they will disturb you before morning. If they do, you won’t require to be called, so keep your weapons handy.”

As Rance prophesied, so it turned out. The Indians had got an unexpectedly severe repulse, and did not attempt to interfere with the travellers during the night, but in the morning they were found to have posted themselves on the opposite banks of the stream, evidently with the intention of disputing the further progress of the party.

Nothing now but prompt determination could save them from being cut off by overwhelming numbers, for if they were to hesitate, or waver in the least, the Indians would be encouraged to make an attack. They therefore calmly and deliberately blew up the fire, boiled their kettle and had breakfast, after which the mule was loaded, and the party prepared to cross the stream.

Before doing so, however, Rance and Jeffson, being the best marksmen, advanced to the edge of the bank with two of the largest rifles and took aim at the Indians, hoping by that means to frighten them away without being obliged to shed more blood. In this they failed, for, the distance being fully five hundred yards, the natives evidently believed that it was impossible for a ball to tell at such a distance. On seeing Rance point his rifle at them they set up a yell of derision. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to fire. This Rance did, and one of the Indians fell. Jeffson also fired and hit the chief, who reeled, but did not fall. The savages immediately began a hurried retreat, and the travellers refrained from firing, in order to convince them that all they desired was to be allowed to go on their way unmolested.

The crossing of the stream was then effected. On mounting the opposite bank it was found that the Indians had taken up their position, fully armed, on the top of their huts, with an air of quiet resolution that showed they apprehended an attack, and were prepared to defend their homes to the death.

This, however, they were not called upon to do, for the travellers turned off to the right, and pursued their way as if nothing had happened. But two of the Indians had been badly hit, perhaps killed, and the thought of this dwelt much on the minds of Frank and his friend Joe all that day. Another thing that distressed them much was the well-known custom of the natives to take their revenge at the first favourable opportunity. It was a rule among them to take two lives of white men for every redskin killed, and they were known not to be particular as to who the whites might be,—sufficient for them that they were of the offending and hated race. The fact that the innocent might thus suffer for the guilty was to them a matter of perfect indifference.

The route over which the whites travelled that day chanced to be unusually picturesque and beautiful. The path, or “trail,”—for there was scarcely anything worthy the name of path,—wound through a sycamore and white-oak grove that fringed the river, the sloping banks of which were covered with an infinite variety of shrubs and evergreens, bearing flowers and blossoms of most delicate beauty and exquisite fragrance, amidst which tangled festoons of the indigenous vine drooped with pendant bunches of purple grapes. Arbutus shrubs of immense size were seen, and the landscape was in some places interspersed thickly with manzanita rushes, the crimson berries of which are much in favour with the Indians, also with the grizzly bear! Some of the plains they crossed were studded with magnificent oaks, devoid of underwood, such as one is accustomed to see in noblemen’s parks in England.

But all this beauty and luxuriance made comparatively little impression on Frank and Joe, for they could not forget that human life had probably been sacrificed that day—a thought which filled them with sincere regret that it had ever entered into their hearts to go digging for gold.

Chapter Six.

Arrival at the Gold-Fields, and Lessons in Gold-Washing received.

At last Bigbear Gully was reached, and our travellers—especially those of them who, being new to the work, were all enthusiasm—pressed eagerly forward, anxious to begin without delay.

Bigbear Gully—so named because of a huge grizzly bear that had been shot there at the commencement of digging operations—was a wild and somewhat gloomy but picturesque mountain gorge, the first sight of which, with its lights and shadows, stupendous cliffs and clumps of wood clinging to the hill-sides, called forth a burst of delight and admiration from Frank Allfrey, whose mind at once leaped with loving desire to the brush and the colour-box; but as these implements were at that time packed among the baggage on the mule’s back, and as the love of art was not sufficiently strong in the guide to induce him to permit of a moment’s delay in the journey, our hero was fain to content himself with visions of future indulgence in his favourite study.

The “diggings,” which they first got sight of in the afternoon of a fine and sunny but cool day, were at the mouth of a deep gorge at the lower end of the gully, having an abrupt mountain acclivity about eight hundred feet high on one side, and on the other a plain bounded by mountains. Here numbers of tents of all sizes and various shapes were pitched on the slopes and near the banks of the river that brawled down the centre of the little valley.

No sooner had the travellers entered the camp than the diggers left their work and flocked round them to ask the news, and, more particularly, to ascertain what provisions had been brought to the valley,—for the necessaries of life at that time were getting scarce, and the party from which Frank and his companions had separated, strange to say, had not arrived.

Great anxiety was manifested by the diggers on hearing of this separation, because on the safe and speedy arrival of that party they depended almost for their existence, and deep as well as loud were the expressions of disappointment and discontent when they were told that, if all had gone well, they should have been at the gully some days before.

Soon, however, the diggers had exhausted their queries and returned to their work, leaving the new arrivals to look after their own affairs. This they proceeded to do promptly.

“Now, friends,” said Jeffson, “our journeying together has come to an end, and it remains for you to settle whether you shall keep together and work in company, or separate. As for me, my business compels me to leave you. Yonder white tent, which you see about half a mile up the river, belongs to me and my partner. It is the great economico-universal store of Jeffson and Company, which supplies diggers liberally on the most moderate terms, giving credit as long as it seems advisable to do so. When Jeffson is absent, Company takes charge of the concern, and it is my opinion that Company will be kind o’ glad to-night to see the head of the firm come back safe and sound with fresh supplies. You see, gentlemen, I feel it sort of incumbent on me to make you a farewell speech as a fellow-traveller, because I mean to become a host for to-night, and ask you to come up to the store and partake of our hospitality. I am quite sure that you will acquit me of the unworthy motive of wishing to attract you as customers, when I tell you that I am already certain of your custom, seeing that there is no other store in the gully, and I guess you won’t be inclined to go down to Sacramento for supplies for some time to come.”

There was a general laugh at this, followed by a hearty expression of thanks from all the party, who forthwith adjourned to the store, where they found “Company” (who was an Irishman named Quin) barely able to keep his legs, in consequence of a violent attack of dysentery which had reduced him to a mere shadow. The poor man could scarcely refrain from shedding tears of joy at the sight of his partner, who, to do him justice, was almost as much affected by sorrow at the miserable appearance presented by his friend.

“Sure it’s dead I am intirely—all but,” said Quin, as he wrung Jeffson’s hand again and again; “if ye’d bin a day later it’s my belaif I’d have gone under the sod.”

“Well, you do look like it, Quin,” said Jeffson, stepping back to take a more critical view of him. “What on airth pulled all the flesh off yer bones in this fashion?”

“Sickness, no less. Faix, there’s more than me is in the same fix. Jim Dander, down at the cross creek, has got so thin that it’s of no manner o’ use looking at him sideways, he’s not quite visible till he turns his flat front to ye. And Foxey is all but gone; and there’s many a man besides as is on the road to the grave, if not there already. Sure, the doctor’s the only man that makes money now, though he kills more than he cures. The baste called to try his hand on mysilf, but I flung my big boots at his head, an’ saw no more of him.”

“That’s a bad account of things,” said Jeffson; “however, here I am back again with fresh supplies, so cheer up, man, and we’ll weather the storm yet. I’ve brought some fellow-travellers, you see, and hope you will receive them hospitably.”

“That must not be,” said Frank Allfrey, advancing, “it would be unfair to put your friend to unnecessary trouble considering the state of weakness to which—”

“Waikness, is it?” exclaimed Quin, seizing Frank’s hand and shaking it; “well, now, it’s little I thought I’d iver live to be called waik! Howsever, it’s too thrue, but me moral strength is wonderful, so you’re heartily welcome, if ye can slaip on a plank floor an’ ait salt-pork an’ paise. There, now, don’t be botherin’ a sick man wid yer assurances. Just make yerselves at home, gintlemen, an’ the head o’ the firm will git yer supper ready.”

Saying this, the poor man, who was quite worn out with excitement and the exertion of welcoming his partner, flung himself on his couch with a deep sigh. As Jeffson also pressed his friends to remain, they made no further objection.

While supper was being prepared, Frank and Joe went out to look at the diggers.

“Now,” said the former as they sauntered along the bank of the river, “the question that you and I must settle at once is, are we two to work by ourselves, or are we to join with our late friends, and work in company?”

“Jine ’em, say I,” replied Joe. “I’m fond of Meyer, and I like the Scotchman too, though he is rather fond of argification; besides, it strikes me that from what we have heard of diggers’ ways, we shall be the better of being a strong party.”

“Four men don’t form a very strong party, Joe; however, I agree with you. It would be well that we four should stick together. So, that’s settled, and now we shall go and ask yonder fellow in the red shirt and big boots something about our prospects.”

The scene in the midst of which they now found themselves was curious, interesting, and suggestive. For two miles along its course the banks of the river were studded with tents, and on each side of it were diggers, working at short distances apart, or congregated together, according to the richness of the deposits. About twenty feet was the space generally allowed at that time to a washing machine. Most of the diggers worked close to the banks of the stream, others partially diverted its course to get at its bed, which was considered the richest soil. At one place a company of eighty men had banded together for the purpose of cutting a fresh channel for the river—a proceeding which afterwards resulted in a fierce and fatal affray with the men who worked below them. Elsewhere on the sides of the mountains and in “gulches” formed by torrents, men toiled singly and in twos or threes, with picks, shovels, washing-pans, and cradles. All were very busy, but all were not equally hopeful, for, while some had been successful in finding the precious metal, others had failed, and were very desponding.

“Have you had good fortune to-day?” asked Frank, stopping at the edge of the hole in which the miner with the red shirt toiled.

“Not very good,” replied the man, whose voice betokened him an Englishman.

He was an immensely powerful, good-looking fellow, and paused in his work to reply to Frank’s question with a hearty air.

“Have you to dig very deep?” inquired Frank.

“Not very,” he replied; “the depth varies in different parts of the diggings. Here it is seldom necessary to go deeper than four feet. Indeed, a white rock usually lays about the depth of two feet under the soil. It is difficult to cut through, and does not pay for the trouble.”

“Do you find gold on the surface?” continued Frank.

“Almost none. Being weighty, it sinks downwards through the loose earth, and settles on the rock. I see, gentlemen, that you are strangers, and, if I mistake not, Englishmen. I am a countryman, hailing from Cornwall, and, if you have no objection, will accompany you in your inspection of the diggings. My experience may be of service to you, perhaps, and I can at all events guard you from the scoundrels who make a livelihood by deceiving and cheating newcomers.”

Frank thanked the Cornish miner for his kind offer, and accompanied by this new and intelligent friend, he and Joe continued their ramble.

One of the first men whom they addressed happened to be one of the sharpers referred to. He was a Yankee, and although the Yankees were by no means the only scoundrels there, for there was no lack of such—English, Scotch, Irish, German, and Chinese—they were unquestionably the “’cutest!”

This man was very busy when they approached, and appeared to be quite indifferent to them. Observing, however, that they were about to pass by, he looked up, and, wiping his brow, said, “Good-evening.”

“Good-evening,” said Frank, “What luck?”

“Luck enough,” replied the man, “I’m tired of luck; the fact is, I have made my pile, and want to make tracks for home, but this is such a splendid claim that I can’t tear myself away from it. See here.”

He struck his shovel into the ground as he spoke, and lifted a quantity of earth, or “dirt,” into a basin, washed it out, and displayed to the astonished gaze of the “greenhorns,” as newcomers were called, a large quantity of gold-dust, with several small nuggets interspersed.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Frank.

“You’ll make your fortin,” said Joe Graddy.

“It’s made already, I reckon,” said the Yankee, with the air of a man who was overburdened with success. “The truth is, I want to get away before the rainy season comes on, and will part with this here claim for an old song. I’m half inclined to make you a present of it, but I don’t quite see my way to that. However, I’ve no objection to hand it over for, say a hundred dollars.”

“H’m!” ejaculated the Cornish man, “will you take a shovelful from the other end of the claim and wash it out?”

The Yankee smiled, put his finger on the side of his nose, and, wishing them success in whatever line of life they chose to undertake, went on with his work.

The Cornish miner laughed, and, as he walked away, explained to his astonished companions that this was a common dodge.

“The rascals,” he said, “hide a little gold in a claim that is valueless, and, digging it up as you have seen, wash it out in the presence of newcomers, in the hope of taking them in. But here we come to a party who will show you a little of legitimate gold-washing.”

They approached, as he spoke, a bend of the river where several men were busy at work—some with pick and shovel, some with the cradle, and others with tin washing-pans. Here they stood for some time watching the process of gold-washing.

At the time of which we write, only the two simple processes of washing, with the pan and with the cradle, were practised at Bigbear Gully, the more elaborate methods of crushing quartz, etcetera, not having been introduced.

The most simple of these was the pan process, which was much in favour, because the soil, or “dirt” was so rich in gold-dust that it “paid” well, and it only required that the miner should possess a pick, a shovel, and a tin pan. With this very limited stock in trade he could begin without delay, and earn at least a subsistence; perhaps even make “his pile,” or, in other words, his fortune.

One of the men connected with the party above referred to was engaged in pan-washing. He stood in a hole four feet deep, and had just filled a flat tin dish with dirt, as Frank and his companions stopped to observe him. Pouring water on the dirt, the miner set the pan down, dipped both hands into it and stirred the contents about until they became liquid mud—removing the stones in the process, and operating in such a manner that he caused some of the contents to escape, or spill, off the top at each revolution. More water was added from time to time, and the process continued until all the earthy matter was washed away, and nothing but a kind of black sand, which contained the gold, left at the bottom. The separation of the metal from the black sand was an after process, and a more difficult one. It was accomplished in some cases by means of a magnet which attracted the sand. In other cases this was blown carefully off from a sheet of paper, but a few of the miners, who managed matters in a more extensive and thorough manner, effected the separation by means of quicksilver. They mixed it with the sand, added a little water, and stirred it about until the gold amalgamated with the quicksilver, converting it into a little massive, tangible, and soft heap. It was then put into a buckskin cloth, through the pores of which the quicksilver was squeezed, leaving the pure gold behind. Any trifling quantity of the former that might still remain was afterwards evaporated on a heated shovel or pan.

An expert worker in average ground could gather and wash a panful of dirt every ten minutes. There were few places in Bigbear Gully that would not yield two shillings’ worth of gold to the panful, so that in those early days, while the surface soil was still fresh, a man could, by steady work alone—without incidental nuggets—work out gold-dust to the value of between five and six pounds sterling a day, while, occasionally, he came upon a lump, or nugget, equal, perhaps, to what he could procure by the labour of a week or more.

Many, however, of the more energetic miners worked in companies and used cradles, by means of which they washed out a much larger quantity of gold in shorter time; and in places which did not yield a sufficient return by the pan process to render it worth while working, the cradle owners obtained ample remuneration for their toil.

The cradle, which Frank and his comrades saw working not far from the pan-washer, was by no means a complex affair. It was a semi-circular trough hollowed out of a log six feet long by sixteen inches diameter. At one end of this was a perforated copper or iron plate, with a rim of iron or wood round it, on which the dirt was thrown, and water poured thereon, by one man, while the cradle was rocked by another. The gold, earth, and small gravel were thus separated from the larger stones, and washed down the trough, in which, at intervals, two tranverse bars were placed; the first of these arrested the gold, which from its great weight sunk to the bottom, while the gravel, and lighter substances, were swept away by the current. The lower bar caught any particles that, by awkward management, might have passed the upper one.

Having satisfied their curiosity, and learned from an obliging miner the method of washing the gold, our adventurers returned to Jeffson’s store, and there spent the night in discussing their plan of procedure. It was decided, first of all, that they should stick together and work in company.

“You see, mates,” observed Joe Graddy, after the others had given their opinions, “this is how it stands. I must stick by Mister Allfrey, ’cause why, we’ve bin pullin’ in the same boat together for some time past, an’ it’s nat’ral for to wish to continue so to do. Then Douglas and Meyer ought to stick to us, ’cause we have for so long stuck to them, an’ they ought to stick to one another ’cause they’re mootooally fond o’ misty-physical jabberin’ on religious subjects, which is greatly to our edification, seein’ that we don’t onderstand it, and finds it highly amoosin’ while we smoke our pipes after a hard day’s work, d’ye see? So, on them grounds, I votes that we j’ine company an’ go to work at seven o’clock to-morrow mornin’.”

“Das ist goot advise,” said the German, slapping Joe on the shoulder, “an’ I vould add mine vott, vich is, to make you commandair of de forces.”

“Very good, then I command you to shut your mouth, and go to bed.”

“Unpossabil,” replied Meyer, “for I do snor, an’ always do him troo de mout’.”

“I prefers to do it through the nose,” remarked Joe, rolling his blanket round him and lying down on the hard boards with his head on a sack.

Expressing a hope that they would restrain their snoring propensities as much as possible, the remaining members of the new co-partnery lay down beside them, and were speedily in the land of dreams. Need we add that their dreams that night were of gold? Surely not, and perhaps it were equally unnecessary to observe that their slumbers were profound.

Chapter Seven.

Gives the Result of the First Day’s Digging, and shows the Powerful Effect of Lynch-Law.

Next morning Frank and his friends went out to choose their claim. As we have said, the Bigbear Gully was not at that time generally known. A comparatively small number of diggers had set to work in it, and they were careful to avoid giving much information to “prospecting,” or searching parties, because they knew that if the richness of the soil were known, there would be a general rush to it from all quarters. There was therefore no lack of unoccupied ground.

A suitable spot was chosen in a pleasant grove on the banks of the stream where it swept round the base of a magnificent precipice, not far from Jeffson’s store. Here Douglas, Meyer, and Joe set to work to build a kind of hut of logs, branches, and mud, while Frank returned to the store to purchase the necessary tools. Having little money left, he was compelled to take credit, which Jeffson readily granted to him, knowing full well that there was little fear of the account remaining long unpaid.

In order that the reader may have an idea of the charges made at the diggings in those days, we subjoin the list of purchases made at the commencement of operations by the firm of “Allfrey, Douglas and Company.”

When Joe Graddy heard the sum-total he looked very blank indeed, but, quickly recovering himself, insisted that they should leave off house-building, which, in the fine weather, he said, wos o’ no manner o’ use, and it was a matter o’ prime importance to go to dig at once, an’ pay off their debt without delay.

Joe was overruled, however, and when it was explained to him that the fine weather might not last long, that it was essential to health that they should have a roof of some sort to keep off the dews, and that digging might be commenced in right earnest on the morrow, he consented to continue his labours at the hut.

That night they slept sounder than usual, and, on the following morning, began to dig for gold.

They commenced within a few feet of the water’s edge. Joe handled the pick and spade; Meyer carried the “dirt” on his broad shoulders to Douglas, who rocked the cradle, while Frank washed out the auriferous matter in one of the tin pans, until nothing but pure gold and black sand remained. It was reserved for evening to separate the sand from the gold, and ascertain the result of their day’s labour.

At noon, in accordance with the universal custom at the mines, they threw down their tools and went up to the hut for an hour’s rest and refreshment. Of course they discussed while they dined, and hoped largely! but their jaws were more active than their tongues, and the moment the hour was completed they returned vigorously to work.

When the shades of evening began to descend, they returned to the hut, and, kindling a fire, commenced to fry blacksand and gold, being anxious to ascertain the result of the first day’s work before supper! As each panful was dried and blown, the gold was weighed and put into a small white bowl, the bottom of which was soon heaped up with shining particles, varying in size from the smallest visible specks to little lumps like grains of corn.

A neighbouring miner, who had offered to weigh the result for them, pronounced this first day’s work as an unusually successful one, being, he said, a little over thirty-six pounds sterling.

“How much?” exclaimed Joe Graddy in amazement.

“Thirty-six pounds sterling,” repeated the miner.

“You don’t mean that?”

“Indeed I do,” replied the miner, smiling.

“Then our fortins is made a’ready—all but—”

“Not quite; you forget the price of our outfit,” said Frank.

“No doubt, I did,” answered the seaman, a little subdued.

“And the price o’ grub,” added Douglas; “not to mention clothing, which we shall want very soon, I fear, for the tear and wear of this kind of work is considerable. Why, I found to-day, when I took a stroll at noon, that they charge five pounds sterling for a flannel shirt, and four pounds for a pair of boots, and everything else is in proportion; so, you see, our thirty-six pounds won’t do much for us at that rate. However, I admit that we have reason to be satisfied with the day’s work.”

“You certainly have,” said their friend the miner; “for it is very seldom that beginners do so much. And now I would give you one piece of advice before I go, which is, that you appoint one of your number to cook for the rest. More men are killed, I believe, by eating half-cooked victuals, than by hard work. They come in fagged and wet at night, cook their grub hastily, bolt it, and then lie down to sleep in damp clothes. Of course they soon break down. Our party have kept very fair health in the midst of great sickness; and I believe it is chiefly owing to the fact that, on first setting to work, we appointed one of our number, who had a talent that way, to attend to the cooking department. We relieved him of a great deal of the hard labour, but gave him his equal share of the profits. The consequence has been that we are all in first-rate health, and dig more energetically than our neighbours.”

“Has there then been much sickness here of late?” asked Frank.

“A great deal, and I fear there will be much more when the rains set in; but let me urge you again to take my advice about appointing a cook.”

“That,” said Joe Graddy, “is just wot we means to do, Mister wot’s-yer-name?”

“Stewart,” said the miner.

“Well, Mister Stewart, I’ll ap’int myself cook to our party, havin’, if I may say so, a nat’ral talent that way, w’ich wos deweloped on my first voyage round the world, w’en our cook died of a broken heart—so it’s said—’cause the doctor knocked off his grog, and put him on an allowance o’ lime juice.”

Saying this, Joe heaved a deep sigh, seized the frying-pan, and commenced his self-imposed duties. Our hero took up the bowl of gold-dust, and was about to leave the hut, when Douglas arrested him with—

“Hallo, Frank, where away? I shall have to shout ‘stop thief’ if you go off like that with the gold.”

“I’m going to pay our debt to Jeffson,” said Frank, with a laugh. “I have great belief, Douglas, in the plan of paying as one goes. Debt is a heavy weight, which I never mean to carry if I can help it. A good old aunt of mine used often to din into everybody’s ears the text ‘owe no man anything,’ and I really believe she has caused it to take a strong hold of me, for I can’t rest till I square off Jeffson’s account!”

Frank hastened away, and soon after returned with the balance, thirteen pounds, which, as Douglas observed when they began supper, was the nucleus of their future fortune; while Joe remarked that “he didn’t know wot nooklius wos, but if it meant the beginnin’ of their fortin, it wasn’t a big un, as things went at the diggin’s.”

The proceeds of the next day’s work were nearly equal to those of the first, and the spirits of the diggers were proportionally high; but on the third day they did not wash out much more than half the quantity of gold. They were therefore somewhat depressed; and this condition of mind was increased by one of those events which were at times of frequent occurrence there. This was the murder of one miner by another, and the summary application of Lynch-law to the criminal.

It occurred about noon, when the miners were at dinner. A man named Higson, who was noted for swearing and brutality, was standing near Jeffson’s store, when a young miner named Elms came up, greatly excited, in consequence of having just found a large nugget, which he wished to have weighed. To the surprise of all, and the indignation of Elms, Higson suddenly snatched the nugget out of his hand, and swore that it had been got in a claim to which Elms had no title, and that, being alongside of his own, and included in the line he had marked off, the nugget was his by rights!

The young man sprang upon Higson, and a struggle ensued, in the midst of which the latter drew his bowie-knife and stabbed Elms to the heart. When he fell, Higson attempted to run, but a stout German tripped up his heels, and a cry of wild anger arose from those who had witnessed the deed.

“Lynch him!” they shouted furiously.

Frank Allfrey and his friends heard the shout, and ran to the spot; but the administration of justice was so prompt that, before they reached it, the murderer was swinging by the neck to the branch of a tree.

“Surely you have been too hasty,” exclaimed Frank, advancing without any settled intention, but under an indefinable sense that wrong was being done.

At this several miners leaped forward, and drawing their revolvers, swore with a terrible oath that they would shoot any man who should attempt to cut the murderer down.

As one of the miners here explained hastily why it was that justice had been meted out with such promptitude, our hero drew back and left the spot, feeling, however, that Judge Lynch was a very dangerous character, seeing that he might be just as prompt with the innocent as with the guilty, although he would find it rather difficult to recall life if he should find out afterwards that he had been mistaken in his views.

This event was followed two days after by another incident, which caused considerable excitement in Bigbear Gully. With the increase of miners there had been a considerable increase of crime, as might naturally have been expected in a country where, while there were undoubtedly many honest men, there were also thousands of scoundrels of all nations who had been attracted thither by the dazzling accounts given of the new El Dorado in the West. Rows, more or less severe, in reference to claims and boundaries, had become frequent. Cold-blooded murders were on the increase; and thefts became so common that a general sense of insecurity began to be felt.

This state of things at last wrought its own cure. One day a youth went into the hut of a neighbouring digger, a Yankee, and stole a coffee-tin. He was taken in the act, and as this was the second time that he had been caught purloining his neighbours’ goods, those in the vicinity rose up en masse in a furore of indignation. A hurried meeting of all the miners was called, and it was unanimously resolved—at least so unanimously that those who dissented thought it advisable to be silent—that Lynch-law should be rigorously put in force.

Accordingly, several of the most energetic and violent of the miners constituted themselves judges on the spot, and, on hearing a brief statement of the case, decreed that the culprit was to be subjected to whatever punishment should be determined on by the man whom he had injured. The Yankee at once decided that the rims of his ears should be cut off, and that he should be seared deeply in the cheek with a red-hot iron; which sentence was carried into execution on the spot!

It happened that while this was going on, another of the thieving fraternity, who did not know of the storm that was gathering and about to burst over the heads of such as he, took advantage of the excitement to enter a tent, and abstract therefrom a bag of gold worth several hundred pounds. It chanced that the owner of it happened to be ailing slightly that day, and, instead of following his companions, had lain still in his tent, rolled up in blankets. He was awakened by the thief, sprang up and collared him, and, observing what he was about, dragged him before the tribunal which was still sitting in deliberation on the affairs of the community. The man was instantly condemned to be shot, and this was done at once—several of the exasperated judges assisting the firing party to carry the sentence into execution.

“Now men,” cried a tall raw-boned Yankee from the Western States, mounting on a stump after the body had been removed, and speaking with tremendous vehemence, “I guess things have come to such a deadlock here that it’s time for honest men to carry things with a high hand, so I opine we had better set about it and make a few laws,—an’ if you have no objections, I’ll lay down a lot o’ them slick off—bran’ new laws, warranted to work well, and stand wear and tear, and ready greased for action.”

“Hear! hear!” cried several voices in the crowd that surrounded this western Solon, while others laughed at his impudence. All, however, were eager to see the prevailing state of things put right, and glad to back any one who appeared able and willing to act with vigour.

“Wall then, here goes,” cried the Yankee. “Let it be decreed that whatever critter shall be nabbed in the act of makin’ tracks with what isn’t his’n, shall have his ears cut off, if it’s a mild case, and be hanged or shot if it’s a bad un.”

A hearty and stern assent was at once given to this law, and the law-giver went on to lay down others. He said that of course murder would be punished also with death, and for several other offences men should be flogged or branded on the cheeks with red-hot irons. Having in little more than ten minutes laid down these points, he enacted that thenceforth each man should be entitled to a claim of ten feet square, which, being multiplied by the number of his mess, would give the limits of the allotments in particular locations; but that, he said, would not prevent any man from moving from one site and fixing on another.

To this proposition, however, some of the miners demurred, and the law-giver found that, although in criminal law he had been allowed to have it all his own way, in civil matters he must listen to the opinion of others. However, after much wrangling this law was agreed to; and it was also arranged, among other things, that as long as any one left his tools in his claim, his rights were to be respected.

This meeting had the most beneficial influence on the miners. Rough and ready, as well as harsh, though their proceedings were, they accomplished the end in view most effectually, for after several terrible examples had been made, which proved to evil-doers that men were thoroughly in earnest, stealing, quarrelling about boundaries, and murdering were seldom heard of in that district—insomuch that men could leave bags of gold in their tents unwatched for days together, and their tools quite open in their claims without the slightest fear of their being touched!

The reader must not suppose here that we are either upholding or defending the proceedings of the celebrated Judge Lynch. We are merely recording facts, which prove how efficacious his severe code was in bringing order out of confusion in Bigbear Gully at that time.

It is not necessary that we should follow the varied fortunes of our hero and his friends, day by day, while they were engaged in digging for gold. Suffice it to say that sometimes they were fortunate, sometimes the reverse, but that on the whole, they were successful beyond the average of diggers, and became sanguine of making their fortunes in a short time.

Nevertheless Frank Allfrey did not like the life. Whatever else might arouse his ambition, he was evidently not one of those whose soul was set upon the acquisition of wealth. Although successful as a digger, and with more gold in his possession than he knew what to do with, he detested the dirty, laborious work of digging and dabbling in mud from morning till night. He began to see that, as far as the nature of his daily toil was concerned, he worked harder, and was worse off than the poorest navvy who did the dirtiest work in old England! He sighed for more congenial employment, meditated much over the subject, and finally resolved to give up gold-digging.

Before, however, he could carry this resolve into effect, he was smitten with a dire disease, and in a few days lay on the damp floor of his poor hut, as weak and helpless as a little child.

Chapter Eight.

Frank and Joe take to Wandering; See some Wonderful Things, and have a Narrow Escape.

Before our hero became convalescent, his comrade Douglas was “laid down” with dysentery. In these circumstances, the digging went on slowly, for much of the time of Meyer and Graddy was necessarily occupied in nursing—and truly kind and devoted, though rough, nurses they proved to be in that hour of need.

Gradually, but surely, Douglas sank. There was no doctor to prescribe for him, no medicine to be had for love or money. In that wretched hut he lay beside his sick friend, and conversed, as strength permitted, in faint low tones, on the folly of having thrown his life away for “mere gold,” and on the importance of the things that concern the soul. As he drew near his end, the name of the Saviour was often on his lips, and often did he reproach himself for having neglected the “great salvation,” until it was almost too late. Sometimes he spoke of home—in Scotland,—and gave many messages to Frank, which he begged him to deliver to his mother, if he should ever get well and live to return home.

There was something in that “if” which went with a thrill to Frank’s heart, as he lay there, and realised vividly that his comrade was actually dying, and that he too might die.

One evening Joe entered the hut with more alacrity than he had done for many a day. He had a large nugget, just dug up, in his hand, and had hastened to his companions to cheer them, if possible, with a sight of it. Douglas was just passing away. He heard his comrade’s hearty remarks, and looked upon the mass of precious metal.

“Joe,” he whispered faintly, “Wisdom is more to be desired than gold; ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’”

He never spoke again, and died within an hour after that.

At last Frank began to mend, and soon found himself strong enough to travel, he therefore made arrangements to leave Bigbear Gully with his inseparable friend Joe. Meyer, being a very strong man, and in robust health, determined to remain and work out their claim, which still yielded abundance of gold.

“Meyer,” said Frank, the evening before his departure, “I’m very sorry that we are obliged to leave you.”

“Ya, das ist mos’ miserable,” said the poor German, looking disconsolate.

“But you see,” continued Frank, “that my remaining, in my present state of health, is out of the question. Now, Joe and I have been talking over our affairs. We intend to purchase three mules and set off under the guidance of a half-caste Californian, to visit different parts of this country. We will continue our journey as long as our gold lasts, and then return to San Francisco and take passage for England,—for we have both come to the unalterable determination that we won’t try to make our fortunes by gold-digging. We have sufficient dust to give us a long trip and pay our passage to England, without making use of that big nugget found by Joe, which is worth at least 200 pounds; so we have determined to leave it in possession of Jeffson, to be used by you if luck should ever take a wrong turn—as it will sometimes do—and you should chance to get into difficulties. Of course if you continue prosperous, we will reclaim our share of it on our return hither.”

“Ah, you is too goot,” cried the warm-hearted German, seizing Frank’s hand and wringing it, “bot I vill nevair use de nuggut—nevair! You sall find him here sartainly ven you do com bak.”

“Well, I hope so, for your own sake,” said Frank, “because that will show you have been successful. But if you get into low water, and do not use it, believe me I shall feel very much aggrieved.”

Next day about noon, our hero and Joe, with Junk, their vaquero, mounted their mules and rode away.

“A new style o’ cruisin’ this,” said Joe Graddy, one fine day, as they pulled up under the shade of a large tree, at a spot where the scenery was so magnificent that Frank resolved to rest and sketch it.

“New, indeed, and splendid too,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, leaping off his mule. “You can go shoot squirrels or bears if you like, Joe, but here I remain for the next three or four hours.”

As Frank had been in the habit of treating his friend thus almost every day since starting on their tour, he was quite prepared for it; smiled knowingly, ordered the vaquero to tether the mules and accompany him into the forest, and then, taking his bearings with a small pocket-compass, and critically inspecting the sun, and a huge pinchbeck watch which was the faithful companion of his wanderings, he shouldered his gun and went off, leaving the enthusiastic painter to revel in the glories of the landscape.

And truly magnificent the scenery was. They had wandered by that time far from the diggings, and were involved in all the grandeur of the primeval wilderness. Stupendous mountains, capped with snow, surrounded the beautiful valley through which they were travelling, and herbage of the richest description clothed the ground, while some of the trees were so large that many of the giant oaks of old England would have appeared small beside them. Some of the precipices of the valley were fully three thousand feet high, without a break from top to bottom, and the mountain-ranges in the background must have been at least as high again. Large tracts of the low grounds were covered with wild oats and rich grasses; affording excellent pasturage to the deer, which could be seen roving about in herds. Lakes of various sizes were alive with waterfowl, whose shrill and plaintive cries filled the air with wild melody. A noble river coursed throughout the entire length of the valley, and its banks were clothed with oaks, cypresses, and chestnuts, while, up on the mountain sides, firs of truly gigantic size reared their straight stems above the surrounding trees with an air of towering magnificence, which gave them indisputable right to be considered the aristocracy of those grand solitudes.

Of these firs Frank observed one so magnificent that, although anxious to begin work without delay, he could not resist the desire to examine it closely. Laying down his book and pencil he ran towards it, and stood for some time in silent amazement, feeling that he was indeed in the presence of the Queen of the Forest. It was a pine which towered to a height of certainly not less than three hundred and sixty feet, and, after careful measurement, was found to be ninety-three feet in circumference. In regarding this tree as the Queen, Frank was doubly correct, for the natives styled it the “Mother of the Forest.” The bark of it, to the height of a hundred and sixteen feet, was, in after years, carried to England, and built up in its original form in the Crystal Palace of Sydenham. It was unfortunately destroyed in the great fire which a few years ago consumed a large part of that magnificent building.

But this was not the only wonderful sight that was seen that day. After Frank had finished his drawing, and added it to a portfolio which was already well filled, he fired a shot to recall his nautical comrade and the vaquero. They soon rejoined him, and, continuing their journey, came to a waterfall which, in some respects, excelled that of the far-famed Niagara itself.

It had sounded like murmuring thunder in their ears the greater part of that day, and as they approached it the voice of its roar became so deafening that they were prepared for something unusually grand, but not for the stupendous sight and sound that burst upon them when, on turning round the base of a towering precipice, they came suddenly in full view of one of the most wonderful of the Creator’s works in that land.

A succession of wall-like mountains rose in two tiers before them into the clouds. Some of the lower clouds floated far below the highest peaks. From the summit of the highest range, a river, equal to the Thames at Richmond, dropt sheer down a precipice of more than two thousand feet. Here it met the summit of the lower mountain-range, on which it burst with a deep-toned sullen roar, comparable only to eternal thunder. A white cloud of spray received the falling river in its soft embrace, and sent it forth again, turbulent and foam-bespeckled, towards its second leap,—another thousand feet,—into the plain below. The entire height of this fall was above three thousand feet!

Our hero was of course anxious to make a careful drawing of it, but having already exhausted the greater part of the day, he was fain to content himself with a sketch, after making which they pushed rapidly forward, and encamped for the night, still within sight and sound of the mighty fall.

“D’you know, Joe,” said Frank, leaning back against a tree stem, as he gazed meditatively into into the fire after supper was concluded, “it has often struck me that men are very foolish for not taking full possession of the splendid world in which they have been placed.”

Frank paused a few moments, but the observation not being sufficiently definite for Joe, who was deep in the enjoyment of his first pipe, no reply was made beyond an interjectional “h’m.”

“Just look around you,” pursued Frank, waving his hand towards the landscape, “at this magnificent country; what timber, what soil, what an amount of game, what lakes, what rivers, what facilities for farming, manufacturing, fishing,—everything, in fact, that is calculated to gladden the heart of man.”

“Includin’ gold,” suggested Joe.

“Including gold,” assented Frank; and there it all lies—has lain since creation—hundreds of thousands of acres of splendid land unoccupied.

“Ha! there’s a screw loose somewhere,” said Joe, taking the pipe from his lips and looking at it earnestly, as if the remark were addressed to it, “somethin’ out o’ j’int—a plank started, so to speak—cer’nly.”

“No doubt of it,” said Frank; “and the broad acres which we now look upon, as well as those over which we have lately travelled, are as nothing compared with the other waste but fertile lands in America, on which hundreds of thousands of the human race might live happily. Yet, strange to say, men seem to prefer congregating together in little worlds of brick, stone, and mortar, living tier upon tier above each other’s heads, breathing noxious gases instead of the scent of flowers, treading upon mud, stone, and dust, instead of green grass, and dwelling under a sky of smoke instead of bright blue ether—and this, too, in the face of the Bible command to ‘go forth and replenish the earth.’”

“Yes, there’s great room,” said Joe, “for the settin’ up of a gin’ral enlightenment an’ universal emigration society, but I raither think it wouldn’t pay.”

“I know it wouldn’t, but why not?” demanded Frank.

“Ah, why not?” repeated Joe.

As neither of them appeared to be able to answer the question, they both remained for some time in a profound reverie, Frank gazing as he was wont to do into the fire, and Joe staring through smoke of his own creation at the vaquero, who reclined on the opposite side of the fire enjoying the tobacco to the full by letting it puff slowly out at his nose as well as his mouth.

“Joe,” said Frank.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Joe with nautical promptitude.

“I have been thinking a good deal about our affairs of late, and have come to the conclusion that the sooner we go home the better.”

“My notions pre-cisely.”

“Moreover,” continued Frank, “I think that we have come far enough in this direction, and that it would be a good plan to return to Bigbear Gully by a different route from that by which we came here, and thus have an opportunity of seeing some of the other parts of the diggings. What say you to that?”

“I’m agreeable,” answered Joe.

“Well then, shall we decide to commence our return journey to-morrow?”

“By all means. Down wi’ the helm, ’bout ship an’ lay our course on another tack by daylight,” said Joe, shaking the ashes out of his pipe with the slow unwilling air of a man who knows that he has had enough but is loath to give up; “I always like to set sail by daylight. It makes one feel up to the mark so to speak, as if one had lost none of the day, and I suppose,” he added with a sigh which resolved itself into a yawn, “that if we means to start so bright an’ early the sooner we tumble in the better.”

“True,” said Frank, whose mouth irresistibly followed the example of Joe’s, “I think it will be as well to turn in.”

There was a quiet, easy-going lowness in the speech and motions of the two friends, which showed that they were just in a state of readiness to fall into the arms of the drowsy god. They rolled themselves in their blankets, placed their rifles by their sides, their heads on their saddles, and their feet to the fire.

Joe Graddy’s breathing proclaimed that he had succumbed at once, but Frank lay for a considerable time winking owlishly at the stars, which returned him the compliment with interest by twinkling at him through the branches of the overhanging trees.

Early next morning they arose, remounted their mules and turned back, diverging, according to arrangement, from their former track, and making for a particular part of the diggings where Frank had been given to understand there were many subjects of interest for his pencil. We would fain linger by the way to describe much of what they saw, but the limits of our space require that we should hasten onward, and transport the reader at once to a place named the Great Cañon, which, being a very singular locality, and peculiarly rich in gold, merits description.

It was a gloomy gap or gorge—a sort of gigantic split in the earth—lying between two parallel ranges of hills at a depth of several hundred feet, shaped like a wedge, and so narrow below that there was barely standing room. The gold all lay at the bottom, the slopes being too steep to afford it a resting-place.

The first diggers who went there were said to have gathered vast quantities of gold; and when Frank and Joe arrived there was quite enough to repay hard work liberally. The miners did not work in companies there. Indeed, the form of the chasm did not admit of operations on a large scale being carried on at any one place. Most of the men worked singly with the pan, and used large bowie-knives with which they picked gold from the crevices of the rocks in the bed of the stream, or scratched the gravelly soil from the roots of the overhanging trees, which were usually rich in deposits. The gorge, about four miles in extent, presented one continuous string of men in single file, all eagerly picking up gold, and admitting that in this work they were unusually successful.

But these poor fellows paid a heavy price for the precious metal in the loss of health, the air being very bad, as no refreshing breezes could reach them at the bottom of the gloomy defile.

The gold at that place was found both in very large and very small grains, and was mixed with quantities of fine black sand, which the miners blew off from it somewhat carelessly—most of them being “green hands,” and anxious to get at the gold as quickly as possible. This carelessness on their part was somewhat cleverly taken advantage of by a keen old fellow who chanced to enter the hut of a miner when Frank and Joe were there. He had a bag on his back and a humorous twinkle in his eye.

“Well, old foxey, what do you want?” asked the owner of the hut, who happened to be blowing off the sand from a heap of his gold at the time.

“Sure it’s only a little sand I want,” said the man, in a brogue which betrayed his origin.

“Sand, Paddy, what for?”

“For emery, sure,” said the man, with a very rueful look; “troth it’s myself as is gittin’ too owld entirely for the diggin’s. I was a broth of a boy wance, but what wid dysentery and rheumatiz there’s little or nothin’ o’ me left, so I’m obleeged to contint myself wid gatherin’ the black sand, and sellin’ it as a substitute for emery.”

“Well, that is a queer dodge,” said the miner, with a laugh.

“True for ye, it is quare, but it’s what I’m redooced to, so av you’ll be so kind as plaze to blow the sand on to this here tray, it’ll be doin’ a poor man a good turn, an’ costin’ ye nothin’.”

He held up a tin tray as he spoke, and the miner cheerfully blew the sand off his gold-dust on to it.

Thanking him with all the fervour peculiar to his race, the Irishman emptied the sand into his bag, and heaving a heavy sigh, left the hut to request a similar favour of other miners.

“You may depend on it,” said Frank, as the old man went out, “that fellow is humbugging you. It is gold, not sand, that he wants.”

“That’s a fact,” said Joe Graddy, with an emphatic nod and wink.

“Nonsense,” said the miner, “I don’t believe we lose more than a few specks in blowing off the sand—certainly nothing worth speaking of.”

The man was wrong in this, however, for it was afterwards discovered that the sly old fellow carried his black sand to his hut, and there, every night, by the agency of quicksilver, he extracted from the sand double the average of gold obtained by the hardest working miner in the Cañon!

At each end of this place there was a hut made of calico stretched on a frame of wood, in which were sold brandy and other strong liquors of the most abominable kind, at a charge of about two shillings for a small glass! Cards were also to be found there by those who wished to gamble away their hard-earned gains or double them. Places of iniquity these, which abounded everywhere throughout the diggings, and were the nightly resort of hundreds of diggers, and the scene of their wildest orgies on the Sabbath-day.

Leaving the Great Cañon, our travellers—we might almost term them inspectors—came to a creek one raw, wet morning, where a large number of miners where at work. Here they resolved to spend the day, and test the nature of the ground. Accordingly, the vaquero was directed to look after the mules while Frank and Joe went to work with pick, shovel, and pan.

They took the “dirt” from a steep incline considerably above the winter level of the stream, in a stratum of hard bluish clay, almost as hard as rock, with a slight surface-covering of earth. It yielded prodigiously. At night they found that they had washed out gold to the value of forty pounds sterling! The particles of gold were all large, many being the size of a grain of corn, with occasional nuggets intermixed, besides quartz amalgamations.

“If this had been my first experience o’ them there diggin’s,” said Joe Graddy, as he smoked his pipe that night in the chief gambling and drinking store of the place, “I would have said our fortin wos made, all but. Hows’ever, I don’t forget that the last pair o’ boots I got cost me four pound, an’ the last glass o’ brandy two shillin’s—not to speak o’ death cuttin’ an’ carvin’ all round, an’ the rainy season a-comin’ on, so it’s my advice that we ’bout ship for home as soon as may be.”

“I agree with you, Joe,” said Frank, “and I really don’t think I would exchange the pleasure I have derived from journeying through this land, and sketching the scenery, for all the gold it contains. Nevertheless I would not like to be tempted with the offer of such an exchange!—Now, I’ll turn in.”

Next morning the rain continued to pour incessantly, and Frank Allfrey had given the order to get ready for a start, when a loud shouting near the hut in which they had slept induced them to run out. A band of men were hurrying toward the tavern with great haste and much gesticulation, dragging a man in the midst of them, who struggled and protested violently.

Frank saw at a glance that the prisoner was his former companion Bradling, and that one of the men who held him was the stranger who had been so badly wounded by him at the camp-fire, as formerly related.

On reaching the tavern, in front of which grew a large oak-tree—one of the limbs of which was much chafed as if by the sawing of a rope against it—the stranger, whose comrades called him Dick, stood up on a stump, and said—

“I tell you what it is, mates, I’m as sure that he did it as I am of my own existence. The man met his death at the hands of this murderer Bradling; ha! he knows his own name, you see! He is an escaped convict.”

“And what are you?” said Bradling, turning on him bitterly.

“That is no man’s business, so long as I hurt nobody,” cried Dick passionately. “I tell you,” he continued, addressing the crowd, which had quickly assembled, “I found this fellow skulking in the bush close to where the body was found, and I know he did it, because he all but murdered me not many months ago, and there,” he continued, with a look of surprise, pointing straight at our hero, “is a man who can swear to the truth of what I say!”

All eyes were at once turned on Frank, who stepped forward, and said—

“I can certainly testify to the fact that this man Bradling did attempt to shoot the man whom you call Dick, but I know nothing about the murder which seems to have been perpetrated here, and—”

“It’s a young feller as was a quiet harmless sort o’ critter,” said one of the bystanders, “who was found dead under a bush this morning with his skull smashed in; and it’s my opinion, gentlemen, that, since this stranger has sworn to the fact that Bradling tried to murder Dick, he should swing for it.”

“I protest, gentlemen,” said Frank energetically, “that I did not swear at all! I did not even say that Bradling tried to murder anybody: on the contrary, I think the way in which the man Dick handled his gun at the time when Bradling fired was very susp—”

A shout from the crowd drowned the remainder of this speech.

“String him up without more ado,” cried several voices.

Three men at once seized Bradling, and a rope was quickly flung over the bough of the oak.

“Mercy! mercy!” cried the unhappy man, “I swear that I did not murder the man. I have made my pile down at Bigbear Gully, and I’ll give it all—every cent—if you will wait to have the matter examined. Stay,” he added, seeing that they paid no heed to him, “let me speak one word, before I die, with Mr Allfrey. I want to tell him where my gold lies hid.”

“It’s a dodge,” cried one of the executioners with a sneer, “but have your say out. It’s the last you’ll have a chance to say here, so look sharp about it.”

Frank went forward to the man, who was trembling, and very pale, and begged those who held him to move off a few paces.

“Oh! Mr Allfrey,” said Bradling, “I am innocent of this; I am an escaped convict, it is true, and I did try to kill that man Dick, who has given me provocation enough, God knows, but, as He shall be my judge at last, I swear I did not commit this murder. If you will cut the cords that bind my hands, you will prevent a cold-blooded murder being committed now. You saved my life once before. Oh! save it again.”

The man said all this in a hurried whisper, but there was something so intensely earnest and truthful in his bearing that Frank, under a sudden and irresistible impulse, which he could not afterwards account for, drew his knife and cut the cords that bound him.

Instantly Bradling bounded away like a hunted deer, overturning several men in his flight, and being followed by a perfect storm of bullets from rifles and revolvers, until he had disappeared in the neighbouring wood. Then the miners turned with fury on Frank, but paused abruptly on seeing that he and Joe Graddy stood back to back, with a revolver in each hand.

Of course revolvers and rifles were instantly pointed at them, but fortunately the miners in their exasperation had discharged all their fire-arms at Bradling—not a piece remained loaded!

Several therefore commenced hurriedly to re-load, but Frank shouted, in a voice that there was no misunderstanding—

“The first who attempts to load is a dead man!”

This caused them to hesitate, for in those times men, when desperate, were wont to be more prompt to act than to threaten. Still, there were some present who would have run the risk, and it is certain that our hero and his friend would have then and there terminated their career, had not a backwoods hunter stepped forward and said:

“Well now, ye air makin’ a pretty noise ’bout nothin’! See here, I know that feller Bradling well. He didn’t kill the man. It was a Redskin as did it; I came up in time to see him do it, and killed the Redskin afore he could get away. In proof whereof here is his gun, an’ you’ll find his carcase under the bank where the murder was committed, if ye’ve a mind to look for it. But Bradling is a murderer. I knows him of old, an’ so, although he’s innocent of this partikler murder, I didn’t see no occasion to try to prevent him gittin’ his desarts. It’s another matter, hows’ever, when you’re goin’ to scrag the men as let him off. If ye’ll take the advice of an old hunter as knows a thing or two, you’ll go to work on yer claims slick off, for the rains are comin’ on, and they will pull ye up sharp, I guess. You’ll make hay while the sun shines if you’re wise.”

The opportune interference of this hunter saved Frank and Joe, who, after thanking their deliverer, were not slow to mount their mules and hasten back to Bigbear Gully, resolved more firmly than ever to wind up their affairs, and bid a final adieu to the diggings.

Chapter Nine.

Conclusion.

When they arrived at Bigbear Gully they found the condition of the people most deplorable, owing to scarcity of provisions, prevailing sickness, and the total absence of physic or medical attendance. To make matters worse, there were indications that the rainy season was about to set in; an event that would certainly increase the violence of the disease which had already swept away so many of the miners, not a few of whom fell down in the holes where they were digging for gold, and thus, in digging their own graves, ended their golden dreams, with gold-dust for their winding-sheets.

In California there may be said to be only two seasons—a wet one and a dry. The wet season is from November to March, during which period foggy weather and cold south-west winds prevail. During the remaining months of the year, arid scorching north-east winds blow so frequently and so long that everything green becomes parched and shrivelled up. Of course this state of things is modified in different localities by the proximity or absence of mountains, rivers, and sandy plains, and there are various periods throughout the year during which the climate is delightful; but on the whole it is considered bad—especially during the rains, when water comes down in such continuous deluges that gold-digging and all other work is much interfered with—sometimes stopped altogether. At midday in this season there is frequently July heat, while in the morning and evening there is January cold.

Anxious to escape before the weather became worse, Frank went at once to Jeffson’s store to obtain supplies, settle up accounts, and inquire for his friend Meyer. He found Jeffson looking very ill—he having recently had a severe attack of the prevailing complaint, but “Company” had recovered completely, and was very busy with the duties of his store, which (“Company” being a warm-hearted man) included gratuitous attendance on, and sympathy with, the sick.

“It’ll ruin us intirely,” he was wont to say, “for we can’t stand by and see them die o’ sickness an’ intarvation mixed, an’ the poor critters has nothin’ wotever to pay. Hows’ever, vartue is its own reward, an’ we makes the tough miners pay handsome for their supplies, which makes up for the sick wans, an’ kapes us goin’ on hearty enough.”

“And what of Meyer?” asked Frank, somewhat anxiously.

Instead of answering, Jeffson put on his hat, and bidding him follow, went out of the store. He led him and Joe towards a large pine-tree, at the root of which there was a low mound, carefully covered with green turf. Pointing to it, the Yankee store-keeper said with some emotion—

“There he lies, poor fellow; and a better, more kind-hearted, or honester man, never drove pick and shovel into the airth.”

In compliance with the request of Frank, who was deeply moved, Jeffson told how that, after the departure of his friends, the poor German’s spirits sank; and while he was in this state, he was prevented from rallying by a severe attack of dysentery which ended in his death.

“I trust that he was not pressed by poverty at the last,” said Frank.

“He would have been,” replied the Yankee, “if he had been allowed to have ’is own way; for, being unable to work, of course he ran out o’ gold-dust, and nothing would persuade him to touch the nugget you left in my charge. I hit upon a plan, however, which answered very well. I supplied him all through his illness with everything that he required to make him as comfortable as could be, poor fellow, tellin’ him it was paid for in full by a friend of his, whose name I couldn’t and wouldn’t mention. ‘Jeffson,’ says he, startin’ up like a livin’ skeleton, and lookin’ at me so serious with his hollow eyes; ‘Jeffson, if it bees you dat give me de tings, I vill not have dem. I vill die first. You is poor, an’ ve cannot expect you keep all de dyin’ miners vor noting.’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I won’t go for to say I’m over rich, for times air raither hard just now; but it ain’t me as is the friend. I assure you I’m paid for it in full, so you make your mind easy.’

“With that he lay down an’ gave a long sigh. He was exhausted, and seemed to have dismissed the subject from his mind, for he never spoke of it again.”

“I rather suspect,” said Frank, “that you did not tell him the exact truth.”

“I guess I did,” replied the Yankee.

“Who, then, was the friend?”

“Yourself,” said Jeffson, with a peculiar smile. “I intend to keep payment of it all off your nugget, for you see it is a fact that we ain’t in very flourishing circumstances at present; and I knew you would thank me for not deserting your friend in his distress.”

“You did quite right,” said Frank earnestly; “and I thank you with all my heart for your kindness to poor Meyer, as well as your correct estimate of me.”

Frank did not forget that his own resources were at a low ebb just then, and that he had been counting on the nugget for the payment of his expenses to the coast, and his passage to England, but he made no mention of the fact. His comrade, Joe Graddy, however, could not so easily swallow his disappointment in silence.

“Well,” said he, turning his quid from one cheek to the other—for Joe was guilty of the bad habit of chewing tobacco,—“well, it’s not for the likes o’ me to put my opinion contrairy to yourn, an’ in coorse it’s all very right that our poor messmate should have been looked arter, an I’m very glad he wos. Notwithstandin’, I’m bound for to say it is raither okard as it stands, for we’re pretty nigh cleaned out, an’ have got to make for the coast in the rainy season, w’ich, it appears to me, is very like settin’ sail in a heavy gale without ballast.”

“Come, Joe,” interposed Frank, “we’re not quite so hard up as that comes to. There is a little ballast left,—sufficient, if we only turn to, and wash out a little more gold, to take us home.”

“Sorry to hear you’re in such a fix,” said Jeffson, still regarding his friends with a peculiar smile on his cadaverous countenance; “but I think I can get ye out of it. See here,” he added, leading them to another grave not far distant from that of Meyer; “can you guess who lies under the sod there? He was a friend of yours; though perhaps you would scarcely have acknowledged him had he been alive. You remember Bradling—”

“What! our old travelling companion!” exclaimed Frank.

“The same.”

“Why, I saved his life only a few days ago.”

“I know it,” said Jeffson, “He came here late one night, all covered with blood; and, flinging himself down on a bench in my store, said that he was done for. And so he was, I guess,—all riddled with bullets, none of which, however, had given him a mortal wound; but he had lost so much blood by the way that he had no chance of recovering. I did my best for him, poor fellow, but he sank rapidly. Before he died he told me how you had saved him from being scragged, and said that he wanted to make you his heir.”

“Poor fellow,” said Frank with a sad smile, “it was a kind expression of gratitude that I did not expect of him, considering his reputation.”

“I s’pose,” said Joe Graddy, with a sarcastic laugh, “that you’ll be goin’ to set up your carriage an’ four, an’ make me your coachman, mayhap?”

“I think I may promise that with safety,” replied Frank.

“Indeed you may,” said Jeffson, “for Bradling has been one of the most successful diggers in Bigbear Gully since you left it, and has made his fortune twice over. The value of gold-dust and nuggets left by him in my charge for you is about ninety-six thousand dollars, which, I believe, is nigh twenty thousands pounds sterling of your money.”

“Gammon!” exclaimed Joe.

“You are jesting,” said Frank.

“That I am not, as you shall see, if you will come with me to the store. When he felt sure that he was dying, Bradling asked me to call together a few of the honest and trustworthy men in the diggings. I did so, and he told us the amount of his gatherings, and, after explaining how you had helped him in his hour of need, said that he took us all solemnly to witness that he left you his heir. He got one of the miners to write out a will for him and signed it, after which he directed us to a tree, under which, he said, his gold was hid. We thought at first that he was raving, but after he was dead we went to the tree, and there, sure enough, we found the gold, just as he had described it, and, on weighing it, found that it amounted to the sum I have named—so, Mr Allfrey, I guess that I may congratulate you on your good fortune. But come, I will show you the will and the witnesses.”

Saying this he led them into the store, where he showed the will to Frank and Joe, who were at first sceptical, and afterwards began to doubt the evidence of their senses. But when the witnesses were called, and had confirmed Jeffson’s statements, and, above all, when the bags of gold-dust and nuggets were handed over to him, Frank could no longer question the amazing fact that he had suddenly come into possession of a comfortable fortune!

Need we say, reader, that he insisted on sharing it with Joe Graddy, without whose prompt and vigorous aid the rescue of Bradling could not have been effected? and need we add that the two friends found their way to the sea-coast as quickly as possible, and set sail for England without delay? We think not. But it may be as well to state that, on his arrival in England, Frank found his old uncle in a very sour condition of mind indeed, having become more bilious and irascible than ever over his cash-books and ledgers,—his own special diggings—without having added materially to his gold.

When Frank made his appearance, the old gentleman was very angry, supposing that he had returned to be a burden and a bore to him, but, on learning the true state of the case, his feelings towards his successful nephew were wonderfully modified and mollified!

It was very difficult at first to convince him of the truth of Frank’s good fortune, and he required the most incontestable proofs thereof before he would believe. At length, however, he was convinced, and condescended to offer his nephew his hearty congratulations.

“Now, uncle,” said Frank, “I shall build a house somewhere hereabouts, and live beside you.”

“You could not do better,” said the old gentleman, who became suddenly and wonderfully amiable!

“And I don’t intend to bother myself with business, uncle.”

“Quite right, my boy; you have no occasion to do so.”

“But I intend to devote much of my time to painting.”

“A most interesting occupation,” said the tractable old gentleman.

“And a good deal of it, also,” continued Frank, “to the consideration of the cases of persons in sickness and poverty.”

“H’m! a most laudable purpose, though it has always appeared to me that this is a duty which devolves upon the guardians of the poor. Nevertheless the intention is creditable to you; but I am surprised to hear you, who are so young, and can have seen so little of poverty or sickness, talk of giving much of your time to such work.”

“You are wrong, uncle, in supposing that I have seen little. During my wanderings in foreign lands I have seen much, very much, of poverty and sickness, and have felt something of both, as my friend Joe Graddy can testify.”

Joe, who was sitting by, and had been listening to the conversation with much interest, bore testimony forthwith, by stoutly asserting that “that was a fact,” and slapping his thigh with great vehemence, by way of giving emphasis to the assertion.

“The fact is, sir,” continued Joe, kindling with enthusiasm, “that your nephy has gone through a deal o’ rough work since he left home, an’ I’m free for to say has learned, with myself, a lot o’ walooable lessons. He has made his fortin at the gold-mines, kooriously enough, without diggin’ for it, an’ has come for to know that it’s sometimes possible to pay too high a price for that same metal, as is proved by many an’ many a lonely grave in the wilds of Californy. Your nephy an’ me, sir, has comed to the conclusion that distributin’ gold is better than diggin’ for it, so we intends to set up in that line, an’ hopes that your honour will go into pardnership along with us.”

Mr Allfrey, senior, received Joe’s invitation with a benignant and patronising smile, but he did not accept it, neither did he give him any encouragement to suppose that he sympathised with his views on that subject. There is reason to believe, however, that his opinions on this head were somewhat modified in after years. If report speaks truly, he came to admit the force of that text in Scripture which says, that as it is certain man brings nothing into the world, so he takes nothing out of it, and that therefore it was the wisest policy to do as much good with his gold as he could while he possessed it.

Acting on these convictions, it is said, he joined the firm of Allfrey and Graddy, and, making over his cash-books and ledgers to the “rising generation,” fairly and finally, like his new partners, renounced his ancient habit of digging for gold.

END

R.M. Ballantyne

The Dog Crusoe and his Master

Contents

| Chapter 1 | | Chapter 2 | | Chapter 3 | | Chapter 4 |

| Chapter 5 | | Chapter 6 | | Chapter 7 | | Chapter 8 |

| Chapter 9 | | Chapter 10 | | Chapter 11 | | Chapter 12 |

| Chapter 13 | | Chapter 14 | | Chapter 15 | | Chapter 16 |

| Chapter 17 | | Chapter 18 | | Chapter 19 | | Chapter 20 |

| Chapter 21 | | Chapter 22 | | Chapter 23 | | Chapter 24 |

| Chapter 25 | | Chapter 26 | | Chapter 27 |

Chapter One.

The Backwoods Settlement—Crusoe’s Parentage and Early History—The agonising pains and sorrows of his puppyhood, and other interesting matters.

The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously, and exclaim, “Of course he was; I could have told you that.” You know very well that you have often seen a man above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard others say, “It is scarcely possible to believe that such a man was once a squalling baby.” If you had seen our hero in all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you—as we now repeat—that the dog Crusoe was once a pup—a soft, round, sprawling, squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat.

But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe’s having once been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale. This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails—one in connection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimately connected with Crusoe’s subsequent history, we will relate it here. But before doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilised portions of the United States of America—beyond the frontier settlements of the “far west,” into those wild prairies which are watered by the great Missouri river—the Father of Waters—and his numerous tributaries.

Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawares, the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweeps over their mighty plains.

There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one of the tributaries above referred to—a long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom—which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale, even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the then frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have “elbow room,” regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknown lands and of the Red-skins who dwelt there.

The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them—and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been trained to the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of them had spent so much of their lives in the woods, that they were more than a match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting and war. When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the valley, an immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain. These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men, than, uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze and dashed away like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley its name.

The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and then set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were catering successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley began to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving fields clustered together in the midst of it.

Of course the savages soon found it out, and paid it occasional visits. These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the “Pale-faces” with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at this time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, and nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters prevented these savages from butchering and scalping them all.

The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman whose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to exchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a first-rate shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. He was past the prime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a family. His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to commence the erection of a block-house, to which the people might retire in case of a general attack by the Indians.

In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of the settlement,—and here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in the early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood, and from the wooden portals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire, and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood.

Crusoe’s father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There was no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope had received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had brought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father’s name was Crusoe; the mother’s name was Fan. Why the father had been so called no one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope’s friend had obtained the pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the celebrated “Robinson” in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had been named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had received him as a marriage gift from a friend of his; and that each had said to the other that the dog’s name was “Crusoe,” without reasons being asked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the major’s friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him away to a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the end of him. He was never heard of more.

When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name. That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by falling into the river which flowed past the block-house,—a calamity which occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out without their mother’s leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and sisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from sharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed with an agonised howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards brought the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were dead.

And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful.

One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades, watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished a long “palaver” or “talk” with Major Hope, were now in the act of preparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the green sward in front of the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw, who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of the family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stone pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in their appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a striking contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amused spectator of their proceedings.

The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we are accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterise these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather than strength. But the point about him which rendered him different from his companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet for days together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silent as an Indian warrior.

After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable, straightforward, sanguine, and intensely earnest. When he laughed he let it out, as sailors have it, “with a will.” When there was good cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have called him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of life when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking (every earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair was reddish-brown, and his eye bright blue. He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the western hunter.

“You seem tickled wi’ the Injuns, Dick Varley,” said a man who at that moment issued from the block-house.

“That’s just what I am, Joe Blunt,” replied the youth, turning with a broad grin to his companion.

“Have a care, lad; do not laugh at ’em too much. They soon take offence; an’ them Red-skins never forgive.”

“But I’m only laughing at the baby,” returned the youth, pointing to the child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing with a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop.

“It ’ud make an owl laugh,” continued young Varley, “to see such a queer pictur’ o’ itself.”

He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with one hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot to be cooked.

The cruel act drew young Varley’s attention more closely to the pup, and it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although they had often heard others speak of and describe it.

Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But the instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.

Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic “Wah!” of disgust at having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle, while Dick Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position, scowled angrily in the woman’s face, and, turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.

Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground and shook his head.

Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in appearance and in fact—broad, tall, massive, lion-like,—gifted with the hunting, stalking, running, and trail—following powers of the savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers, the daring and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too seldom smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a good, steady shot; but by no means a “crack” one. His ball never failed to hit, but it often failed to kill.

After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and muttered to himself; “The boy’s bold enough, but he’s too reckless for a hunter. There was no need for that yell, now—none at all.”

Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage.

Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the brogue in his tone, which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom.

Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks, Crusoe was as well, and sleek, and fat as ever.

Chapter Two.

A shooting match and its consequences—New friends introduced to the reader—Crusoe and his mother change masters.

Shortly after the incident narrated in the last chapter, the squatters of the Mustang Valley lost their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced his intention of quitting the settlement, and returning to the civilised world. Private matters, he said, required his presence there—matters which he did not choose to speak of but which would prevent his returning again to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man of determination, go he did; but before going he distributed all his goods and chattels among the settlers. He even gave away his rifle, and Fan, and Crusoe. These last, however, he resolved should go together; and as they were well worth having, he announced that he would give them to the best shot in the valley. He stipulated that the winner should escort him to the nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return with the rifle on his shoulder.

Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the river’s bank, with a perpendicular cliff at the end of it, was selected as the shooting ground, and, on the appointed day, at the appointed hour, the competitors began to assemble.

“Well, lad, first as usual,” exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he reached the ground and found Dick Varley there before him.

“I’ve bin here more than an hour lookin’ for a new kind o’ flower that Jack Morgan told me he’d seen. And I’ve found it too. Look here; did you ever see one like it before?”

Blunt leaned his rifle against a tree, and carefully examined the flower.

“Why, yes, I’ve seed a-many o’ them up about the Rocky Mountains, but never one here-away. It seems to have gone lost itself. The last I seed, if I remimber rightly, wos near the head-waters o’ the Yellowstone River, it wos—jest where I shot a grizzly bar.”

“Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the cheek?” asked Varley, forgetting the flower in his interest about the bear.

“It was. I put six balls in that bar’s carcase, and stuck my knife into its heart ten times afore it gave out; an’ it nearly ripped the shirt off my back afore I was done with it.”

“I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!” exclaimed Varley, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.

“Whoever got it wouldn’t have much to brag of,” remarked a burly young backwoodsman, as he joined them.

His remark was true, for poor Dick’s weapon was but a sorry affair. It missed fire, and it hung fire, and even when it did fire it remained a matter of doubt in its owner’s mind whether the slight deviations from the direct line made by his bullets were the result of his or its bad shooting.

Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold, fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight. A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels—the latter tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before.

Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed with animation.

And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the savages, was, that it had two sets of locks—one percussion, the other flint—so that, when caps failed, by taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a flint-rifle. The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need.

“Now, lads,” cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were to shoot, “remember the terms. He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlements. Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance.”

“Agreed,” cried the men.

“Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here it is.”

The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong—nay, more, he was gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently soundless motion, were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit.

To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day’s journey. Joe Blunt used to say he was “all jints together, from the top of his head to the sole of his moccasin.” He threw his immense form into the most inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of work was so much against his plunging nature, that he took long to learn it, but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn door.

Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged, could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a somersault—yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging was Henri’s forte. He generally lounged about the settlement, when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could only make up for it by plunging. This habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker of the English language.

We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice.

But to return. The sort of rifle practice called “driving the nail,” by which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this,—an ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards.

Some of the older men shook their heads.

“It’s too far,” said one; “ye might as well try to snuff the nose o’ a mosquito.”

“Jim Scraggs is the only man as’ll hit that,” said another.

The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow with a cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy, Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance.

In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular measure among them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not “hang” on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and, the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one—fired by Joe Blunt—entered the tree close beside it.

“Ah, Joe!” said the major, “I thought you would have carried off the prize.”

“So did not I, sir,” returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. “Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I’d ha’ done better, but I never could hit the nail. It’s too small to see.”

“That’s cos ye’ve got no eyes,” remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward.

All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.

“That wins if there’s no better,” said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. “Who comes next?”

To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions, he said—“Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!”

“Can ye ‘behold’ the tree?” shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated.

“Oh! oui,” replied Henri quite coolly; “I can see him, an’ a goot small bit of de forest beyond.”

“Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle—leastwise ye ought to get the pup.”

Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.

The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail!

“It’s more be good luck than good shootin’,” remarked Jim Scraggs.

“Possiblement,” answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; “mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck.”

“Bravo! Henri,” said Major Hope as he passed; “you deserve to win, anyhow. Who’s next?”

“Dick Varley,” cried several voices; “where’s Varley? Come on, youngster, an’ take yer shot.”

The youth came forward with evident reluctance. “It’s of no manner o’ use,” he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, “I can’t depend on my old gun.”

“Never give in,” whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley’s want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire.

“Lend him another gun,” cried several voices. “’Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope,” said Scraggs.

“Well, so it is; try again.”

Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.

Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two.

“There are others to shoot yet,” cried the major. “Make way. Look out.”

The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark.

It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt’s rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired.

“Hit again!” shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark. “Half the bullet cut off by the nail-head!”

Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick’s friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim’s powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle.

At that moment our friend Crusoe—tired of tormenting his mother—waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and, in so doing, received Henri’s heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, “to the last dyin’ screech o’ a bustin’ steam biler!” We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a “bustin’ steam biler” itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair’s-breadth.

Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim’s shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain.

“Oh! pardon me, broder,” cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee.

Jim’s discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground.

Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. “It couldn’t have fallen into better hands,” he said. “You’ll do it credit, lad, I know that full well, and let me assure you it will never play you false. Only keep it clean, don’t overcharge it, aim true, and it will never miss the mark.”

While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly he seized his old rifle, and, dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the shoulder.

“Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it now, lad. It’s come to ye sooner than either o’ us expected.”

“Dick,” said the boy, grasping his friend’s hand warmly, “yer true as heart of oak. It’s good of ’ee, that’s a fact.”

“Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin’ to give away an old gun that I’ve no use for, an’s worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the chance to do it.”

Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk, but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.

A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley’s canine property to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent being asked, or her inclination being consulted.

“You’ll have to tie her up for a while, I fear,” said the major.

“No fear,” answered the youth. “Dog natur’s like human natur’!”

Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his shoulder.

Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl. The mother’s love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the lake.

Chapter Three.

Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree—An old woman—Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts—The dog Crusoe’s education begun.

It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble face. On such a face did Richard Varley look every night when he entered his mother’s cottage. Mrs Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love for her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of Maryland, and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick’s mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was stamped with a species of beauty which never fades—the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man for a time, but the loving look alone can forge that adamantine chain that time, age, eternity, shall never break.

Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyse this look which characterised Mrs Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even when one is in a hurry! The brightest jewel in the human heart is worth a thought or two! By a loving look, we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. That is common enough, and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world that’s over-full of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look of intense affection with which some people—good people too—greet friends and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their beau idéal of the expression of Christian love, they do signally damage their cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less do we mean that perpetual smile of good-will which argues more of personal comfort and self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its ring defies imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe—but it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, of course, it is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.

Young Varley’s mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it into two rooms. One of these was subdivided by a thin partition, the inner room being Mrs Varley’s bedroom, the outer Dick’s. Daniel Hood’s dormitory was a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as a parlour.

The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind have literally got a sort of expression on—if we may use the word—their countenances. Square windows give the appearance of easy-going placidity; longish ones, that of surprise. Mrs Varley’s was a surprised cottage, and this was in keeping with the scene in which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth an expression of astonished admiration from every new visitor to the Mustang Valley.

“My boy,” exclaimed Mrs Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a bound, “why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?”

“Won it, mother!”

“Won it, my son?”

“Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail almost, and would ha’ druve it altogether had I bin more used to Joe Blunt’s rifle.”

Mrs Varley’s heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the match.

“Deary me! now that was good; that was cliver. But what’s that scraping at the door?”

“Oh! that’s Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog,” he cried rising and opening the door.

Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.

“My boy, what do ye with the major’s dog?”

“Won her too, mother!”

“Won her, my son?”

“Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!” and he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.

Crusoe, having found his position to be one of great comfort, had fallen into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened, he gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic sympathy to his side.

“There you are, Fan, take it to a corner and make yourself at home. Ay, that’s right, mother, give her somethin’ to eat; she’s hungry, I know by the look o’ her eye.”

“Deary me, Dick,” said Mrs Varley, who now proceeded to spread the youth’s mid-day meal before him, “did ye drive the nail three times?”

“No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought ’em all down at one shot—rifle, Fan, an’ pup!”

“Well, well, now that was cliver; but—” Here the old woman paused and looked grave.

“But what, mother?”

“You’ll be wantin’ to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy.”

“Wantin’ now!” exclaimed the youth earnestly; “I’m always wantin’. I’ve bin wantin’ ever since I could walk; but I won’t go till you let me, mother, that I won’t!” And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly that the platters rung again.

“You’re a good boy, Dick; but you’re too young yit to ventur’ among the Red-skins.”

“An’ yit, if I don’t ventur’ young, I’d better not ventur’ at all. You know, mother dear, I don’t want to leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can’t hunt in the kitchen you know, mother!”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.

“Hist! mother; that’s like horses’ hoofs,” he whispered, opening the door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came.

Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of white men. In another moment they were in full view—a band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern costume, and armed with the long rifle of the far west. Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress which gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed. Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and calling out, “They’re trappers, mother, I’ll be back in an hour,” bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking a short cut in order to reach the block-house before them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which they entered in a body.

Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their number had been treacherously murdered and scalped by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They would teach these “red reptiles” to respect white men, they would, come of it what might; and they had turned aside here to procure an additional supply of powder and lead.

In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no refusing their request—at least so the major thought. The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in half an hour they were away again at full gallop over the plains on their mission of vengeance. “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.” But these men knew not what God said, because they never read His Word, and did not own His sway.

Young Varley’s enthusiasm was considerably damped when he learned the errand on which the trappers were bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire to visit the mountains in company with such men, but he still retained an intense longing to roam at large among their rocky fastnesses, and gallop out upon the wide prairies.

Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother’s cattle and sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself also to the training of his dog Crusoe—an operation which at first cost him many a deep sigh.

Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning capabilities of the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some have even gone the length of saying that what is called instinct in these animals is neither more nor less than reason. And, in truth, many of the noble, heroic, and sagacious deeds that have actually been performed by Newfoundland dogs incline us almost to believe that, like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers.

But every one does not know the trouble and patience that is required in order to get a juvenile dog to understand what its master means when he is endeavouring to instruct it.

Crusoe’s first lesson was an interesting, but not a very successful one. We may remark here that Dick Varley had presented Fan to his mother to be her watch-dog, resolving to devote all his powers to the training of the pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe’s appearance (and we did not remark it sooner, chiefly because up to this period in his eventful history he was little better than a ball of fat and hair), that his coat was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably glossy, curly, and thick.

A week after the shooting match Crusoe’s education began. Having fed him for that period with his own hand, in order to gain his affection, Dick took him out one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give him his first lesson.

And here again we must pause to remark that, although a dog’s heart is generally gained in the first instance through his mouth, yet, after it is thoroughly gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can scarcely be driven from his master’s side by blows, and even when thus harshly repelled is always ready, on the shortest notice and with the slightest encouragement, to make it up again.

Well, Dick Varley began by calling out, “Crusoe! Crusoe! come here, pup.”

Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it had been so often used as a prelude to his meals, that he naturally expected a feed whenever he heard it. This portal to his brain had already been open for some days; but all the other doors were fast locked, and it required a great deal of careful picking to open them.

“Now, Crusoe, come here.”

Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master’s side, cocked his ears, and wagged his tail—so far his education was perfect. We say he bounded clumsily, for it must be remembered that he was still a very young pup, with soft, flabby muscles.

“Now, I’m goin’ to begin yer edication, pup; think o’ that.”

Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot say, but he looked up in his master’s face as he spoke, cocked his ears very high, and turned his head slowly to one side, until it could not turn any further in that direction; then he turned it as much to the other side, whereat his master burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Crusoe immediately began barking vociferously.

“Come, come,” said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth, “we mustn’t play, pup, we must work.”

Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth held it to Crusoe’s nose, and then threw it a yard away, at the same time exclaiming in a loud, distinct tone, “Fetch it.”

Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of his training; he dashed gleefully at the mitten, and proceeded to worry it with intense gratification. As for “Fetch it,” he neither understood the words nor cared a straw about them.

Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the mitten, resumed his seat on a rock.

“Come here, Crusoe,” he repeated.

“Oh! certainly, by all means,” said Crusoe—no! he didn’t exactly say it, but really he looked these words so evidently, that we think it right to let them stand as they are written. If he could have finished the sentence he would certainly have said, “Go on with that game over again, old boy; it’s quite to my taste—the jolliest thing in life, I assure you!” At least, if we may not positively assert that he would have said that, no one else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn’t.

Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe worried the mitten over again—utterly regardless of “Fetch it.”

Then they did it again, and again, and again, but without the slightest apparent advancement in the path of canine knowledge,—and then they went home.

During all this trying operation Dick Varley never once betrayed the slightest feeling of irritability or impatience. He did not expect success at first; he was not, therefore, disappointed at failure.

Next day he had him out again—and the next—and the next—and the next again, with the like unfavourable result. In short, it seemed at last as if Crusoe’s mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he had been born expressly for the purpose of worrying that mitten, and he meant to fulfil his destiny to the letter.

Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat in his pocket each day, with the intention of rewarding Crusoe when he should at length be prevailed on to fetch the mitten, but as Crusoe was not aware of the treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was “fetched.”

At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never do, so he changed his tactics, and the next morning gave Crusoe no breakfast, but took him out at the usual hour to go through his lesson. This new course of conduct seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way down to the beach he paused frequently and looked back at the cottage, and then expressively up at his master’s face. But the master was inexorable; he went on and Crusoe followed, for true love had now taken possession of the pup’s young heart, and he preferred his master’s company to food.

Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece of meat which he eagerly sought to devour, but was prevented, to his immense disgust. Then the mitten was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned back.

“Fetch it,” said the teacher.

“I won’t,” replied the learner mutely, by means of that expressive sign—not doing it.

Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and put it into the pup’s mouth. Then, retiring a couple of yards, he held out the piece of meat and said, “Fetch it.”

Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded towards the meat—once more to be disappointed.

This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward with the mitten in his mouth. It seemed as if it had been done accidentally, for he dropped it before coming quite up. If so it was a fortunate accident, for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the point of that mighty lever which was destined ere long to raise him to the pinnacle of canine erudition. Dick Varley immediately lavished upon him the tenderest caresses and gave him a lump of meat. But he quickly tried it again lest he should lose the lesson. The dog evidently felt that if he did not fetch that mitten he should have no meat or caresses. In order, however, to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the mitten down beside the pup, instead of putting it into his mouth, and, retiring a few paces, cried, “Fetch it.”

Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he picked up the mitten and laid it at his master’s feet. The lesson was learned at last! Dick Varley tumbled all the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock and whistled with glee at having fairly picked the lock, and opened another door into one of the many chambers of his dog’s intellect!

Chapter Four.

Our hero enlarged upon—Grumps.

Two years passed away—the Mustang Valley settlement advanced prosperously, despite one or two attacks made upon it by the savages, who were, however, firmly repelled; Dick Varley had now become a man, and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The “silver rifle,” as Dick’s weapon had come to be named, was well-known among the hunters and the Red-skins of the border-lands, and in Dick’s hands its bullets were as deadly as its owner’s eye was quick and true.

Crusoe’s education, too, had been completed. Faithfully and patiently had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be a meet companion in the hunt. To “carry” and “fetch” were now but trifling portions of the dog’s accomplishments. He could dive a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown in. His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his muscles, that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment. His intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding. When Dick went out hunting he used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and, after walking miles away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his companion.

“Crusoe,” he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have addressed a human friend, “I’ve dropped my mitten, go fetch it, pup.” Dick continued to call it “pup” from habit.

One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe’s eye, and in a moment he was away at full gallop; nor did he rest until the lost article was lying at his master’s feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his track Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back five and six miles at a stretch; but his powers did not stop here. He could carry articles back to the spot from which they had been taken and leave them there. He could head the game that his master was pursuing and turn it back; and he would guard any object he was desired to “watch” with unflinching constancy. But it would occupy too much space and time to enumerate all Crusoe’s qualities and powers. His biography will unfold them.

In personal appearance he was majestic, having grown to an immense size even for a Newfoundland. Had his visage been at all wolfish in character, his aspect would have been terrible. But he possessed in an eminent degree that mild, humble expression of face peculiar to his race. When roused or excited, and especially when bounding through the forest with the chase in view, he was absolutely magnificent. At other times his gait was slow, and he seemed to prefer a quiet walk with Dick Varley to anything else under the sun. But when Dick was inclined to be boisterous Crusoe’s tail and ears rose at a moment’s notice, and he was ready for anything. Moreover, he obeyed commands instantly and implicitly. In this respect he put to shame most of the boys of the settlement, who were by no means famed for their habits of prompt obedience.

Crusoe’s eye was constantly watching the face of his master. When Dick said “Go” he went, when he said “Come” he came. If he had been in the midst of an excited bound at the throat of a stag, and Dick had called out, “Down, Crusoe,” he would have sunk to the earth like a stone. No doubt it took many months of training to bring the dog to this state of perfection; but Dick accomplished it by patience, perseverance, and love.

Besides all this, Crusoe could speak! He spoke by means of the dog’s dumb alphabet in a way that defies description. He conversed, so to speak, with his extremities—his head and his tail. But his eyes, his soft brown eyes, were the chief medium of communication. If ever the language of the eyes was carried to perfection, it was exhibited in the person of Crusoe. But, indeed, it would be difficult to say which part of his expressive face expressed most. The cocked ears of expectation; the drooped ears of sorrow; the bright, full eye of joy; the half-closed eye of contentment; and the frowning eye of indignation accompanied with a slight, a very slight, pucker of the nose and a gleam of dazzling ivory—ha! no enemy ever saw this last piece of canine language without a full appreciation of what it meant. Then as to the tail—the modulations of meaning in the varied wag of that expressive member! Oh! it’s useless to attempt description. Mortal man cannot conceive of the delicate shades of sentiment expressible by a dog’s tail, unless he has studied the subject—the wag, the waggle, the cock, the droop, the slope, the wriggle! Away with description—it is impotent and valueless here!

As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild. He had been bitten, on the sly, by half the ill-natured curs in the settlement, and had only shown his teeth in return. He had no enmities—though several enemies—and he had a thousand friends, particularly among the ranks of the weak and the persecuted, whom he always protected and avenged when opportunity offered. A single instance of this kind will serve to show his character.

One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside the lake—the same identical rock near which, when a pup, the latter had received his first lesson. They were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a fund of intelligence from the dog’s mind, and had injected such wealth of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced it understood every word he said.

“This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain’t it pup?”

Crusoe made a motion with his head which was quite as significant as a nod.

“Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the grizzly bars and a look at the Rocky Mountains. Wouldn’t it be nuts, pup?”

Crusoe looked dubious.

“What, you don’t agree with me! Now, tell me, pup, wouldn’t ye like to grip a bar?”

Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as though he would have said, “I’ve seen neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know nothin’ about ’em, but I’m open to conviction.”

“You’re a brave pup,” rejoined Dick, stroking the dog’s huge head affectionately. “I wouldn’t give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars—if there be sich things.”

Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous.

At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.

“Punish him, Crusoe,” said Dick quickly.

Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air—at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions.

“Pitch him in,” said Dick, making a sign with his hand.

Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake. Having regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master.

The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry it, and the surly dog, having swam ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between his legs.

Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by great and small among the well-disposed of the canine tribes of the Mustang Valley.

But Crusoe was not a mere machine. When not actively engaged in Dick Varley’s service, he busied himself with private little matters of his own. He undertook modest little excursions into the woods or along the margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but more frequently with a little friend whose whole heart and being seemed to be swallowed up in admiration of his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanised or geologised on these excursions we will not venture to say. Assuredly he seemed as though he did both, for he poked his nose into every bush and tuft of moss, and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the ground—and, in short, if he did not understand these sciences, he behaved very much as if he did. Certainly he knew as much about them as many of the human species do.

In these walks he never took the slightest notice of Grumps (that was the little dog’s name), but Grumps made up for this by taking excessive notice of him. When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat down to look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps trotted on too. When Crusoe examined a bush Grumps sat down to watch him, and when he dug a hole Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps never helped him; his sole delight was in looking on. They didn’t converse much, these two dogs. To be in each other’s company seemed to be happiness enough—at least Grumps thought so.

There was one point at which Grumps stopped short, however, and ceased to follow his friend; and that was when he rushed headlong into the lake and disported himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters. Crusoe was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog. Grumps, on the contrary, held water in abhorrence, so he sat on the shores of the lake disconsolate when his friend was bathing, and waited till he came out. The only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed, was when Dick Varley’s whistle sounded faintly in the far distance. Then Crusoe would prick up his ears, and stretch out at full gallop, clearing ditch, and fence, and brake with his strong elastic bound, and leaving Grumps to patter after him as fast as his four-inch legs would carry him. Poor Grumps usually arrived at the village, to find both dog and master gone, and would betake himself to his own dwelling, there to lie down and sleep, and dream, perchance, of rambles and gambols with his gigantic friend.

Chapter Five.

A mission of peace—Unexpected joys—Dick and Crusoe set off for the land of the Red-skins, and meet with adventures by the way as a matter of course—Night in the wild woods.

One day the inhabitants of Mustang Valley were thrown into considerable excitement by the arrival of an officer of the United States army and a small escort of cavalry. They went direct to the block-house, which, since Major Hope’s departure, had become the residence of Joe Blunt—that worthy having, by general consent, been deemed the fittest man in the settlement to fill the major’s place.

Soon it began to be noised abroad that the strangers had been sent by Government to endeavour to bring about, if possible, a more friendly state of feeling between the whites and the Indians, by means of presents, and promises, and fair speeches.

The party remained all night in the block-house, and ere long it was reported that Joe Blunt had been requested, and had consented, to be the leader and chief of a party of three men who should visit the neighbouring tribes of Indians, to the west and north of the valley, as Government agents. Joe’s knowledge of two or three different Indian dialects, and his well-known sagacity, rendered him a most fitting messenger on such an errand. It was also whispered that Joe was to have the choosing of his comrades in this mission, and many were the opinions expressed and guesses made as to who would be chosen.

That same evening Dick Varley was sitting in his mother’s kitchen cleaning his rifle; his mother was preparing supper and talking quietly about the obstinacy of a particular hen that had taken to laying her eggs in places where they could not be found; Fan was coiled up in a corner sound asleep, and Crusoe was sitting at one side of the fire looking on at things in general.

“I wonder,” remarked Mrs Varley, as she spread the table with a pure white napkin; “I wonder what the sodgers are doin’ wi’ Joe Blunt.”

As often happens when an individual is mentioned, the worthy referred to opened the door at that moment and stepped into the room.

“Good-e’en t’ye, dame,” said the stout hunter, doffing his cap, and resting his rifle in a corner, while Dick rose and placed a chair for him.

“The same to you, Master Blunt,” answered the widow; “you’ve jist comed in good time for a cut o’ venison.”

“Thanks, mistress, I s’pose we’re beholden to the silver rifle for that.”

“To the hand that aimed it, rather,” suggested the widow.

“Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it,” said Dick Varley. “But for Crusoe that buck would ha’ bin couched in the woods this night.”

“Oh! if it comes to that,” retorted Joe, “I’d lay it to the door o’ Fan, for if she’d niver bin born nother would Crusoe. But it’s good an’ tender meat, whativer ways ye got it. Howsiver, I’ve other things to talk about jist now. Them sodgers that are eatin’ buffalo tongues up at the block-house as if they’d niver ate meat before, and didn’t hope to eat agin for a twelve-month—”

“Ay, what o’ them?” interrupted Mrs Varley; “I’ve bin wonderin’ what was their errand.”

“Of coorse ye wos, Dame Varley; and I’ve comed here a’ purpis to tell ye. They want me to go to the Red-skins to make peace between them and us; and they’ve brought a lot o’ goods to make them presents withal,—beads, an’ knives, an’ lookin’-glasses, an vermilion paint, an’ sich-like, jist as much as’ll be a light load for one horse—for, ye see, nothin’ can be done wi’ the Red-skins without gifts.”

“’Tis a blessed mission,” said the widow, “I wish it may succeed. D’ye think ye’ll go?”

“Go? ay, that will I.”

“I only wish they’d made the offer to me,” said Dick with a sigh.

“An’ so they do make the offer, lad. They’ve gin me leave to choose the two men I’m to take with me, and I’ve comed straight to ask you. Ay or no, for we must up an’ away by break o’ day to-morrow.”

Mrs Varley started. “So soon?” she said, with a look of anxiety.

“Ay; the Pawnees are at the Yellow Creek jist at this time, but I’ve heer’d they’re ’bout to break up camp an’ away west; so we’ll need to use haste.”

“May I go, mother?” asked Dick, with a look of anxiety.

There was evidently a conflict in the widow’s breast, but it quickly ceased.

“Yes, my boy,” she said in her own low, quiet voice, “an’ God go with ye. I knew the time must come soon, an’ I thank Him that your first visit to the Red-skins will be on an errand o’ peace. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.’”

Dick grasped his mother’s hand and pressed it to his cheek in silence. At the same moment Crusoe, seeing that the deeper feelings of his master were touched, and deeming it his duty to sympathise, rose up and thrust his nose against him.

“Ah! pup,” cried the young man hastily, “you must go too. Of course Crusoe goes, Joe Blunt?”

“Hum! I don’t know that. There’s no dependin’ on a dog to keep his tongue quiet in times o’ danger.”

“Believe me,” exclaimed Dick, flashing with enthusiasm, “Crusoe’s more trustworthy than I am myself. If ye can trust the master yer safe to trust the pup.”

“Well, lad, ye may be right. We’ll take him.”

“Thanks, Joe. And who else goes with us?”

“I’ve bin castin’ that in my mind for some time, an’ I’ve fixed to take Henri. He’s not the safest man in the valley, but he’s the truest, that’s a fact. And now, younker, get yer horse an’ rifle ready, and come to the block-house at daybreak to-morrow. Good luck to ye, mistress, till we meet agin.”

Joe Blunt rose, and taking up his rifle,—without which he scarcely ever moved a foot from his own door,—left the cottage with rapid strides.

“My son,” said Mrs Varley, kissing Dick’s cheek as he resumed his seat, “put this in the little pocket I made for it in your hunting shirt.”

She handed him a small pocket Bible.

“Dear mother,” he said, as he placed the book carefully within the breast of his coat, “the Red-skin that takes that from me must take my scalp first. But don’t fear for me. You’ve often said the Lord would protect me. So He will, mother, for sure it’s an errand o’ peace!”

“Ay, that’s it, that’s it,” murmured the widow in a half-soliloquy.

Dick Varley spent that night in converse with his mother, and next morning at daybreak he was at the place of meeting mounted on his sturdy little horse, with the “silver rifle” on his shoulder, and Crusoe by his side.

“That’s right, lad, that’s right. Nothin’ like keepin’ yer time,” said Joe, as he led out a pack-horse from the gate of the block-house, while his own charger was held ready saddled by a man named Daniel Brand, who had been appointed to the charge of the block-house in his absence.

“Where’s Henri?—oh! here he comes,” exclaimed Dick, as the hunter referred to came thundering up the slope at a charge, on a horse that resembled its rider in size, and not a little in clumsiness of appearance.

“Ah! mes boy. Him is a goot one to go,” cried Henri, remarking Dick’s smile as he pulled up. “No hoss on de plain can beat dis one, surement.”

“Now then, Henri, lend a hand to fix this pack, we’ve no time to palaver.”

By this time they were joined by several of the soldiers and a few hunters who had come to see them start.

“Remember, Joe,” cried one, “if you don’t come back in three months we’ll all come out in a band to seek you.”

“If we don’t come back in less than that time, what’s left o’ us won’t be worth seekin’ for,” said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle.

“Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri,” cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed’s bridle; “ye’ll need it more than yer horse when ye git ’mong the red reptiles.”

“Vraiment, if mon mout’ needs one bit yours will need one padlock.”

“Now, lads, mount!” cried Joe Blunt as he vaulted into the saddle.

Dick Varley sprang lightly on his horse, and Henri made a rush at his steed and hurled his huge frame across its back with a violence that ought to have brought it to the ground; but the tall, raw-boned, broad-chested roan was accustomed to the eccentricities of its master, and stood the shock bravely. Being appointed to lead the pack-horse, Henri seized its halter; then the three cavaliers shook their reins, and, waving their hands to their comrades, they sprang into the woods at full gallop, and laid their course for the “far west.”

For some time they galloped side by side in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, Crusoe keeping close beside his master’s horse. The two elder hunters evidently ruminated on the object of their mission and the prospects of success, for their countenances were grave and their eyes cast on the ground. Dick Varley, too, thought upon the Red-men, but his musings were deeply tinged with the bright hues of a first adventure. The mountains, the plains, the Indians, the bears, the buffaloes, and a thousand other objects, danced wildly before his mind’s eye, and his blood careered through his veins and flushed his forehead as he thought of what he should see and do, and felt the elastic vigour of youth respond in sympathy to the light spring of his active little steed. He was a lover of nature, too, and his flashing eyes glanced observantly from side to side as they swept along,—sometimes through glades of forest trees; sometimes through belts of more open ground and shrubbery; anon by the margin of a stream, or along the shores of a little lake, and often over short stretches of flowering prairie-land,—while the firm, elastic turf sent up a muffled sound from the tramp of their mettlesome chargers. It was a scene of wild, luxuriant beauty, that might almost (one could fancy) have drawn involuntary homage to its bountiful Creator from the lips even of an infidel.

After a time Joe Blunt reined up, and they proceeded at an easy ambling pace. Joe and his friend Henri were so used to these beautiful scenes that they had long ceased to be enthusiastically affected by them, though they never ceased to delight in them.

“I hope,” said Joe, “that them sodgers ’ll go their ways soon. I’ve no notion o’ them chaps when they’re left at a place wi’ nothin’ to do but whittle sticks.”

“Why, Joe!” exclaimed Dick Varley in a tone of surprise, “I thought you were admirin’ the beautiful face o’ nature all this time, and yer only thinkin’ about the sodgers. Now, that’s strange!”

“Not so strange after all, lad,” answered Joe. “When a man’s used to a thing he gits to admire an’ enjoy it without speakin’ much about it. But it is true, boy, that mankind gits in coorse o’ time to think little o’ the blissins he’s used to.”

“Oui, c’est vrai!” murmured Henri emphatically.

“Well, Joe Blunt, it may be so; but I’m thankful I’m not used to this sort o’ thing yet,” exclaimed Varley. “Let’s have another gallop—so ho! come along, Crusoe!” shouted the youth, as he shook his reins, and flew over a long stretch of prairie on which at that moment they entered.

Joe smiled as he followed his enthusiastic companion, but after a short run he pulled up.

“Hold on, youngster,” he cried, “ye must larn to do as yer bid, lad; it’s trouble enough to be among wild Injuns and wild buffaloes, as I hope soon to be, without havin’ wild comrades to look after.”

Dick laughed and reined in his panting horse. “I’ll be as obedient as Crusoe,” he said, “and no one can beat him.”

“Besides,” continued Joe, “the horses won’t travel far if we begin by runnin’ all the wind out o’ them.”

“Wah!” exclaimed Henri, as the led horse became restive; “I think we must give to him de pack-hoss for to lead, eh!”

“Not a bad notion, Henri. We’ll make that the penalty of runnin’ off again; so look out, Master Dick.”

“I’m down,” replied Dick with a modest air, “obedient as a baby, and won’t run off again—till—the next time. By the way, Joe, how many days’ provisions did ye bring?”

“Two. That’s ’nough to carry us to the Great Prairie, which is three weeks distant from this; our own good rifles must make up the difference, and keep us when we git there.”

“And s’pose we neither find deer nor buffalo,” suggested Dick.

“I s’pose we’ll have to starve.”

“Dat is cumfer’able to tink upon,” remarked Henri.

“More comfortable to think o’ than to undergo,” said Dick, “but I s’pose there’s little chance o’ that.”

“Well, not much,” replied Joe Blunt, patting his horse’s neck; “but d’ye see, lad, ye niver can count for sartin on anythin’. The deer and buffalo ought to be thick in them plains at this time—and when the buffalo are thick they covers the plains till ye can hardly see the end o’ them; but, ye see, sometimes the rascally Red-skins takes it into their heads to burn the prairies, and sometimes ye find the place that should ha’ bin black wi’ buffalo, black as a coal wi’ fire for miles an’ miles on end. At other times the Red-skins go huntin’ in ’ticlar places, and sweeps them clean o’ every hoof that don’t git away. Sometimes, too, the animals seems to take a scunner at a place and keeps out o’ the way. But one way or another men gin’rally manage to scramble through.”

“Look yonder, Joe,” exclaimed Dick, pointing to the summit of a distant ridge, where a small black object was seen moving against the sky, “that’s a deer, ain’t it?”

Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed earnestly at the object in question. “Yer right, boy; and by good luck we’ve got the wind of him. Cut in an’ take your chance now. There’s a long strip o’ wood as’ll let ye git close to him.”

Before the sentence was well finished, Dick and Crusoe were off at full gallop. For a few hundred yards they coursed along the bottom of a hollow; then turning to the right they entered the strip of wood, and in a few minutes gained the edge of it. Here Dick dismounted.

“You can’t help me here, Crusoe. Stay where you are, pup, and hold my horse.”

Crusoe seized the end of the line, which was fastened to the horse’s nose, in his mouth, and lay down on a hillock of moss, submissively placing his chin on his fore-paws, and watching his master as he stepped noiselessly through the wood. In a few minutes Dick emerged from among the trees, and, creeping from bush to bush, succeeded in getting to within six hundred yards of the deer, which was a beautiful little antelope. Beyond the bush behind which he now crouched all was bare open ground, without a shrub or hillock large enough to conceal the hunter. There was a slight undulation in the ground, however, which enabled him to advance about fifty yards further, by means of lying down quite flat and working himself forward like a serpent. Further than this he could not move without being seen by the antelope, which browsed on the ridge before him in fancied security. The distance was too great even for a long shot, but Dick knew of a weak point in this little creature’s nature which enabled him to accomplish his purpose—a weak point which it shares in common with animals of a higher order,—namely, curiosity.

The little antelope of the North American prairies is intensely curious about everything that it does not quite understand, and will not rest satisfied until it has endeavoured to clear up the mystery. Availing himself of this propensity, Dick did what both Indians and hunters are accustomed to do on these occasions,—he put a piece of rag on the end of his ramrod, and, keeping his person concealed and perfectly still, waved this miniature flag in the air. The antelope noticed it at once, and, pricking up its ears, began to advance, timidly and slowly, step by step, to see what remarkable phenomenon it could be. In a few seconds the flag was lowered, a sharp crack followed, and the antelope fell dead upon the plain.

“Ha, boy! that’s a good supper, anyhow,” cried Joe, as he galloped up and dismounted.

“Goot! dat is better nor dried meat,” added Henri. “Give him to me; I will put him on my hoss, vich is strongar dan yourn. But ver is your hoss?”

“He’ll be here in a minute,” replied Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth and giving forth a shrill whistle.

The instant Crusoe heard the sound he made a savage and apparently uncalled-for dash at the horse’s heels. This wild act, so contrary to the dog’s gentle nature, was a mere piece of acting. He knew that the horse would not advance without getting a fright, so he gave him one in this way which sent him off at a gallop. Crusoe followed close at his heels, so as to bring the line alongside of the nag’s body, and thereby prevent its getting entangled; but despite his best efforts the horse got on one side of a tree and he on the other, so he wisely let go his hold of the line, and waited till more open ground enabled him to catch it again. Then he hung heavily back, gradually checked the horse’s speed, and finally trotted him up to his master’s side.

“’Tis a cliver cur, good sooth,” exclaimed Joe Blunt in surprise.

“Ah, Joe! you haven’t seen much of Crusoe yet. He’s as good as a man any day. I’ve done little else but train him for two years gone by, and he can do most anything but shoot—he can’t handle the rifle nohow.”

“Ha! then, I tink perhaps hims could if he wos try,” said Henri, plunging on to his horse with a laugh, and arranging the carcase of the antelope across the pommel of his saddle.

Thus they hunted and galloped, and trotted and ambled on through wood and plain all day, until the sun began to descend below the tree-tops of the bluffs on the west—then Joe Blunt looked about him for a place on which to camp, and finally fixed on a spot under the shadow of a noble birch by the margin of a little stream. The carpet of grass on its banks was soft like green velvet, and the rippling waters of the brook were clear as crystal—very different from the muddy Missouri into which it flowed.

While Dick Varley felled and cut up firewood, Henri unpacked the horses and turned them loose to graze, and Joe kindled the fire and prepared venison steaks and hot tea for supper.

In excursions of this kind it is customary to “hobble” the horses; that is, to tie their fore-legs together, so that they cannot run either fast or far, but are free enough to amble about with a clumsy sort of hop in search of food. This is deemed a sufficient check on their tendency to roam, although some of the knowing horses sometimes learn to hop so fast with their hobbles as to give their owners much trouble to recapture them. But when out in the prairies where Indians are known or supposed to be in the neighbourhood, the horses are picketed by means of a pin or stake attached to the ends of their long laryats, as well as hobbled—for Indians deem it no disgrace to steal or tell lies, though they think it disgraceful to be found out in doing either. And so expert are these dark-skinned natives of the western prairies, that they will creep into the midst of an enemy’s camp, cut the laryats and hobbles of several horses, spring suddenly on their backs, and gallop away.

They not only steal from white men, but tribes that are at enmity steal from each other, and the boldness with which they do this is most remarkable. When Indians are travelling in a country where enemies are prowling, they guard their camps at night with jealous care. The horses in particular are both hobbled and picketed, and sentries are posted all round the camp. Yet, in spite of these precautions, hostile Indians manage to elude the sentries, and creep into the camp. When a thief thus succeeds in effecting an entrance, his chief danger is past. He rises boldly to his feet, and, wrapping his blanket or buffalo robe round him, he walks up and down as if he were a member of the tribe. At the same time he dexterously cuts the laryats of such horses as he observes are not hobbled. He dare not stoop to cut the hobbles, as the action would be observed, and suspicion would be instantly aroused. He then leaps on the best horse he can find, and uttering a terrific war-whoop darts away into the plains, driving the loosened horses before him.

No such dark thieves were supposed to be near the camp under the birch-tree, however, so Joe, and Dick, and Henri ate their supper in comfort, and let their horses browse at will on the rich pasturage.

A bright ruddy fire was soon kindled, which created, as it were, a little ball of light in the midst of surrounding darkness for the special use of our hardy hunters. Within this magic circle all was warm, comfortable, and cheery. Outside all was dark, and cold, and dreary by contrast.

When the substantial part of supper was disposed of, tea and pipes were introduced, and conversation began to flow. Then the three saddles were placed in a row; each hunter wrapped himself in his blanket, and, pillowing his head on his saddle, stretched his feet towards the fire and went to sleep, with his loaded rifle by his side and his hunting-knife handy in his belt. Crusoe mounted guard by stretching himself out couchant at Dick Varley’s side. The faithful dog slept lightly and never moved all night, but had any one observed him closely he would have seen that every fitful flame that burst from the sinking fire, every unusual puff of wind, and every motion of the horses that fed or rested hard by, had the effect of revealing a speck of glittering white in Crusoe’s watchful eye.

Chapter Six.

The great prairies of the “far west”—A remarkable colony discovered, and a miserable night endured.

Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is the purest, the most joyous and the best. At least so think we; and so think hundreds and thousands of the human family; and so thought Dick Varley, as he sprung suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him.

This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick, but the dog received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order to afford free scope for the use of his tail.

“Ho! Joe Blunt! Henri! Up, boys, up! The sun will have the start o’ us. I’ll catch the nags.”

So saying Dick bounded away into the woods with Crusoe gambolling joyously at his heels. Dick soon caught his own horse and Crusoe caught Joe’s. Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two.

Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on the back of the pack-horse.

“That’s the way to do it, lad,” cried Joe. “Here Henri, look alive and git yer beast ready. I do believe yer goin’ to take another snooze!”

Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a cavernous yawn, but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot. He only threw the saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle.

“Now then, all ready?”

“Ay,—oui, yis!”

And away they went at full stretch again on their journey.

Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they reached the edge of the Great Prairie.

It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on which he first beheld the prairie,—the vast boundless prairie. He had heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never,—no, he had never realised it. ’Tis always thus. Our conceptions of things that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong. Dick’s eyes glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath came thick and quick.

“There it is,” he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on his enraptured gaze; “that’s it—oh!—”

Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of the Pawnees, and, being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of grass. The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the scene; the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after him. It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the boundless prairie of the “far west!”

The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean. There is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon; there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes. There are islands, too—clumps of trees and willow-bushes,—which rise out of this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in size and numbers as do the isles of ocean—being numerous in some places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not meet one in a long day’s journey. Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them.

“Now, lads,” said Joe Blunt, reining up, “our troubles begin to-day.”

“Our troubles! our joys, you mean!” exclaimed Dick Varley.

“P’raps I don’t mean nothin’ o’ the sort,” retorted Joe. “Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur’ o’ troubles. I s’pose he couldn’t stand ’em pure. Ye see we’ve got to the prairie now—”

“One blind hoss might see dat!” interrupted Henri.

“An’ we may or may not diskiver buffalo. An’ water’s scarce, too, so we’ll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we’ll lose our horses, in which case we may as well give out at once. Besides, there’s rattlesnakes about in sandy places—we’ll ha’ to look out for them; an’ there’s badger holes—we’ll need to look sharp for them lest the horses put their feet in ’em; an’ there’s Injuns, who’ll look out pretty sharp for us if they once get wind that we’re in them parts.”

“Oui, yis, mes boys, and there’s rain, and tunder, and lightin’,” added Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon ahead of them.

“It’ll be rain,” remarked Joe, “but there’s no thunder in the air jist now; we’ll make for yonder clump o’ bushes and lay by till it’s past.”

Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows. Before reaching it however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where there was neither flower nor bird. Here they were suddenly arrested by a most extraordinary sight—at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had never seen the like before. This was a colony of what Joe called “prairie-dogs.” On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly prepared to charge, but he glanced up at his master first for permission. Observing that his finger and his look commanded “silence” he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear. He did not, however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity.

These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to dogs, either in formation or habits. They are, in fact, the marmot, and in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in some degree. They burrow under the light soil and throw it up in mounds like moles.

Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick first beheld them, but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen rising over the ridge, they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation; each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house and prepared, as it were, to “receive cavalry.”

The most ludicrous thing about them was, that although the most timid and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent things that ever lived! Knowing that their holes afforded them a perfectly safe retreat they sat close beside them, and as the hunters slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails, showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys. The nearer they came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter. They let the hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails wriggled for an instant in the air—then, a dead silence reigned over the deserted scene.

“Bien, them’s have dive into de bo’-els of de eart’,” said Henri with a broad grin.

Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared like the wink of an eye. Then they appeared again, and a thousand pairs of eyes followed. Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as vigorously as ever. You could not say that you saw them jump out of their holes. Suddenly, as if by magic, they were out; then Dick tossed up his arms, and, suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone!

Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous activity. What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain, but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their own houses. Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden danger he always fled.

But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl lived with each doggie! This is such an extraordinary fact, that we could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and written about these regions. The whole plain was covered with these owls. Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony.

We have not been able to ascertain from travellers why the owls have gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own private opinion to the reader. We assume, then, that owls find it absolutely needful to have holes. Probably prairie-owls cannot dig holes for themselves. Having discovered, however, a race of little creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible possession of the holes made by them. Finding, no doubt, that, when they did so, the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering, moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled—that’s how it came about, no doubt of it!

There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we cannot certify our reader of the truth of this,—still it is well to be acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods. If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie’s family is the most miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of—or, as Henri said, in the bo’-els—of the earth.

Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black clouds over the sky. A few heavy drops of rain now warned them to seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at speed for the clump of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in torrents.

“Now, lads, do it slick. Off packs and saddles,” cried Joe Blunt, jumping from his horse. “I’ll make a hut for ye, right off.”

“A hut, Joe! what sort o’ hut can ye make here?” inquired Dick.

“Ye’ll see, boy, in a minute.”

“Ach! lend me hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hosse’s own skin. Ah! dere all right.”

“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something in his mouth. “I declare, it’s a bird of some sort.”

“A prairie-hen,” remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick’s feet; “capital for supper.”

“Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog. Come here, I vill clap you.”

But Crusoe refused to be caressed. Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and thrusting their points into the ground. Over this they threw the largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on which they laid their packs of goods. These they further secured against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment. Then they sat down on this pile to rest and consider what should be done next.

“’Tis a bad look out,” said Joe, shaking his head.

“I fear it is,” replied Dick in a melancholy tone.

Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which was now of a uniform watery grey, while black clouds drove athwart it. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that in a short time they were wet to the skin. The horses stood meekly beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous, and Crusoe sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, “Couldn’t you put a stop to this if you were to try?”

“This’ll never do. I’ll try to git up a fire,” said Dick, jumping up in desperation.

“Ye may save yerself the trouble,” remarked Joe, drily—at least as drily as was possible in the circumstances.

However, Dick did try, but he failed signally. Everything was soaked and saturated. There were no large trees; most of the bushes were green, and the dead ones were soaked. The coverings were slobbery; the skins they sat on were slobbery; the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat down beside his companions to grin and bear it. As for Joe and Henri, they were old hands, and accustomed to such circumstances. From the first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils that they could not cure.

There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not—and it matters little—which runs thus—

“For every evil under the sun

There is a remedy—or there’s none.

If there is—try and find it;

If there isn’t—never mind it!”

There is deep wisdom here in small compass. The principle involved deserves to be heartily recommended. Dick never heard of the lines, but he knew the principle well; so he began to “never mind it,” by sitting down beside his companions and whistling vociferously. As the wind rendered this a difficult feat he took to singing instead. After that he said, “Let’s eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed.”

“Be all means,” said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer’s meat from a wallet.

“It’s cold grub,” said Dick, “and tough.”

But the hunters’ teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a pool on the top of their hut. They now tried to sleep, for the night was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands when held up before their faces. They sat back to back, and thus, in the form of a tripod, began to snooze. Joe’s and Henri’s seasoned frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick’s body was young and pliant, so he hadn’t been asleep a few seconds when he fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others. Joe gave a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, “Hah!” but Dick was too sleepy and miserable to say anything. Crusoe, however, rose up to show his sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master’s knee as he resumed his place. This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour, and by the third time they were all wakened up so thoroughly that they gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their hunting experiences and telling stories. So engrossed did they become that day broke sooner than they had expected—and just in proportion as the grey light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies.

Chapter Seven.

The “wallering” peculiarities of buffalo bulls—The first buffalo hunt and its consequences—Crusoe comes to the rescue—Pawnees discovered—A monster buffalo hunt—Joe acts the part of ambassador.

Fortunately the day that succeeded the dreary night described in the last chapter was warm and magnificent. The sun rose in a blaze of splendour and filled the atmosphere with steam from the moist earth.

The unfortunates in the wet camp were not slow to avail themselves of his cheering rays. They hung up everything on the bushes to dry, and by dint of extreme patience and cutting out the comparatively dry hearts of several pieces of wood, they lighted a fire and boiled some rain water, which was soon converted into soup. This, and the exercise necessary for the performance of these several duties, warmed and partially dried them, so that when they once more mounted their steeds and rode away they were in a state of comparative comfort and in excellent spirits. The only annoyance was the clouds of mosquitoes and large flies that assailed men and horses whenever they checked their speed.

“I tell ye wot it is,” said Joe Blunt, one fine morning about a week after they had begun to cross the prairie, “it’s my ’pinion that we’ll come on buffaloes soon. Them tracks are fresh, an’ yonder’s one o’ their wallers that’s bin used not long agone.”

“I’ll go have a look at it,” cried Dick, trotting away as he spoke.

Everything in these vast prairies was new to Dick Varley, and he was kept in a constant state of excitement during the first week or two of his journey. It is true he was quite familiar with the names and habits of all the animals that dwelt there, for many a time and oft had he listened to the “yarns” of the hunters and trappers of the Mustang Valley, when they returned laden with rich furs from their periodical hunting expeditions. But this knowledge of his only served to whet his curiosity and his desire to see the denizens of the prairies with his own eyes, and now that his wish was accomplished, it greatly increased the pleasures of his journey.

Dick had just reached the “wallow” referred to by Joe Blunt, and had reined up his steed to observe it leisurely, when a faint hissing sound reached his ear. Looking quickly back he observed his two companions crouching on the necks of their horses, and slowly descending into a hollow of the prairie in front of them, as if they wished to bring the rising ground between them and some object in advance. Dick instantly followed their example and was soon at their heels.

“Ye needn’t look at the waller,” whispered Joe, “for a’ t’other side o’ the ridge there’s a bull wallerin’.”

“Ye don’t mean it!” exclaimed Dick, as they all dismounted and picketed their horses to the plain.

“Oui,” said Henri, tumbling off his horse, while a broad grin overspread his good-natured countenance; “it is one fact! One buffalo bull be wollerin’ like a enormerous hog. Also, dere be t’ousands o’ buffaloes farder on.”

“Can ye trust yer dog keepin’ back?” inquired Joe, with a dubious glance at Crusoe.

“Trust him! Ay, I wish I was as sure o’ myself.”

“Look to your primin’, then, an’ we’ll have tongues and marrow-bones for supper to-night, I’se warrant. Hist! down on yer knees, and go softly. We might ha’ run them down on horseback, but its bad to wind yer beasts on a trip like this, if ye can help it; an’ it’s about as easy to stalk them. Leastways, we’ll try. Lift yer head slowly, Dick, an’ don’t show more nor the half o’t above the ridge.”

Dick elevated his head as directed, and the scene that met his view was indeed well calculated to send an electric shock to the heart of an ardent sportsman. The vast plain beyond was absolutely blackened with countless herds of buffaloes, which were browsing on the rich grass. They were still so far distant that their bellowing, and the trampling of their myriad hoofs, only reached the hunters like a faint murmur on the breeze. In the immediate foreground, however, there was a group of about half a dozen buffalo cows feeding quietly, and in the midst of them an enormous old bull was enjoying himself in his wallow. The animals, towards which our hunters now crept with murderous intent, are the fiercest and the most ponderous of the ruminating inhabitants of the western wilderness. The name of buffalo, however, is not correct. The animal is the bison, and bears no resemblance whatever to the buffalo proper; but as the hunters of the far west—and, indeed, travellers generally, have adopted the misnomer, we bow to the authority of custom and adopt it too.

Buffaloes roam in countless thousands all over the North American prairies, from the Hudson’s Bay territories, north of Canada, to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.

The advance of white men to the west has driven them to the prairies between the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains, and has somewhat diminished their numbers; but even thus diminished, they are still innumerable in the more distant plains. Their colour is dark brown, but it varies a good deal with the seasons. The hair or fur, from its great length in winter and spring and exposure to the weather, turns quite light; but when the winter coat is shed off the new growth is a beautiful dark brown, almost approaching to jet-black. In form the buffalo somewhat resembles the ox, but its head and shoulders are much larger, and are covered with a profusion of long shaggy hair, which adds greatly to the fierce aspect of the animal. It has a large hump on the shoulder, and its fore-quarters are much larger, in proportion, than the hindquarters. The horns are short and thick; the hoofs are cloven, and the tail is short, with a tuft of hair at the extremity.

It is scarcely possible to conceive a wilder or more ferocious and terrible monster than a buffalo bull. He often grows to the enormous weight of two thousand pounds. His lion-like mane falls in shaggy confusion quite over his head and shoulders, down to the ground. When he is wounded he becomes imbued with the spirit of a tiger; he stamps, bellows, roars, and foams forth his rage with glaring eyes and steaming nostrils; and charges furiously at man and horse with utter recklessness. Fortunately, however, he is not naturally pugnacious, and can be easily thrown into a sudden panic. Moreover, the peculiar position of his eye renders this creature not so terrible as he would otherwise be to the hunter. Owing to the stiff structure of the neck, and the sunken, downward-looking eyeball, the buffalo cannot, without an effort, see beyond the direct line of vision presented to the habitual carriage of his head. When, therefore, he is wounded, and charges, he does so in a straight line, so that his pursuer can leap easily out of his way. The pace of the buffalo is clumsy, and apparently slow, yet, when chased, he dashes away over the plains in blind blundering terror, at a rate that leaves all but good horses far behind. He cannot keep the pace up, however, and is usually soon overtaken. Were the buffalo capable of the same alert and agile motions of head and eye peculiar to the deer or wild horse, in addition to his “bovine rage,” he would be the most formidable brute on earth. There is no object, perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror. They care not for their necks. All danger in front is forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which they fly. No thundering cataract is more tremendously irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the trembling plains.

The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury usually indulged in during the hot months of summer, when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and drought. At this season they seek the low grounds in the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being saturated, is soft. The leader of the herd, a shaggy old bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow.

It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo cows. Joe consented with a nod, and the four spectators—for Crusoe was as much taken up with the proceedings as any of them—crouched in the grass, and looked on.

Coming up to the swampy spot the old bull gave a grunt of satisfaction, and, going down on one knee, plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up, and cast it aside. Having repeated this several times he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated with dirty water, and bedaubed with lumps of mud, through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of the hunters, as if he meant to say, “I’ve done it that time, and no mistake!” The other buffaloes seemed to think so too, for they came up and looked, on with an expression that seemed to say, “Well done, old fellow; try that again!”

The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again, plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until he formed an excavation large enough to contain his huge body. In this bath he laid himself comfortably down, and began to roll and wallow about until he mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which completely covered him. When he came out of the hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self visible!

The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass and washings by rain at length clear it away.

When the old bull vacated this delectable bath, another bull, scarcely, if at all, less ferocious-looking, stepped forward to take his turn, but he was interrupted by a volley from the hunters, which scattered the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror. The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon. The family party which had been fired at, however, did not escape so well. Joe’s rifle wounded a fat young cow, and Dick Varley brought it down. Henri had done his best, but, as the animals were too far distant for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at and hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted. The others scattered and fled.

“Well done, Dick,” exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all ran up to the cow that had fallen. “Your first shot at the buffalo was a good ’un. Come now an I’ll show ye how to cut it up an’ carry off the titbits.”

“Ah! mon dear ole bull,” exclaimed Henri, gazing after the animal which he had wounded, and which was now limping slowly away. “You is not worth goin’ after. Varewell,—adieu.”

“He’ll be tough enough, I warrant,” said Joe, “an’ we’ve more meat here nor we can lift.”

“But wouldn’t it be as well to put the poor brute out o’ pain?” suggested Dick.

“Oh, he’ll die soon enough,” replied Joe, tucking up his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife.

Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of looking at it. Saying that he would be back in a few minutes he re-loaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was now hid from view in a hollow of the plain.

In a few minutes he came in sight of it, and ran forward with his rifle in readiness.

“Down, Crusoe,” he whispered; “wait for me here.”

Crusoe crouched in the grass instantly, and Dick advanced. As he came on, the bull observed him, and turned round bellowing with rage and pain to receive him. The aspect of the brute on a near view was so terrible, that Dick involuntarily stopped too, and gazed with a mingled feeling of wonder and awe, while it bristled with passion, and blood-streaked foam dropped from its open jaws, and its eyes glared furiously. Seeing that Dick did not advance, the bull charged him with a terrific roar; but the youth had firm nerves, and although the rush of such a savage creature at full speed was calculated to try the courage of any man, especially one who had never seen a buffalo bull before, Dick did not lose presence of mind. He remembered the many stories he had listened to of this very thing that was now happening, so, crushing down his excitement as well as he could, he cocked his rifle and awaited the charge. He knew that it was of no use to fire at the head of the advancing foe, as the thickness of the skull, together with the matted hair on the forehead, rendered it impervious to a bullet.

When the bull was within a yard of him he leaped lightly to one side and it passed. Just as it did so, Dick aimed at its heart and fired, but his knowledge of the creature’s anatomy was not yet correct. The ball entered the shoulder too high, and the bull, checking himself as well as he could in his headlong rush, turned round and made at Dick again.

The failure coupled with the excitement proved too much for Dick; he could not resist discharging his second barrel at the brute’s head as it came on. He might as well have fired at a brick wall; it shook its shaggy front, and with a hideous bellow thundered forward. Again Dick sprang to one side, but in doing so a tuft of grass or a stone caught his foot, and he fell heavily to the ground.

Up to this point Crusoe’s admirable training had nailed him to the spot where he had been left, although the twitching of every fibre in his body and a low continuous whine showed how gladly he would have hailed permission to join in the combat; but the instant he saw his master down and the buffalo turning to charge again, he sprang forward with a roar that would have done credit to his bovine enemy, and seized him by the nose. So vigorous was the rush that he well-nigh pulled the bull down on its side. One toss of its head, however, sent Crusoe high into the air, but it accomplished this feat at the expense of its nose, which was torn and lacerated by the dog’s teeth.

Scarcely had Crusoe touched the ground, which he did with a sounding thump, than he sprang up and flew at his adversary again. This time, however, he adopted the plan of barking furiously and biting by rapid yet terrible snaps as he found opportunity, thus keeping the bull entirely engrossed, and affording Dick an opportunity of re-loading his rifle, which he was not slow to do. Dick then stepped close up, and, while the two combatants were roaring in each other’s face; he shot the buffalo through the heart. It fell to the earth with a deep groan.

Crusoe’s rage instantly vanished on beholding this, and he seemed to be filled with tumultuous joy at his master’s escape, for he gambolled round him, and whined and fawned upon him in a manner that could not be misunderstood.

“Good dog; thank’ee, my pup,” said Dick, patting Crusoe’s head as he stooped to brush the dust from his leggings; “I don’t know what would ha’ become o’ me but for your help, Crusoe.”

Crusoe turned his head a little to one side, wagged his tail, and looked at Dick with an expression that said quite plainly, “I’d die for you, I would—not once, or twice, but ten times, fifty times if need be—and that not merely to save your life, but even to please you.”

There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe felt something of this sort. The love of a Newfoundland dog to its master is beyond calculation or expression. He who once gains such love carries the dog’s life in his hand. But let him who reads note well, and remember, that there is only one coin that can purchase such love, and that is kindness; the coin, too, must be genuine. Kindness merely expressed will not do, it must be felt.

“Hallo! boy, ye’ve bin i’ the wars!” exclaimed Joe, raising himself from his task as Dick and Crusoe returned.

“You look more like it than I do,” retorted Dick, laughing.

This was true, for cutting up a buffalo carcase with no other instrument than a large knife is no easy matter. Yet western hunters and Indians can do it without cleaver or saw, in a way that would surprise a civilised butcher not a little. Joe was covered with blood up to the elbows. His hair, happening to have a knack of getting into his eyes, had been so often brushed off with bloody hands, that his whole visage was speckled with gore, and his dress was by no means immaculate.

While Dick related his adventure, or mis-adventure with the bull, Joe and Henri completed the cutting out of the most delicate portions of the buffalo, namely, the hump on its shoulder—which is a choice piece, much finer than the best beef—and the tongue, and a few other parts. The tongues of buffaloes are superior to those of domestic cattle. When all was ready the meat was slung across the back of the pack-horse, and the party, remounting their horses, continued their journey, having first cleansed themselves as well as they could in the rather dirty waters of an old wallow.

“See,” said Henri, turning to Dick and pointing to a circular spot of green as they rode along, “that is one old dry waller.”

“Ay,” remarked Joe, “after the waller dries, it becomes a ring o’ greener grass than the rest o’ the plain, as ye see. ’Tis said the first hunters used to wonder greatly at these myster’ous circles, and they invented all sorts o’ stories to account for ’em. Some said they wos fairy-rings, but at last they comed to know they wos nothin’ more nor less than places where buffaloes wos used to waller in. It’s often seemed to me that if we knowed the raisons o’ things we wouldn’t be so much puzzled wi’ them as we are.”

The truth of this last remark was so self-evident and incontrovertible that it elicited no reply, and the three friends rode on for a considerable time in silence.

It was now past noon, and they were thinking of calling a halt for a short rest to the horses and a pipe to themselves, when Joe was heard to give vent to one of those peculiar hisses that always accompanied either a surprise or a caution. In the present case it indicated both.

“What now, Joe?”

“Injuns!” ejaculated Joe.

“Eh! fat you say? ou is de?”

Crusoe at this moment uttered a low growl. Ever since the day he had been partially roasted he had maintained a rooted antipathy to Red-men. Joe immediately dismounted, and placing his ear to the ground listened intently. It is a curious fact that by placing the ear close to the ground sounds can be heard distinctly which could not be heard at all if the listener were to maintain an erect position.

“They’re arter the buffalo,” said Joe, rising, “an’ I think it’s likely they’re a band o’ Pawnees. Listen an’ ye’ll hear their shouts quite plain.”

Dick and Henri immediately lay down and placed their ears to the ground.

“Now, me hear noting,” said Henri, jumping up, “but me ear is like me eyes; ver’ short-sighted.”

“I do hear something,” said Dick as he got up, “but the beating o’ my own heart makes row enough to spoil my hearin’.”

Joe Blunt smiled. “Ah! lad, yer young an’ yer blood’s too hot yet, but bide a bit; you’ll cool down soon. I wos like you once. Now, lads, what think ye we should do?”

“You know best, Joe.”

“Oui, nodoubtedly.”

“Then wot I advise is that we gallop to the broken sand hillocks ye see yonder, get behind them an’ take a peep at the Red-skins. If they are Pawnees we’ll go up to them at once; if not, we’ll hold a council o’ war on the spot.”

Having arranged this they mounted and hastened towards the hillocks in question, which they reached after ten minutes’ gallop, at full stretch. The sandy mounds afforded them concealment, and enabled them to watch the proceedings of the savages in the plain below. The scene was the most curious and exciting that can be conceived. The centre of the plain before them was crowded with hundreds of buffaloes, which were dashing about in the most frantic state of alarm. To whatever point they galloped they were met by yelling savages on horseback, who could not have been fewer in numbers than a thousand—all being armed with lance, bow, and quiver, and mounted on active little horses. The Indians had completely surrounded the herd of buffaloes, and were now advancing steadily towards them, gradually narrowing the circle, and, whenever the terrified animals endeavoured to break through the line, they rushed to that particular spot in a body, and scared them back again into the centre.

Thus they advanced until they closed in on their prey, and formed an unbroken circle round them, whilst the poor brutes kept eddying and surging to and fro in a confused mass, hooking and climbing upon each other, and bellowing furiously. Suddenly the horsemen made a rush, and the work of destruction began. The tremendous turmoil raised a cloud of dust that obscured the field in some places, and hid it from our hunters’ view. Some of the Indians galloped round and round the circle, sending their arrows whizzing up to the feathers in the sides of the fattest cows. Others dashed fearlessly into the midst of the black heaving mass, and, with their long lances, pierced dozens of them to the heart. In many instances the buffaloes, infuriated by wounds, turned fiercely on their assailants and gored the horses to death, in which cases the men had to trust to their nimble legs for safety. Sometimes a horse got jammed in the centre of the swaying mass, and could neither advance nor retreat. Then the savage rider leaped upon the buffaloes’ backs, and springing from one to another, like an acrobat, gained the outer edge of the circle, not failing, however, in his strange flight, to pierce with his lance several of the fattest of his stepping-stones as he sped along.

A few of the herd succeeded in escaping from the blood and dust of this desperate battle, and made off over the plains, but they were quickly overtaken, and the lance or arrow brought them down on the green turf. Many of the dismounted riders were chased by bulls, but they stepped lightly to one side, and, as the animals passed, drove their arrows deep into their sides. Thus the tumultuous war went on, amid thundering tread, and yell, and bellow, till the green plain was transformed into a sea of blood and mire, and every buffalo of the herd was laid low.

It is not to be supposed that such reckless warfare is invariably waged without damage to the savages. Many were the wounds and bruises received that day, and not a few bones were broken, but happily no lives were lost.

“Now, lads, now’s our time. A bold and fearless look’s the best at all times. Don’t look as if ye doubted their friendship; and mind, wotever ye do, don’t use yer arms. Follow me.”

Saying this, Joe Blunt leaped on his horse, and, bounding over the ridge at full speed, galloped headlong across the plain.

The savages observed the strangers instantly, and a loud yell announced the fact as they assembled from all parts of the field brandishing their bows and spears. Joe’s quick eye soon distinguished their chief, towards whom he galloped, still at full speed, till within a yard or two of his horse’s head; then he reined up suddenly. So rapidly did Joe and his comrades approach, and so instantaneously did they pull up, that their steeds were thrown almost on their haunches.

The Indian chief did not move a muscle. He was a tall powerful savage, almost naked, and mounted on a coal-black charger, which he sat with the ease of a man accustomed to ride from infancy. He was, indeed, a splendid-looking savage, but his face wore a dark frown, for, although he and his band had visited the settlements and trafficked with the fur-traders on the Missouri, he did not love the “Pale-faces,” whom he regarded as intruders on the hunting grounds of his fathers, and the peace that existed between them at that time was of a very fragile character. Indeed, it was deemed by the traders impossible to travel through the Indian country at that period except in strong force, and it was the very boldness of the present attempt that secured to our hunters anything like a civil reception.

Joe, who could speak the Pawnee tongue fluently, began by explaining the object of his visit, and spoke of the presents which he had brought for the great chief; but it was evident that his words made little impression. As he discoursed to them the savages crowded round the little party, and began to handle and examine their dresses and weapons with a degree of rudeness that caused Joe considerable anxiety.

“Mahtawa believes that the heart of the Pale-face is true,” said the savage, when Joe paused, “but he does not choose to make peace. The Pale-faces are grasping. They never rest. They turn their eyes to the great mountains, and say, ‘There we will stop.’ But even there they will not stop. They are never satisfied, Mahtawa knows them well.”

This speech sank like a death-knell into the hearts of the hunters, for they knew that if the savages refused to make peace, they would scalp them all and appropriate their goods. To make things worse, a dark-visaged Indian suddenly caught hold of Henri’s rifle, and, ere he was aware, plucked it from his hand. The blood rushed to the gigantic hunter’s forehead, and he was on the point of springing at the man, when Joe said in a deep, quiet voice—

“Be still, Henri. You will but hasten death.”

At this moment there was a movement in the outskirts of the circle of horsemen, and another chief rode into the midst of them. He was evidently higher in rank than Mahtawa, for he spoke authoritatively to the crowd, and stepped in before him. The hunters drew little comfort from the appearance of his face, however, for it scowled upon them. He was not so powerful a man as Mahtawa, but he was more gracefully formed, and had a more noble and commanding countenance.

“Have the Pale-faces no wigwams on the great river that they should come to spy out the lands of the Pawnee?” he demanded.

“We have not come to spy your country,” answered Joe, raising himself proudly as he spoke, and taking off his cap. “We have come with a message from the great chief of the Pale-faces, who lives in the village far beyond the great river where the sun rises. He says, why should the Pale-face and the Red-man fight? They are brothers. The same Manitou (the Indian name for God) watches over both. The Pale-faces have more beads, and guns, and blankets, and knives, and vermilion than they require; they wish to give some of these things for the skins and furs which the Red-man does not know what to do with. The great chief of the Pale-faces has sent me to say, ‘Why should we fight? let us smoke the pipe of peace!’”

At the mention of beads and blankets the face of the wily chief brightened for a moment. Then he said, sternly—

“The heart of the Pale-face is not true. He has come here to trade for himself. San-it-sa-rish has eyes that can see—they are not shut. Are not these your goods?” The chief pointed to the pack-horse as he spoke.

“Trappers do not take their goods into the heart of an enemy’s camp,” returned Joe; “San-it-sa-rish is wise and will understand this. These are gifts to the chief of the Pawnees. There are more awaiting him when the pipe of peace is smoked. I have said,—What message shall we take back to the great chief of the Pale-faces?”

San-it-sa-rish was evidently mollified.

“The hunting field is not the council tent,” he said. “The Pale-faces will go with us to our village.”

Of course Joe was only too glad to agree to this proposal, but he now deemed it politic to display a little firmness.

“We cannot go till our rifle is restored. It will not do to go back and tell the great chief of the Pale-faces that the Pawnees are thieves.”

The chief frowned angrily.

“The Pawnees are true—they are not thieves. They choose to look at the rifle of the Pale-face. It shall be returned.”

The rifle was instantly restored, and then our hunters rode off with the Indians towards their camp. On the way they met hundreds of women and children going to the scene of the great hunt, for it was their special duty to cut up the meat and carry it into camp. The men, considering that they had done quite enough in killing it, returned to smoke and eat away the fatigues of the chase.

As they rode along Dick Varley observed that some of the “braves,” as Indian warriors are styled, were eating pieces of the bloody livers of the buffaloes in a raw state, at which he expressed not a little disgust.

“Ah! boy, you’re green yet,” remarked Joe Blunt in an undertone. “Mayhap ye’ll be thankful to do that same yerself some day.”

“Well, I’ll not refuse to try when it is needful,” said Dick with a laugh; “meanwhile I’m content to see the Red-skins do it, Joe Blunt.”

Chapter Eight.

Dick and his friends visit the Indians and see many wonders—Crusoe, too, experiences a few surprises and teaches Indian dogs a lesson—An Indian dandy—A foot-race.

The Pawnee village, at which they soon arrived, was situated in the midst of a most interesting and picturesque scene.

It occupied an extensive plain which sloped gently down to a creek, (In America small rivers or riverlets are termed “creeks”) whose winding course was marked by a broken line of wood, here and there interspersed with a fine clump of trees, between the trunks of which the blue waters of the lake sparkled in the distance. Hundreds of tents or “lodges” of buffalo skins covered the ground, and thousand of Indians—men, women, and children—moved about the busy scene. Some were sitting in their lodges, lazily smoking their pipes. But these were chiefly old and infirm veterans, for all the young men had gone to the hunt which we have just described. The women were stooping over their fires, busily preparing maize and meat for their husbands and brothers, while myriads of little brown and naked children romped about everywhere, filling the air with their yells and screams, which were only equalled, if not surpassed, by the yelping dogs that seemed innumerable.

Far as the eye could reach were seen scattered herds of horses. These were tended by little boys who were totally destitute of clothing, and who seemed to enjoy with infinite zest the pastime of shooting-practice with little bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians become expert bowmen. There were urchins there, scarce two feet high, with round bullets of bodies and short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off the trees at every shot, and cut the heads of the taller flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need, too, for the utmost proficiency they could attain, for the very existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends on their success in hunting the buffalo.

There are hundreds and thousands of North American savages who would undoubtedly perish and their tribes become extinct if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential to their existence, they pursue and slay them with improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues, and the marrow-bones. In the bloody hunt described in the last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the blackbirds, shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned, had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men, who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling in superabundance.

But to return to our story. At one end of this village the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom of which was studded with small islands. Here were thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared away by the noise of the camp. And here, too, dozens of children were sporting on the beach or paddling about in their light bark canoes.

“Isn’t it strange,” remarked Dick to Henri, as they passed among the tents towards the centre of the village, “isn’t it strange that them Injuns should be so fond o’ fightin’ when they’ve got all they can want—a fine country, lots o’ buffalo, an’ as far as I can see, happy homes?”

“Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. But dey do more love war to peace. Dey loves to be excited, I s’pose.”

“Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that must be the chief’s tent, by the look o’t.”

Dick was right; the horsemen pulled up and dismounted opposite the principal chief’s tent, which was a larger and more elegant structure than the others. Meanwhile an immense concourse of women, children, and dogs gathered round the strangers, and, while the latter yelped their dislike to white men, the former chattered continuously, as they discussed the appearance of the strangers and their errand, which latter soon became known. An end was put to this by San-it-sa-rish desiring the hunters to enter the tent, and spreading a buffalo robe for them to sit on. Two braves carried in their packs and then led away their horses.

All this time Crusoe had kept as close as possible to his master’s side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the midst of such a strange crowd, the more especially that the ill-looking Indian curs gave him expressive looks of hatred, and exhibited some desire to rush upon him in a body, so that he had to keep a sharp look out all round him. When, therefore, Dick entered the tent Crusoe endeavoured to do so along with him, but he was met by a blow on the nose from an old squaw, who scolded him in a shrill voice and bade him begone.

Either our hero’s knowledge of the Indian language was insufficient to enable him to understand the order, or he had resolved not to obey it, for instead of retreating he drew a deep gurgling breath, curled his nose, and displayed a row of teeth that caused the old woman to draw back in alarm. Crusoe’s was a forgiving spirit. The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury, and was meekly advancing when Dick held up his finger.

“Go outside, pup, and wait.”

Crusoe’s tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned and left the tent. He took up a position near the entrance, however, and sat down resignedly. So meek, indeed, did the poor dog look, that six mangy-looking curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a rush at him with boisterous yells.

Crusoe did not rise. He did not even condescend to turn his head toward them, but he looked at them out of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled—very slightly—the skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs, and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet, deep-toned gargling. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who paused and snarled violently.

It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe’s gentle nature, that, the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression of nonchalant gravity. The expression on this occasion was misunderstood, however, and, as about two dozen additional yelping dogs had joined the ranks of the enemy, they advanced in close order to the attack.

Crusoe still sat quiet and kept his head high, but he looked at them again and exhibited four fangs for their inspection. Among the pack there was one Indian dog of large size—almost as large as Crusoe himself—which kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser dogs on. The little dogs didn’t object, for little dogs are generally the most pugnacious. At this big dog Crusoe directed a pointed glance, but said nothing. Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with a mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent, and, coming upon Crusoe in the rear, snapped at his tail sharply, and then fled shrieking with terror and surprise, no doubt, at its own temerity.

Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually either said nothing, or gave utterance to a prolonged roar of indignation of the most terrible character with barks, as it were, mingled through it. It somewhat resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder, the prolonged roll of which is marked at short intervals in its course by cannon-like cracks. It was a continuous, but, so to speak, knotted roar.

On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth the roar with a majesty and power that scattered the pugnacious front rank of the enemy to the winds. Those that still remained, half stupefied, he leaped over with a huge bound and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of an instant’s duration, and the big dog lay dead upon the plain!

It was an awful thing to do; but Crusoe evidently felt that the peculiar circumstances of the case required that an example should be made—and to say truth, all things considered, we cannot blame him. The news must have been carried at once through the canine portion of the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with again after that.

Dick witnessed this little incident; but he observed that the Indian chief cared not a straw about it, and as his dog returned quietly and sat down in its old place, he took no notice of it either, but continued to listen to the explanations which Joe gave to the chief, of the desire of the Pale-faces to be friends with the Red-men.

Joe’s eloquence would have done little for him on this occasion had his hands been empty; but he followed it up by opening one of his packs, and displaying the glittering contents before the equally glittering eyes of the chief and his squaws.

“These,” said Joe, “are the gifts that the great chief of the Pale-faces sends to the great chief of the Pawnees, and he bids me say that there are many more things in his stores which will be traded for skins with the Red-men, when they visit him; and he also says that if the Pawnees will not steal horses any more from the Pale-faces they shall receive gifts of knives, and guns, and powder and blankets every year.”

“Wah!” grunted the chief; “it is good. The great chief is wise. We will smoke the pipe of peace.”

The things that afforded so much satisfaction to San-it-sa-rish were the veriest trifles. Penny looking-glasses in yellow gilt tin frames, beads of various colours, needles, cheap scissors, and knives, vermilion paint, and coarse scarlet cloth, etcetera. They were of priceless value, however, in the estimation of the savages, who delighted to adorn themselves with leggings made from the cloth, beautifully worked with beads by their own ingenious women. They were thankful, too, for knives even of the commonest description, having none but bone ones of their own; and they gloried in daubing their faces with intermingled streaks of charcoal and vermilion. To gaze at their visages, when thus treated, in the little penny looking-glasses is their summit of delight!

Joe presented the chief with a portion of these coveted goods and tied up the remainder. We may remark here, that the only thing which prevented the savages from taking possession of the whole at once, without asking permission, was the promise of the annual gifts, which they knew would not be forthcoming were any evil to befall the deputies of the Pale-faces. Nevertheless, it cost them a severe struggle to restrain their hands on this occasion, and Joe and his companions felt that they would have to play their part well in order to fulfil their mission with safety and credit.

“The Pale-faces may go now and talk with the braves,” said San-it-sa-rish, after carefully examining everything that was given to him; “a council will be called soon, and we will smoke the pipe of peace.”

Accepting this permission to retire, the hunters immediately left the tent, and being now at liberty to do what they pleased, they amused themselves by wandering about the village.

“He’s a cute chap that,” remarked Joe, with a sarcastic smile; “I don’t feel quite easy about gettin’ away. He’ll bother the life out o’ us to get all the goods we’ve got, and, ye see, as we’ve other tribes to visit, we must give away as little as we can here.”

“Ha! you is right,” said Henri; “dat fellow’s eyes twinkle at de knives and tings like two stars.”

“Fire-flies, ye should say. Stars are too soft an’ beautiful to compare to the eyes o’ yon savage,” said Dick, laughing. “I wish we were well away from them. That rascal Mahtawa is an ugly customer.”

“True, lad,” returned Joe; “had he bin the great chief our scalps had bin dryin’ in the smoke o’ a Pawnee wigwam afore now. What now, lad?”

Joe’s question was put in consequence of a gleeful smile that overspread the countenance of Dick Varley, who replied by pointing to a wigwam towards which they were approaching.

“Oh! that’s only a dandy,” exclaimed Joe. “There’s lots o’ them in every Injun camp. They’re fit for nothin’ but dress, poor contemptible critters.”

Joe accompanied his remark with a sneer, for of all pitiable objects, he regarded an unmanly man as the most despicable. He consented, however, to sit down on a grassy bank and watch the proceedings of this Indian dandy, who had just seated himself in front of his wigwam for the purpose of making his toilet.

He began it by greasing his whole person carefully and smoothly over with buffalo-fat, until he shone like a patent leather boot; then he rubbed himself almost dry, leaving the skin sleek and glossy. Having proceeded thus far he took up a small mirror, a few inches in diameter, which he or some other member of the tribe must have procured during one of their few excursions to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and examined himself, as well as he could, in so limited a space. Next, he took a little vermilion from a small parcel and rubbed it over his face until it presented the somewhat demoniac appearance of a fiery red. He also drew a broad red score along the crown of his head, which was closely shaved, with the exception of the usual tuft or scalp-lock on the top. This scalp-lock stood bristling straight up a few inches, and then curved over and hung down his back about two feet. Immense care and attention was bestowed on this lock. He smoothed it, greased it, and plaited it into the form of a pigtail. Another application was here made to the glass, and the result was evidently satisfactory, to judge from the beaming smile that played on his features. But, not content with the general effect, he tried the effect of expression—frowned portentously, scowled savagely, gaped hideously, and grinned horribly a ghastly smile.

Then our dandy fitted into his ears, which were bored in several places, sundry ornaments, such as rings, wampum, etcetera, and hung several strings of beads round his neck. Besides these he affixed one or two ornaments to his arms, wrists, and ankles, and touched in a few effects with vermilion on the shoulders and breast. After this, and a few more glances at the glass, he put on a pair of beautiful moccasins, which, besides being richly wrought with beads, were soft as chamois leather, and fitted his feet like gloves; a pair of leggings of scarlet cloth were drawn on, attached to a waist-belt, and bound below the knee with broad garters of variegated bead-work.

It was some time before this Adonis was quite satisfied with himself. He re-touched the paint on his shoulders several times, and modified the glare of that on his wide-mouthed, high-cheek-boned visage before he could tear himself away; but at last he did so, and, throwing a large piece of scarlet cloth over his shoulders, he thrust his looking-glass under his belt, and proceeded to mount his palfrey, which was held in readiness near to the tent door by one of his wives. The horse was really a fine animal, and seemed worthy of a more warlike master. His shoulders, too, were striped with red paint, and feathers were intertwined with his mane and tail, while the bridle was decorated with various jingling ornaments.

Vaulting upon his steed, with a large fan of wild goose and turkey feathers in one hand, and a whip dangling at the wrist of the other, this incomparable dandy sallied forth for a promenade—that being his chief delight when there was no buffalo hunting to be done. Other men who were not dandies sharpened their knives, smoked, feasted, and mended their spears and arrows at such seasons of leisure, or played at athletic games.

“Let’s follow my buck,” said Joe Blunt.

“Oui. Come ’long,” replied Henri, striding after the rider at a pace that almost compelled his comrades to run.

“Hold on!” cried Dick, laughing; “we don’t want to keep him company. A distant view is quite enough o’ sich a chap as that.”

“Mais, you forgit, I cannot see far.”

“So much the better,” remarked Joe; “it’s my opinion we’ve seen enough o’ him. Ah! he’s goin’ to look on at the games. Them’s worth lookin’ at.”

The games to which Joe referred were taking place on a green level plain close to the creek, and a little above the waterfall before referred to. Some of the Indians were horse-racing, some jumping, and others wrestling; but the game which proved most attractive was throwing the javelin, in which several of the young braves were engaged.

This game is played by two competitors, each armed with a dart, in an arena about fifty yards long. One of the players has a hoop of six inches in diameter. At a signal they start off on foot at full speed, and on reaching the middle of the arena the Indian with the hoop rolls it along before them, and each does his best to send a javelin through the hoop before the other. He who succeeds counts so many points—if both miss, the nearest to the hoop is allowed to count, but not so much as if he had “ringed” it. The Indians are very fond of this game, and will play at it under a broiling sun for hours together. But a good deal of the interest attaching to it is owing to the fact that they make it a means of gambling. Indians are inveterate gamblers, and will sometimes go on until they lose horses, bows, blankets, robes, and, in short, their whole personal property. The consequences are, as might be expected, that fierce and bloody quarrels sometimes arise in which life is often lost.

“Try your hand at that,” said Henri to Dick.

“By all means,” cried Dick, handing his rifle to his friend, and springing into the ring enthusiastically.

A general shout of applause greeted the Pale-face, who threw off his coat and tightened his belt, while a young Indian presented him with a dart.

“Now, see that ye do us credit, lad,” said Joe.

“I’ll try,” answered Dick.

In a moment they were off. The young Indian rolled away the hoop, and Dick threw his dart with such vigour that it went deep into the ground, but missed the hoop by a foot at least. The young Indian’s first dart went through the centre.

“Ha!” exclaimed Joe Blunt to the Indians near him, “the lad’s not used to that game, try him at a race. Bring out your best brave—he whose bound is like the hunted deer.”

We need scarcely remind the reader that Joe spoke in the Indian language, and that the above is a correct rendering of the sense of what he said.

The name of Tarwicadia, or the little chief, immediately passed from lip to lip, and in a few minutes an Indian, a little below the medium size, bounded into the arena with an indiarubber-like elasticity that caused a shade of anxiety to pass over Joe’s face.

“Ah, boy!” he whispered, “I’m afeared you’ll find him a tough customer.”

“That’s just what I want,” replied Dick. “He’s supple enough, but he wants muscle in the thigh. We’ll make it a long heat.”

“Right, lad, yer right.”

Joe now proceeded to arrange the conditions of the race with the chiefs around him. It was fixed that the distance to be run should be a mile, so that the race would be one of two miles, out and back. Moreover, the competitors were to run without any clothes, except a belt and a small piece of cloth round the loins. This to the Indians was nothing, for they seldom wore more in warm weather, but Dick would have preferred to keep on part of his dress. The laws of the course, however, would not permit of this, so he stripped and stood forth, the beau-ideal of a well-formed, agile man. He was greatly superior in size to his antagonist, and more muscular, the savage being slender and extremely lithe and springy.

“Hah! I will run too,” shouted Henri, bouncing forward with clumsy energy, and throwing off his coat just as they were going to start.

The savages smiled at this unexpected burst and made no objection, considering the thing in the light of a joke.

The signal was given, and away they went. Oh! it would have done you good to have seen the way in which Henri manoeuvred his limbs on this celebrated occasion! He went over the ground with huge elephantine bounds, runs, and jumps. He could not have been said to have one style of running; he had a dozen styles, all of which came into play in the course of half as many minutes. The other two ran like the wind; yet, although Henri appeared to be going heavily over the ground, he kept up with them to the turning point. As for Dick, it became evident in the first few minutes that he could outstrip his antagonist with ease, and was hanging back a little all the time. He shot ahead like an arrow when they came about half-way back, and it was clear that the real interest of the race was to lie in the competition between Henri and Tarwicadia.

Before they were two-thirds of the way back, Dick walked in to the winning point, and turned to watch the others. Henri’s wind was about gone, for he exerted himself with such violence that he wasted half his strength. The Indian, on the contrary, was comparatively fresh, but he was not so fleet as his antagonist, whose tremendous strides carried him over the ground at an incredible pace. On they came neck and neck, till close on the score that marked the winning point. Here the value of enthusiasm came out strongly in the case of Henri. He felt that he could not gain an inch on Tarwicadia to save his life; but, just as he came up, he observed the anxious faces of his comrades and the half-sneering countenances of the savages. His heart thumped against his ribs, every muscle thrilled with a gush of conflicting feelings, and he hurled himself over the score like a cannon shot, full six inches ahead of the little chief!

But the thing did not by any means end here. Tarwicadia pulled up the instant he had passed. Not so our Canadian. Such a clumsy and colossal frame was not to be checked in a moment. The crowd of Indians opened up to let him pass, but unfortunately a small tent that stood in the way was not so obliging. Into it he went, head-foremost, like a shell, carried away the corner-post with his shoulder, and brought the whole affair down about his own ears, and those of its inmates, among whom were several children and two or three dogs. It required some time to extricate them all from the ruins, but when this was effected, it was found that no serious damage had been done to life or limb!

Chapter Nine.

Crusoe acts a conspicuous and humane part—A friend gained—A great feast.

When the foot-race was concluded, the three hunters hung about, looking on at the various games for some time, and then strolled towards the lake.

“Ye may be thankful yer neck’s whole,” said Joe, grinning, as Henri rubbed his shoulder with a rueful look. “An’ we’ll have to send that Injun and his family a knife and some beads to make up for the fright they got.”

“Hah! an’ fat is to be give to me for my broke shoulder?”

“Credit, man, credit,” said Dick Varley, laughing.

“Credit! fat is dat?”

“Honour and glory, lad, and the praises of them savages.”

“Ha! de praise? more probeebale de ill-vill of de rascale. I seed dem scowl at me not ver’ pritty.”

“That’s true, Henri, but sich as it is it’s all ye’ll git.”

“I vish,” remarked Henri after a pause—“I vish I could git de vampum belt de leetle chief had on. It vas superb. Fat place do vampums come from?”

“They’re shells—”

“Oui,” interrupted Henri. “I know fat de is. Dey is shells, and de Injuns tink dem goot monish; mais, I ask you fat place de come from.”

“They are thought to be gathered on the shores o’ the Pacific,” said Joe; “the Injuns on the west o’ the Rocky Mountains picks them up and exchanges them wi’ the fellows here-away for horses and skins—so I’m told.”

At this moment there was a wild cry of terror heard a short distance ahead of them. Rushing forward they observed an Indian woman flying frantically down the river’s bank towards the waterfall, a hundred yards above which an object was seen struggling in the water.

“’Tis her child,” cried Joe, as the mother’s frantic cry reached his ear. “It’ll be over the fall in a minute! Run, Dick, you’re quickest.”

They had all started forward at speed, but Dick and Crusoe were far ahead, and abreast of the spot in a few seconds.

“Save it, pup,” cried Dick, pointing to the child, which had been caught in an eddy, and was for a few moments hovering on the edge of the stream that rushed impetuously towards the fall.

The noble Newfoundland did not require to be told what to do. It seems a natural instinct in this sagacious species of dog to save man or beast that chances to be struggling in the water, and many are the authentic stories related of Newfoundland dogs saving life in cases of shipwreck. Indeed, they are regularly trained to the work in some countries, and nobly, fearlessly, disinterestedly, do they discharge their trust, often in the midst of appalling dangers. Crusoe sprang from the bank with such impetus that his broad chest ploughed up the water like the bow of a boat, and the energetic workings of his muscles were indicated by the force of each successive propulsion as he shot ahead.

In a few seconds he reached the child and caught it by the hair. Then he turned to swim back, but the stream had got hold of him. Bravely he struggled, and lifted the child breast-high out of the water in his powerful efforts to stem the current. In vain. Each moment he was carried inch by inch down until he was on the brink of the fall, which, though not high, was a large body of water and fell with a heavy roar. He raised himself high out of the stream with the vigour of his last struggle, and then fell back into the abyss.

By this time the poor mother was in a canoe as close to the fall as she could with safety approach, and the little bark danced like a cockle-shell on the turmoil of waters as she stood with uplifted paddle and staring eyeballs awaiting the rising of the child.

Crusoe came up almost instantly, but alone, for the dash over the fall had wrenched the child from his teeth. He raised himself high up and looked anxiously round for a moment. Then he caught sight of a little hand raised above the boiling flood. In one moment he had the child again by the hair, and, just as the prow of the Indian woman’s canoe touched the shore, he brought the child to land.

Springing towards him, the mother snatched her child from the flood and gazed at its death-like face with eyeballs starting from their sockets; then she laid her cheek on its cold breast and stood like a statue of despair. There was one slight pulsation of the heart and a gentle motion of the hand! The child still lived. Opening up her blanket she laid her little one against her naked, warm bosom, drew the covering close around it, and, sitting down on the bank, wept aloud for joy.

“Come,—come ’way quick,” cried Henri, hurrying off to hide the emotion which he could not crush down.

“Ay, she don’t need our help now,” said Joe, following his comrade.

As for Crusoe, he walked along by his master’s side with his usual quiet, serene look of good-will towards all mankind. Doubtless a feeling of gladness at having saved a human life filled his shaggy breast, for he wagged his tail gently, after each shake of his dripping sides, but his meek eyes were downcast, save when raised to receive the welcome and unusually fervent caress. Crusoe did not know that those three men loved him as though he had been a brother.

On their way back to the village the hunters were met by a little boy, who said that a council was to be held immediately, and their presence was requested.

The council was held in the tent of the principal chief, towards which all the other chiefs and many of the noted braves hurried. Like all Indian councils, it was preceded by smoking the “medicine pipe,” and was followed by speeches from several of the best orators. The substance of the discourse differed little from what has been already related in reference to the treaty between the Pale-faces, and upon the whole it was satisfactory. But Joe Blunt could not fail to notice that Mahtawa maintained sullen silence during the whole course of the meeting.

He observed, also, that there was a considerable change in the tone of the meeting when he informed them that he was bound on a similar errand of peace to several of the other tribes, especially to one or two tribes which were the Pawnees’ bitter enemies at that time. These grasping savages having quite made up their minds that they were to obtain the entire contents of the two bales of goods, were much mortified on hearing that part was to go to other Indian tribes. Some of them even hinted that this would not be allowed, and Joe feared at one time that things were going to take an unfavourable turn. The hair of his scalp, as he afterwards said, “began to lift a little and feel oneasy.” But San-it-sa-rish stood honestly to his word; said that it would be well that the Pale-faces and the Pawnees should be brothers, and hoped that they would not forget the promise of annual presents from the hand of the great chief who lived in the big village near the rising sun.

Having settled this matter amicably, Joe distributed among the Indians the proportion of his goods designed for them, and then they all adjourned to another tent where a great feast was prepared for them.

“Are ye hungry?” inquired Joe of Dick as they walked along.

“Ay, that am I. I feel as if I could eat a buffalo alive. Why, it’s my ’pinion we’ve tasted nothin’ since daybreak this mornin’.”

“Well, I’ve often told ye that them Red-skins think it a disgrace to give in eatin’ till all that’s set before them at a feast is bolted. We’ll ha’ to stretch oursel’s, we will.”

“I’se got a plenty room,” remarked Henri.

“Ye have, but ye’ll wish ye had more in a little.”

“Bien, I not care!”

In a quarter of an hour all the guests invited to this great medicine feast were assembled. No women were admitted. They never are at Indian feasts.

We may remark in passing, that the word “medicine,” as used among the North American Indians, has a very much wider signification than it has with us. It is an almost inexplicable word. When asked, they cannot give a full or satisfactory explanation of it themselves. In the general, we may say that whatever is mysterious is “medicine.” Jugglery and conjuring, of a noisy, mysterious, and, we must add, rather silly nature, is “medicine,” and the juggler is a “medicine-man.” These medicine-men undertake cures, but they are regular charlatans, and know nothing whatever of the diseases they pretend to cure, or their remedies. They carry bags containing sundry relics; these are “medicine bags.” Every brave has his own private medicine bag. Everything that is incomprehensible, or supposed to be supernatural, religious, or medical, is “medicine.” This feast, being an unusual one, in honour of strangers, and in connection with a peculiar and unexpected event, was “medicine.” Even Crusoe, since his gallant conduct in saving the Indian child, was “medicine”; and Dick Varley’s double-barrelled rifle, which had been an object of wonder ever since his arrival at the village, was tremendous “medicine!”

Of course the Indians were arrayed in their best; several wore necklaces of the claws of the grizzly bear, of which they are extremely proud; and a gaudily picturesque group they were. The chief, however, had undergone a transformation that well-nigh upset the gravity of our hunters, and rendered Dick’s efforts to look solemn quite abortive. San-it-sa-rish had once been to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and while there had received the customary gift of a blue surtout with brass buttons, and an ordinary hat, such as gentlemen wear at home. As the coat was a good deal too small for him, a terrible length of dark, bony wrist appeared below the cuffs. The waist was too high, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to button the garment across his broad chest. Being ignorant of the nature of a hat, the worthy savage had allowed the paper and string with which it had been originally covered, to remain on, supposing them to be part and parcel of the hat; and this, together with the high collar of the coat, which gave him a crushed-up appearance, the long black naked legs, and the painted visage, gave to him a tout ensemble which we can compare to nothing, as there was nothing in nature comparable to it.

Those guests who assembled first passed their time in smoking the medicine pipe until the others should arrive; for so long as a single invited guest is absent the feast cannot begin. Dignified silence was maintained while the pipe thus circulated from hand to hand. When the last guest arrived they began.

The men were seated in two rows, face to face. Feasts of this kind usually consist of but one species of food, and on the present occasion it was an enormous cauldron full of maize which had to be devoured. About fifty sat down to eat a quantity of what may be termed thick porridge, that would have been ample allowance for a hundred ordinary men. Before commencing, San-it-sa-rish desired an aged medicine-man to make an oration, which he did fluently and poetically. Its subject was the praise of the giver of the feast. At the end of each period there was a general “Hou! hou!” of assent—equivalent to the hear! hear! of civilised men.

Other orators then followed, all of whom spoke with great ease and fluency, and some in the most impassioned strains, working themselves and their audience up to the highest pitch of excitement, now shouting with frenzied violence till their eyes glared from their sockets, and the veins of their foreheads swelled almost to bursting as they spoke of war and chase—anon breaking into soft modulated and pleasing tones, while they dilated upon the pleasures of peace and hospitality.

After these had finished, a number of wooden bowls full of maize porridge were put down between the guests—one bowl to each couple facing each other. But before commencing, a portion was laid aside and dedicated to their gods, with various mysterious ceremonies; for here, as in other places where the gospel is not known, the poor savages fancied that they could propitiate God with sacrifices. They had never heard of the “sacrifice of a broken spirit and a contrite heart.” This offering being made, the feast began in earnest. Not only was it a rule in this feast that every mouthful should be swallowed by each guest, however unwilling and unable he should be to do so, but he who could dispose of it with greatest speed was deemed the greatest man—at least on that occasion—while the last to conclude his supper was looked upon with some degree of contempt!

It seems strange that such a custom should ever have arisen, and one is not a little puzzled in endeavouring to guess at the origin of it. There is one fact that occurs to us as the probable cause. The Indian is, as we have before hinted, frequently reduced to a state bordering on starvation, and in a day after he may be burdened with superabundance of food. He oftentimes, therefore, eats as much as he can stuff into his body when he is blessed with plenty, so as to be the better able to withstand the attacks of hunger that may possibly be in store for him. The amount that an Indian will thus eat at a single meal is incredible. He seems to have the power of distending himself for the reception of a quantity that would kill a civilised man. Children, in particular, become like tightly inflated little balloons after a feast, and as they wear no clothing, the extraordinary rotundity is very obvious, not to say ridiculous. We conclude, therefore, that unusual powers of gormandising, being useful, come at last to be cultivated as praiseworthy.

By good fortune Dick and Joe Blunt happened to have such enormous gluttons as vis-à-vis, that the portions of their respective bowls which they could not devour were gobbled up for them. By good capacity and digestion, with no small amount of effort, Henri managed to dispose of his own share; but he was last of being done, and fell in the savages’ esteem greatly. The way in which that sticky compost of boiled maize went down was absolutely amazing. The man opposite Dick, in particular, was a human boa-constrictor. He well-nigh suffocated Dick with suppressed laughter. He was a great raw-boned savage, with a throat of indiarubber, and went quickly and quietly on swallowing mass after mass, with the solemn gravity of an owl. It mattered not a straw to him that Dick took comparatively small mouthfuls, and nearly choked on them too for want of liquid to wash them down. Had Dick eaten none at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole. Jack the Giant-Killer’s feats were nothing to his, and when at last the bowl was empty, he stopped short like a machine from which the steam had been suddenly cut off, and laid down his buffalo horn spoon without a sigh.

Dick sighed, though, with relief and gratitude when his bowl was empty.

“I hope I may never have to do it again,” said Joe that night as they wended their way back to the chief’s tent after supper. “I wouldn’t be fit for anything for a week arter it.”

Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted.

Henri groaned. “Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust! Oui,—hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow.”

Many a time that night did Henri “veesh it vas to-morrow,” as he lay helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief’s tent at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe Blunt.

He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade such as few civilised ears ever listen to. This was nothing else than a vocal concert performed by all the dogs of the village, and as they amounted to nearly two thousand, the orchestra was a pretty full one.

These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad. Yet there was “method in their madness,” for they congregated in a crowd before beginning, and sat down on their haunches. Then one, which seemed to be the conductor, raised his snout to the sky, and uttered a long, low, melancholy wail. The others took it up by twos and threes, until the whole pack had their noses pointing to the stars, and their throats distended to the uttermost, while a prolonged yell filled the air. Then it sank gradually, one or two (bad performers probably) making a yelping attempt to get it up again at the wrong time. Again the conductor raised his nose, and out it came—full swing. There was no vociferous barking. It was simple wolfish howling increased in fervour to an electric yell, with slight barks running continuously through it like an obbligato accompaniment.

When Crusoe first heard the unwonted sound he sprang to his feet, bristled up like a hyena, showed all his teeth, and bounded out of the tent blazing with indignation and astonishment. When he found out what it was he returned quite sleek, and with a look of profound contempt on his countenance as he resumed his place by his master’s side and went to sleep.

Chapter Ten.

Perplexities—Our hunters plan their escape—Unexpected interruption—The tables turned—Crusoe mounts guard—The escape.

Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating. We do not mean to assert that Dick had been previously eating grass. By no means. For several days past he had been mentally subsisting on the remarkable things that he heard and saw in the Pawnee village, and wondering how he was to get away without being scalped; he was now chewing the cud of this intellectual fare. We therefore repeat emphatically—in case any reader should have presumed to contradict us—that Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating!

Joe Blunt likewise sat by the fire along with him, ruminating too, and smoking besides. Henri also sat there smoking, and looking a little the worse of his late supper.

“I don’t like the look o’ things,” said Joe, blowing a whiff of smoke slowly from his lips, and watching it as it ascended into the still air. “That blackguard Mahtawa is determined not to let us off till he gits all our goods, an’ if he gits them, he may as well take our scalps too, for we would come poor speed in the prairies without guns, horses, or goods.”

Dick looked at his friend with an expression of concern. “What’s to be done?” said he.

“Ve must escape,” answered Henri; but his tone was not a hopeful one, for he knew the danger of their position better than Dick.

“Ay, we must escape; at least we must try,” said Joe; “but I’ll make one more effort to smooth over San-it-sa-rish, an’ git him to snub that villain Mahtawa.”

Just as he spoke the villain in question entered the tent with a bold, haughty air, and sat down before the fire in sullen silence. For some minutes no one spoke, and Henri, who happened at the time to be examining the locks of Dick’s rifle, continued to inspect them with an appearance of careless indifference that he was far from feeling.

Now, this rifle of Dick’s had become a source of unceasing wonder to the Indians,—wonder which was greatly increased by the fact that no one could discharge it but himself. Dick had, during his short stay at the Pawnee village, amused himself and the savages by exhibiting his marvellous powers with the “silver rifle.” Since it had been won by him at the memorable match in the Mustang Valley, it had scarce ever been out of his hand, so that he had become decidedly the best shot in the settlement, could “bark” squirrels (that is, hit the bark of the branch on which a squirrel happened to be standing, and so kill it by the concussion alone), and could “drive the nail” every shot. The silver rifle, as we have said, became “great medicine” to the Red-men, when they saw it kill at a distance which the few wretched guns they had obtained from the fur-traders could not even send a spent ball to. The double shot, too, filled them with wonder and admiration; but that which they regarded with an almost supernatural feeling of curiosity was the percussion cap, which in Dick’s hands always exploded, but in theirs was utterly useless!

This result was simply owing to the fact, that Dick after firing handed the rifle to the Indians without renewing the cap. So that when they loaded and attempted to fire, of course it merely snapped. When he wished again to fire, he adroitly exchanged the old cap for a new one. He was immensely tickled by the solemn looks of the Indians at this most incomprehensible of all “medicines,” and kept them for some days in ignorance of the true cause, intending to reveal it before he left. But circumstances now arose which banished all trifling thoughts from his mind.

Mahtawa raised his head suddenly, and said, pointing to the silver rifle, “Mahtawa wishes to have the two-shotted medicine gun. He will give his best horse in exchange.”

“Mahtawa is liberal,” answered Joe, “but the pale-faced youth cannot part with it. He has far to travel, and must shoot buffaloes by the way.”

“The pale-faced youth shall have a bow and arrows to shoot the buffalo,” rejoined the Indian.

“He cannot use the bow and arrow,” answered Joe; “he has not been trained like the Red-man.”

Mahtawa was silent for a few seconds, and his dark brows frowned more heavily than ever over his eyes.

“The Pale-faces are too bold,” he exclaimed, working himself into a passion; “they are in the power of Mahtawa. If they will not give the gun he will take it.”

He sprang suddenly to his feet as he spoke, and snatched the rifle from Henri’s hand.

Henri, being ignorant of the language, had not been able to understand the foregoing conversation, although he saw well enough that it was not an agreeable one but no sooner did he find himself thus rudely and unexpectedly deprived of the rifle, than he jumped up, wrenched it in a twinkling from the Indian’s grasp, and hurled him violently out of the tent.

In a moment Mahtawa drew his knife, uttered a savage yell, and sprang on the reckless hunter, who, however, caught his wrist, and held it as if in a vice. The yell brought a dozen warriors instantly to the spot, and before Dick had time to recover from his astonishment, Henri was surrounded and pinioned despite his herculean struggles.

Before Dick could move, Joe Blunt grasped his arm, and whispered quickly, “Don’t rise! You can’t help him! They daren’t kill him till San-it-sa-rish agrees.”

Though much surprised, Dick obeyed, but it required all his efforts, both of voice and hand, to control Crusoe, whose mind was much too honest and straightforward to understand such subtle pieces of diplomacy, and who strove to rush to the rescue of his ill-used friend.

When the tumult had partly subsided, Joe Blunt rose and said— “Have the Pawnee braves turned traitors that they draw the knife against those who have smoked with them the pipe of peace and eaten their maize? The Pale-faces are three; the Pawnees are thousands. If evil has been done, let it be laid before the chief. Mahtawa wishes to have the medicine gun. Although we said No, we could not part with it, he tried to take it by force. Are we to go back to the great chief of the Pale-faces, and say that the Pawnees are thieves? Are the Pale-faces henceforth to tell their children when they steal, ‘That is bad; that is like the Pawnee?’ No! this must not be. The rifle shall be restored, and we will forget this disagreement. Is it not so?”

There was an evident disposition on the part of many of the Indians, with whom Mahtawa was no favourite, to applaud this speech; but the wily chief sprang forward, and, with flashing eye, sought to turn the tables.

“The Pale-face speaks with soft words, but his heart is false. Is he not going to make peace with the enemies of the Pawnee? Is he not going to take goods to them, and make them gifts and promises? The Pale-faces are spies. They come to see the weakness of the Pawnee camp, but they have found that it is strong. Shall we suffer the false-hearts to escape? Shall they live? No! we will hang their scalps in our wigwams, for they have struck a chief and we will keep all their goods for our squaws—wah!”

This allusion to keeping all the goods had more effect on the minds of the vacillating savages than the chiefs eloquence. But a new turn was given to their thoughts by Joe Blunt remarking in a quiet, almost contemptuous tone—

“Mahtawa is not the great chief.”

“True, true,” they cried, and immediately hurried to the tent of San-it-sa-rish.

Once again this chief stood between the hunters and the savages, who wanted but a signal to fall on them. There was a long palaver, which ended in Henri being set at liberty, and the rifle being restored.

That evening, as the three friends sat beside their fire eating their supper of boiled maize and buffalo meat, they laughed and talked as carelessly as ever; but the gaiety was assumed, for they were at the time planning their escape from a tribe which, they foresaw, would not long refrain from carrying out their wishes, and robbing, perhaps murdering them.

“Ye see,” said Joe with a perplexed air, while he drew a piece of live charcoal from the fire with his fingers and lighted his pipe,—“ye see, there’s more difficulties in the way o’ gettin’ off than ye think—”

“Oh! nivare mind de difficulties,” interrupted Henri, whose wrath at the treatment he had received had not yet cooled down. “Ve must jump on de best horses ve can git hold, shake our fist at de red reptiles, and go away fast as ve can. De best hoss must vin de race.”

Joe shook his head. “A hundred arrows would be in our backs before we got twenty yards from the camp. Besides, we can’t tell which are the best horses. Our own are the best in my ’pinion, but how are we to git ’em?”

“I know who has charge o’ them,” said Dick; “I saw them grazing near the tent o’ that poor squaw whose baby was saved by Crusoe. Either her husband looks after them or some neighbours.”

“That’s well,” said Joe. “That’s one o’ my difficulties gone.”

“What are the others?”

“Well, d’ye see, they’re troublesome. We can’t git the horses out o’ camp without bein’ seen, for the red rascals would see what we were at in a jiffy. Then, if we do git ’em out, we can’t go off without our bales, an’ we needn’t think to take ’em from under the nose o’ the chief and his squaws without bein’ axed questions. To go off without them would niver do at all.”

“Joe,” said Dick, earnestly, “I’ve hit on a plan.”

“Have ye, Dick? what is’t?”

“Come and I’ll let ye see,” answered Dick, rising hastily and quitting the tent, followed by his comrades and his faithful dog.

It may be as well to remark here, that no restraint whatever had yet been put on the movements of our hunters as long as they kept to their legs, for it was well-known that any attempt by men on foot to escape from mounted Indians on the plains would be hopeless. Moreover, the savages thought that as long as there was a prospect of their being allowed to depart peaceably with their goods, they would not be so mad as to fly from the camp, and, by so doing, risk their lives and declare war with their entertainers. They had, therefore, been permitted to wander unchecked, as yet, far beyond the outskirts of the camp, and amuse themselves in paddling about the lake in the small Indian canoes and shooting wild-fowl.

Dick now led the way through the labyrinths of tents in the direction of the lake, and they talked and laughed loudly, and whistled to Crusoe as they went, in order to prevent their purpose being suspected. For the purpose of further disarming suspicion they went without their rifles. Dick explained his plan by the way, and it was at once warmly approved of by his comrades.

On reaching the lake they launched a small canoe, into which Crusoe was ordered to jump; then, embarking, they paddled swiftly to the opposite shore, singing a canoe song as they dipped their paddles in the moonlit waters of the lake. Arrived at the other side, they hauled the canoe up and hurried through the thin belt of wood and willows that intervened between the lake and the prairie. Here they paused.

“Is that the bluff, Joe?”

“No, Dick, that’s too near. T’other one’ll be best. Far away to the right. It’s a little one, and there’s others near it. The sharp eyes o’ the Red-skins won’t be so likely to be prowlin’ there.”

“Come on, then; but we’ll have to take down by the lake first.”

In a few minutes the hunters were threading their way through the outskirts of the wood at a rapid trot, in the opposite direction from the bluff, or wooded knoll, which they wished to reach. This they did lest prying eyes should have followed them. In a quarter of an hour they turned at right angles to their track, and struck straight out into the prairie, and after a long run they edged round and came in upon the bluff from behind. It was merely a collection of stunted but thick-growing willows.

Forcing their way into the centre of this they began to examine it.

“It’ll do,” said Joe.

“De very ting,” remarked Henri.

“Come here, Crusoe.”

Crusoe bounded to his master’s side, and looked up in his face.

“Look at this place, pup; smell it well.”

Crusoe instantly set off all round among the willows, in and out, snuffing everywhere, and whining with excitement.

“Come here, good pup; that will do. Now, lads, we’ll go back.” So saying, Dick and his friends left the bluff and retraced their steps to the camp. Before they had gone far, however, Joe halted, and said—

“D’ye know, Dick, I doubt if the pup’s so cliver as ye think. What if he don’t quite onderstand ye?”

Dick replied by taking off his cap and throwing it down, at the same time exclaiming, “Take it yonder, pup,” and pointing with his hand towards the bluff. The dog seized the cap, and went off with it at full speed towards the willows, where it left it, and came galloping back for the expected reward—not now, as in days of old, a bit of meat, but a gentle stroke of its head and a hearty clap on its shaggy side.

“Good pup, go now an’ fetch it.”

Away he went with a bound, and, in a few seconds, came back and deposited the cap at his master’s feet.

“Will that do?” asked Dick, triumphantly.

“Ay, lad, it will. The pup’s worth its weight in goold.”

“Oui, I have said, and I say it agen, de dog is human, so him is. If not—fat am he?”

Without pausing to reply to this perplexing question, Dick stepped forward again, and in half an hour or so they were back in the camp.

“Now for your part of the work, Joe; yonder’s the squaw that owns the half-drowned baby. Everything depends on her.”

Dick pointed to the Indian woman as he spoke. She was sitting beside her tent, and playing at her knee was the identical youngster that had been saved by Crusoe.

“I’ll manage it,” said Joe, and walked towards her, while Dick and Henri returned to the chiefs tent.

“Does the Pawnee woman thank the Great Spirit that her child is saved?” began Joe as he came up.

“She does,” answered the woman, looking up at the hunter. “And her heart is warm to the Pale-faces.”

After a short silence Joe continued—

“The Pawnee chiefs do not love the Pale-faces. Some of them hate them.”

“The Dark Flower knows it,” answered the woman; “she is sorry. She would help the Pale-faces if she could.”

This was uttered in a low tone, and with a meaning glance of the eye.

Joe hesitated again—could he trust her? Yes; the feelings that filled her breast and prompted her words were not those of the Indian just now—they were those of a mother, whose gratitude was too full for utterance.

“Will the Dark Flower,” said Joe, catching the name she had given herself, “help the Pale-face if he opens his heart to her? Will she risk the anger of her nation?”

“She will,” replied the woman; “she will do what she can.”

Joe and his dark friend now dropped their high-sounding style of speech, and spoke for some minutes rapidly in an undertone. It was finally arranged that on a given day, at a certain hour, the woman should take the four horses down the shores of the lake to its lower end, as if she were going for firewood, there cross the creek at the ford, and drive them to the willow-bluff, and guard them till the hunters should arrive.

Having settled this, Joe returned to the tent and informed his comrades of his success.

During the next three days Joe kept the Indians in good-humour by giving them one or two trinkets, and speaking in glowing terms of the riches of the white men, and the readiness with which they would part with them to the savages if they would only make peace.

Meanwhile, during the dark hours of each night, Dick managed to abstract small quantities of goods from their pack, in room of which he stuffed in pieces of leather to keep up the size and appearance. The goods thus taken out he concealed about his person, and went off with a careless swagger to the outskirts of the village, with Crusoe at his heels. Arrived there, he tied the goods in a small piece of deerskin, and gave the bundle to the dog, with the injunction, “Take it yonder, pup.”

Crusoe took it up at once, darted off at full speed with the bundle in his mouth, down the shore of the lake towards the ford of the river, and was soon lost to view. In this way, little by little, the goods were conveyed by the faithful dog to the willow-bluff and left there, while the stuffed pack still remained in safekeeping in the chief’s tent.

Joe did not at first like the idea of thus sneaking off from the camp; and more than once made strong efforts to induce San-it-sa-rish to let him go, but even that chief’s countenance was not so favourable as it had been. It was clear that he could not make up his mind to let slip so good a chance of obtaining guns, powder, and shot, horses and goods, without any trouble; so Joe made up his mind to give them the slip at once.

A dark night was chosen for the attempt, and the Indian woman went off with the horses to the place where firewood for the camp was usually cut. Unfortunately the suspicion of that wily savage Mahtawa had been awakened, and he stuck close to the hunters all day—not knowing what was going on, but feeling convinced that something was brewing which he resolved to watch, without mentioning his suspicions to any one.

“I think that villain’s away at last,” whispered Joe to his comrades; “it’s time to go, lads, the moon won’t be up for an hour. Come along.”

“Have ye got the big powder-horn, Joe?”

“Ay, ay, all right.”

“Stop! stop! my knife, my couteau. Ah! here it be. Now, boy.”

The three set off as usual, strolling carelessly to the outskirts of the camp; then they quickened their pace, and, gaining the lake, pushed off in a small canoe.

At the same moment Mahtawa stepped from the bushes, leaped into another canoe and followed them.

“Hah! he must die,” muttered Henri.

“Not at all,” said Joe, “we’ll manage him without that.”

The chief landed and strode boldly up to them, for he knew well that whatever their purpose might be, they would not venture to use their rifles within sound of the camp at that hour of the night; as for their knives, he could trust to his own active limbs and the woods to escape and give the alarm if need be.

“The Pale-faces hunt very late,” he said with a malicious grin. “Do they love the dark better than the sunshine?”

“Not so,” replied Joe, coolly, “but we love to walk by the light of the moon. It will be up in less than an hour, and we mean to take a long ramble to-night.”

“The Pawnee chief loves to walk by the moon too, he will go with the Pale-faces.”

“Good,” ejaculated Joe. “Come along, then.”

The party immediately set forward, although the savage was a little taken by surprise at the indifferent way in which Joe received his proposal to accompany them. He walked on to the edge of the prairie, however, and then stopped.

“The Pale-faces must go alone,” said he; “Mahtawa will return to his tent.”

Joe replied to this intimation by seizing him suddenly by the throat and choking back the yell that would otherwise have brought the Pawnee warriors rushing to the scene of action in hundreds. Mahtawa’s hand was on the handle of his scalping-knife in a moment, but before he could draw it, his arms were glued to his sides by the bear-like embrace of Henri, while Dick tied a handkerchief quickly yet firmly round his mouth. The whole thing was accomplished in two minutes. After taking his knife and tomahawk away, they loosened their gripe and escorted him swiftly over the prairie.

Mahtawa was perfectly submissive after the first convulsive struggle was over. He knew that the men who walked on each side of him grasping his arms were more than his match singly, so he wisely made no resistance.

Hurrying him to a clump of small trees on the plain which was so far distant from the village that a yell could not be heard, they removed the bandage from Mahtawa’s mouth.

“Must he be kill?” inquired Henri, in a tone of commiseration.

“Not at all” answered Joe, “we’ll tie him to a tree and leave him there.”

“Then he vill be starve to deat’. Oh! dat is more horrobell!”

“He must take his chance o’ that. I’ve no doubt his friends’ll find him in a day or two, an’ he’s game to last for a week or more. But you’ll have to run to the willow-bluff, Dick, and bring a bit of line to tie him. We can’t spare it well; but there’s no help.”

“But there is help,” retorted Dick. “Just order the villain to climb into that tree.”

“Why so, lad?”

“Don’t ask questions, but do what I bid ye.”

The hunter smiled for a moment as he turned to the Indian, and ordered him to climb up a small tree near to which he stood. Mahtawa looked surprised, but there was no alternative. Joe’s authoritative tone brooked no delay, so he sprang into the tree like a monkey.

“Crusoe,” said Dick, “watch him!”

The dog sat quietly down at the foot of the tree, and fixed his eyes on the savage with a glare that spoke unutterable things. At the same time he displayed his full compliment of teeth, and uttered a sound like distant thunder.

Joe almost laughed, and Henri did laugh outright.

“Come along, he’s safe now,” cried Dick, hurrying away in the direction of the willow-bluff, which they soon reached, and found that the faithful squaw had tied their steeds to the bushes, and, moreover, had bundled up their goods into a pack, and strapped it on the back of the pack-horse; but she had not remained with them.

“Bless yer dark face,” ejaculated Joe as he sprang into the saddle and rode out of the clump of bushes. He was followed immediately by the others, and in three minutes they were flying over the plain at full speed.

On gaining the last far-off ridge, that afforded a distant view of the woods skirting the Pawnee camp, they drew up, and Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth, drew a long, shrill whistle.

It reached the willow-bluff like a faint echo. At the same moment the moon arose and more clearly revealed Crusoe’s catalyptic glare at the Indian chief, who, being utterly unarmed, was at the dog’s mercy. The instant the whistle fell on his ear, however, he dropped his eyes, covered his teeth, and, leaping through the bushes, flew over the plains like an arrow. At the same instant Mahtawa, descending from his tree, ran as fast as he could towards the village, uttering the terrible war-whoop when near enough to be heard. No sound sends such a thrill through an Indian camp. Every warrior flew to arms, and vaulted on his steed. So quickly was the alarm given that in less than ten minutes a thousand hoofs were thundering on the plain, and faintly reached the ears of the fugitives.

Joe smiled. “It’ll puzzle them to come up wi’ nags like ours. They’re in prime condition too, lots o’ wind in ’em. If we only keep out o’ badger holes we may laugh at the red varmints.”

Joe’s opinion of Indian horses was correct. In a very few minutes the sound of hoofs died away, but the fugitives did not draw bridle during the remainder of that night, for they knew not how long the pursuit might be continued. By pond, and brook, and bluff they passed, down in the grassy bottoms and over the prairie waves,—nor checked their headlong course till the sun blazed over the level sweep of the eastern plain as if it arose out of the mighty ocean.

Then they sprang from the saddle and hastily set about the preparation of their morning meal.

Chapter Eleven.

Evening meditations and morning reflections—Buffaloes, badgers, antelopes, and accidents—An old bull and the wolves—“Mad-tails”—Henri floored, etcetera.

There is nothing that prepares one so well for the enjoyment of rest, both mental and physical, as a long-protracted period of excitement and anxiety, followed up by bodily fatigue. Excitement alone banishes rest; but, united with severe physical exertion, it prepares for it. At least, courteous reader, this is our experience, and certainly this was the experience of our three hunters as they lay on their backs beneath the branches of a willow bush, and gazed serenely up at the twinkling stars, two days after their escape from the Indian village.

They spoke little; they were too tired for that; also, they were too comfortable. Their respective suppers of fresh antelope steak, shot that day, had just been disposed of; their feet were directed towards the small fire on which the said steaks had been cooked, and which still threw a warm, ruddy glow over the encampment. Their blankets were wrapped comfortably round them, and tucked in as only hunters and mothers know how to tuck them in. Their respective pipes delivered forth, at stated intervals, three richly yellow puffs of smoke, as if a three-gun battery were playing upon the sky from that particular spot of earth. The horses were picketted and hobbled in a rich grassy bottom close by, from which the quiet munch of their equine jaws sounded pleasantly, for it told of healthy appetites, and promised speed on the morrow. The fear of being overtaken during the night was now past, and the faithful Crusoe, by virtue of sight, hearing, and smell, guaranteed them against sudden attack during the hours of slumber. A perfume of wild flowers mingled with the loved odours of the “weed,” and the tinkle of a tiny rivulet fell sweetly on their ears. In short, the “Pale-faces” were supremely happy, and disposed to be thankful for their recent deliverance and their present comforts.

“I wonder what the stars are,” said Dick, languidly taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“Bits o’ fire,” suggested Joe.

“I tink dey are vorlds,” muttered Henri, “an’ have peepels in dem. I have hear men say dat.”

A long silence followed, during which, no doubt, the star-gazers were working out various theories in their own minds.

“Wonder,” said Dick again, “how far off they be.”

“A mile or two, maybe,” said Joe.

Henri was about to laugh sarcastically at this; but, on further consideration, he thought it would be more comfortable not to, so he lay still. In another minute he said—“Joe Blunt, you is ver’ igrant. Don’t you know dat de books say de stars be hondreds, tousands,—oh! milleryons of mile away to here, and dat de is more bigger dan dis vorld?”

Joe snored lightly, and his pipe fell out of his mouth at this point, so the conversation dropped. Presently Dick asked, in a low tone, “I say, Henri, are ye asleep?”

“Oui,” replied Henri, faintly. “Don’t speak, or you vill vaken me.”

“Ah! Crusoe, you’re not asleep, are you, pup?” No need to ask that question. The instantaneous wag of that speaking fail, and the glance of that wakeful eye, as the dog lifted his head and laid his chin on Dick’s arm, showed that he had been listening to every word that was spoken. We cannot say whether he understood it, but beyond all doubt he heard it. Crusoe never presumed to think of going to sleep until his master was as sound as a top; then he ventured to indulge in that light species of slumber which is familiarly known as “sleeping with one eye open.” But, comparatively, as well as figuratively speaking, Crusoe slept usually with one eye and a-half open, and the other half was never very tightly shut.

Gradually Dick’s pipe fell out of his mouth, an event which the dog, with an exercise of instinct almost, if not quite, amounting to reason, regarded as a signal for him to go off. The campfire went slowly out, the stars twinkled down at their reflections in the brook, and a deep breathing of wearied men was the only sound that rose in harmony with the purling stream.

Before the sun rose next morning, and while many of the brighter stars were still struggling for existence with the approaching day, Joe was up and buckling on the saddle-bags, while he shouted to his unwilling companions to rise.

“If it depended on you,” he said, “the Pawnees wouldn’t be long afore they got our scalps. Jump, ye dogs, an’ lend a hand, will ye!”

A snore from Dick and a deep sigh from Henri was the answer to this pathetic appeal. It so happened, however, that Henri’s pipe, in falling from his lips, had emptied the ashes just under his nose, so that the sigh referred to drew a quantity thereof into his throat, and almost choked him. Nothing could have been a more effective awakener. He was up in a moment coughing vociferously. Most men have a tendency to vent ill-humour on some one, and they generally do it on one whom they deem to be worse than themselves. Henri, therefore, instead of growling at Joe for rousing him, scolded Dick for not rising.

“Ha, mauvais dog! bad chien, vill you dare to look to me?”

Crusoe did look with amiable placidity, as though to say, “Howl away, old boy, I won’t budge till Dick does.”

With a mighty effort Giant Sleep was thrown off at last, and the hunters were once more on their journey, cantering lightly over the soft turf.

“Ho! let’s have a run,” cried Dick, unable to repress the feelings aroused by the exhilarating morning air.

“Have a care, boy,” cried Joe, as they stretched out at full gallop. “Keep off the ridge; it’s riddled wi’ badger—Hah! I thought so.”

At that moment Dick’s horse put its foot into a badger hole, and turned completely over, sending its rider through the air in a curve that an East Indian acrobat would have envied. For a few seconds Dick lay flat on his back; then he jumped up and laughed, while his comrades hurried up anxiously to his assistance.

“No bones broke?” inquired Joe.

Dick gave a hysterical gasp. “I—I think not.”

“Let’s have a look. No, nothin’ to speak o’, be good luck. Ye should niver go slap through a badger country like that, boy; always keep i’ the bottoms, where the grass is short. Now then, up ye go. That’s it!”

Dick remounted, though not with quite so elastic a spring as usual, and they pushed forward at a more reasonable pace.

Accidents of this kind are of common occurrence in the prairies. Some horses, however, are so well trained that they look sharp out for these holes, which are generally found to be most numerous on the high and dry grounds. But in spite of all the caution both of man and horse, many ugly falls take place, and sometimes bones are broken.

They had not gone far after this accident, when an antelope leaped from a clump of willows and made for a belt of woodland that lay along the margin of a stream not half a mile off.

“Hurrah!” cried Dick, forgetting his recent fall. “Come along, Crusoe.” And away they went again full tilt, for the horse had not been injured by its somersault.

The antelope which Dick was thus wildly pursuing was of the same species as the one he had shot some time before, namely, the prong-horned antelope. These graceful creatures have long, slender limbs, delicately formed heads, and large, beautiful eyes. The horns are black, and rather short; they have no branches like the antlers of the red-deer, but have a single projection on each horn, near the head, and the extreme points of the horns curve suddenly inwards, forming the hook or prong from which the name of the animal is derived. Their colour is dark yellowish brown. They are so fleet that not one horse in a hundred can overtake them, and their sight and sense of smell are so acute, that it would be next to impossible to kill them, were it not for the inordinate curiosity which we have before referred to. The Indians manage to attract these simple little creatures by merely lying down on their backs and kicking their heels in the air, or by waving any white object on the point of an arrow, while the hunter keeps concealed by lying flat in the grass. By these means a herd of antelopes may be induced to wheel round and round an object in timid, but intense, surprise, gradually approaching until they come near enough to enable the hunter to make sure of his mark. Thus the animals, which of all others ought to be the most difficult to slay, are, in consequence of their insatiable curiosity, more easily shot than any other deer of the plains.

May we not gently suggest to the reader for his or her consideration that there are human antelopes, so to speak, whose case bears a striking resemblance to the prong-horn of the North American prairie?

Dick’s horse was no match for the antelope; neither was Crusoe, so they pulled up shortly and returned to their companions to be laughed at.

“It’s no manner o’ use to wind yer horse, lad, after sich game. They’re not much worth, an’, if I mistake not, we’ll be among the buffalo soon. There’s fresh tracks everywhere, and the herds are scattered now. Ye see, when they keep together in bands o’ thousands ye don’t so often fall in wi’ them. But when they scatters about in twos, an’ threes, an sixes, ye may shoot them every day as much as ye please.”

Several groups of buffalo had already been seen on the horizon; but as a red-deer had been shot in a belt of woodland the day before, they did not pursue them. The red-deer is very much larger than the prong-horned antelope, and is highly esteemed both for its flesh and its skin, which latter becomes almost like chamois leather when dressed. Notwithstanding this supply of food, the hunters could not resist the temptation to give chase to a herd of about nine buffaloes that suddenly came into view as they overtopped an undulation in the plain.

“It’s no use,” cried Dick, “I must go at them!”

Joe himself caught fire from the spirit of his young friend, so calling to Henri to come on and let the pack-horse remain to feed, he dashed away in pursuit. The buffaloes gave one stare of surprise, and then fled as fast as possible. At first it seemed as if such huge, unwieldy carcases could not run very fast; but in a few minutes they managed to get up a pace that put the horses to their mettle. Indeed, at first it seemed as if the hunters did not gain an inch, but by degrees they closed with them, for buffaloes are not long-winded.

On nearing the herd, the three men diverged from each other and selected their animals. Henri, being short-sighted, naturally singled out the largest; and the largest—also naturally,—was a tough old bull. Joe brought down a fat young cow at the first shot, and Dick was equally fortunate. But he well-nigh shot Crusoe, who, just as he was about to fire, rushed in unexpectedly and sprang at the animal’s throat, for which piece of recklessness he was ordered back to watch the pack-horse.

Meanwhile, Henri, by dint of yelling, throwing his arms wildly about, and digging his heels into the sides of his long-legged horse, succeeded in coming close up with the bull, which once or twice turned his clumsy body half round and glared furiously at its pursuer with its small black eyes. Suddenly it stuck out its tail, stopped short, and turned full round. Henri stopped short also. Now, the sticking out of a buffalo’s tail has a peculiar significance which it is well to point out. It serves, in a sense, the same purpose to the hunter that the compass does to the mariner; it points out where to go and what to do. When galloping away in ordinary flight the buffalo carries his tail like ordinary cattle, which indicates that you may push on. When wounded, he lashes it from side to side, or carries it over his back, up in the air; this indicates “Look out! haul off a bit!” But when he carries it stiff and horizontal, with a slight curve in the middle of it, it says plainly, “Keep back, or kill me as quick as you can,” for that is what Indians call the mad-lazy, and is a sign that mischief is brewing.

Henri’s bull displayed the mad-tail just before turning, but he didn’t observe it, and, accordingly, waited for the bull to move and show his shoulder for a favourable shot. But instead of doing this he put his head down, and, foaming with rage, went at him full tilt. The big horse never stirred; it seemed to be petrified. Henri had just time to fire at the monster’s neck, and the next moment was sprawling on his back, with the horse rolling over four or five yards beyond him. It was a most effective tableau. Henri rubbing his shins and grinning with pain, the horse gazing in affright as he rose trembling from the plain, and the buffalo bull looking on half stunned, and, evidently, very much surprised at the result of his charge.

Fortunately, before he could repeat the experiment, Dick galloped up and put a ball through his heart.

Joe and his comrades felt a little ashamed of their exploit on this occasion, for there was no need to have killed three animals; they could not have carried with them more than a small portion of one, and they upbraided themselves several times during the operation of cutting out the tongues and other choice portions of the two victims. As for the bull, he was almost totally useless, so they left him as a gift to the wolves.

Now that they had come among the buffalo, wolves were often seen sneaking about and licking their hungry jaws; but although they approached pretty near to the camp at nights, they did not give the hunters any concern. Even Crusoe became accustomed to them at last, and ceased to notice them. These creatures are very dangerous sometimes, however, and when hard pressed by hunger will even attack man. The day after this hunt the travellers came upon a wounded old buffalo which had evidently escaped from the Indians (for a couple of arrows were sticking in its side), only to fall a prey to his deadly enemies, the white wolves. These savage brutes hang on the skirts of the herds of buffaloes to attack and devour any one that may chance, from old age, or from being wounded, to linger behind the rest. The buffalo is tough and fierce, however, and fights so desperately that although surrounded by fifty or a hundred wolves, he keeps up the unequal combat for several days before he finally succumbs.

The old bull that our travellers discovered had evidently been long engaged with his ferocious adversaries, for his limbs and flesh were torn in shreds in many places, and blood was streaming from his sides. Yet he had fought so gallantly that he had tossed and stamped to death dozens of the enemy. There could not have been fewer than fifty wolves round him; and they had just concluded another of many futile attacks, when the hunters came up, for they were ranged in a circle round their huge adversary—some lying down, some sitting on their haunches to rest, and others sneaking about, lolling out their red tongues, and licking their chops as if impatient to renew the combat. The poor buffalo was nearly spent, and it was clear that a few hours more would see him torn to shreds and his bones picked clean.

“Ugh! de brutes,” ejaculated Henri.

“They don’t seem to mind us a bit,” remarked Dick, as they rode up to within pistol shot.

“It’ll be merciful to give the old fellow a shot,” said Joe. “Them varmits are sure to finish him at last.”

Joe raised his rifle as he spoke, and fired. The old bull gave his last groan and fell, while the wolves, alarmed by the shot, fled in all directions; but they did not run far. They knew well that some portion, at least, of the carcase would fall to their share, so they sat down at various distances all round, to wait as patiently as they might for the hunters to retire. Dick left the scene with a feeling of regret that the villanous wolves should have their feast so much sooner than they expected.

Yet after all, why should we call these wolves villanous? They did nothing wrong—nothing contrary to the laws of their peculiar nature. Nay, if we come to reason upon it, they rank higher in this matter than man, for while the wolf does no violence to the laws of its instincts, man often deliberately silences the voice of conscience, and violates the laws of his own nature. But we will not insist on the term, good reader, if you object strongly to it. We are willing to admit that the wolves are not villanous, but, assuredly, they are unlovable.

In the course of the afternoon the three horsemen reached a small creek, the banks of which were lined with a few stunted shrubs and trees. Having eaten nothing since the night before, they dismounted here to “feed,” as Joe expressed it.

“Cur’ous thing,” remarked Joe, as he struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder-box,—“curious thing that we’re made to need sich a lot o’ grub. If we could only get on like the sarpints, now, wot can breakfast on a rabbit, and then wait a month or two for dinner! Ain’t it cur’ous?”

Dick admitted that it was, and stooped to blow the fire into a blaze.

Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation, and stood speechless, with his mouth open.

“What’s the matter? what is’t?” cried Dick and Joe, seizing their rifles instinctively.

“De—grub—him—be—forgat!”

There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick Varley. “Well, well,” cried he, “we’ve got lots o’ tea an’ sugar, an’ some flour; we can git on wi’ that till we shoot another buffalo, or a-ha!”

Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke. It was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the leaves. This was a matter of little moment, however, for by aiming a little lower he knew that he must hit the body; but Dick had driven the nail too often to aim at its body; he aimed at the bird’s eye and cut its head off.

“Fetch it, Crusoe.”

In three minutes it was at Dick’s feet, and it is not too much to say that in five minutes more it was in the pot.

As this unexpected supply made up for the loss of the meat which Henri had forgotten at their last halting-place, their equanimity was restored, and while the meal was in preparation Dick shouldered his rifle and went into the bush to try for another turkey. He did not get one, however, but he shot a couple of prairie-hens, which are excellent eating. Moreover, he found a large quantity of wild grapes and plums. These were unfortunately not nearly ripe, but Dick resolved to try his hand at a new dish, so he stuffed the breast of his coat full of them.

After the pot was emptied Dick washed it out, and put a little clean water in it. Then he poured some flour in, and stirred it well. While this was heating, he squeezed the sour grapes and plums into what Joe called a “mush,” mixed it with a spoonful of sugar, and emptied it into the pot. He also skimmed a quantity of the fat from the remains of the turkey soup, and added that to the mess, which he stirred with earnest diligence till it boiled down into a sort of thick porridge.

“D’ye think it’ll be good?” asked Joe gravely; “I’ve me doubts of it.”

“We’ll see. Hold the tin dish, Henri.”

“Take care of de fingers. Ha! it looks magnifique—superb!”

The first spoonful produced an expression on Henri’s face that needed not to be interpreted. It was as sour as vinegar.

“Ye’ll ha’ to eat it yerself, Dick, lad,” cried Joe, throwing down his spoon, and spitting out the unsavoury mess.

“Nonsense,” cried Dick, bolting two or three mouthfuls, and trying to look as if he liked it. “Try again; it’s not so bad as you think.”

“Ho—o—o—o—o!” cried Henri, after the second mouthful. “’Tis vinaigre. All de sugare in de pack would not make more sweeter one bite of it.”

Dick was obliged to confess the dish a failure, so it was thrown out after having been offered to Crusoe, who gave it one sniff and turned away in silence. Then they mounted and resumed their journey.

At this place mosquitoes and horse-flies troubled our hunters and their steeds a good deal. The latter—especially were very annoying to the poor horses. They bit them so much that the blood at last came trickling down their sides. They were troubled also, once or twice, by cockchafers and locusts, which annoyed them, not indeed by biting, but by flying blindly against their faces, and often narrowly missed hitting them in the eyes. Once particularly they were so bad, that Henri in his wrath opened his lips to pronounce a malediction on the whole race, when a cockchafer flew straight into his mouth, and, to use his own forcible expression, “nearly knocked him off de hoss.” But these were minor evils, and scarcely cost the hunters a thought.

Chapter Twelve.

Wanderings on the prairie—A war-party—Chased by Indians—A bold leap for life.

For many days the three hunters wandered over the trackless prairie in search of a village of the Sioux Indians, but failed to find one, for the Indians were in the habit of shifting their ground, and following the buffalo. Several times they saw small isolated bands of Indians, but these they carefully avoided, fearing they might turn out to be war-parties, and if they fell into their hands the white men could not expect civil treatment, whatever nation the Indians might belong to.

During the greater portion of this time they met with numerous herds of buffalo and deer, and were well supplied with food, but they had to cook it during the day, being afraid to light a fire at night while Indians were prowling about.

One night they halted near the bed of a stream which was almost dry. They had travelled a day and a night without water, and both men and horses were almost choking, so that when they saw the trees on the horizon which indicated the presence of a stream, they pushed forward with almost frantic haste.

“Hope it’s not dry,” said Joe anxiously as they galloped up to it. “No, there’s water, lads,” and they dashed forward to a pool that had not yet been dried up. They drank long and eagerly before they noticed that the pool was strongly impregnated with salt. Many streams in those parts of the prairies are quite salt, but fortunately this one was not utterly undrinkable, though it was very unpalatable.

“We’ll make it better, lads,” said Joe, digging a deep hole in the sand with his hands, a little below the pool. In a short time the water filtered through, and though not rendered fresh, it was, nevertheless, much improved.

“We may light a fire to-night, d’ye think?” inquired Dick; “we’ve not seed Injuns for some days.”

“Pr’aps ’twould be better not,” said Joe, “but I daresay we’re safe enough.”

A fire was therefore lighted in as sheltered a spot as could be found, and the three friends bivouacked as usual. Towards dawn they were aroused by an angry growl from Crusoe.

“It’s a wolf likely,” said Dick, but all three seized and cocked their rifles nevertheless.

Again Crusoe growled more angrily than before, and springing out of the camp snuffed the breeze anxiously.

“Up, lads; catch the nags! There’s something in the wind, for the dog niver did that afore.”

In a few seconds the horses were saddled and the packs secured.

“Call in the dog,” whispered Joe Blunt; “if he barks they’ll find out our whereabouts.”

“Here, Crusoe, come—”

It was too late; the dog barked loudly and savagely at the moment, and a troop of Indians came coursing over the plain. On hearing the unwonted sound they wheeled directly and made for the camp.

“It’s a war-party; fly, lads; nothin’ ’ll save our scalps now but our horses’ heels,” cried Joe.

In a moment they vaulted into the saddle, and urged their steeds forward at the utmost speed. The savages observed them, and with an exulting yell dashed after them. Feeling that there was now no need of concealment, the three horsemen struck off into the open prairie, intending to depend entirely on the speed and stamina of their horses. As we have before remarked, they were good ones, but the Indians soon proved that they were equally well if not better mounted.

“It’ll be a hard run,” said Joe in a low, muttering tone, and looking furtively over his shoulder. “The varmints are mounted on wild horses, leastways they were wild not long agone. Them chaps can throw the lasso and trip a mustang as well as a Mexican. Mind the badger holes, Dick. Hold in a bit, Henri, yer nag don’t need drivin’—a foot in a hole just now would cost us our scalps. Keep down by the creek, lads.”

“Hah! how dey yell,” said Henri in a savage tone, looking back, and shaking his rifle at them—an act that caused them to yell more fiercely than ever. “Dis old pack-hoss give me moche trobel.”

The pace was now tremendous. Pursuers and pursued rose and sank on the prairie billows as they swept along, till they came to what is termed a “dividing ridge,” which is a cross wave, as it were, which cuts the others in two, thus forming a continuous level. Here they advanced more easily, but the advantage was equally shared with their pursuers, who continued the headlong pursuit with occasional yells, which served to show the fugitives that they at least did not gain ground.

A little to the right of the direction in which they were flying a blue line was seen on the horizon. This indicated the existence of trees to Joe’s practised eyes; and feeling that if the horses broke down they could better make a last manful stand in the wood than on the plain he urged his steed towards it. The savages noticed the movement at once, and uttered a yell of exultation, for they regarded it as an evidence that the fugitives doubted the strength of their horses.

“Ye haven’t got us yet,” muttered Joe, with a sardonic grin. “If they get near us, Dick, keep yer eyes open, an’ look out for yer neck, else they’ll drop a noose over it; they will, afore ye know they’re near, an’ haul ye off like a sack.”

Dick nodded in reply, but did not speak, for at that moment his eye was fixed on a small creek ahead which they must necessarily leap or dash across. It was lined with clumps of scattered shrubbery, and he glanced rapidly for the most suitable place to pass. Joe and Henri did the same, and having diverged a little to the different points chosen, they dashed through the shrubbery, and were hid from each other’s view. On approaching the edge of the stream, Dick found to his consternation that the bank was twenty feet high opposite him, and too wide for any horse to clear. Wheeling aside without checking speed, at the risk of throwing his steed, he rode along the margin of the stream for a few hundred yards until he found a ford—at least such a spot as might be cleared by a bold leap. The temporary check, however, had enabled an Indian to gain so close upon his heels, that his exulting yell sounded close in his ear.

With a vigorous bound his gallant little horse went over. Crusoe could not take it, but he rushed down the one bank and up the other, so that he only lost a few yards. These few yards, however, were sufficient to bring the Indian close upon him as he cleared the stream at full gallop. The savage whirled his lasso swiftly round for a second, and in another moment Crusoe uttered a tremendous roar as he was tripped up violently on the plain.

Dick heard the cry of his faithful dog, and turned quickly round, just in time to see him spring at the horse’s throat, and bring both steed and rider down upon him. Dick’s heart leaped to his throat. Had a thousand savages been rushing on him, he would have flown to the rescue of his favourite; but an unexpected obstacle came in the way. His fiery little steed, excited by the headlong race and the howls of the Indians, had taken the bit in his teeth and was now unmanageable. He tore at the reins like a maniac, and in the height of his frenzy even raised the butt of his rifle with the intent to strike the poor horse to the earth, but his better nature prevailed. He checked the uplifted hand, and with a groan dropped the reins, and sank almost helplessly forward on the saddle, for several of the Indians had left the main body and were pursuing him alone, so that there would have been now no chance of his reaching the place where Crusoe fell, even if he could have turned his horse.

Spiritless, and utterly indifferent to what his fate might be, Dick Varley rode along with his head drooping, and keeping his seat almost mechanically, while the mettlesome little steed flew on over wave and hollow. Gradually he awakened from this state of despair to a sense of danger. Glancing round he observed that the Indians were now far behind him, though still pursuing. He also observed that his companions were galloping miles away on the horizon to the left, and that he had foolishly allowed the savages to get between him and them. The only chance that remained for him was to outride his pursuers, and circle round towards his comrades, and this he hoped to accomplish, for his little horse had now proved itself to be superior to those of the Indians, and there was good running in him still.

Urging him forward, therefore, he soon left the savages still further behind, and feeling confident that they could not now overtake him, he reined up and dismounted. The pursuers quickly drew near, but short though it was, the rest did his horse good. Vaulting into the saddle, he again stretched out, and now skirted along the margin of a wood which seemed to mark the position of a river of considerable size.

At this moment his horse put his foot into a badger hole, and both of them came heavily to the ground. In an instant Dick rose, picked up his gun, and leaped unhurt into the saddle. But on urging his poor horse forward, he found that its shoulder was badly sprained. There was no room for mercy, however,—life and death were in the balance,—so he plied the lash vigorously, and the noble steed warmed into something like a run, when again it stumbled, and fell with a crash on the ground, while the blood burst from its mouth and nostrils. Dick could hear the shout of triumph uttered by his pursuers.

“My poor, poor horse!” he exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, while he stooped and stroked its foam-studded neck.

The dying steed raised his head for a moment, it almost seemed as if to acknowledge the tones of affection, then it sank down with a gurgling groan.

Dick sprang up, for the Indians were now upon him, and bounded like an antelope into the thickest of the shrubbery, which was nowhere thick enough, however, to prevent the Indians following. Still, it sufficiently retarded them to render the chase a more equal one than could have been expected. In a few minutes Dick gained a strip of open ground beyond, and found himself on the bank of a broad river, whose evidently deep waters rushed impetuously along their unobstructed channel. The bank at the spot where he reached it was a sheer precipice of between thirty and forty feet high. Glancing up and down the river he retreated a few paces, turned round and shook his clenched fist at the savages, accompanying the action with a shout of defiance, and then running to the edge of the bank, sprang far out into the boiling flood and sank.

The Indians pulled up on reaching the spot. There was no possibility of galloping down the wood-encumbered banks after the fugitive, but quick as thought each Red-man leaped to the ground, and fitting an arrow to his bow, awaited Dick’s re-appearance with eager gaze.

Young though he was, and unskilled in such wild warfare, Dick knew well enough what sort of reception he would meet with on coming to the surface, so he kept under water as long as he could, and struck out as vigorously as the care of his rifle would permit. At last he rose for a few seconds, and immediately half a dozen arrows whizzed through the air; but most of them fell short; only one passed close to his cheek, and went with a “whip” into the river. He immediately sank again, and the next time he rose to breathe he was far beyond the reach of his Indian enemies.

Chapter Thirteen.

Escape from Indians—A discovery—Alone in the desert.

Dick Varley had spent so much of his boyhood in sporting about among the waters of the rivers and lakes near which he had been reared, and especially during the last two years had spent so much of his leisure time in rolling and diving with his dog Crusoe in the lake of the Mustang Valley, that he had become almost as expert in the water as a south-sea islander; so that when he found himself whirling down the rapid river, as already described, he was more impressed with a feeling of gratitude to God for his escape from the Indians, than anxiety about getting ashore.

He was not altogether blind, or indifferent, to the danger into which he might be hurled if the channel of the river should be found lower down to be broken with rocks, or should a waterfall unexpectedly appear. After floating down a sufficient distance to render pursuit out of the question, he struck in to the bank opposite to that from which he had plunged, and, clambering up to the green sward above, stripped off the greater part of his clothing and hung it on the branches of a bush to dry. Then he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree to consider what course he had best pursue in his present circumstances.

These circumstances were by no means calculated to inspire him with hope or comfort. He was in the midst of an unknown wilderness, hundreds of miles from any white man’s settlement; surrounded by savages; without food or blanket; his companions gone, he knew not whither; perhaps taken and killed by the Indians; his horse dead, and his dog, the most trusty and loving of all his friends, lost to him, probably, for ever! A more veteran heart might have quailed in the midst of such accumulated evils, but Dick Varley possessed a strong, young, and buoyant constitution, which, united with a hopefulness of disposition that almost nothing could overcome, enabled him very quickly to cast aside the gloomy view of his case and turn to its brighter aspects.

He still grasped his good rifle, that was some comfort, and as his eye fell upon it, he turned with anxiety to examine into the condition of his powder-horn and the few things that he had been fortunate enough to carry away with him about his person.

The horn in which western hunters carry their powder is usually that of an ox. It is closed up at the large end with a piece of hard wood fitted tightly into it, and the small end is closed with a wooden peg or stopper. It is, therefore, completely water-tight, and may be for hours immersed without the powder getting wet unless the stopper should chance to be knocked out. Dick found, to his great satisfaction, that the stopper was fast, and the powder perfectly dry. Moreover, he had by good fortune filled it full two days before from the package that contained the general stock of ammunition, so that there were only two or three charges out of it. His percussion caps, however, were completely destroyed, and even though they had not been, it would have mattered little, for he did not possess more than half a dozen. But this was not so great a misfortune as at first it might seem, for he had the spare flint locks and the little screw-driver necessary for fixing and unfixing them stowed away in his shot pouch.

To examine his supply of bullets was his next care, and slowly he counted them out, one by one, to the number of thirty. This was a pretty fair supply, and with careful economy would last him many days. Having relieved his mind on these all-important points, he carefully examined every pouch and corner of his dress to ascertain the exact amount and value of his wealth.

Besides the leather-leggings, moccasins, deerskin hunting shirt, cap, and belt which composed his costume, he had a short heavy hunting-knife, a piece of tinder, a little tin pannikin, which he had been in the habit of carrying at his belt, and a large cake of maple sugar. This last is a species of sugar which is procured by the Indians from the maple-tree. Several cakes of it had been carried off from the Pawnee village, and Dick usually carried one in the breast of his coat. Besides these things, he found that the little Bible, for which his mother had made a small inside breast pocket, was safe. Dick’s heart smote him when he took it out and undid the clasp, for he had not looked at it until that day. It was firmly bound with a brass clasp, so that although the binding and edges of the leaves were soaked, the inside was quite dry. On opening the book to see if it had been damaged, a small paper fell out. Picking it up quickly, he unfolded it, and read, in his mother’s handwriting, “Call upon me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. My son, give me thine heart.”

Dick’s eyes filled with tears while the sound, as it were, of his mother’s voice thus reached him unexpectedly in that lonely wilderness. Like too many whose hearts are young and gay, Dick had regarded religion, if not as a gloomy, at least as not a cheerful thing. But he felt the comfort of these words at that moment, and he resolved seriously to peruse his mother’s parting gift in time to come.

The sun was hot, and a warm breeze gently shook the leaves, so that Dick’s garments were soon dry. A few minutes served to change the locks of his rifle, draw the wet charges, dry out the barrels, and re-load. Then, throwing it across his shoulder, he entered the wood, and walked lightly away. And well he might, poor fellow, for at that moment he felt light enough in person if not in heart. His worldly goods were not such as to oppress him, but the little note had turned his thoughts towards home, and he felt comforted.

Traversing the belt of woodland that marked the course of the river, Dick soon emerged on the wide prairie beyond, and here he paused in some uncertainty as to how he should proceed.

He was too good a backwoodsman, albeit so young, to feel perplexed as to the points of the compass. He knew pretty well what hour it was, so that the sun showed him the general bearings of the country, and he knew that when night came he could correct his course by the pole star. Dick’s knowledge of astronomy was limited; he knew only one star by name, but that one was an inestimable treasure of knowledge. His perplexity was owing to his uncertainty as to the direction in which his companions and their pursuers had gone, for he had made up his mind to follow their trail if possible, and render all the succour his single arm might afford. To desert them, and make for the settlement, he held, would be a faithless and cowardly act.

While they were together Joe Blunt had often talked to him about the route he meant to pursue to the Rocky Mountains, so that, if they had escaped the Indians, he thought there might be some chance of finding them at last. But, to set against this, there was the probability that they had been taken and carried away in a totally different direction, or they might have taken to the river, as he had done, and gone further down without his observing them. Then, again, if they had escaped, they would be sure to return and search the country round for him, so that if he left the spot he might miss them.

“Oh, for my dear pup Crusoe!” he exclaimed aloud in this dilemma; but the faithful ear was shut now, and the deep silence that followed his cry was so oppressive that the young hunter sprang forward at a run over the plain, as if to fly from solitude. He soon became so absorbed, however, in his efforts to find the trail of his companions, that he forgot all other considerations, and ran straight forward for hours together, with his eyes eagerly fixed on the ground. At last he felt so hungry, having tasted no food since supper-time the previous evening, that he halted for the purpose of eating a morsel of maple sugar. A line of bushes in the distance indicated water, so he sped on again, and was soon seated beneath a willow, drinking water from the cool stream. No game was to be found here; but there were several kinds of berries, among which wild grapes and plums grew in abundance. With these and some sugar he made a meal, though not a good one, for the berries were quite green, and intensely sour.

All that day Dick Varley followed up the trail of his companions, which he discovered at a ford in the river. They had crossed, therefore, in safety, though still pursued, so he ran on at a regular trot, and with a little more hope than he had felt during the day. Towards night, however, Dick’s heart sank again, for he came upon innumerable buffalo tracks, among which those of the horses soon became mingled up, so that he lost them altogether. Hoping to find them again more easily by broad daylight, he went to the nearest clump of willows he could find, and encamped for the night.

Remembering the use formerly made of the tall willows, he set to work to construct a covering to protect him from the dew. As he had no blanket or buffalo-skin, he used leaves and grass instead, and found it a better shelter than he had expected, especially when the fire was lighted, and a pannikin of hot sugar and water smoked at his feet; but as no game was to be found, he was again compelled to sup off unripe berries. Before lying down to rest he remembered his resolution, and, pulling out the little Bible, read a portion of it by the fitful blaze of the fire, and felt great comfort in its blessed words. It seemed to him like a friend with whom he could converse in the midst of his loneliness.

The plunge into the river having broken Dick’s pipe and destroyed his tobacco, he now felt the want of that luxury very severely, and, never having wanted it before, he was greatly surprised to find how much he had become enslaved to the habit. It cost him more than an hour’s rest that night, the craving for his wonted pipe.

The sagacious reader will doubtless not fail here to ask himself the question, whether it is wise in man to create in himself an unnatural and totally unnecessary appetite, which may, and often does, entail hours—ay, sometimes months—of exceeding discomfort; but we would not for a moment presume to suggest such a question to him. We have a distinct objection to the ordinary method of what is called “drawing a moral.” It is much better to leave wise men to do this for themselves.

Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding again on sour berries. He was disappointed, however, in finding the tracks of his companions. The ground here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression of a distinct kind was made on it; and, as buffaloes had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly bewildered. He thought it possible that, by running out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued, and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint.

Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district, where he might procure fresh meat; but the further he advanced the worse and more sandy did the district become. For several days he pushed on over this arid waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his misery, he failed at last to find water. For a day and a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his throat so parched that he was almost suffocated. Towards the close of the second day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right. With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld—blessed sight!—a stream of water glancing in the beams of the setting sun.

Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice. It mattered not; exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged head-foremost into the stream.

The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt as brine.

The poor youth’s cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing. Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which he awakened next morning in a raging fever. Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on the arid plain. What mattered it to Dick? He was far away in the shady groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe in the bright blue lake. Now he was in his mother’s cottage, telling her how he had thought of her when far away on the prairie, and what a bright, sweet word it was she had whispered in his ear,—so unexpectedly, too. Anon he was scouring over the plains on horseback, with the savages at his heels; and at such times Dick would spring with almost supernatural strength from the ground, and run madly over the burning plain; but, as if by a species of fascination, he always returned to the salt river, and sank exhausted by its side, or plunged helplessly into its waters.

These sudden immersions usually restored him for a short time to reason, and he would crawl up the bank and gnaw a morsel of the maple sugar; but he could not eat much, for it was in a tough, compact cake, which his jaws had not power to break. All that day and the next night he lay on the banks of the salt stream, or rushed wildly over the plain. It was about noon of the second day after his attack that he crept slowly out of the water, into which he had plunged a few seconds before. His mind was restored, but he felt an indescribable sensation of weakness, that seemed to him to be the approach of death. Creeping towards the place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted beside it, and laid his cheek on the Bible, which had fallen out of his pocket there.

While his eyes were closed in a dreamy sort of half-waking slumber, he felt the rough, hairy coat of an animal brush against his forehead. The idea of being torn to pieces by wolves flashed instantly across his mind, and with a shriek of terror he sprang up,—to be almost overwhelmed by the caresses of his faithful dog.

Yes, there he was, bounding round his master, barking and whining, and giving vent to every possible expression of canine joy.

Chapter Fourteen.

Crusoe’s return and his private adventures among the Indians—Dick at a very low ebb—Crusoe saves him.

The means by which Crusoe managed to escape from his two-legged captors, and rejoin his master, requires separate and special notice.

In the struggle with the fallen horse and Indian, which Dick had seen begun but not concluded, he was almost crushed to death; and the instant the Indian gained his feet, he sent an arrow at his head with savage violence. Crusoe, however, had been so well used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian’s throat, and dragged him down. At the same moment the other Indians came up, and one of them turned aside to the rescue. This man happened to have an old gun, of the cheap sort at that time exchanged for peltries by the fur-traders. With the butt of this he struck Crusoe a blow on the head that sent him sprawling on the grass.

The rest of the savages, as we have seen, continued in pursuit of Dick until he leaped into the river; then they returned, took the saddle and bridle off his dead horse, and rejoined their comrades. Here they held a court-martial on Crusoe, who was now bound, foot and muzzle, with cords. Some were for killing him; others, who admired his noble appearance, immense size, and courage, thought it would be well to carry him to their village and keep him. There was a pretty violent dispute on the subject; but at length it was agreed that they should spare his life in the mean time, and perhaps have a dog-dance round him when they got to their wigwams.

This dance, of which Crusoe was to be the chief, though passive performer, is peculiar to some of the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains, and consists in killing a dog and cutting out its liver, which is afterwards sliced into shreds or strings and hung on a pole about the height of a man’s head. A band of warriors then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth.

But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved in his own mind that he would escape, but the hopelessness of his ever carrying that resolution into effect would have been apparent to any one who could have seen the way in which his muzzle was secured, and his four paws were tied together in a bunch, as he hung suspended across the saddle of one of the savages!

This particular party of Indians who had followed Dick Varley determined not to wait for the return of their comrades who were in pursuit of the other two hunters, but to go straight home, so for several days they galloped away over the prairie. At nights, when they encamped, Crusoe was thrown on the ground like a piece of old lumber, and left to lie there with a mere scrap of food till morning, when he was again thrown across the horse of his captor and carried on. When the village was reached, he was thrown again on the ground, and would certainly have been torn to pieces in five minutes by the Indian curs which came howling round him, had not an old woman come to the rescue and driven them away. With the help of her grandson—a little naked creature, just able to walk, or rather to stagger—she dragged him to her tent, and, undoing the line that fastened his mouth, offered him a bone.

Although lying in a position that was unfavourable for eating purposes, Crusoe opened his jaws and took it. An awful crash was followed by two crunches—and it was gone; and Crusoe looked up in the old squaw’s face with a look that said plainly, “Another of the same, please, and as quick as possible.” The old woman gave him another and then a lump of meat, which latter went down with a gulp—but he coughed after it! and it was well he didn’t choke. After this the squaw left him, and Crusoe spent the remainder of that night gnawing the cords that bound him. So diligent was he that he was free before morning and walked deliberately out of the tent. Then he shook himself, and with a yell that one might have fancied was intended for defiance, he bounded joyfully away, and was soon out of sight.

To a dog with a good appetite which had been on short allowance for several days, the mouthful given to him by the old squaw was a mere nothing. All that day he kept bounding over the plain from bluff to bluff in search of something to eat, but found nothing until dusk, when he pounced suddenly and most unexpectedly on a prairie-hen fast asleep. In one moment its life was gone. In less than a minute its body was gone too—feathers and bones and all—down Crusoe’s ravenous throat.

On the identical spot Crusoe lay down and slept like a top for four hours. At the end of that time he jumped up, bolted a scrap of skin that somehow had been overlooked at supper, and flew straight over the prairie to the spot where he had had the scuffle with the Indian. He came to the edge of the river, took precisely the same leap that his master had done before him, and came out on the other side a good deal higher up than Dick had done, for the dog had no savages to dodge, and was, as we have said before, a powerful swimmer.

It cost him a good deal of running about to find the trail, and it was nearly dark before he resumed his journey; then, putting his keen nose to the ground, he ran step by step over Dick’s track, and at last found him, as we have shown, on the banks of the Salt Creek.

It is quite impossible to describe the intense joy which filled Dick’s heart on again beholding his favourite. Only those who have lost and found such an one can know it. Dick seized him round the neck and hugged him as well as he could, poor fellow, in his feeble arms; then he wept, then he laughed, and then he fainted.

This was a consummation that took Crusoe quite aback! Never having seen his master in such a state before he seemed to think at first that he was playing some trick, for he bounded round him, and barked, and wagged his tail. But as Dick lay quite still and motionless, he went forward with a look of alarm; snuffed him once or twice and whined piteously; then he raised his nose in the air and uttered a long melancholy wail.

The cry seemed to revive Dick, for he moved, and with some difficulty sat up, to the dog’s evident relief. There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe learned an erroneous lesson that day, and was firmly convinced thenceforth that the best cure for a fainting-fit is a melancholy yell. So easy is it for the wisest of dogs as well as men to fall into gross error!

“Crusoe,” said Dick, in a feeble voice, “dear good pup, come here.” He crawled, as he spoke, down to the water’s edge where there was a level patch of dry sand.

“Dig,” said Dick, pointing to the sand.

Crusoe looked at him in surprise, as well he might, for he had never heard the word “dig” in all his life before.

Dick pondered a minute; then a thought struck him. He turned up a little of the sand with his fingers, and, pointing to the hole cried, “Seek him out, pup!”

Ha! Crusoe understood that. Many and many a time had he unhoused rabbits, and squirrels, and other creatures at that word of command, so, without a moment’s delay, he commenced to dig down into the sand, every now, and then stopping for a moment and shoving in his nose, and snuffing interrogatively, as if he fully expected to find a buffalo at the bottom of it. Then he would resume again, one paw after another so fast that you could scarce see them going “hand over hand” as sailors would have called it—while the sand flew out between his hind-legs in a continuous shower. When the sand accumulated so much behind him as to impede his motions he scraped it out of his way, and set to work again with tenfold earnestness. After a good while he paused and looked up at Dick with an “it—won’t—do,—I—fear,—there’s—nothing—here” expression on his face.

“Seek him out, pup!” repeated Dick.

“Oh! very good,” mutely answered the dog, and went at it again, tooth and nail, harder than ever.

In the course of a quarter of an hour there was a deep yawning hole in the sand, into which Dick peered with intense anxiety. The bottom appeared slightly damp. Hope now reanimated Dick Varley, and by various devices he succeeded in getting the dog to scrape away a sort of tunnel from the hole, into which he might roll himself and put down his lips to drink when the water should rise high enough. Impatiently and anxiously he lay watching the moisture slowly accumulate in the bottom of the hole, drop by drop, and while he gazed he fell into a troubled, restless slumber, and dreamed that Crusoe’s return was a dream, and that he was alone again perishing for want of water.

When he awakened the hole was half full of clear water, and Crusoe was lapping it greedily.

“Back, pup!” he shouted, as he crept down to the hole and put his trembling lips to the water. It was brackish, but drinkable, and as Dick drank deeply of it he esteemed it at that moment better than nectar. Here he lay for half an hour alternately drinking and gazing in surprise at his own emaciated visage as reflected in the pool.

The same afternoon Crusoe, in a private hunting excursion of his own, discovered and caught a prairie-hen, which he quietly proceeded to devour on the spot, when Dick, who saw what had occurred, whistled to him.

Obedience was engrained in every fibre of Crusoe’s mental and corporeal being. He did not merely answer at once to the call—he sprang to it, leaving the prairie-hen untasted.

“Fetch it, pup,” cried Dick eagerly as the dog came up.

In a few moments the hen was at his feet. Dick’s circumstances could not brook the delay of cookery; he gashed the bird with his knife and drank the blood, and then gave the flesh to the dog, while he crept to the pool again for another draught. Ah! think not, reader, that although we have treated this subject in a slight vein of pleasantry, because it ended well, that therefore our tale is pure fiction. Not only are Indians glad to satisfy the urgent cravings of hunger with raw flesh, but many civilised men and delicately nurtured, have done the same—ay, and doubtless, will do the same again, as long as enterprising and fearless men shall go forth to dare the dangers of flood and field in the wild places of our wonderful world!

Crusoe had finished his share of the feast before Dick returned from the pool. Then master and dog lay down together side by side and fell into a long, deep, peaceful slumber.

Chapter Fifteen.

Health and happiness return—Incidents of the journey—A buffalo shot—A wild horse “creased”—Dick’s battle with a mustang.

Dick Varley’s fears and troubles, in the meantime, were ended. On the day following he awoke refreshed and happy—so happy and light at heart, as he felt the glow of returning health coursing through his veins, that he fancied he must have dreamed it all. In fact, he was so certain that his muscles were strong that he endeavoured to leap up, but was powerfully convinced of his true condition by the miserable stagger that resulted from the effort.

However, he knew he was recovering, so he rose, and thanking God for his recovery and for the new hope that was raised in his heart, he went down to the pool and drank deeply of its water. Then he returned, and, sitting down beside his dog, opened the Bible and read long—and, for the first time, earnestly—the story of Christ’s love for sinful man. He at last fell asleep over the book, and when he awakened felt so much refreshed in body and mind that he determined to attempt to pursue his journey.

He had not proceeded far when he came upon a colony of prairie-dogs. Upon this occasion he was little inclined to take a humorous view of the vagaries of these curious little creatures, but he shot one, and, as before, ate part of it raw. These creatures are so active that they are difficult to shoot, and even when killed generally fall into their holes and disappear. Crusoe, however, soon unearthed the dead animal on this occasion. That night the travellers came to a stream of fresh water, and Dick killed a turkey, so that he determined to spend a couple of days there to recruit. At the end of that time he again set out, but was able only to advance five miles when he broke down. In fact, it became evident to him that he must have a longer period of absolute repose ere he could hope to continue his journey, but to do so without food was impossible. Fortunately there was plenty of water, as his course lay along the margin of a small stream, and, as the arid piece of prairie was now behind him, he hoped to fall in with birds, or perhaps deer, soon.

While he was plodding heavily and wearily along, pondering these things, he came to the brow of a wave from which he beheld a most magnificent view of green grassy plains, decked with flowers, and rolling out to the horizon, with a stream meandering through it, and clumps of trees scattered everywhere far and wide. It was a glorious sight; but the most glorious object in it to Dick, at that time, was a fat buffalo which stood grazing not a hundred yards off. The wind was blowing towards him, so that the animal did not scent him, and, as he came up very slowly, and it was turned away, it did not see him.

Crusoe would have sprung forward in an instant, but his master’s finger imposed silence and caution. Trembling with eagerness Dick sank flat down in the grass, cocked both barrels of his piece, and, resting it on his left hand with his left elbow on the ground, he waited until the animal should present its side. In a few seconds it moved; Dick’s eye glanced along the barrel, but it trembled—his wonted steadiness of aim was gone. He fired, and the buffalo sprang off in terror. With a groan of despair he fired again,—almost recklessly,—and the buffalo fell! It rose once or twice and stumbled forward a few paces, then it fell again. Meanwhile Dick re-loaded with trembling hand, and advanced to give it another shot, but it was not needful, the buffalo was already dead.

“Now, Crusoe,” said Dick, sitting down on the buffalo’s shoulder and patting his favourite on the head, “we’re all right at last. You and I shall have a jolly time o’t, pup, from this time for’ard.”

Dick paused for breath, and Crusoe wagged his tail and looked as if to say—pshaw! “as if!”

We tell ye what it is, reader, it’s of no use at all to go on writing “as if,” when we tell you what Crusoe said. If there is any language in eyes whatever,—if there is language in a tail; in a cocked ear; in a mobile eyebrow; in the point of a canine nose;—if there is language in any terrestrial thing at all, apart from that which flows from the tongue—then Crusoe spoke! Do we not speak at this moment to you? and if so, then tell me, wherein lies the difference between a written letter and a given sign?

Yes, Crusoe spoke. He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly and emphatically, “That’s my opinion precisely, Dick. You’re the dearest, most beloved, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you are; and whatever’s your opinion is mine, no matter how absurd it may be.”

Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at him and patted him on the head, and called him a “funny dog.” Then he continued his discourse—“Yes, pup, we’ll make our camp here for a long bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain. We’ll make a willow wigwam to sleep in, you and me, jist in yon clump o’ trees, not a stone’s throw to our right, where we’ll have a run o’ pure water beside us, and be near our buffalo at the same time. For, ye see, we’ll need to watch him lest the wolves take a notion to eat him—that’ll be your duty, pup. Then I’ll skin him when I get strong enough, which’ll be in a day or two I hope, and we’ll put one half of the skin below us and t’other half above us i’ the camp, an’ sleep, an’ eat, an’ take it easy for a week or two—won’t we, pup?”

“Hoora-a-a-y!” shouted Crusoe, with a jovial wag of his tail, that no human arm with hat, or cap, or kerchief ever equalled.

Poor Dick Varley! He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking to the dog, but he did not cease to do it, for, although he entered into discourses, the drift of which Crusoe’s limited education did not permit him to follow, he found comfort in hearing the sound of his own voice, and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear in that lonely wilderness.

Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could. He cut out the buffalo’s tongue—a matter of great difficulty to one in his weak state—and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream where the turf was level and green, and decked with wild flowers. Here he resolved to make his camp.

His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the ground. The completing of this exhausted him greatly, but after a rest he resumed his labours. The next thing was to light a fire—a comfort which he had not enjoyed for many weary days. Not that he required it for warmth, for the weather was extremely warm, but he required it to cook with, and the mere sight of a blaze in a dark place is a most heart-cheering thing as every one knows.

When the fire was lighted he filled his pannikin at the brook and put it on to boil, and, cutting several slices of buffalo tongue, he thrust short stakes through them and set them up before the fire to roast. By this time the water was boiling, so he took it off with difficulty, nearly burning his fingers and singeing the tail of his coat in so doing. Into the pannikin he put a lump of maple sugar and stirred it about with a stick, and tasted it. It seemed to him even better than tea or coffee. It was absolutely delicious!

Really one has no notion what he can do if he makes believe very hard. The human mind is a nicely balanced and extremely complex machine, and when thrown a little off the balance can be made to believe almost anything, as we see in the case of some poor monomaniacs, who have fancied that they were made of all sorts of things—glass and porcelain, and suchlike. No wonder then that poor Dick Varley, after so much suffering and hardship, came to regard that pannikin of hot syrup as the most delicious beverage he ever drank.

During all these operations Crusoe sat on his haunches beside him and looked. And you haven’t—no, you haven’t—got the most distant notion of the way in which that dog manoeuvred with his head and face! He opened his eyes wide, and cocked his ears, and turned his head first a little to one side, then a little to the other. After that he turned it a good deal to one side and then a good deal more to the other. Then he brought it straight and raised one eyebrow a little, and then the other a little, and then both together very much. Then, when Dick paused to rest and did nothing, Crusoe looked mild for a moment, and yawned vociferously. Presently Dick moved—up went the ears again and Crusoe came—in military parlance—“to the position of attention!” At last supper was ready and they began.

Dick had purposely kept the dog’s supper back from him, in order that they might eat it in company. And between every bite and sup that Dick took, he gave a bite—but not a sup—to Crusoe. Thus lovingly they ate together; and, when Dick lay that night under the willow branches looking up through them at the stars, with his feet to the fire, and Crusoe close along his side, he thought it the best and sweetest supper he ever ate, and the happiest evening he ever spent—so wonderfully do circumstances modify our notions of felicity!

Two weeks after this “Richard was himself again.” The muscles were springy, and the blood coursed fast and free, as was its wont. Only a slight, and, perhaps, salutary feeling of weakness remained, to remind him that young muscles might again become more helpless than those of an aged man or a child.

Dick had left his encampment a week ago, and was now advancing by rapid stages towards the Rocky Mountains, closely following the trail of his lost comrades, which he had no difficulty in finding and keeping, now that Crusoe was with him. The skin of the buffalo that he had killed was now strapped to his shoulders, and the skin of another animal that he had shot a few days after was cut up into a long line and slung in a coil round his neck. Crusoe was also laden. He had a little bundle of meat slung on each side of him.

For some time past numerous herds of mustangs or wild horses, had crossed their path, and Dick was now on the look out for a chance to crease one of those magnificent creatures.

On one occasion a band of mustangs galloped close up to him before they were aware of his presence, and stopped short with a wild snort of surprise on beholding him; then, wheeling round, they dashed away at full gallop, their long tails and manes flying wildly in the air, and their hoofs thundering on the plain. Dick did not attempt to crease one upon this occasion, fearing that his recent illness might have rendered his hand too unsteady for so extremely delicate an operation.

In order to crease a wild horse the hunter requires to be a perfect shot, and it is not every man of the west who carries a rifle that can do it successfully. Creasing consists in sending a bullet through the gristle of the mustang’s neck, just above the bone, so as to stun the animal. If the ball enters a hair’s-breadth too low, the horse falls dead instantly. If it hits the exact spot the horse falls as instantaneously, and dead to all appearance; but, in reality, he is only stunned, and if left for a few minutes will rise and gallop away nearly as well as ever. When hunters crease a horse successfully they put a rope, or halter, round his under jaw, and hobbles round his feet, so that when he rises he is secured, and, after considerable trouble, reduced to obedience.

The mustangs which roam in wild freedom on the prairies of the far west, are descended from the noble Spanish steeds that were brought over by the wealthy cavaliers who accompanied Fernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, in his expedition to the new world in 1518. These bold, and, we may add, lawless cavaliers, were mounted on the finest horses that could be procured from Barbary and the deserts of the Old World. The poor Indians of the New World were struck with amazement and terror at these awful beings, for, never having seen horses before, they believed that horse and rider were one animal. During the wars that followed many of the Spaniards were killed and their steeds bounded into the wilds of the new country to enjoy a life of unrestrained freedom. These were the forefathers of the present race of magnificent creatures which are found in immense droves all over the western wilderness, from the Gulf of Mexico to the confines of the snowy regions of the far north.

At first the Indians beheld these horses with awe and terror, but gradually they became accustomed to them, and finally succeeded in capturing great numbers and reducing them to a state of servitude. Not, however, to the service of the cultivated field, but to the service of the chase and war. The savages soon acquired the method of capturing wild horses by means of the lasso—as the noose at that end of a long line of raw hide is termed—which they adroitly threw over the heads of the animals and secured them, having previously run them down. At the present day many of the savage tribes of the west almost live upon horseback, and without these useful creatures they could scarcely subsist, as they are almost indispensable in the chase of the buffalo.

Mustangs are regularly taken by the Indians to the settlements of the white men for trade, but very poor specimens are these of the breed of wild horses. This arises from two causes. First, the Indian cannot overtake the finest of a drove of wild mustangs, because his own steed is inferior to the best among the wild ones, besides being weighted with a rider, so that only the weak and inferior animals are captured. And, secondly, when the Indian does succeed in lassoing a first-rate horse he keeps it for his own use. Thus, those who have not visited the far-off prairies and seen the mustang in all the glory of untrammelled freedom, can form no adequate idea of its beauty, fleetness, and strength.

The horse, however, was not the only creature imported by Cortez. There were priests in his army who rode upon asses, and, although we cannot imagine that the “fathers” charged with the cavaliers and were unhorsed, or, rather, un-assed in battle, yet, somehow, the asses got rid of their riders and joined the Spanish chargers in their joyous bound into a new life of freedom. Hence wild asses also are found in the western prairies. But think not, reader, of those poor miserable wretches we see at home, which seem little better than rough door-mats sewed up and stuffed; with head, tail, and legs attached, and just enough of life infused to make them move! No, the wild ass of the prairie is a large, powerful, swift creature. He has the same long ears, it is true, and the same hideous, exasperating bray, and the same tendency to flourish his heels; but, for all that he is a very fine animal, and often wages successful warfare with the wild horse!

But to return. The next drove of mustangs that Dick and Crusoe saw were feeding quietly and unsuspectingly in a rich green hollow in the plain. Dick’s heart leaped up as his eyes suddenly fell on them, for he had almost discovered himself before he was aware of their presence.

“Down, pup!” he whispered, as he sank and disappeared among the grass which was just long enough to cover him when lying quite flat.

Crusoe crouched immediately, and his master made his observations of the drove, and the dispositions of the ground that might favour his approach, for they were not within rifle range. Having done so he crept slowly back until the undulation of the prairie hid him from view; then he sprang to his feet, and ran a considerable distance along the bottom until he gained the extreme end of a belt of low bushes, which would effectually conceal him while he approached to within a hundred yards or less of the troop.

Here he made his arrangements. Throwing down his buffalo robe, he took the coil of line and cut off a piece of about three yards in length. On this he made a running noose. The longer line he also prepared with a running noose. These he threw in a coil over his arm.

He also made a pair of hobbles and placed them in the breast of his coat, and then, taking up his rifle, advanced cautiously through the bushes—Crusoe following close behind him. In a few minutes he was gazing in admiration at the mustangs which were now within easy shot, and utterly ignorant of the presence of man, for Dick had taken care to approach in such a way that the wind did not carry the scent of him in their direction.

And well might he admire them. The wild horse of these regions is not very large, but it is exceedingly powerful, with prominent eye, sharp nose, distended nostril, small feet, and a delicate leg. Their beautiful manes hung at great length down their arched necks, and their thick tails swept the ground. One magnificent fellow in particular attracted Dick’s attention. It was of a rich dark brown colour, with black mane and tail, and seemed to be the leader of the drove.

Although not the nearest to him, he resolved to crease this horse. It is said that creasing generally destroys or damages the spirit of the horse, so Dick determined to try whether his powers of close shooting would not serve him on this occasion. Going down on one knee he aimed at the creature’s neck, just a hair-breadth above the spot where he had been told that hunters usually hit them, and fired. The effect upon the group was absolutely tremendous. With wild cries and snorting terror they tossed their proud heads in the air, uncertain for one moment in which direction to fly; then there was a rush as if a hurricane swept over the place, and they were gone.

But the brown horse was down. Dick did not wait until the others had fled. He dropped his rifle, and with the speed of a deer, sprang towards the fallen horse, and affixed the hobbles to his legs. His aim had been true. Although scarcely half a minute elapsed between the shot and the fixing of the hobbles the animal recovered, and with a frantic exertion rose on his haunches, just as Dick had fastened the noose of the short line in his under jaw. But this was not enough. If the horse had gained his feet before the longer line was placed round his neck, he would have escaped. As the mustang made the second violent plunge that placed it on its legs, Dick flung the noose hastily; it caught on one ear, and would have fallen off, had not the horse suddenly shaken its head, and unwittingly sealed its own fate by bringing the noose round its neck.

And now the struggle began. Dick knew well enough, from hearsay, the method of “breaking down” a wild horse. He knew that the Indians choke them with the noose round the neck until they fall down exhausted and covered with foam, when they creep up, fix the hobbles and the line in the lower jaw, and then loosen the lasso to let the horse breathe, and resume its plungings till it is almost subdued, when they gradually draw near and breathe into its nostrils. But the violence and strength of this animal rendered this an apparently hopeless task. We have already seen that the hobbles and noose in the lower jaw had been fixed, so that Dick had nothing now to do but to choke his captive, and tire him out, while Crusoe remained a quiet, though excited spectator of the scene.

But there seemed to be no possibility of choking this horse. Either the muscles of his neck were too strong, or there was something wrong with the noose which prevented it from acting, for the furious creature dashed and bounded backwards and sidewise in its terror for nearly an hour, dragging Dick after it, till he was almost exhausted, and yet, at the end of that time, although flecked with foam and panting with terror, it seemed as strong as ever. Dick held both lines, for the short one attached to its lower jaw gave him great power over it. At last he thought of seeking assistance from his dog.

“Crusoe,” he cried, “lay hold, pup.”

The dog seized the long line in his teeth, and pulled with all his might. At the some moment Dick let go the short line and threw all his weight upon the long one. The noose tightened suddenly under this strain, and the mustang, with a gasp, fell choking to the ground.

Dick had often heard of the manner in which the Mexicans “break” their horses, so he determined to abandon the method which had already almost worn him out, and adopt the other, as far as the means in his power rendered it possible. Instead, therefore, of loosening the lasso and re-commencing the struggle, he tore a branch from a neighbouring bush, cut the hobbles, strode with his legs across the fallen steed, seized the end of the short line or bridle, and then, ordering Crusoe to quit his hold, he loosened the noose which compressed the horse’s neck, and had already well-nigh terminated its existence.

One or two deep sobs restored it, and in a moment it leaped to its feet with Dick firmly on its back! To say that the animal leaped and kicked in its frantic efforts to throw this intolerable burden would be a tame manner of expressing what took place. Words cannot adequately describe the scene. It reared, plunged, shrieked, vaulted into the air, stood straight up on its hind-legs, and then almost as straight upon its fore ones, but its rider held on like a burr. Then the mustang raced wildly forwards a few paces, then as wildly back, and then stood still and trembled violently. But this was only a brief lull in the storm, so Dick saw that the time was now come to assert the superiority of his race.

“Stay back, Crusoe, and watch my rifle, pup,” he cried, and, raising his heavy switch he brought it down with a sharp cut across the horse’s flank, at the same time loosening the rein which hitherto he had held tight.

The wild horse uttered a passionate cry, and sprang forward like the bolt from a cross-bow.

And now commenced a race, which, if not as prolonged, was at least as furious as that of the far-famed Mazeppa. Dick was a splendid rider, however,—at least as far as “sticking on” goes. He might not have come up to the precise pitch desiderated by a riding-master in regard to carriage, etcetera, but he rode that wild horse of the prairie with as much ease as he had formerly ridden his own good steed, whose bones had been picked by the wolves not long ago.

The pace was tremendous, for the youth’s weight was nothing to that muscular frame which bounded with cat-like agility from wave to wave of the undulating plain in ungovernable terror. In a few minutes the clump of willows where Crusoe and his rifle lay were out of sight behind, but it mattered not, for Dick had looked up at the sky and noted the position of the sun at the moment of starting. Away they went on the wings of the wind, mile after mile over the ocean-like waste—curving slightly aside now and then to avoid the bluffs that occasionally appeared on the scene for a few minutes and then swept out of sight behind them. Then they came to a little rivulet; it was a mere brook of a few feet wide, and two or three yards, perhaps, from bank to bank. Over this they flew, so easily that the spring was scarcely felt, and continued the headlong course. And now a more barren country was around them. Sandy ridges and scrubby grass appeared everywhere, reminding Dick of the place where he had been so ill. Rocks, too were scattered about, and at one place the horse dashed with clattering hoofs between a couple of rocky sand-hills which, for a few seconds, hid the prairie from view. Here the mustang suddenly shied with such violence that his rider was nearly thrown, while a rattlesnake darted from the path. Soon they emerged from this pass, and again the plains became green and verdant. Presently a distant line of trees showed that they were approaching water, and in a few minutes they were close on it. For the first time Dick felt alarm; he sought to check his steed, but no force he could exert had the smallest influence on it.

Trees and bushes flew past in bewildering confusion; the river was before him; what width, he could not tell, but he was reckless now, like his charger, which he struck with the willow rod with all his force as they came up. One tremendous bound, and they were across, but Dick had to lie flat on the mustang’s back as it crashed through the bushes to avoid being scraped off by the trees. Again they were on the open plain, and the wild horse began to show signs of exhaustion.

Now was its rider’s opportunity to assert his dominion. He plied the willow rod and urged the panting horse on, until it was white with foam and laboured a little in its gait. Then Dick gently drew the halter, and it broke into a trot; still tighter—and it walked—and in another minute stood still, trembling in every limb. Dick now quietly rubbed its neck, and spoke to it in soothing tones, then he wheeled it gently round and urged it forward. It was quite subdued and docile. In a little time they came to the river and forded it, after which they went through the belt of woodland at a walk. By the time they reached the open prairie, the mustang was recovered sufficiently to feel its spirit returning, so Dick gave it a gentle touch with the switch, and away they went on their return journey.

But it amazed Dick not a little to find how long that journey was. Very different was the pace, too, from the previous mad gallop, and often would the poor horse have stopped had Dick allowed him. But this might not be. The shades of night were approaching, and the camp lay a long way ahead.

At last it was reached, and Crusoe came out with great demonstrations of joy, but was sent back lest he should alarm the horse. Then Dick jumped off his back, stroked his head, put his cheek close to his mouth, and whispered softly to him, after which he fastened him to a tree and rubbed him down slightly with a bunch of grass. Having done this, he left him to graze as far as his tether would permit, and, after supping with Crusoe, lay down to rest, not a little elated with his success in this first attempt at “creasing” and “breaking” a mustang.

Chapter Sixteen.

Dick becomes a horse tamer—Resumes his journey—Charlie’s doings—Misfortunes which lead to, but do not terminate in, the Rocky Mountains—A grizzly bear.

There is a proverb—or a saying—or at least somebody or book has told us, that some Irishman once said—“Be aisy, or, if ye can’t be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.”

Now, we count that good advice, and strongly recommend it to all and sundry. Had we been at the side of Dick Varley on the night after his taming of the wild horse, we would have strongly urged that advice upon him. Whether he would have listened to it or not is quite another question—we rather think not. Reader, if you wish to know why, go and do what he did, and if you feel no curious sensations about the region of the loins after it, we will tell you why Dick Varley wouldn’t have listened to that advice. Can a man feel as if his joints were wrenched out of their sockets, and listen to advice—be that advice good or bad? Can he feel as though these joints were trying to re-set and re-dislocate themselves perpetually—and listen to advice? Can he feel as if he were sitting down on red-hot iron, when he’s not sitting down at all—and listen to advice? Can he—but no! why pursue the subject? Poor Dick spent that night in misery, and the greater part of the following day in sleep, to make up for it.

When he got up to breakfast in the afternoon, he felt much better, but shaky.

“Now, pup,” he said, stretching himself, “we’ll go and see our horse. Ours, pup; yours and mine: didn’t you help to catch him, eh! pup?”

Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag, and a playful “bow-wow-wow-oo-ow!” and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketted. It was standing there quite quiet, but looking a little timid.

Dick went boldly up to it, and patted its head and stroked its nose, for nothing is so likely to alarm either a tame or a wild horse as any appearance of timidity or hesitation on the part of those who approach them.

After treating it thus for a short time, he stroked down its neck, and then its shoulders—the horse eyeing him all the time nervously. Gradually he stroked its back and limbs gently, and walked quietly round and round it once or twice, sometimes approaching and sometimes going away, but never either hesitating or doing anything abruptly. This done, he went down to the stream and filled his cap with water and carried it to the horse, which snuffed suspiciously and backed a little, so he laid the cap down, and went up and patted him again. Presently he took up the cap and carried it to his nose; the poor creature was almost choking with thirst, so that, the moment he understood what was in the cap, he buried his lips in it and sucked it up.

This was a great point gained, he had accepted a benefit at the hands of his new master; he had become a debtor to man, and no doubt he felt the obligation. Dick filled the cap, and the horse emptied it again, and again, and again, until its burning thirst was slaked. Then Dick went up to his shoulder, patted him, undid the line that fastened him, and vaulted lightly on his back!

We say lightly, for it was so, but it wasn’t easily, as Dick could have told you! However, he was determined not to forego the training of his steed on account of what he would have called a “little bit pain.”

At this unexpected act the horse plunged and reared a good deal, and seemed inclined to go through the performance of the day before over again, but Dick patted and stroked him into quiescence, and having done so, urged him into a gallop over the plains, causing the dog to gambol round in order that he might get accustomed to him. This tried his nerves a good deal, and no wonder, for if he took Crusoe for a wolf, which no doubt he did, he must have thought him a very giant of the pack.

By degrees they broke into a furious gallop, and after breathing him well, Dick returned and tied him to the tree. Then he rubbed him down again, and gave him another drink. This time the horse smelt his new master all over, and Dick felt that he had conquered him by kindness. No doubt the tremendous run of the day before could scarcely be called kindness, but without this subduing run he never could have brought the offices of kindness to bear on so wild a steed.

During all these operations Crusoe sat looking on with demure sagacity—drinking in wisdom and taking notes. We know not whether any notes made by the canine race have ever been given to the world, but certain are we that, if the notes and observations made by Crusoe on that journey were published, they would—to say the least—surprise us!

Next day Dick gave the wild horse his second lesson, and his name. He called him “Charlie,” after a much loved companion in the Mustang Valley. And long and heartily did Dick Varley laugh as he told the horse his future designation in the presence of Crusoe, for it struck him as somewhat ludicrous that a mustang, which, two days ago, pawed the earth in all the pride of independent freedom, should suddenly come down so low as to carry a hunter on his back and be named Charlie!

The next piece of instruction began by Crusoe being led up under Charlie’s nose, and while Dick patted the dog with his right hand he patted the horse with his left. It backed a good deal at first and snorted, but Crusoe walked slowly and quietly in front of him several times, each time coming nearer, until he again stood under his nose, then the horse smelt him nervously, and gave a sigh of relief when he found that Crusoe paid no attention to him whatever. Dick then ordered the dog to lie down at Charlie’s feet, and went to the camp to fetch his rifle, and buffalo robe, and pack of meat. These and all the other things belonging to him were presented for inspection, one by one, to the horse, who arched his neck, and put forward his ears, and eyed them at first, but smelt them all over, and seemed to feel more easy in his mind.

Next, the buffalo robe was rubbed over his nose, then over his eyes and head, then down his neck and shoulder, and lastly was placed on his back. Then it was taken off and flung on; after that it was strapped on, and the various little items of the camp were attached to it. This done, Dick took up his rifle and let him smell it; then he put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, vaulted on to his back, and rode away.

Charlie’s education was completed; and now our hero’s journey began again in earnest, and with some prospect of its speedy termination.

In this course of training through which Dick put his wild horse, he had been at much greater pains and had taken far longer time than is usually the case among the Indians, who will catch, and “break,” and ride a wild horse into camp in less than three hours. But Dick wanted to do the thing well, which the Indians are not careful to do; besides, it must be borne in remembrance that this was his first attempt, and that his horse was one of the best and most high spirited, while those caught by the Indians, as we have said, are generally the poorest of a drove.

Dick now followed the trail of his lost companions at a rapid pace, yet not so rapidly as he might have done; being averse to exhausting his good dog and his new companion. Each night he encamped under the shade of a tree or a bush when he could find one, or in the open prairie when there were none, and, picketting his horse to a short stake or pin which he carried with him for the purpose, lit his fire, had supper, and lay down to rest. In a few days Charlie became so tame and so accustomed to his master’s voice that he seemed quite reconciled to his new life. There can be no doubt whatever that he had a great dislike to solitude, for on one occasion, when Dick and Crusoe went off a mile or so from the camp where Charlie was tied, and disappeared from his view, he was heard to neigh so loudly that Dick ran back thinking the wolves must have attacked him. He was all right, however, and exhibited evident tokens of satisfaction when they returned.

On another occasion his fear of being left alone was more clearly demonstrated.

Dick had been unable to find wood or water that day, so he was obliged to encamp upon the open plain. The want of water was not seriously felt, however, for he had prepared a bladder in which he always carried enough to give him one pannikin of hot syrup, and leave a mouthful for Crusoe and Charlie. Dried buffalo dung formed a substitute for fuel. Spreading his buffalo robe, he lit his fire, put on his pannikin to boil, and stuck up a piece of meat to roast, to the great delight of Crusoe, who sat looking on with much interest.

Suddenly Charlie, who was picketted a few hundred yards off in a grassy spot, broke his halter close by the head-piece, and with a snort of delight bounded away, prancing and kicking up his heels!

Dick heaved a deep sigh, for he felt sure that his horse was gone. However, in a little Charlie stopped, and raised his nose high in the air, as if to look for his old equine companions. But they were gone; no answering neigh replied to his; and he felt, probably for the first time, that he was really alone in the world. Having no power of smell, whereby he might have traced them out as the dog would have done, he looked in a bewildered and excited state all round the horizon. Then his eye fell on Dick and Crusoe sitting by their little fire. Charlie looked hard at them, and then again at the horizon; and then, coming to the conclusion, no doubt, that the matter was quite beyond his comprehension, he quietly took to feeding.

Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed.

Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand; so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again. But it was of no use; he was evidently coquetting with them, and dodged about and defied their utmost efforts, for there was only a few inches of line hanging to his head. At last it occurred to Dick that he would try the experiment of forsaking him. So he packed up his things, rolled up the buffalo robe, threw it and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked deliberately away.

“Come along, Crusoe!” he cried, after walking a few paces.

But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, “Hello, man! what’s wrong? You’ve forgot Charlie! Hold on! Are you mad?”

“Come here, Crusoe!” cried his master in a decided tone.

Crusoe obeyed at once. Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master; but he perpetually turned his head as he went, first on this side and then on that, to look and wonder at Charlie.

When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong. He trotted to the brow of a slope with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and, seeing that everything was gone, he began to neigh violently, and at last started off at full speed, and overtook his friends, passing within a few feet of them, and wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf.

Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith.

After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse.

At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross, which marked the head of a grave. There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been young or old when he fell?—had he a mother in the distant settlement, who watched, and longed, and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes?—had he been murdered, or had he died there and been buried by his sorrowing comrades? These and a thousand questions passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross.

Suddenly he started. “Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?” For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old, and that the wooden cross had stood over it for years.

Dick turned away with a saddened heart; and that night, as he pored over the pages of his Bible, his mind was filled with many thoughts about eternity and the world to come. He, too, must come to the grave one day, and quit the beautiful prairies and his loved rifle. It was a sad thought; but while he meditated he thought upon his mother. “After all,” he murmured, “there must be happiness without the rifle, and youth, and health, and the prairie! My mother’s happy, yet she don’t shoot, or ride like wildfire over the plains.” Then that word which had been sent so sweetly to him through her hand came again to his mind, “My son, give me thine heart;” and as he read God’s book, he met with the word, “Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart.”

“The desire of thine heart.” Dick repeated this, and pondered it till he fell asleep.

A misfortune soon after this befell Dick Varley, which well-nigh caused him to give way to despair. For some time past he had been approaching the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains—those ragged, jagged, mighty hills, which run through the whole continent from north to south in a continuous chain, and form, as it were, the backbone of America. One morning, as he threw the buffalo robe off his shoulders and sat up, he was horrified to find the whole earth covered with a mantle of snow. We say he was horrified, for this rendered it absolutely impossible any further to trace his companions either by scent or sight.

For some time he sat musing bitterly on his sad fate, while his dog came and laid his head sympathisingly on his arm.

“Ah! pup,” he said, “I know ye’d help me if ye could! But it’s all up now; there’s no chance of findin’ them—none.”

To this Crusoe replied by a low whine. He knew full well that something distressed his master, but he hadn’t yet ascertained what it was. As something had to be done, Dick put the buffalo robe on his steed, and, mounting, said, as he was in the habit of doing each morning, “Lead on, pup.”

Crusoe put his nose to the ground and ran forward a few paces, then he returned and ran about snuffing and scraping up the snow. At last he looked up, and uttered a long melancholy howl.

“Ah! I knowed it,” said Dick, pushing forward. “Come on, pup, you’ll have to follow now. Any way we must go on.”

The snow that had fallen was not deep enough to offer the slightest obstruction to their advance. It was, indeed, only one of those occasional showers common to that part of the country in the late autumn, which season had now crept upon Dick almost before he was aware of it, and he fully expected that it would melt away in a few days. In this hope he kept steadily advancing, until he found himself in the midst of those rocky fastnesses which divide the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific Ocean. Still the slight crust of snow lay on the ground, and he had no means of knowing whether he was going in the right direction or not.

Game was abundant, and there was no lack of wood now, so that his night bivouac was not so cold or dreary as might have been expected.

Travelling, however, had become difficult, and even dangerous, owing to the rugged nature of the ground over which he proceeded. The scenery had completely changed in its character. Dick no longer coursed over the free, open plains, but he passed through beautiful valleys filled with luxuriant trees, and hemmed in by stupendous mountains, whose rugged sides rose upward until the snow-clad peaks pierced the clouds.

There was something awful in these dark solitudes, quite overwhelming to a youth of Dick’s temperament; his heart began to sink lower and lower every day, and the utter impossibility of making up his mind what to do became at length agonising. To have turned and gone back the hundreds of miles over which he had travelled would have caused him some anxiety under any circumstances, but to do so while Joe and Henri were either wandering about there or in the power of the savages, was, he felt, out of the question. Yet, in which way should he go? Whatever course he took might lead him further and further away from them.

In this dilemma he came to the determination of remaining where he was, at least until the snow should leave the ground.

He felt great relief even when this hopeless course was decided upon, and set about making himself an encampment with some degree of cheerfulness. When he had completed this task, he took his rifle, and leaving Charlie picketted in the centre of a dell, where the long, rich grass rose high above the snow, went off to hunt.

On turning a rocky point his heart suddenly bounded into his throat, for there, not thirty yards distant, stood a huge grizzly bear!

Yes, there he was at last, the monster to meet which the young hunter had so often longed,—the terrible size and fierceness of which he had heard so often spoken about by the old hunters. There it stood at last; but little did Dick Varley think that the first time he should meet with his foe should be when alone in the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, and with none to succour him in the event of the battle going against him. Yes! there was one. The faithful Crusoe stood by his side, with his hair bristling, all his formidable teeth exposed, and his eyes glaring in their sockets. Alas! for poor Crusoe, had he gone into that combat alone. One stroke of that monster’s paw would have hurled him dead upon the ground.

Chapter Seventeen.

Dick’s first fight with a grizzly—Adventure with a deer—A surprise.

There is no animal in all the land so terrible and dangerous as the grizzly bear. Not only is he the largest of the species in America, but he is the fiercest, the strongest, and the most tenacious of life, facts which are so well understood that few of the western hunters like to meet him single-handed, unless they happen to be first-rate shots; and the Indians deem the encounter so dangerous, that to wear a collar composed of the claws of a grizzly bear of his own killing, is counted one of the highest honours to which a young warrior can attain.

The grizzly bear resembles the brown bear of Europe, but it is larger, and the hair is long, the points being of a paler shade. About the head there is a considerable mixture of grey hair, giving it the “grizzly” appearance, from which it derives its name. The claws are dirty white, arched, and very long, and so strong that when the animal strikes with its paw they cut like a chisel. These claws are not embedded in the paw, as is the case with the cat, but always project far beyond the hair, thus giving to the foot a very ungainly appearance; they are not sufficiently curved to enable the grizzly bear to climb trees, like the black and brown bears, and this inability on their part is often the only hope of the pursued hunter, who, if he succeeds in ascending a tree, is safe, for the time at least, from the bear’s assaults; but “Caleb” is a patient creature, and will often wait at the foot of the tree for many hours for his victim.

The average length of his body is about nine feet, but he sometimes attains to a still larger growth. Caleb is more carnivorous in his habits than other bears; but, like them, he does not object to indulge occasionally in vegetable diet, being partial to the bird-cherry, the choke-berry, and various shrubs. He has a sweet tooth, too, and revels in honey—when he can get it.

The instant the grizzly bear beheld Dick Varley standing in his path, he rose on his hind-legs, and made a loud hissing noise, like a man breathing quick, but much harsher. To this Crusoe replied by a deep growl, and showing the utmost extent of his teeth, gums and all; and Dick cocked both barrels of his rifle.

To say that Dick Varley felt no fear would be simply to make him out that sort of hero which does not exist in nature, namely a perfect hero. He did feel a sensation as if his bowels had suddenly melted into water! Let not our reader think the worse of Dick for this. There is not a man living who, having met with a huge grizzly bear for the first time in his life, in a wild, solitary place, all alone, has not experienced some such sensation. There was no cowardice in this feeling. Fear is not cowardice. Acting in a wrong and contemptible manner because of our fear, is cowardice.

It is said that Wellington or Napoleon, we forget which, once stood watching the muster of the men who were to form the forlorn hope in storming a citadel. There were many brave, strong, stalwart men there, in the prime of life, and flushed with the blood of high health and courage. There were also there a few stern-browed men of riper years, who stood perfectly silent, with lips compressed, and as pale as death. “Yonder veterans,” said the general, pointing to these soldiers, “are men whose courage I can depend on; they know what they are going to, the others don’t!” Yes, these young soldiers very probably were brave; the others certainly were.

Dick Varley stood for a few seconds as if thunderstruck, while the bear stood hissing at him. Then the liquefaction of his interior ceased, and he felt a glow of fire gush through his veins. Now, Dick knew well enough that to fly from a grizzly bear was the sure and certain way of being torn to pieces, as when taken thus by surprise they almost invariably follow a retreating enemy. He also knew that if he stood where he was, perfectly still, the bear would, get uncomfortable under his stare, and would retreat from him. But he neither intended to run away himself nor to allow the bear to do so; he intended to kill it, so he raised his rifle quickly, “drew a bead,” as the hunters express it, on the bear’s heart, and fired.

It immediately dropped on its fore-legs and rushed at him.

“Back, Crusoe, out of the way, pup,” shouted Dick, as his favourite was about to spring forward.

The dog retired, and Dick leaped behind a tree. As the bear passed he gave it the contents of the second barrel behind the shoulder, which brought it down, but in another moment it rose and again rushed at him. Dick had no time to load, neither had he time to spring up the thick tree beside which he stood, and the rocky nature of the ground out of which it grew rendered it impossible to dodge round it. His only resource was flight; but where was he to fly to? If he ran along the open track, the bear would overtake him in a few seconds; on the right was a sheer precipice, a hundred feet high; on the left was an impenetrable thicket. In despair he thought for an instant of clubbing his rifle and meeting the monster in close conflict; but the utter hopelessness of such an effort was too apparent to be entertained for a moment. He glanced up at the overhanging cliffs. There were one or two rents and projections close above him. In the twinkling of an eye he sprang up and grasped a ledge of about an inch broad, ten or twelve feet up, to which he clung while he glanced upward. Another projection was within reach,—he gained it, and in a few seconds he stood upon a ledge about twenty feet up the cliff, where he had just room to plant his feet firmly.

Without waiting to look behind he seized his powder-horn and loaded one barrel of his rifle; and well was it for him that his early training had fitted him to do this with rapidity, for the bear dashed up the precipice after him at once. The first time it missed its hold, and fell back with a savage growl, but, on the second attempt, it sunk its long claws into the fissures between the rocks, and ascended steadily till within a foot of the place where Dick stood.

At this moment Crusoe’s obedience gave way before a sense of Dick’s danger. Uttering one of his lion-like roars, he rushed up the precipice with such violence that, although naturally unable to climb, he reached and seized the bear’s flank, despite his master’s stern order to “keep back,” and in a moment the two rolled down the face of the rock together, just as Dick completed loading.

Knowing that one stroke of the bear’s paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and, with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear’s ear, and blew out its brains.

Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side. It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after.

Thus happily ended Dick’s first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life he shot many specimens of “Caleb,” he used to say that “he an’ pup were never so near goin’ under as on the day he dropped that bar!”

Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe’s wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot.

“We chawed him up that time, didn’t we, pup?” said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize.

Crusoe looked up and assented to this.

“Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn’t he, pup!”

Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound.

“Ah, pup!” cried Dick, sympathetically, “does it hurt ye, eh, poor dog?”

Hurt him! such a question! No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself.

So Crusoe might have said, but he didn’t; he took no notice of the remark whatever.

“We’ll cut him up now, pup,” continued Dick. “The skin ’ll make a splendid bed for you an me o’ nights, and a saddle for Charlie.”

Dick cut out all the claws of the bear by the roots, and spent the remainder of that night in cleaning them and stringing them on a strip of leather to form a necklace. Independently of the value of these enormous claws (the largest as long as a man’s middle finger) as an evidence of prowess, they formed a remarkably graceful collar, which Dick wore round his neck ever after with as much pride as if he had been a Pawnee warrior.

When it was finished he held it out at arm’s length, and said, “Crusoe, my pup, ain’t ye proud of it? I’ll tell ye what it is, pup, the next time you an’ I floor Caleb, I’ll put the claws round your neck, an’ make ye wear ’em ever arter, so I will.”

The dog did not seem quite to appreciate this piece of prospective good fortune. Vanity had no place in his honest breast, and, sooth to say, it had not a large place in that of his master either, as we may well grant when we consider that this first display of it was on the occasion of his hunter’s soul having at last realised its brightest day-dream.

Dick’s dangers and triumphs seemed to accumulate on him rather thickly at this place, for on the very next day he had a narrow escape of being killed by a deer. The way of it was this.

Having run short of meat, and not being particularly fond of grizzly bear steak, he shouldered his rifle and sallied forth in quest of game, accompanied by Crusoe, whose frequent glances towards his wounded side showed that, whatever may have been the case the day before, it “hurt” him now.

They had not gone far when they came on the track of a deer in the snow, and followed it up till they spied a magnificent buck about three hundred yards off, standing in a level patch of ground which was everywhere surrounded either by rocks or thicket. It was a long shot; but as the nature of the ground rendered it impossible for Dick to get nearer without being seen, he fired, and wounded the buck so badly that he came up with it in a few minutes. The snow had drifted in the place where it stood bolt upright, ready for a spring, so Dick went round a little way, Crusoe following, till he was in a proper position to fire again. Just as he pulled the trigger, Crusoe gave a howl behind him, and disturbed his aim, so that he feared he had missed; but the deer fell, and he hurried towards it. On coming up, however, the buck sprang to its legs, rushed at him with its hair bristling, knocked him down in the snow, and deliberately commenced stamping him to death.

Dick was stunned for a moment, and lay quite still, so the deer left off pommelling him, and stood looking at him. But the instant he moved it plunged at him again and gave him another pounding, until he was content to lie still. This was done several times, and Dick felt his strength going fast. He was surprised that Crusoe did not come to his rescue, and once he cleared his mouth and whistled to him; but as the deer gave him another pounding for this, he didn’t attempt it again. He now for the first time bethought him of his knife, and quietly drew it from his belt; but the deer observed the motion, and was on him again in a moment. Dick, however, sprang up on his left elbow, and, making several desperate thrusts upward, succeeded in stabbing the animal to the heart.

Rising and shaking the snow from his garments, he whistled loudly to Crusoe, and, on listening, heard him whining piteously. He hurried to the place whence the sound came, and found that the poor dog had fallen into a deep pit or crevice in the rocks, which had been concealed from view by a crust of snow, and he was now making frantic but unavailing efforts to leap out.

Dick soon freed him from his prison by means of his belt, which he let down for the dog to grasp, and then returned to camp with as much deer-meat as he could carry. Dear meat it certainly was to him, for it had nearly cost him his life, and left him all black and blue for weeks after. Happily no bones were broken, so the incident only confined him a day to his encampment.

Soon after this the snow fell thicker than ever, and it became evident that an unusually early winter was about to set in among the mountains. This was a terrible calamity, for, if the regular snow of winter set in, it would be impossible for him either to advance or retreat.

While he was sitting on his bear-skin by the campfire one day, thinking anxiously what he should do, and feeling that he must either make the attempt to escape, or perish miserably in that secluded spot, a strange, unwonted sound struck upon his ear, and caused both him and Crusoe to spring violently to their feet and listen. Could he be dreaming? it seemed like the sound of human voices. For a moment he stood with his eyes rivetted on the ground, his lips apart and his nostrils distended, as he listened with the utmost intensity. Then he darted out and bounded round the edge of a rock which concealed an extensive but narrow valley from his view, and there, to his amazement, he beheld a band of about a hundred human beings advancing on horseback slowly through the snow!

Chapter Eighteen.

A surprise and a piece of good news—The fur-traders—Crusoe proved, and the Peigans pursued.

Dick’s first and most natural impulse, on beholding this band, was to mount his horse and fly, for his mind naturally enough recurred to the former rough treatment he had experienced at the hands of Indians. On second thoughts, however, he considered it wiser to throw himself upon the hospitality of the strangers; “for,” thought he, “they can but kill me, an’ if I remain here I’m like to die at any rate.”

So Dick mounted his wild horse, grasped his rifle in his right hand, and, followed by Crusoe, galloped full tilt down the valley to meet them.

He had heard enough of the customs of savage tribes, and had also of late experienced enough, to convince him that when a man found himself in the midst of an overwhelming force, his best policy was to assume an air of confident courage. He therefore approached them at his utmost speed.

The effect upon the advancing band was electrical; and little wonder, for the young hunter’s appearance was very striking. His horse, from having rested a good deal of late, was full of spirit; its neck was arched, its nostrils expanded, and its mane and tail, never having been checked in their growth, flew wildly around him in voluminous curls. Dick’s own hair, not having been clipped for many months, appeared scarcely less wild as they thundered down the rocky pass at what appeared a break-neck gallop. Add to this the grandeur of the scene out of which they sprang, and the gigantic dog that bounded by his side, and you will not be surprised to hear that the Indian warriors clustered together, and prepared to receive this bold horseman as if he, in his own proper person, were a complete squadron of cavalry. It is probable, also, that they fully expected the tribe of which Dick was the chief to be at his heels.

As he drew near the excitement among the strangers seemed very great, and, from the peculiarity of the various cries that reached him, he knew that there were women and children in the band—a fact which, in such a place and at such a season, was so unnatural, that it surprised him very much. He noted also that, though the men in front were Indians, their dresses were those of trappers and hunters, and he almost leaped out of his saddle when he observed that “Pale-faces” were among them. But he had barely time to note these facts when he was up with the band. According to Indian custom, he did not check his speed till he was within four or five yards of the advance-guard, who stood in a line before him, quite still, and with their rifles lying loosely in their left palms; then he reined his steed almost on its haunches.

One of the Indians advanced and spoke a few words in a language which was quite unintelligible to Dick, who replied, in the little Pawnee he could muster, that he didn’t understand him.

“Why, you must be a trapper!” exclaimed a thick-set, middle-aged man, riding out from the group. “Can you speak English?”

“Ay, that can I,” cried Dick, joyfully, riding up and shaking the stranger heartily by the hand; “an’ right glad am I to fall in wi’ a white-skin an’ a civil tongue in his head.”

“Good sooth, sir,” replied the stranger, with a quiet smile on his kind, weather-beaten face, “I can return you the compliment, for when I saw you come thundering down the corrie with that wonderful horse and no less wonderful dog of yours, I thought you were the wild man o’ the mountain himself, and had an ambush ready to back you. But, young man, do you mean to say that you live here in the mountain all alone after this fashion?”

“No, that I don’t. I’ve comed here in my travels; but, truly, this bean’t my home. But, sir (for I see you are what the fur-traders call a bourgeois), how comes it that such a band as this rides i’ the mountains! D’ye mean to say that they live here?” Dick looked round in surprise, as he spoke, upon the crowd of mounted men and women, with children and pack-horses, that now surrounded him.

“’Tis a fair question, lad. I am a principal among the fur-traders whose chief trading-post lies near the Pacific Ocean, on the west side of these mountains, and I have come with these trappers and their families, as you see, to hunt the beaver and other animals for a season in the mountains. We’ve never been here before; but that’s a matter of little moment, for it’s not the first time I’ve been on what may be called a discovery-trading expedition. We are somewhat entangled, however, just now, among these wild passes, and, if you can guide us out of our difficulties to the east side of the mountains, I’ll thank you heartily and pay you well. But first tell me who and what you are, if it’s a fair question.”

“My name is Dick Varley, and my home’s in the Mustang Valley, near the Missouri river. As to what I am—I’m nothin’ yet, but I hope to desarve the name o’ a hunter some day. I can guide you to the east side o’ the mountains, for I’ve comed from there; but more than that I can’t do, for I’m a stranger to the country here, like yourself. But you’re on the east side o’ the mountains already, if I mistake not; only these mountains are so rugged and jumbled up, that it’s not easy tellin’ where ye are. And what,” continued Dick, “may be the name o’ the bourgeois who speaks to me?”

“My name is Cameron—Walter Cameron—a well-known name among the Scottish hills, although it sounds a little strange here. And now, young man, will you join my party as guide, and afterwards remain as trapper? It will pay you better, I think, than roving about alone.”

Dick shook his head and looked grave. “I’ll guide you,” said he, “as far as my knowledge ’ll help me; but after that I must return to look for two comrades whom I have lost. They have been driven into the mountains by a band of Injuns. God grant they may not have bin scalped.”

The trader’s face looked troubled, and he spoke with one of his Indians for a few minutes in earnest, hurried tones.

“What were they like, young man?”

Dick described them.

“The same,” continued the trader; “they’ve been seen, lad, not more than two days ago, by this Indian here, when he was out hunting alone some miles away from our camp. He came suddenly on a band of Indians, who had two prisoners with them, such as you describe. They were stout, said you?”

“Yes, both of them,” cried Dick, listening with intense eagerness.

“Ay. They were tied to their horses, an’ from what I know of these fellows I’m sure they’re doomed. But I’ll help you, my friend, as well as I can. They can’t be far from this. I treated my Indian’s story about them as a mere fabrication, for he’s the most notorious liar in my company; but he seems to have spoken truth for once.”

“Thanks, thanks, good sir,” cried Dick. “Had we not best turn back and follow them at once?”

“Nay, friend, not quite so fast,” replied Cameron, pointing to his people. “These must be provided for first, but I shall be ready before the sun goes down. And now, as I presume you don’t bivouac in the snow, will you kindly conduct us to your encampment, if it be not far hence?”

Although burning with impatience to fly to the rescue of his friends, Dick felt constrained to comply with so reasonable a request, so he led the way to his camping-place, where the band of fur-traders immediately began to pitch their tents, cut down wood, kindle fires, fill their kettles with water, cook their food, and, in fact, make themselves comfortable. The wild spot which, an hour before, had been so still, and grand, and gloomy, was now, as if by magic, transformed into a bustling village, with bright fires blazing among the rocks and bushes, and merry voices of men, women, and children ringing in the air. It seemed almost incredible, and no wonder Dick, in his bewilderment, had difficulty in believing it was not all a dream.

In days long gone by the fur-trade in that country was carried on in a very different way from the manner in which it is now conducted. These wild regions, indeed, are still as lonesome and untenanted (save by wild beasts and wandering tribes of Indians), as they were then; but the Indians of the present day have become accustomed to the “pale-faced” trader, whose little wooden forts or trading-posts are dotted here and there, at wide intervals, all over the land. But in the days of which we write it was not so. The fur-traders at that time went forth in armed bands into the heart of the Indians’ country, and he who went forth did so “with his life in his hand.” As in the case of the soldier who went out to battle, there was great probability that he might never return.

The band of which Walter Cameron was the chief had, many months before, started from one of the distant posts of Oregon on a hunting expedition into the then totally unknown lands of the Snake Indians. It consisted of about sixty men, thirty women, and as many children of various ages,—about a hundred and twenty souls in all. Many of the boys were capable of using the gun and setting a beaver-trap. The men were a most motley set. There were Canadians, half-breeds, Iroquois, and Scotchmen. Most of the women had Indian blood in their veins, and a few were pure Indians.

The equipment of this strange band consisted of upwards of two hundred beaver-traps—which are similar to our rat-traps, with this difference, that they have two springs and no teeth—seventy guns, a few articles for trade with the Indians, and a large supply of powder and ball; the whole—men, women, children, goods, and chattels—being carried on the backs of nearly four hundred horses. Many of these horses, at starting, were not laden, being designed for the transport of furs that were to be taken in the course of the season.

For food this adventurous party depended entirely on their guns, and during the march hunters were kept constantly out ahead. As a matter of course their living was precarious. Sometimes their kettles were overflowing; at others they scarce refrained from eating their horses. But, during the months they had already spent in the wilderness, good living had been the rule, starvation the exception. They had already collected a large quantity of beaver-skins, which at that time were among the most valuable in the market, although they are now scarcely saleable!

Having shot two wild horses, seven elks, six small deer, and four big-horned sheep, the day before they met Dick Varley, the camp-kettles were full, and the people consequently happy.

“Now, Master Dick Varley,” said Cameron, touching the young hunter on the shoulder as he stood ready equipped by one of the campfires; “I’m at your service. The people won’t need any more looking after to-night. I’ll divide my men—thirty shall go after this rascally band of Peigans, for such I believe they are, and thirty shall remain to guard the camp. Are you ready?”

“Ready! ay, this hour past.”

“Mount then, lad; the men have already been told off and are mustering down yonder where the deer gave you such a licking.”

Dick needed no second bidding. He vaulted on Charlie’s back and along with their commander joined the men, who were thirty as fine, hardy, reckless-looking fellows as one could desire for a forlorn hope. They were chatting and laughing while they examined their guns and saddle girths. Their horses were sorry-looking animals compared with the magnificent creature that Dick bestrode, but they were hardy, nevertheless, and well fitted for their peculiar work.

“My! wot a blazer,” exclaimed a trapper as Dick rode up.

“Where you git him?” inquired a half-breed.

“I caught him,” answered Dick.

“Baw!” cried the first speaker.

Dick took no notice of this last remark.

“No, did ye though?” he asked again.

“I did,” answered Dick, quietly; “I creased him in the prairie—you can see the mark on his neck if you look.”

The men began to feel that the young hunter was perhaps a little beyond them at their own trade, and regarded him with increased respect.

“Look sharp now, lads,” said Cameron, impatiently, to several dilatory members of the band. “Night will be on us ere long.”

“Who sold ye the bear-claw collar?” inquired another man of Dick.

“I didn’t buy it. I killed the bear and made it.”

“Did ye, though, all be yer lone?”

“Ay, that wasn’t much, was it?”

“You’ve begun well, yonker,” said a tall middle-aged hunter, whose general appearance was not unlike that of Joe Blunt. “Jest keep clear o’ the Injuns an’ the grog bottle an’ ye’ve a glor’ous life before ye.”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the order being given to move on, which was obeyed in silence, and the cavalcade, descending the valley, entered one of the gorges in the mountains.

For the first half mile Cameron rode a little ahead of his men, then he turned to speak to one of them and for the first time observed Crusoe trotting close beside his master’s horse.

“Ah! Master Dick,” he exclaimed with a troubled expression, “that won’t do. It would never do to take a dog on an expedition like this.”

“Why not?” asked Dick, “the pup’s quiet and peaceable.”

“I doubt it not, but he will betray our presence to the Indians, which might be inconvenient.”

“I’ve travelled more than a thousand miles through prairie and forest, among game an’ among Injuns, an’ the pup never betrayed me yet,” said Dick, with suppressed vehemence; “he has saved my life more than once though.”

“You seem to have perfect confidence in your dog, but as this is a serious matter you must not expect me to share in it without proof of his trustworthiness.”

“The pup may be useful to us; how would you have it proved?” inquired Dick.

“Any way you like.”

“You forgot your belt at starting, I think I heered ye say.”

“Yes, I did,” replied the trader, smiling.

Dick immediately took hold of Cameron’s coat, and bade Crusoe smell it, which the dog did very carefully. Then he showed him his own belt and said: “Go back to the camp and fetch it, pup.”

Crusoe was off in a moment, and in less than twenty minutes returned with Cameron’s belt in his mouth.

“Well, I’ll trust him,” said Cameron, patting Crusoe’s head. “Forward, lads!” and away they went at a brisk trot along the bottom of a beautiful valley on each side of which the mountains towered in dark masses. Soon the moon rose and afforded light sufficient to enable them to travel all night in the track of the Indian hunter who said he had seen the Peigans, and who was constituted guide to the party. Hour after hour the horsemen pressed on without check, now galloping over a level plain, now bounding by the banks of a rivulet, or bending their heads to escape the boughs of overhanging trees, and anon toiling slowly up among the rocks of some narrow defile. At last the moon set, and the order was given to halt in a little plain where there was wood and water.

The horses were picketted, a fire kindled, a mouthful of dried meat hastily eaten, the watch was set, and then each man scraped away the snow, spread some branches on the ground, and, wrapping himself in his blanket, went to sleep with his feet presented towards the fire.

Two hours were allowed for rest; then they were awakened, and in a few minutes were off again by the grey light of dawn. In this way they travelled two nights and a day. At the end of that time they came suddenly on a small party of nine Indians who were seated on the ground with their snow-shoes and blankets by their sides. They had evidently been taken by surprise, but they made no attempt to escape, knowing that it was useless. Each sat still with his bow and arrows between his legs on the ground ready for instant use.

As soon as Cameron spoke, however, in their own language they felt relieved and began to talk.

“Where do you come from, and what are you doing here?” asked the trader.

“We have come to trade with the white men,” one of them replied, “and to hunt. We have come from the Missouri. Our country is far away.”

“Do Peigans hunt with war-arrows?” asked Cameron, pointing to their weapons.

This question seemed to perplex them, for they saw that their interrogator knew the difference between a war and a hunting arrow—the former being barbed in order to render its extraction from the wound difficult, while the head of the latter is round and can be drawn out of game that has been killed, and used again.

“And do Peigans,” continued Cameron, “come from a far country to trade with the white men with nothing?”

Again the Indians were silent, for they had not an article of trade about them.

Cameron now felt convinced that this party of Peigans, into whose hands Joe Blunt and Henri had fallen, were nothing else than a war-party, and that the men now before him were a scouting-party sent out from them, probably to spy out his own camp, on the trail of which they had fallen, so he said to them—

“The Peigans are not wise men, they tell lies to the traders. I will tell you that you are a war-party, and that you are only a few warriors sent out to spy the traders’ camp. You have also two Pale-face prisoners in your camp. You cannot deceive me. It is useless to try. Now, conduct me to your camp. My object is not war; it is peace. I will speak with your chiefs about trading with the white men, and we will smoke the pipe of peace. Are my words good?”

Despite their proverbial control of muscle, these Indians could not conceal their astonishment at hearing so much of their affairs thus laid bare, so they said that the Pale-face chief was wise, that he must be a great medicine-man, and that what he said was all true except about the white men. They had never seen any Pale-faces, and knew nothing whatever about those he spoke of.

This was a terrible piece of news to poor Dick, and at first his heart fairly sank within him, but by degrees he came to be more hopeful. He concluded that if these men told lies in regard to one thing they would do it in regard to another, and perhaps they might have some strong reason for denying any knowledge of Joe and Henri.

The Indians now packed up the buffalo robes on which they had slept, and the mouthful of provisions they had taken with them.

“I don’t believe a word of what they say about your friends,” said Cameron to Dick in a low tone while the Indians were thus engaged. “Depend upon it they hope to hide them till they can send to the settlements and get a ransom, or till they get an opportunity of torturing them to death before their women and children when they get back to their own village. But we’ll baulk them, my friend, do not fear.”

The Indians were soon ready to start, for they were lumbered with marvellously little camp equipage. In less than half an hour after their discovery they were running like deer ahead of the cavalcade in the direction of the Peigan camp.

Chapter Nineteen.

Adventures with the Peigans—Crusoe does good service as a discoverer—The savages outwitted—The rescue.

A run of twenty miles brought the travellers to a rugged defile in the mountains, from which they had a view of a beautiful valley of considerable extent. During the last two days a steady thaw had been rapidly melting away the snow, so that it appeared only here and there in the landscape in dazzling patches. At the distance of about half a mile from where they halted to breathe the horses before commencing the descent into this vale, several thin wreaths of smoke were seen rising above the trees.

“Is that your camp?” inquired Cameron, riding up to the Indian runners who stood in a group in front, looking as fresh after their twenty miles’ run as though they had only had a short walk.

To this they answered in the affirmative, adding that there were about two hundred Peigans there.

It might have been thought that thirty men would have hesitated to venture to attack so large a number as two hundred; but it had always been found in the experience of Indian life, that a few resolute white men well armed were more than a match for ten times their number of Indians. And this arose not so much from the superior strength or agility of the whites over their red foes, as from that bull-dog courage and utter recklessness of their lives in combat,—qualities which the crafty savage can neither imitate nor understand. The information was received with perfect indifference by most of the trappers, and with contemptuous laughter by some, for a large number of Cameron’s men were wild, evil-disposed fellows, who would have as gladly taken the life of an Indian as a buffalo.

Just as the word was given to resume the march, Dick Varley rode up to Cameron, and said in a somewhat anxious tone—“D’ye obsarve, sir, that one o’ the Red-skins has gone off ahead o’ his comrades?”

“I see that, Master Dick, and it was a mistake of mine not to have stopped him, but he was gone too far before I observed it, and I thought it better to appear unconcerned. We must push on, though, and give him as short time as possible to talk with his comrades in the camp.”

The trappers pressed forward accordingly at a gallop, and were soon in front of the clump of trees amongst which the Peigans were encamped. Their approach had evidently spread great alarm among them, for there was a good deal of bustle and running to and fro, but by the time the trappers had dismounted and advanced in a body on foot, the savages had resumed their usual quiet dignity of appearance, and were seated calmly round their fires with their bows and arrows beside them. There were no tents, no women or children, and the general aspect of the men showed Cameron conclusively that his surmise about their being a war-party was correct.

A council was immediately called; the trappers ranged themselves on one side of the council-fire and the Indians on the other. Meanwhile, our friend Crusoe had been displaying considerable irritability against the Indians, and he would certainly have attacked the whole two hundred single-handed if he had not been ordered by his master to lie still, but never in his life before had Crusoe obeyed with such a bad grace. He bristled and whined in a low tremulous tone, and looked imploringly at Dick as if for permission to fly at them.

“The Pale-faced traders are glad to meet with the Peigans,” began Cameron, who determined to make no allusion to his knowledge that they were a war-party, “for they wish to be friends with all the children of the woods and prairies. They wish to trade with them; to exchange blankets, and guns, and beads, and other goods which the Peigans require, for furs of animals which the Pale-faces require.”

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed the Indians; which expression might be translated, “Hear, hear.”

“But,” continued Cameron, “we wish to have no war. We wish to see the hatchet buried, and to see all the Red-men and the white men smoking the pipe of peace, and hunting like brothers.”

The “Ho-ho-ing” at this was very emphatic.

“Now,” resumed the trader, “the Peigans have got two prisoners—two Pale-faces—in their camp, and, as we cannot be on good terms while our brothers are detained, we have come to ask for them, and to present some gifts to the Peigans.”

To this there was no “Ho” at all, but a prolonged silence, which was at length interrupted by a tall chief stepping forward to address the trappers.

“What the Pale-face chief has said is good,” began the Indian. “His words are wise, and his heart is not double. The Red-men are willing to smoke the pipe of peace, and to hunt with all men as brothers, but they cannot do it while many of their scalps are hanging in the lodges of their enemies and fringing the robes of the warriors. The Peigans must have vengeance; then they will make peace.”

After a short pause he continued—“The chief is wrong when he says there are Pale-faces in the Peigan camp. The Peigans are not at war with the Pale-faces; neither have they seen any on their march. The camp is open. Let the Pale-faces look round and see that what we say is true.”

The chief waved his hand towards his warriors as he concluded, as if to say, “Search amongst them. There are no Pale-faces there.”

Cameron now spoke to Dick in a low tone. “They speak confidently,” he said, “and I fear greatly that your poor comrades have either been killed or conveyed away from the camp and hidden among the mountains, in which case, even though they should not be far off, it would be next to impossible to find them, especially when such a band o’ rascals is near, compelling us to keep together. But I’ll try what a little tempting them with goods will do. At any rate we shan’t give in without a scuffle.”

It now, for the first time, flashed across Dick Varley that there was something more than he imagined in Crusoe’s restless anxiety, which had not in the least abated, and the idea of making use of him now occurred to his mind.

“I’ve a notion that I’ll settle this matter in a shorter time than you think,” he said hurriedly, “if you’ll agree to try what threatening will do.”

The trader looked grave and undecided. “I never resort to that except as a last hope,” he answered, “but I’ve a good deal of confidence in your prudence, what would you advise?”

Dick and the trader whispered a few minutes together, while some of the men, in order to show the Indians how perfectly unconcerned they were, and how ready for anything, took out their pipes and began to smoke. Both parties were seated on the ground, and during this interval the Indians also held eager discussion.

At length Cameron stood up, and said to his men in a quiet tone, “Be ready, lads, for instant action; when I give the word ‘Up,’ spring to your feet and cock your guns, but don’t fire a shot till you get the word.” He then stepped forward and said—

“The Peigan warriors are double-tongued; they know that they have hid the Pale-face prisoners. We do not wish to quarrel, but if they are not delivered up at once, the Pale-faces and the Peigans will not be friends.”

Upon this the Indian chief again stood forward and said, “The Peigans are not double-tongued. They have not seen Pale-faces till to-day. They can say no more.”

Without moving hand or foot, Cameron then said in a firm tone, “The first Peigan that moves shall die! Up, lads, and ready!”

In the twinkling of an eye the trappers sprang to their feet, and cocking their rifles stood perfectly motionless, scowling at the savages, who were completely taken by surprise at the unusual suddenness and informality of such a declaration of war. Not a man moved, for, unlike white men, they seldom risk their lives in open fight; and as they looked at the formidable row of muzzles that waited but a word to send instant death into their midst, they felt that discretion was at that time the better part of valour.

“Now,” said Cameron, while Dick Varley and Crusoe stepped up beside him, “my young warrior will search for the Pale-face prisoners. If they are found, we will take them and go away. If they are not found, we will ask the Peigans to forgive us, and will give them gifts. But in the meantime, if a Peigan moves from the spot where he sits, or lifts a bow, my young men shall fire, and the Peigans know that the rifle of the Pale-face always kills.”

Without waiting for an answer, Dick immediately said, “Seek ’em out, pup,” and Crusoe bounded away.

For a few minutes he sprang hither and thither through the camp, quite regardless of the Indians, and snuffed the air several times, whining in an excited tone, as if to relieve his feelings. Then he put his nose to the ground and ran straight forward into the woods. Dick immediately bounded after him like a deer, while the trappers kept silent guard over the savages.

For some time Crusoe ran straight forward. Then he came to a spot where there was a good deal of drifted snow on the ground. Here he seemed to lose the trail for a little, and ran about in all directions, whining in a most piteous tone.

“Seek ’em out, pup,” repeated Dick encouragingly, while his own breast heaved with excitement and expectation.

In a few seconds the dog resumed its onward course, and led the way into a wild, dark spot, which was so overshadowed by trees and precipitous cliffs that the light of the sun scarce found entrance. There were many huge masses of rock scattered over the ground, which had fallen from the cliffs. Behind one of these lay a mound of dried leaves, towards which Crusoe darted and commenced scraping violently.

Trembling with dread that he should find this to be the grave of his murdered companions, Dick rushed forward and hastily cleared away the leaves. The first handful thrown off revealed part of the figure of a man. Dick’s heart beat audibly as he cleared the leaves from the face, and he uttered a suppressed cry on beholding the well-known features of Joe Blunt! But they were not those of a dead man. Joe’s eyes met his with a scowl of anger, which instantly gave place to one of intense surprise.

“Joe Blunt!” exclaimed Dick in a voice of intense amazement, while Crusoe sniffed round the heap of leaves, and whined with excitement. But Joe did not move, neither did he speak a word in reply—for the very good reasons that his mouth was tightly bound with a band of leather, his hands and feet were tied, and his whole body was secured in a rigid, immovable position by being bound to a pole of about his own length.

In a moment Dick’s knife was out, bands and cords were severed, and Joe Blunt was free.

“Thank God,” exclaimed Joe with a deep, earnest sigh, the instant his lips were loosened, “and thanks to you, lad,” he added, endeavouring to rise, but his limbs had become so benumbed in consequence of the cords by which they had been compressed that for some time he could not move.

“I’ll rub ye, Joe—I’ll soon rub ye into a right state,” said Dick, going down on his knees.

“No, no, lad, look sharp and dig up Henri. He’s just beside me here.”

Dick immediately rose, and, pushing aside the heap of leaves, found Henri securely bound in the same fashion. But he could scarce refrain from laughing at the expression of that worthy’s face. Hearing the voices of Joe and Dick Varley in conversation, though unable to see their persons, he was filled with such unbounded amazement that his eyes, when uncovered, were found to be at their largest possible stretch, and as for the eyebrows, they were gone, utterly lost among the roots of his voluminous hair.

“Henri, friend, I knew I should find ye,” said Dick, cutting the thongs that bound him. “Get up if ye can, we haven’t much time to lose, an’ mayhap we’ll have to fight afore we’re done wi’ the Red-skins. Can ye rise?”

Henri could do nothing but lie on his back and gasp, “Eh! possible! mon frère! Oh, non, non, not possible. Oui! my broder Deek!”

Here he attempted to rise, but, being unable, fell back again, and the whole thing came so suddenly, and made so deep an impression on his impulsive mind, that he incontinently burst into tears; then he burst into a long laugh. Suddenly he paused, and, scrambling up to a sitting posture, looked earnestly into Dick’s face through his tearful eyes.

“Oh, non, non!” he exclaimed, stretching himself out at full length again, and closing his eyes; “it are too goot to be true. I am dream. I vill wait till I am wake.”

Dick roused him out of this resolute sleep, however, somewhat roughly. Meanwhile Joe had rubbed and kicked himself into a state of animation, exclaiming that he felt as if he wos walkin’ on a thousand needles and pins, and in a few minutes they were ready to accompany their overjoyed deliverer back to the Peigan camp. Crusoe testified his delight in various elephantine gambols round the persons of his old friends, who were not slow to acknowledge his services.

“They haven’t treated us overly well,” remarked Joe Blunt, as they strode through the underwood.

“Non, de rascale, vraiment, de am villains. Oui! How de have talk, too, ’bout—oh-o-oo-ooo-wah!—roastin’ us alive, an’ puttin’ our scalp in de vigvam for de poopoose to play wid!”

“Well, niver mind, Henri, we’ll be quits wi’ them now,” said Joe, as they came in sight of the two bands, who remained in precisely the same position in which they had been left, except that one or two of the more reckless of the trappers had lit their pipes and taken to smoking, without, however, laying down their rifles or taking their eyes off the savages.

A loud cheer greeted the arrival of the prisoners, and looks of considerable discomfort began to be evinced by the Indians.

“Glad to see you, friends,” said Cameron, as they came up.

“Ve is ’appy ov de same,” replied Henri, swaggering up in the joviality of his heart, and seizing the trader’s hand in his own enormous fist. “Shall ve go to york an’ slay dem all at vonce, or von at a time?”

“We’ll consider that afterwards, my lad. Meantime go you to the rear, and get a weapon of some sort.”

“Oui. Ah! c’est charmant,” he cried, going with an immense flounder into the midst of the amused trappers, and slapping those next to him on the back. “Give me veapon, do, mes ami—gun, pistol, anyting—cannon, if you have von.”

Meanwhile Cameron and Joe spoke together for a few moments.

“You had goods with you, and horses, I believe, when you were captured,” said the former.

“Ay, that we had. Yonder stand the horses under the pine-tree, along wi’ the rest o’ the Red-skin troop, an a hard time they’ve had o’t, as their bones may tell without speakin’. As for the goods,” he continued, glancing round the camp, “I don’t know where—ah! yes, there they be in the old pack. I see all safe.”

Cameron now addressed the Indians.

“The Peigans,” he said, “have not done well. Their hearts have not been true to the Pale-faces. Even now I could take your scalps where you sit; but white men do not like war, they do not like revenge. The Peigans may go free.”

Considering the fewness of their numbers, this was bold language to use towards the Indians; but the boldest is generally the best policy on such occasions. Moreover, Cameron felt that, being armed with rifles, while the Indians had only bows and arrows, the trappers had a great advantage over them.

The Indian who had spoken before now rose and said he was sorry there should be any cause of difference between them, and added he was sorry for a great many more things besides, but he did not say he was sorry for having told a lie.

“But, before you go, you must deliver up the horses and goods belonging to these men,” said Cameron pointing to Joe and Henri.

This was agreed to. The horses were led out, the two little packs containing Joe’s goods were strapped upon them, and then the trappers turned to depart. The Indians did not move until they had mounted; then they rose and advanced in a body to the edge of the wood, to see the Pale-faces go away. Meanwhile Joe spoke a few words to Cameron, and the men were ordered to halt, while the former dismounted and led his horse towards the band of savages.

“Peigans,” he said, “you know the object for which I came into this country was to make peace between you and the Pale-faces. I have often told you so when you would not listen, and when you told me that I had a double heart, and told lies. You were wrong when you said this; but I do not wonder, for you live among nations who do not fear God, and who think it right to lie. I now repeat to you what I said before. It would be good for the Red-men if they would make peace with the Pale-faces, and if they would make peace with each other. I will now convince you that I am in earnest, and have all along been speaking the truth.”

Hereupon Joe Blunt opened his bundle of goods, and presented fully one-half of the gaudy and brilliant contents to the astonished Indians, who seemed quite taken aback by such generous treatment. The result of this was that the two parties separated with mutual expressions of esteem and good will. The Indians then returned to the forest, and the white men galloped back to their camp among the hills.

Chapter Twenty.

New plans—Our travellers join the fur-traders, and see many strange things—A curious fight—A narrow escape, and a prisoner taken.

Not long after the events related in the last chapter, our four friends, Dick, and Joe, and Henri, and Crusoe, agreed to become for a time members of Walter Cameron’s band of trappers. Joe joined because one of the objects which the traders had in view was similar to his own mission, namely, the promoting of peace among the various Indian tribes of the mountains and plains to the west. Joe, therefore, thought it a good opportunity of travelling with a band of men who could secure him a favourable hearing from the Indian tribes they might chance to meet with in the course of their wanderings. Besides, as the traders carried about a large supply of goods with them, he could easily replenish his own nearly exhausted pack by hunting wild animals and exchanging their skins for such articles as he might require.

Dick joined because it afforded him an opportunity of seeing the wild, majestic scenery of the Rocky Mountains, and shooting the big-horned sheep which abounded there, and the grizzly “bars,” as Joe named them, or “Caleb,” as they were more frequently styled by Henri and the other men.

Henri joined because it was agreeable to the inclination of his own rollicking, blundering, floundering, crashing disposition, and because he would have joined anything that had been joined by the other two.

Crusoe’s reason for joining was single, simple, easy to be expressed, easy to be understood, and commendable. He joined—because Dick did.

The very day after the party left the encampment where Dick had shot the grizzly bear and the deer, he had the satisfaction of bringing down a splendid specimen of the big-horned sheep. It came suddenly out from a gorge of the mountain, and stood upon the giddy edge of a tremendous precipice, at a distance of about two hundred and fifty yards.

“You could not hit that,” said a trapper to Henri, who was rather fond of jeering him about his short-sightedness.

“Non!” cried Henri, who didn’t see the animal in the least; “say you dat? ve shall see;” and he let fly with a promptitude that amazed his comrades, and with a result that drew from them peals of laughter.

“Why, you have missed the mountain!”

“Oh, non! dat am eempossoble.”

It was true, nevertheless, for his ball had been arrested in its flight by the stem of a tree not twenty yards before him.

While the shot was yet ringing, and before the laugh above referred to had pealed forth, Dick Varley fired, and the animal, springing wildly into the air, fell down the precipice, and was almost dashed to pieces at their feet.

This Rocky Mountain or big-horned sheep was a particularly large and fine one, but, being a patriarch of the flock, was not well suited for food. It was considerably larger in size than the domestic sheep, and might be described as somewhat resembling a deer in the body and a ram in the head. Its horns were the chief point of interest to Dick; and, truly, they were astounding! Their enormous size was out of all proportion to the animal’s body, and they curved backwards and downwards, and then curled up again in a sharp point. These creatures frequent the inaccessible heights of the Rocky Mountains, and are difficult to approach. They have a great fondness for salt, and pay regular visits to the numerous caverns of these mountains, which are encrusted with a saline substance.

Walter Cameron now changed his intention of proceeding to the eastward, as he found the country not so full of beaver at that particular spot as he had anticipated. He therefore turned towards the west, penetrated into the interior of the mountains, and took a considerable sweep through the lovely valleys on their western slopes.

The expedition which this enterprising fur-trader was conducting was one of the first that ever penetrated these wild regions in search of furs. The ground over which they travelled was quite new to them, and having no guide they just moved about at haphazard, encamping on the margin of every stream or river on which signs of the presence of beaver were discovered, and setting their traps.

Beaver-skins at this time were worth 25 shillings a piece in the markets of civilised lands, and in the Snake country, through which our friends were travelling, thousands of them were to be had from the Indians for trinkets and baubles that were scarce worth a farthing. A beaver-skin could be procured from the Indians for a brass finger ring or a penny looking-glass. Horses were also so numerous that one could be procured for an axe or a knife.

Let not the reader, however, hastily conclude that the traders cheated the Indians in this traffic, though the profits were so enormous. The ring or the axe was indeed a trifle to the trader, but the beaver-skin and the horse were equally trifles to the savage, who could procure as many of them as he chose with very little trouble, while the ring and the axe were in his estimation of priceless value. Besides, be it remembered, to carry that ring and that axe to the far distant haunts of the Red-man cost the trader weeks and months of constant toil, trouble, anxiety, and, alas! too frequently cost him his life! The state of trade is considerably modified in these regions at the present day. It is not more justly conducted, for, in respect of the value of goods given for furs, it was justly conducted then, but time and circumstances have tended more to equalise the relative values of articles of trade.

The snow which had prematurely fallen had passed away, and the trappers now found themselves wandering about in a country so beautiful and a season so delightful, that it would have seemed to them a perfect paradise, but for the savage tribes who hovered about them, and kept them ever on the qui vive.

They soon passed from the immediate embrace of stupendous heights and dark gorges to a land of sloping ridges, which divided the country into a hundred luxuriant vales, composed part of woodland and part of prairie. Through these numerous rivers and streams flowed deviously, beautifying the landscape and enriching the land. There were also many lakes of all sizes, and these swarmed with fish, while in some of them were found the much-sought-after and highly esteemed beaver. Salt springs and hot springs of various temperatures abounded here, and many of the latter were so hot that meat could be boiled in them. Salt existed in all directions in abundance, and of good quality. A sulphurous spring was also discovered, bubbling out from the base of a perpendicular rock three hundred feet high, the waters of which were dark-blue, and tasted like gunpowder. In short, the land presented every variety of feature calculated to charm the imagination and delight the eye.

It was a mysterious land, too, for broad rivers burst in many places from the earth, flowed on a short space, and then disappeared as if by magic into the earth from which they rose. Natural bridges spanned the torrents in many places, and some of these were so correctly formed that it was difficult to believe they had not been built by the hand of man. They often appeared opportunely to our trappers, and saved them the trouble and danger of fording rivers. Frequently the whole band would stop in silent wonder and awe as they listened to the rushing of waters under their feet, as if another world of streams, and rapids, and cataracts were flowing below the crust of earth on which they stood. Some considerable streams were likewise observed to gush from the faces of precipices, some twenty or thirty feet from their summits, while on the top no water was to be seen.

Wild berries of all kinds were found in abundance, and wild vegetables, besides many nutritious roots. Among other fish splendid salmon were found in the lakes and rivers; and animal life swarmed on hill and dale. Woods and valleys, plains, and ravines, teemed with it. On every plain the red-deer grazed in herds by the banks of lake and stream; wherever there were clusters of poplar and elder-trees and saplings, the beaver was seen nibbling industriously with his sharp teeth, and committing as much havoc in the forests as if they had been armed with the woodman’s axe; otters sported in the eddies; racoons sat in the tree-tops; the marten, the black fox, and the wolf, prowled in the woods in quest of prey; mountain sheep and goats browsed on the rocky ridges, and badgers peeped from their holes.

Here, too, the wild horse sprang snorting and dishevelled from his mountain retreats—with flourishing mane and tail, spanking step, and questioning gaze,—and thundered away over the plains and valleys, while the rocks echoed back his shrill neigh. The huge, heavy, ungainly elk, or moose-deer, trotted away from the travellers with speed equal to that of the mustang. Elks seldom gallop; their best speed is attained at the trot. Bears, too, black, and brown, and grizzly, roamed about everywhere.

So numerous were all these creatures, that on one occasion the hunters of the party brought in six wild horses, three bears, four elks, and thirty red-deer; having shot them all a short distance ahead of the main body, and almost without diverging from the line of march. And this was a matter of every-day occurrence—as it had need to be, considering the number of mouths that had to be filled.

The feathered tribes were not less numerous. Chief among these were eagles and vultures of uncommon size, the wild goose, wild duck, and the majestic swan.

In the midst of such profusion the trappers spent a happy time of it, when not molested by the savages, but they frequently lost a horse or two in consequence of the expertness of these thievish fellows. They often wandered, however, for days at a time without seeing an Indian, and at such times they enjoyed to the full the luxuries with which a bountiful God had blessed these romantic regions.

Dick Varley was almost wild with delight. It was his first excursion into the remote wilderness; he was young, healthy, strong, and romantic; and it is a question whether his or his dog’s heart, or that of the noble wild horse he bestrode, bounded most with joy at the glorious sights, and sounds, and influences by which they were surrounded. It would have been perfection had it not been for the frequent annoyance and alarms caused by the Indians.

Alas! alas! that we who write and read about those wondrous scenes should have to condemn our own species as the most degraded of all the works of the Creator there! Yet so it is. Man, exercising his reason and conscience in the path of love and duty which his Creator points out, is God’s noblest work; but man, left to the freedom of his own fallen will, sinks morally lower than the beasts that perish. Well may every Christian wish and pray that the name and the gospel of the blessed Jesus may be sent speedily to the dark places of the earth; for you may read of, and talk about, but you cannot conceive the fiendish wickedness and cruelty which causes tearless eyes to glare, and maddened hearts to burst, in the lands of the heathen.

While we are on this subject let us add (and our young readers will come to know it if they are spared to see many years) that civilisation alone will never improve the heart. Let history speak and it will tell you that deeds of darkest hue have been perpetrated in so-called civilised, though pagan lands. Civilisation is like the polish that beautifies inferior furniture, which water will wash off if it be but hot enough. Christianity resembles dye, which permeates every fibre of the fabric, and which nothing can eradicate.

The success of the trappers in procuring beaver here was great. In all sorts of creeks and rivers they were found. One day they came to one of the curious rivers before mentioned, which burst suddenly out of a plain, flowed on for several miles, and then disappeared into the earth as suddenly as it had risen. Even in this strange place beaver were seen, so the traps were set, and a hundred and fifty were caught at the first lift.

The manner in which the party proceeded was as follows: They marched in a mass in groups or in a long line, according to the nature of the ground over which they travelled. The hunters of the party went forward a mile or two in advance, and scattered through the woods. After them came the advance-guard, being the bravest and most stalwart of the men mounted on their best steeds, and with rifle in hand; immediately behind followed the women and children, also mounted, and the pack-horses with the goods and camp equipage. Another band of trappers formed the rear-guard to this imposing cavalcade. There was no strict regimental order kept, but the people soon came to adopt the arrangements that were most convenient for all parties, and at length fell naturally into their places in the line of march.

Joe Blunt usually was the foremost and always the most successful of the hunters. He was therefore seldom seen on the march except at the hour of starting, and at night when he came back leading his horse, which always groaned under its heavy load of meat, Henri, being a hearty, jovial soul and fond of society, usually kept with the main body. As for Dick, he was everywhere at once, at least as much so as it is possible for human nature to be! His horse never wearied; it seemed to delight in going at full speed; no other horse in the troop could come near Charlie, and Dick indulged him by appearing now at the front, now at the rear, anon in the centre, and frequently nowhere!—having gone off with Crusoe, like a flash of lightning, after a buffalo or a deer. Dick soon proved himself to be the best hunter of the party, and it was not long before he fulfilled his promise to Crusoe, and decorated his neck with a collar of grizzly bear claws.

Well, when the trappers came to a river where there were signs of beaver, they called a halt, and proceeded to select a safe and convenient spot, near wood and water, for the camp. Here the property of the band was securely piled in such a manner as to form a breastwork or slight fortification, and here Walter Cameron established head-quarters. This was always the post of danger, being exposed to sudden attack by prowling savages, who often dogged the footsteps of the party in their journeyings to see what they could steal. But Cameron was an old hand, and they found it difficult to escape his vigilant eye.

From this point all the trappers were sent forth in small parties every morning in various directions, some on foot and some on horseback, according to the distances they had to go; but they never went further than twenty miles, as they had to return to camp every evening.

Each trapper had ten steel traps allowed him. These he set every night, and visited every morning, sometimes oftener, when practicable, selecting a spot in the stream where many trees had been cut down by beavers for the purpose of damming up the water. In some places as many as fifty tree stumps were seen in one spot, within the compass of half an acre, all cut through at about eighteen inches from the root. We may remark, in passing, that the beaver is very much like a gigantic water-rat, with this marked difference, that its tail is very broad and flat like a paddle. The said tail is a greatly esteemed article of food, as, indeed, is the whole body at certain seasons of the year. The beaver’s fore-legs are very small and short, and it uses its paws as hands to convey food to its mouth, sitting the while in an erect position on its hind-legs and tail. Its fur is a dense coat of a greyish-coloured down, concealed by long coarse hair, which lies smooth, and is of a bright chestnut colour. Its teeth and jaws are of enormous power; with them it can cut through the branch of a tree as thick as a walking-stick at one snap; and, as we have said, it gnaws through thick trees themselves.

As soon as a tree falls, the beavers set to work industriously to lop off the branches, which, as well as the smaller trunks, they cut into lengths, according to their weight and thickness. These are then dragged by main force to the water side, launched, and floated to their destination. Beavers build their houses, or “lodges,” under the banks of rivers and lakes, and always select those of such depth of water that there is no danger of their being frozen to the bottom; when such cannot be found, and they are compelled to build in small rivulets of insufficient depth, these clever little creatures dam up the waters until they are deep enough. The banks thrown up by them across rivulets for this purpose are of great strength, and would do credit to human engineers. Their “lodges” are built of sticks, mud, and stones, which form a compact mass; this freezes solid in winter, and defies the assaults of that house-breaker, the wolverine, an animal which is the beaver’s implacable foe. From this “lodge,” which is capable often of holding four old and six or eight young ones, a communication is maintained with the water below the ice, so that, should the wolverine succeed in breaking up the lodge, he finds the family “not at home,” they having made good their retreat by the back-door. When man acts the part of house-breaker, however, he cunningly shuts the back-door first, by driving stakes through the ice, and thus stopping the passage. Then he enters, and, we almost regret to say, finds the family at home. We regret it, because the beaver is a gentle, peaceable, affectionate, hairy little creature, towards which one feels an irresistible tenderness! But, to return from this long digression.

Our trappers having selected their several localities, set their traps in the water, so that when the beavers roamed about at night, they put their feet into them, and were caught and drowned; for, although they can swim and dive admirably, they cannot live altogether under water.

Thus the different parties proceeded, and in the mornings the camp was a busy scene indeed, for then the whole were engaged in skinning the animals. The beavers thus taken were always skinned, stretched, dried, folded up with the hair in the inside, laid by, and the flesh used for food.

But oftentimes the trappers had to go forth with the gun in one hand and their traps in the other, while they kept a sharp look out on the bushes to guard against surprise. Despite their utmost efforts a horse was occasionally stolen before their very eyes, and sometimes even an unfortunate trapper was murdered, and all his traps carried off.

An event of this kind occurred soon after the party had gained the western slopes of the mountains. Three Iroquois Indians, who belonged to the band of trappers, were sent to a stream about ten miles off. Having reached their destination, they all entered the water to set their traps, foolishly neglecting the usual precaution of one remaining on the bank to protect the others. They had scarcely commenced operations, when three arrows were discharged into their backs, and a party of Snake Indians rushed upon and slew them, carrying away their traps, and horses, and scalps. This was not known for several days, when, becoming anxious about their prolonged absence, Cameron sent out a party which found their mangled bodies affording a loathsome banquet to the wolves and vultures.

After this sad event the trappers were more careful to go in larger parties, and keep watch.

As long as beaver were taken in abundance the camp remained stationary, but whenever the beaver began to grow scarce, the camp was raised, and the party moved on to another valley.

One day Dick Varley came galloping into camp with the news that there were several bears in a valley not far distant, which he was anxious not to disturb until a number of the trappers were collected together to go out and surround them.

On receiving the information Walter Cameron shook his head.

“We have other things to do, young man,” said he, “than go a-hunting after bears. I’m just about making up my mind to send off a party to search out the valley on the other side of the Blue Mountains yonder, and bring back word if there are beaver there, for if not, I mean to strike away direct south. Now, if you’ve a mind to go with them, you’re welcome. I’ll warrant you’ll find enough in the way of bear-hunting to satisfy you; perhaps a little Indian hunting to boot, for if the Banattees get hold of your horses, you’ll have a long hunt before you find them again. Will you go?”

“Ay, right gladly,” replied Dick. “When do we start?”

“This afternoon.”

Dick went off at once to his own part of the camp to replenish his powder-horn and bullet pouch, and wipe out his rifle.

That evening the party, under command of a Canadian named Pièrre, set out for the Blue Hills. They numbered twenty men, and expected to be absent three days, for they merely went to reconnoitre, not to trap. Neither Joe nor Henri were of this party, both having been out hunting when it was organised. But Crusoe and Charlie were, of course!

Pièrre, although a brave and trusty man, was of a sour, angry disposition, and not a favourite with Dick, but the latter resolved to enjoy himself and disregard his sulky comrade. Being so well mounted, he not unfrequently shot far ahead of his companions, despite their warnings that he ran great risk by so doing. On one of these occasions he and Crusoe witnessed a very singular fight, which is worthy of record.

Dick had felt a little wilder in spirit that morning than usual, and on coming to a pretty open plain he gave the rein to Charlie, and with an “Adieu mes comerades,” he was out of sight in a few minutes. He rode on several miles in advance without checking speed, and then came to a wood where rapid motion was inconvenient, so he pulled up, and, dismounting, tied Charlie to a tree, while he sauntered on a short way on foot.

On coming to the edge of a small plain he observed two large birds engaged in mortal conflict. Crusoe observed them too, and would soon have put an end to the fight had Dick not checked him. Creeping as close to the belligerents as possible, he found that one was a wild turkey-cock, the other a white-headed eagle! These two stood with their heads down and all their feathers bristling for a moment, then they dashed at each other, and struck fiercely with their spurs as our domestic cocks do, but neither fell, and the fight was continued for about five minutes without apparent advantage on either side.

Dick now observed that, from the uncertainty of its motions, the turkey-cock was blind, a discovery which caused a throb of compunction to enter his breast for standing and looking on, so he ran forward. The eagle saw him instantly, and tried to fly away, but was unable from exhaustion.

“At him, Crusoe,” cried Dick, whose sympathies all lay with the other bird.

Crusoe went forward at a bound, and was met by a peck between the eyes that would have turned most dogs, but Crusoe only winked, and the next moment the eagle’s career was ended.

Dick found that the turkey-cock was quite blind, the eagle having thrust out both its eyes, so, in mercy, he put an end to its sufferings.

The fight had evidently been a long and severe one for the grass all round the spot, for about twenty yards, was beaten to the ground, and covered with the blood and feathers of the fierce combatants.

Meditating on the fight which he had just witnessed, Dick returned towards the spot where he had left Charlie, when he suddenly missed Crusoe from his side.

“Hallo, Crusoe! here, pup, where are you?” he cried.

The only answer to this was a sharp whizzing sound, and an arrow, passing close to his ear, quivered in a tree beyond. Almost at the same moment Crusoe’s angry roar was followed by a shriek from some one in fear or agony. Cocking his rifle, the young hunter sprang through the bushes towards his horse, and was just in time to save a Banattee Indian from being strangled by the dog. It had evidently scented out this fellow, and pinned him just as he was in the act of springing on the back of Charlie, for the halter was cut, and the savage lay on the ground close beside him.

Dick called off the dog, and motioned to the Indian to rise, which he did so nimbly that it was quite evident he had sustained no injury beyond the laceration of his neck by Crusoe’s teeth, and the surprise.

He was a tall strong Indian, for the tribe to which he belonged, so Dick proceeded to secure him at once. Pointing to his rifle and to the Indian’s breast, to show what he might expect if he attempted to escape, Dick ordered Crusoe to keep him steady in that position.

The dog planted himself in front of the savage, who began to tremble for his scalp, and gazed up in his face with a look which, to say the least of it, was the reverse of amiable, while Dick went towards his horse for the purpose of procuring a piece of cord to tie him with. The Indian naturally turned his head to see what was going to be done, but a peculiar gurgle in Crusoe’s throat made him turn it round again very smartly, and he did not venture, thereafter, to move a muscle.

In a few seconds Dick returned with a piece of leather and tied his hands behind his back. While this was being done the Indian glanced several times at his bow, which lay a few feet away, where it had fallen when the dog caught him, but Crusoe seemed to understand him, for he favoured him with such an additional display of teeth, and such a low—apparently distant, almost, we might say, subterranean—rumble, that he resigned himself to his fate.

His hands secured, a long line was attached to his neck with a running noose, so that if he ventured to run away the attempt would effect its own cure by producing strangulation. The other end of this line was given to Crusoe, who at the word of command marched him off, while Dick mounted Charlie and brought up the rear.

Great was the laughter and merriment when this apparition met the eyes of the trappers; but when they heard that he had attempted to shoot Dick their ire was raised, and a court-martial was held on the spot.

“Hang the reptile!” cried one.

“Burn him!” shouted another.

“No, no,” said a third; “don’t imitate them villains; don’t be cruel. Let’s shoot him.”

“Shoot ’im,” cried Pièrre; “Oui, dat is de ting; it too goot pour lui, mais, it shall be dooed.”

“Don’t ye think, lads, it would be better to let the poor wretch off?” said Dick Varley; “he’d p’raps give a good account o’ us to his people.”

There was a universal shout of contempt at this mild proposal. Unfortunately, few of the men sent on this exploring expedition were imbued with the peacemaking spirit of their chief; and most of them seemed glad to have a chance of venting their hatred of the poor Indians on this unhappy wretch, who although calm, looked sharply from one speaker to another, to gather hope, if possible, from the tones of their voices.

Dick was resolved at the risk of a quarrel with Pièrre to save the poor man’s life, and had made up his mind to insist on having him conducted to the camp to be tried by Cameron, when one of the men suggested that they should take the savage to the top of a hill about three miles further on, and there hang him up on a tree as a warning to all his tribe.

“Agreed, agreed,” cried the men; “come on.”

Dick, too, seemed to agree to this proposal, and hastily ordered Crusoe to run on ahead with the savage, an order which the dog obeyed so vigorously that before the men had done laughing at him, he was a couple of hundred yards ahead of them.

“Take care that he don’t get off!” cried Dick, springing on Charlie and stretching out at a gallop.

In a moment he was beside the Indian. Scraping together the little of the Indian language he knew, he stooped down, and, cutting the thongs that bound him, said—“Go, white men love the Indians.”

The man cast on his deliverer one glance of surprise, and the next moment bounded aside into the bushes and was gone.

A loud shout from the party behind showed that this act had been observed, and Crusoe stood with the end of the line in his mouth, and an expression on his face that said, “You’re absolutely incomprehensible, Dick! It’s all right, I know; but to my feeble capacity it seems wrong.”

“Fat for, you do dat?” shouted Pièrre in a rage, as he came up with a menacing look.

Dick confronted him. “The prisoner was mine. I had a right to do with him as it liked me.”

“True, true,” cried several of the men who had begun to repent of their resolution, and were glad the savage was off. “The lad’s right. Get along, Pièrre.”

“You had no right, you vas wrong. Oui, et I have goot vill to give you one knock on de nose.”

Dick looked Pièrre in the face, as he said this, in a manner that cowed him.

“It is time,” he said quietly, pointing to the sun, “to go on. Your bourgeois expects that time won’t be wasted.”

Pièrre muttered something in an angry tone, and, wheeling round his horse, dashed forward at full gallop followed by the rest of the men.

The trappers encamped that night on the edge of a wide grassy plain, which offered such tempting food for the horses that Pièrre resolved to forego his usual cautious plan of picketting them close to the camp, and set them loose on the plain, merely hobbling them to prevent their straying far.

Dick remonstrated, but in vain. An insolent answer was all he got for his pains. He determined, however, to keep Charlie close beside him all night, and also made up his mind to keep a sharp look out on the other horses.

At supper he again remonstrated.

“No fraid,” said Pièrre, whose pipe was beginning to improve his temper. “The red reptiles no dare to come in open plain when de moon so clear.”

“Dun know that,” said a taciturn trapper, who seldom ventured a remark of any kind; “them varmints ’ud steal the two eyes out o’ you’ head when they set their hearts on’t.”

“Dat ar’ umposs’ble, for de have no hearts,” said a half-breed; “dey have von hole vere de heart vas be.”

This was received with a shout of laughter, in the midst of which an appalling yell was heard, and, as if by magic, four Indians were seen on the backs of four of the best horses, yelling like fiends, and driving all the other horses furiously before them over the plain.

How they got there was a complete mystery, but the men did not wait to consider that point. Catching up their guns they sprang after them with the fury of madmen, and were quickly scattered far and wide. Dick ordered Crusoe to follow and help the men, and turned to spring on the back of Charlie, but at that moment he observed an Indian’s head and shoulders rise above the grass, not fifty yards in advance from him, so without hesitation he darted forward, intending to pounce upon him.

Well would it have been for Dick Varley had he at that time possessed a little more experience of the wiles and stratagems of the Banattees. The Snake nation is subdivided into several tribes, of which those inhabiting the Rocky Mountains, called the Banattees, are the most perfidious. Indeed, they are confessedly the banditti of the hills, and respect neither friend nor foe, but rob all who come in their way.

Dick reached the spot where the Indian had disappeared in less than a minute, but no savage was to be seen! Thinking he had crept ahead he ran on a few yards further, and darted about hither and thither, while his eye glanced from side to side. Suddenly a shout in the camp attracted his attention, and looking back he beheld the savage on Charlie’s back turning to fly. Next moment he was off and away far beyond the hope of recovery. Dick had left his rifle in the camp, otherwise the savage would have gone but a short way—as it was, Dick returned, and sitting down on a mound of grass, stared straight before him with a feeling akin to despair. Even Crusoe could not have helped him had he been there, for nothing on four legs, or on two, could keep pace with Charlie.

The Banattee achieved this feat by adopting a stratagem which invariably deceives those who are ignorant of their habits and tactics. When suddenly pursued the Banattee sinks into the grass, and, serpentlike, creeps along with wonderful rapidity, not from but towards his enemy, taking care, however, to avoid him, so that when the pursuer reaches the spot where the pursued is supposed to be hiding, he hears him shout a yell of defiance far away in the rear.

It was thus that the Banattee eluded Dick and gained the camp almost as soon as the other reached the spot where he had disappeared.

One by one the trappers came back weary, raging, and despairing. In a short time they all assembled, and soon began to reproach each other. Ere long one or two had a fight, which resulted in several bloody noses and black eyes, thus adding to the misery which, one would think, had been bad enough without such additions. At last they finished their suppers and their pipes, and then lay down to sleep under the trees till morning, when they arose in a particularly silent and sulky mood, rolled up their blankets, strapped their things on their shoulders, and began to trudge slowly back to the camp on foot.

Chapter Twenty One.

Wolves attack the horses, and Cameron circumvents the wolves—A bear-hunt, in which Henri shines conspicuous—Joe and the “Natter-list”—An alarm—A surprise and a capture.

We must now return to the camp where Walter Cameron still guarded the goods, and the men pursued their trapping avocations.

Here seven of the horses had been killed in one night by wolves while grazing in a plain close to the camp, and on the night following a horse that had strayed was also torn to pieces and devoured. The prompt and daring manner in which this had been done convinced the trader that white wolves had unfortunately scented them out, and he set several traps in the hope of capturing them.

White wolves are quite distinct from the ordinary wolves that prowl through woods and plains in large packs. They are much larger, weighing sometimes as much as a hundred and thirty pounds; but they are comparatively scarce, and move about alone, or in small bands of three or four. Their strength is enormous, and they are so fierce that they do not hesitate, upon occasions, to attack man himself. Their method of killing horses is very deliberate. Two wolves generally undertake the cold-blooded murder. They approach their victim with the most innocent looking and frolicsome gambols, lying down and rolling about, and frisking pleasantly until the horse becomes a little accustomed to them. Then one approaches right in front, the other in rear, still frisking playfully, until they think themselves near enough, when they make a simultaneous rush. The wolf which approaches in rear is the true assailant; the rush of the other is a mere feint; then both fasten on the poor horse’s haunches and never let go till the sinews are cut and he is rolling on his side.

The horse makes comparatively little struggle in this deadly assault. He seems paralysed and soon falls to rise no more.

Cameron set his traps towards evening in a circle with a bait in the centre and then retired to rest. Next morning he called Joe Blunt and the two went off together.

“It is strange that these rascally white wolves should be so bold when the smaller kinds are so cowardly,” remarked Cameron, as they walked along.

“So ’tis,” replied Joe, “but I’ve seed them other chaps bold enough too in the prairie when they were in large packs and starvin’.”

“I believe the small wolves follow the big fellows and help them to eat what they kill, though they generally sit round and look on at the killing.”

“Hist!” exclaimed Joe, cocking his gun, “there he is, an’ no mistake.”

There he was, undoubtedly. A wolf of the largest size with one of his feet in the trap. He was a terrible-looking object, for, besides his immense size and naturally ferocious aspect, his white hair bristled on end and was all covered with streaks and spots of blood from his bloody jaws. In his efforts to escape he had bitten the trap until he had broken his teeth and lacerated his gums, so that his appearance was hideous in the extreme. And when the two men came up he struggled with all his might to fly at them.

Cameron and Joe stood looking at him in a sort of wondering admiration.

“We’d better put a ball in him,” suggested Joe after a time. “Mayhap the chain won’t stand sich tugs long.”

“True, Joe; if it breaks we might get an ugly nip before we killed him.”

So saying Cameron fired into the wolf’s head and killed it. It was found, on examination, that four wolves had been in the traps, but the rest had escaped. Two of them, however, had gnawed off their paws and left them lying in the traps.

After this the big wolves did not trouble them again. The same afternoon, a bear-hunt was undertaken, which well-nigh cost one of the Iroquois his life. It happened thus:—

While Cameron and Joe were away after the white wolves, Henri came floundering into camp tossing his arms like a maniac, and shouting that “seven bars wos be down in de bush close bye!” It chanced that this was an idle day with most of the men, so they all leaped on their horses, and taking guns and knives sallied forth to give battle to the bears.

Arrived at the scene of action they found the seven bears busily engaged in digging up roots, so the men separated in order to surround them, and then closed in. The place was partly open and partly covered with thick bushes into which a horseman could not penetrate. The moment the bears got wind of what was going forward they made off as fast as possible, and then commenced a scene of firing, galloping, and yelling, that defies description! Four out of the seven were shot before they gained the bushes; the other three were wounded, but made good their retreat. As their places of shelter, however, were like islands in the plain, they had no chance of escaping.

The horsemen now dismounted and dashed recklessly into the bushes, where they soon discovered and killed two of the bears; the third was not found for some time. At last an Iroquois came upon it so suddenly that he had not time to point his gun before the bear sprang upon him and struck him to the earth, where it held him down.

Instantly the place was surrounded by eager men, but the bushes were so thick and the fallen trees among which the bear stood were so numerous, that they could not use their guns without running the risk of shooting their companion. Most of them drew their knives and seemed about to rush on the bear with these, but the monster’s aspect, as it glared round, was so terrible that they held back for a moment in hesitation.

At this moment Henri, who had been at some distance engaged in the killing of one of the other bears, came rushing forward after his own peculiar manner.

“Ah! fat is eet—hay? de bar no go under yit?”

Just then his eye fell on the wounded Iroquois with the bear above him, and he uttered a yell so intense in tone that the bear himself seemed to feel that something decisive was about to be done at last. Henri did not pause, but with a flying dash he sprang like a spread eagle, arms and legs extended, right into the bear’s bosom. At the same moment he sent his long hunting-knife down into its heart. But Bruin is proverbially hard to kill, and although mortally wounded, he had strength enough to open his jaws and close them on Henri’s neck.

There was a cry of horror, and at the same moment a volley was fired at the bear’s head, for the trappers felt that it was better to risk shooting their comrades than see them killed before their eyes. Fortunately the bullets took effect, and tumbled him over at once without doing damage to either of the men, although several of the balls just grazed Henri’s temple and carried off his cap.

Although uninjured by the shot, the poor Iroquois had not escaped scatheless from the paw of the bear. His scalp was torn almost off, and hung down over his eyes, while blood streamed down his face. He was conveyed by his comrades to the camp, where he lay two days in a state of insensibility, at the end of which time he revived and recovered daily. Afterwards when the camp moved he had to be carried, but in the course of two months he was as well as ever, and quite as fond of bear-hunting!

Among other trophies of this hunt there were two deer, and a buffalo, which last had probably strayed from the herd. Four or five Iroquois were round this animal whetting their knives for the purpose of cutting it up when Henri passed, so he turned aside to watch them perform the operation, quite regardless of the fact that his neck and face were covered with blood which flowed from one or two small punctures made by the bear.

The Indians began by taking off the skin, which certainly did not occupy them more than five minutes. Then they cut up the meat and made a pack of it, and cut out the tongue, which is somewhat troublesome, as that member requires to be cut out from under the jaw of the animal, and not through the natural opening of the mouth. One of the fore-legs was cut off at the knee joint, and this was used as a hammer with which to break the skull for the purpose of taking out the brains, these being used in the process of dressing and softening the animal’s skin. An axe would have been of advantage to break the skull, but in the hurry of rushing to the attack the Indians had forgotten their axes, so they adopted the common fashion of using the buffalo’s hoof as a hammer, the shank being the handle. The whole operation of flaying, cutting up, and packing the meat, did not occupy more than twenty minutes. Before leaving the ground these expert butchers treated themselves to a little of the marrow and warm liver in a raw state!

Cameron and Joe walked up to the group while they were indulging in this little feast.

“Well, I’ve often seen that eaten, but I never could do it myself,” remarked the former.

“No!” cried Joe in surprise; “now that’s oncommon cur’us. I’ve lived on raw liver an’ marrow-bones for two or three days at a time, when we wos chased by the Camanchee Injuns and didn’t dare to make a fire, an’ it’s ra’al good it is. Won’t ye try it now?”

Cameron shook his head.

“No, thankee; I’ll not refuse when I can’t help it, but until then I’ll remain in happy ignorance of how good it is.”

“Well, it is strange how some folk can’t abide anything in the meat way they han’t bin used to. D’ye know I’ve actually knowd men from the cities as wouldn’t eat a bit o’ horseflesh for love or money. Would ye believe it?”

“I can well believe that, Joe, for I have met with such persons myself; in fact, they are rather numerous. What are you chuckling at, Joe?”

“Chucklin’? if ye mean be that ‘larfin’ in to myself’ it’s because I’m thinkin’ o’ a chap as once comed out to the prairies.”

“Let us walk back to the camp, Joe, and you can tell me about him as we go along.”

“I think,” continued Joe, “he comed from Washington, but I never could make out right whether he wos a government man or not. Anyhow, he wos a pheelosopher—a natter-list I think he call his-self.”

“A naturalist,” suggested Cameron.

“Ay, that wos more like it. Well, he wos about six feet two in his moccasins, an’ as thin as a ramrod, an’ as blind as a bat—leastways he had weak eyes an wore green spectacles. He had on a grey shootin’ coat and trousers and vest and cap, with rid whiskers an’ a long nose as rid at the point as the whiskers wos.

“Well, this gentleman engaged me an’ another hunter to go a trip with him into the prairies, so off we sot one fine day on three hosses with our blankets at our backs—we wos to depend on the rifle for victuals. At first I thought the Natter-list one o’ the cruellest beggars as iver went on two long legs, for he used to go about everywhere pokin’ pins through all the beetles, and flies, an’ creepin’ things he could sot eyes on, an’ stuck them in a box; but he told me he comed here a-purpose to git as many o’ them as he could; so says I, ‘If that’s it, I’ll fill yer box in no time.’

“‘Will ye?’ says he, quite pleased like.

“‘I will,’ says I, an’ galloped off to a place as was filled wi’ all sorts o’ crawlin’ things. So I sets to work, and whenever I seed a thing crawlin’ I sot my fut on it and crushed it, and soon filled my breast pocket. I coched a lot o’ butterflies too, an’ stuffed them into my shot pouch, and went back in an hour or two an’ showed him the lot. He put on his green spectacles and looked at them as if he’d seen a rattlesnake.

“‘My good man,’ says he, ‘you’ve crushed them all to pieces!’

“‘They’ll taste as good for all that,’ says I, for somehow I’d taken’t in me head that he’d heard o’ the way the Injuns make soup o’ the grasshoppers, an was wantin’ to try his hand at a new dish!

“He laughed when I said this, an’ told me he wos collectin’ them to take home to be looked at. But that’s not wot I wos goin’ to tell ye about him,” continued Joe; “I wos goin’ to tell ye how we made him eat horseflesh. He carried a revolver, too, this Natter-list did, to load wi’ shot as small as dust a-most, and shoot little birds with. I’ve seed him miss birds only three feet away with it. An’ one day he drew it all of a suddent and let fly at a big bum-bee that wos passin’, yellin’ out that it wos the finest wot he had iver seed. He missed the bee, of coorse, cause it was a flyin’ shot, he said, but he sent the whole charge right into Martin’s back—Martin was my comrade’s name. By good luck Martin had on a thick leather coat, so the shot niver got the length o’ his skin.

“One day I noticed that the Natter-list had stuffed small corks into the muzzles of all the six barrels of his revolver. I wondered what they wos for, but he wos al’ays doin’ sich queer things that I soon forgot it. ‘May be,’ thought I, jist before it went out o’ my mind,—‘may be he thinks that ’ll stop the pistol from goin’ off by accident,’ for ye must know he’d let it off three times the first day by accident, and well-nigh blowed off his leg the last time, only the shot lodged in the back o’ a big toad he’d jist stuffed into his breeches’ pocket. Well, soon after, we shot a buffalo bull, so when it fell, off he jumps from his horse an runs up to it. So did I, for I wasn’t sure the beast was dead, an’ I had jist got up when it rose an’ rushed at the Natter-list.

“‘Out o’ the way,’ I yelled, for my rifle was empty; but he didn’t move, so I rushed forward an’ drew the pistol out o’ his belt and let fly in the bull’s ribs jist as it ran the poor man down. Martin came up that moment an’ put a ball through its heart, and then we went to pick up the Natter-list. He came to in a little, an’ the first thing he said was, ‘Where’s my revolver?’ When I gave it to him he looked at it, an’ said with a solemcholy shake o’ the head, ‘There’s a whole barrel-full lost!’ It turned out that he had taken to usin’ the barrels for bottles to hold things in, but he forgot to draw the charges, so sure enough I had fired a charge o’ bum-bees, an’ beetles, an’ small shot into the buffalo!

“But that’s not what I wos goin’ to tell ye yet. We comed to a part o’ the plains where we wos well-nigh starved for want o’ game, an’ the Natter-list got so thin that ye could a-most see through him, so I offered to kill my horse, an’ cut it up for meat; but you niver saw sich a face he made. ‘I’d rather die first,’ says he, ‘than eat it;’ so we didn’t kill it. But that very day Martin got a shot at a wild horse and killed it. The Natter-list was down in the bed o’ a creek at the time gropin’ for creepers, an’ he didn’t see it.

“‘He’ll niver eat it,’ says Martin.

“‘That’s true,’ says I.

“‘Let’s tell him it’s a buffalo,’ says he.

“‘That would be tellin’ a lie,’ says I.

“So we stood lookin’ at each other, not knowin’ what to do.

“‘I’ll tell ye what,’ cries Martin, ‘we’ll cut it up, and take the meat into camp and cook it without sayin’ a word.’

“‘Done,’ says I, ‘that’s it;’ for ye must know the poor creature wos no judge o’ meat. He couldn’t tell one kind from another, an’ he niver axed questions. In fact he niver a-most spoke to us all the trip. Well, we cut up the horse and carried the flesh and marrow-bones into camp, takin’ care to leave the hoofs and skin behind, and sot to work and roasted steaks and marrow-bones.

“When the Natter-list came back ye should ha’ seen the joyful face he put on when he smelt the grub, for he was all but starved out, poor critter.

“‘What have we got here?’ cried he, rubbin’ his hands and sittin’ down.

“‘Steaks an’ marrow-bones,’ says Martin.

“‘Capital!’ says he. ‘I’m so hungry.’

“So he fell to work like a wolf. I niver seed a man pitch into anything like as that Natter-list did into that horseflesh.

“‘These are first-rate marrow-bones,’ says he, squintin’ with one eye down the shin bone o’ the hind-leg to see if it was quite empty.

“‘Yes, sir, they is,’ answered Martin, as grave as a judge.

“‘Take another, sir,’ says I.

“‘No, thankee,’ says he with a sigh, for he didn’t like to leave off.

“Well, we lived for a week on horseflesh, an’ first-rate livin’ it wos; then we fell in with buffalo, an’ niver ran short again till we got to the settlements, when he paid us our money an’ shook hands, sayin’ we’d had a nice trip an’ he wished us well. Jist as we wos partin’ I said, says I, ‘D’ye know what it wos we lived on for a week arter we wos well-nigh starved in the prairies?’

“‘What,’ says he, ‘when we got yon capital marrow-bones?’

“‘The same,’ says I; ‘yon was horseflesh,’ says I, ‘an’ I think ye’ll sur’ly niver say again that it isn’t first-rate livin’.’

“‘Yer jokin’,’ says he, turnin’ pale.

“‘It’s true, sir, as true as yer standin’ there.’

“Well, would ye believe it; he turned—that Natter-list did—as sick as a dog on the spot wot he wos standin’ on, an’ didn’t taste meat again for three days!”

Shortly after the conclusion of Joe’s story they reached the camp, and here they found the women and children flying about in a state of terror, and the few men who had been left in charge arming themselves in the greatest haste.

“Hallo! something wrong here,” cried Cameron hastening forward followed by Joe. “What has happened, eh?”

“Injuns comin’, monsieur, look dere,” answered a trapper, pointing down the valley.

“Arm and mount at once, and come to the front of the camp,” cried Cameron in a tone of voice that silenced every other, and turned confusion into order.

The cause of all this outcry was a cloud of dust seen far down the valley, which was raised by a band of mounted Indians who approached the camp at full speed. Their numbers could not be made out, but they were a sufficiently formidable band to cause much anxiety to Cameron, whose men, at the time, were scattered to the various trapping grounds, and only ten chanced to be within call of the camp. However, with these ten he determined to show a bold front to the savages, whether they came as friends or foes. He therefore ordered the women and children within the citadel formed of the goods and packs of furs piled upon each other, which point of retreat was to be defended to the last extremity. Then galloping to the front he collected his men and swept down the valley at full speed. In a few minutes they were near enough to observe that the enemy only numbered four Indians, who were driving a band of about a hundred horses before them, and so busy were they in keeping the troop together that Cameron and his men were close upon them before they were observed.

It was too late to escape. Joe Blunt and Henri had already swept round and cut off their retreat. In this extremity the Indians slipped from the backs of their steeds and darted into the bushes, where they were safe from pursuit, at least on horseback, while the trappers got behind the horses and drove them towards the camp.

At this moment one of the horses sprang ahead of the others and made for the mountain, with its mane and tail flying wildly in the breeze.

“Marrow-bones and buttons!” shouted one of the men, “there goes Dick Varley’s horse.”

“So it am!” cried Henri, and dashed off in pursuit, followed by Joe and two others.

“Why, these are our own horses,” said Cameron in surprise, as they drove them into a corner of the hills from which they could not escape.

This was true, but it was only half the truth, for, besides their own horses, they had secured upwards of seventy Indian steeds, a most acceptable addition to their stud, which, owing to casualties and wolves, had been diminishing too much of late. The fact was, that the Indians who had captured the horses belonging to Pièrre and his party were a small band of robbers who had travelled, as was afterwards learned, a considerable distance from the south, stealing horses from various tribes as they went along. As we have seen, in an evil hour they fell in with Pièrre’s party and carried off their steeds, which they drove to a pass leading from one valley to the other. Here they united them with the main band of their ill-gotten gains, and while the greater number of the robbers descended further into the plains in search of more booty, four of them were sent into the mountains with the horses already procured. These four, utterly ignorant of the presence of white men in the valley, drove their charge, as we have seen, almost into the camp.

Cameron immediately organised a party to go out in search of Pièrre and his companions, about whose fate he became intensely anxious, and in the course of half an hour as many men as he could spare with safety were despatched in the direction of the Blue Mountains.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Charlie’s adventures with savages and bears—Trapping life.

It is one thing to chase a horse; it is another thing to catch it. Little consideration and less sagacity is required to convince us of the truth of that fact.

The reader may perhaps venture to think this rather a trifling fact. We are not so sure of that. In this world of fancies, to have any fact incontestably proved and established is a comfort, and whatever is a source of comfort to mankind is worthy of notice. Surely our reader won’t deny that! Perhaps he will, so we can only console ourself with the remark that there are people in this world who would deny anything—who would deny that there was a nose on their face if you said there was!

Well, to return to the point, which was the chase of a horse in the abstract; from which we will rapidly diverge to the chase of Dick Varley’s horse in particular. This noble charger, having been ridden by savages until all his old fire, and blood, and metal were worked up to a red heat, no sooner discovered that he was pursued than he gave a snort of defiance, which he accompanied with a frantic shake of his mane, and a fling of contempt in addition to a magnificent wave of his tail; then he thundered up the valley at a pace which would speedily have left Joe Blunt and Henri out of sight behind if—ay! that’s the word, if! what a word that if is! what a world of if’s we live in! There never was anything that wouldn’t have been something else if something hadn’t intervened to prevent it! Yes, we repeat, Charlie would have left his two friends miles and miles behind in what is called “no time,” if he had not run straight into a gorge which was surrounded by inaccessible precipices, and out of which there was no exit except by the entrance, which was immediately barred by Henri, while Joe advanced to catch the runaway.

For two hours at least did Joe Blunt essay to catch Charlie, and during that space of time he utterly failed. The horse seemed to have made up his mind for what is vulgarly termed “a lark.”

“It won’t do, Henri,” said Joe, advancing towards his companion, and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his leathern coat. “I can’t catch him. The wind’s a-most blowed out o’ me body.”

“Dat am vexatiable,” replied Henri, in a tone of commiseration. “S’pose I wos make try?”

“In that case I s’pose ye would fail. But go ahead an’ do what ye can. I’ll hold yer horse.”

So Henri began by a rush and a flourish of legs and arms that nearly frightened the horse out his wits. For half an hour he went through all the complications of running and twisting of which he was capable, without success, when Joe Blunt suddenly uttered a stentorian yell that rooted him to the spot on which he stood.

To account for this, we must explain that in the heights of the Rocky Mountains vast accumulations of snow take place among the crevices and gorges during winter. Such of these masses as form on steep slopes are loosened by occasional thaws, and are precipitated in the form of avalanches into the valleys below, carrying trees and stones along with them in their thundering descent. In the gloomy gorge where Dick’s horse had taken refuge, the precipices were so steep that many avalanches had occurred, as was evident from the mounds of heaped snow that lay at the foot of most of them. Neither stones nor trees were carried down here, however, for the cliffs were nearly perpendicular, and the snow slipping over their edges had fallen on the grass below. Such an avalanche was now about to take place, and it was this that caused Joe to utter his cry of alarm and warning.

Henri and the horse were directly under the cliff over which it was about to be hurled, the latter close to the wall of rock, the other at some distance away from it.

Joe cried again, “Back, Henri! back vite!” when the mass flowed over and fell with a roar like prolonged thunder. Henri sprang back in time to save his life, though he was knocked down and almost stunned, but poor Charlie was completely buried under the avalanche, which now presented the appearance of a hill of snow.

The instant Henri recovered sufficiently, Joe and he mounted their horses and galloped back to the camp as fast as possible.

Meanwhile, another spectator stepped forward upon the scene they had left, and surveyed the snow hill with a critical eye. This was no less than a grizzly bear which had, unobserved, been a spectator, and which immediately proceeded to dig into the mound with the purpose, no doubt, of disentombing the carcase of the horse for purposes of his own.

While he was thus actively engaged, the two hunters reached the camp where they found that Pièrre and his party had just arrived. The men sent out in search of them had scarcely advanced a mile when they found them trudging back to the camp in a very disconsolate manner. But all their sorrows were put to flight on hearing of the curious way in which the horses had been returned to them with interest.

Scarcely had Dick Varley, however, congratulated himself on the recovery of his gallant steed, when he was thrown into despair by the sudden arrival of Joe with the tidings of the catastrophe we have just related.

Of course there was a general rush to the rescue. Only a few men were ordered to remain to guard the camp, while the remainder mounted their horses and galloped towards the gorge where Charlie had been entombed. On arriving, they found that Bruin had worked with such laudable zeal that nothing but the tip of his tail was seen sticking out of the hole which he had dug. The hunters could not refrain from laughing as they sprang to the ground, and standing in a semicircle in front of the hole, prepared to fire. But Crusoe resolved to have the honour of leading the assault. He seized fast hold of Bruin’s flank, and caused his teeth to meet therein. Caleb backed out at once and turned round, but before he could recover from his surprise a dozen bullets pierced his heart and brain.

“Now, lads,” cried Cameron, setting to work with a large wooden shovel, “work like niggers. If there’s any life left in the horse it’ll soon be smothered out unless we set him free.”

The men needed no urging, however. They worked as if their lives depended on their exertions. Dick Varley, in particular, laboured like a young Hercules, and Henri hurled masses of snow about in a most surprising manner. Crusoe, too, entered heartily into the spirit of the work, and, scraping with his forepaws, sent such a continuous shower of snow behind him that he was speedily lost to view in a hole of his own excavating. In the course of half an hour a cavern was dug in the mound almost close up to the cliff, and the men were beginning to look about for the crushed body of Dick’s steed, when an exclamation from Henri attracted their attention.

“Ha! mes ami, here am be one hole.”

The truth of this could not be doubted, for the eccentric trapper had thrust his shovel through the wall of snow into what appeared to be a cavern beyond, and immediately followed up his remark by thrusting in his head and shoulders. He drew them out in a few seconds, with a look of intense amazement.

“Voilà! Joe Blunt. Look in dere, and you shall see fat you will behold.”

“Why, it’s the horse, I do b’lieve!” cried Joe. “Go ahead, lads.”

So saying, he resumed his shovelling vigorously, and in a few minutes the hole was opened up sufficiently to enable a man to enter. Dick sprang in, and there stood Charlie close beside the cliff, looking as sedate and unconcerned as if all that had been going on had no reference to him whatever.

The cause of his safety was simple enough. The precipice beside which he stood when the avalanche occurred overhung its base at that point considerably, so that when the snow descended, a clear space of several feet wide was left all along its base. Here Charlie had remained in perfect comfort until his friends dug him out.

Congratulating themselves not a little on having saved the charger and bagged a grizzly bear, the trappers remounted, and returned to the camp.

For some time after this nothing worthy of particular note occurred. The trapping operations went on prosperously and without interruption from the Indians, who seemed to have left the locality altogether. During this period, Dick, and Crusoe, and Charlie had many excursions together, and the silver rifle full many a time sent death to the heart of bear, and elk, and buffalo, while, indirectly, it sent joy to the heart of man, woman, and child in camp, in the shape of juicy steaks and marrow-bones. Joe and Henri devoted themselves almost exclusively to trapping beaver, in which pursuit they were so successful that they speedily became wealthy men, according to backwood notions of wealth. With the beaver that they caught, they purchased from Cameron’s store powder and shot enough for a long hunting expedition and a couple of spare horses to carry their packs. They also purchased a large assortment of such goods and trinkets as would prove acceptable to Indians, and supplied themselves with new blankets, and a few pairs of strong moccasins, of which they stood much in need.

Thus they went on from day to day, until symptoms of the approach of winter warned them that it was time to return to the Mustang Valley. About this time an event occurred which totally changed the aspect of affairs in these remote valleys of the Rocky Mountains, and precipitated the departure of our four friends, Dick, Joe, Henri, and Crusoe. This was the sudden arrival of a whole tribe of Indians. As their advent was somewhat remarkable, we shall devote to it the commencement of a new chapter.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Savage sports—Living cataracts—An alarm—Indians and their doings—The stampedo—Charlie again.

One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the rocky gorge, where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in.

Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him, so that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky. Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark caverns, and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt there, when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe attracted him.

“What is’t, pup?” said he, laying his hand on the dog’s broad back.

Crusoe looked the answer, “I don’t know, Dick, but it’s something, you may depend upon it, else I would not have disturbed you.”

Dick lifted his rifle from the ground, and laid it in the hollow of his left arm.

“There must be something in the wind,” remarked Dick.

As wind is known to be composed of two distinct gases, Crusoe felt perfectly safe in replying “Yes,” with his tail. Immediately after he added, “Hallo! did you hear that?”—with his ears.

Dick did hear it, and sprang hastily to his feet, as a sound like, yet unlike, distant thunder came faintly down upon the breeze. In a few seconds the sound increased to a roar in which was mingled the wild cries of men. Neither Dick nor Crusoe moved, for the sounds came from behind the heights in front of them, and they felt that the only way to solve the question, “What can the sounds be?” was to wait till the sounds should solve it themselves.

Suddenly the muffled sounds gave place to the distinct bellowing of cattle, the clatter of innumerable hoofs, and the yells of savage men, while at the same moment the edges of the opposite cliffs became alive with Indians and buffaloes rushing about in frantic haste—the former almost mad with savage excitement, the latter with blind rage and terror.

On reaching the edge of the dizzy precipice, the buffaloes turned abruptly and tossed their ponderous heads as they coursed along the edge. Yet a few of them, unable to check their headlong course, fell over, and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Such falls, Dick observed, were hailed with shouts of delight by the Indians, whose sole object evidently was to enjoy the sport of driving the terrified animals over the precipice. The wily savages had chosen their ground well for this purpose.

The cliff immediately opposite to Dick Varley was a huge projection from the precipice that hemmed in the gorge, or species of cape or promontory several hundred yards wide at the base, and narrowing abruptly to a point. The sides of this wedge-shaped projection were quite perpendicular; indeed, in some places the top overhung the base, and they were at least three hundred feet high. Broken and jagged rocks, of that peculiarly chaotic character which probably suggested the name to this part of the great American chain, projected from, and were scattered all round, the cliffs. Over these the Indians, whose numbers increased every moment, strove to drive the luckless herd of buffaloes that had chanced to fall in their way. The task was easy. The unsuspecting animals, of which there were hundreds, rushed in a dense mass upon the cape referred to. On they came with irresistible impetuosity, bellowing furiously, while their hoofs thundered on the turf with the muffled continuous roar of a distant, but mighty cataract—the Indians, meanwhile, urging them on by hideous yell and frantic gesture.

The advance-guard came bounding madly to the edge of the precipice. Here they stopped short, and gazed affrighted at the gulf below. It was but for a moment. The irresistible momentum of the flying mass behind pushed them over. Down they came, absolutely a living cataract, upon the rocks below. Some struck on the projecting rocks in the descent, and their bodies were dashed almost in pieces, while their blood spurted out in showers. Others leaped from rock to rock with awful bounds, until, losing their foot-hold, they fell headlong, while others descended sheer down into the sweltering mass that lay shattered at the base of the cliffs.

Dick Varley and his dog remained rooted to the rock, as they gazed at the sickening sight, as if petrified. Scarce fifty of that noble herd of buffaloes escaped the awful leap, but they escaped only to fall before the arrows of their ruthless pursuers. Dick had often heard of this tendency of the Indians, where buffaloes were very numerous, to drive them over precipices in mere wanton sport and cruelty, but he had never seen it until now, and the sight filled his soul with horror. It was not until the din and tumult of the perishing herd and the shrill yells of the Indians had almost died away that he turned to quit the spot. But the instant he did so another shout was raised. The savages had observed him, and were seen galloping along the cliffs towards the head of the gorge, with the obvious intention of gaining the other side and capturing him. Dick sprang on Charlie’s back, and the next instant was flying down the valley towards the camp.

He did not, however, fear being overtaken, for the gorge could not be crossed, and the way round the head of it was long and rugged; but he was anxious to alarm the camp as quickly as possible, so that they might have time to call in the more distant trappers and make preparations for defence.

“Where away now, youngster,” inquired Cameron, emerging from his tent as Dick, taking the brook that flowed in front at a flying leap, came crashing through the bushes into the midst of the fur-packs at full speed.

“Injuns!” ejaculated Dick, reining up, and vaulting out of the saddle. “Hundreds of ’em. Fiends incarnate every one!”

“Are they near?”

“Yes; an hour ’ll bring them down on us. Are Joe and Henri far from camp to-day?”

“At Ten-mile Creek,” replied Cameron with an expression of bitterness, as he caught up his gun and shouted to several men, who hurried up on seeing our hero’s burst into camp.

“Ten-mile Creek!” muttered Dick. “I’ll bring ’em in, though,” he continued, glancing at several of the camp horses that grazed close at hand.

In another moment he was on Charlie’s back, the line of one of the best horses was in his hand, and almost before Cameron knew what he was about he was flying down the valley like the wind. Charlie often stretched out at full speed to please his young master, but seldom had he been urged forward as he was upon this occasion. The led horse being light and wild, kept well up, and, in a marvellously short space of time, they were at Ten-mile Creek.

“Hallo, Dick, wot’s to do?” inquired Joe Blunt, who was up to his knees in the water, setting a trap at the moment his friend galloped up.

“Injuns! Where’s Henri?” demanded Dick.

“At the head o’ the dam there.”

Dick was off in a moment, and almost instantly returned with Henri galloping beside him.

No word was spoken. In time of action these men did not waste words. During Dick’s momentary absence, Joe Blunt had caught up his rifle and examined the priming, so that when Dick pulled up beside him, he merely laid his hand on the saddle, saying, “All right!” as he vaulted on Charlie’s back behind his young companion. In another moment they were away at full speed. The mustang seemed to feel that unwonted exertions were required of him. Double weighted though he was, he kept well up with the other horse, and in less than two hours after Dick’s leaving the camp the three hunters came in sight of it.

Meanwhile Cameron had collected nearly all his forces, and put his camp in a state of defence before the Indians arrived, which they did suddenly, and, as usual, at full gallop, to the amount of at least two hundred. They did not at first seem disposed to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, but assembled in a semicircle round the camp in a menacing attitude, while one of their chiefs stepped forward to hold a palaver. For some time the conversation on both sides was polite enough, but by degrees the Indian chief assumed an imperious tone, and demanded gifts from the trappers, taking care to enforce his request by hinting that thousands of his countrymen were not far distant. Cameron stoutly refused, and the palaver threatened to come to an abrupt and unpleasant termination just at the time that Dick and his friends appeared on the scene of action.

The brook was cleared at a bound; the three hunters leaped from their steeds and sprang to the front with a degree of energy that had a visible effect on the savages, and Cameron, seizing the moment, proposed that the two parties should smoke a pipe and hold a council. The Indians agreed, and in a few minutes they were engaged in animated and friendly intercourse. The speeches were long, and the compliments paid on either side were inflated, and, we fear, undeserved; but the result of the interview was, that Cameron made the Indians a present of tobacco and a few trinkets, and sent them back to their friends to tell them that he was willing to trade with them.

Next day the whole tribe arrived in the valley, and pitched their deerskin tents on the plain opposite to the camp of the white men. Their numbers far exceeded Cameron’s expectation, and it was with some anxiety that he proceeded to strengthen his fortifications as much as circumstances and the nature of the ground would admit.

The Indian camp, which numbered upwards of a thousand souls, was arranged with great regularity, and was divided into three distinct sections, each section being composed of a separate tribe. The Great Snake Nation at that time embraced three tribes or divisions—namely, the Shirry-dikas, or dog-eaters; the War-are-ree-kas, or fish-eaters; and the Banattees, or robbers. These were the most numerous and powerful Indians on the west side of the Rocky Mountains. The Shirry-dikas dwelt in the plains, and hunted the buffaloes; dressed well; were cleanly; rich in horses; bold, independent, and good warriors. The War-are-ree-kas lived chiefly by fishing, and were found on the banks of the rivers and lakes throughout the country. They were more corpulent, slovenly, and indolent than the Shirry-dikas, and more peaceful. The Banattees, as we have before mentioned, were the robbers of the mountains. They were a wild and contemptible race, and at enmity with every one. In summer they went about nearly naked. In winter they clothed themselves in the skins of rabbits and wolves. Being excellent mimics, they could imitate the howling of wolves, the neighing of horses, and the cries of birds, by which means they could approach travellers, rob them, and then fly to their rocky fastnesses in the mountains, where pursuit was vain.

Such were the men who now assembled in front of the camp of the fur-traders, and Cameron soon found that the news of his presence in the country had spread far and wide among the natives, bringing them to the neighbourhood of his camp in immense crowds, so that, during the next few days, their numbers increased to thousands.

Several long palavers quickly ensued between the red men and the white, and the two great chiefs who seemed to hold despotic rule over the assembled tribes were extremely favourable to the idea of universal peace which was propounded to them. In several set speeches of great length and very considerable power, these natural orators explained their willingness to enter into amicable relations with all the surrounding nations as well as with the white men.

“But,” said Pee-eye-em, the chief of the Shirry-dikas, a man above six feet high, and of immense muscular strength,—“but my tribe cannot answer for the Banattees, who are robbers, and cannot be punished, because they dwell in scattered families among the mountains. The Banattees are bad; they cannot be trusted.”

None of the Banattees were present at the council when this was said; and if they had been it would have mattered little, for they were neither fierce nor courageous, although bold enough in their own haunts to murder and rob the unwary.

The second chief did not quite agree with Pee-eye-em; he said that it was impossible for them to make peace with their natural enemies, the Peigans and the Blackfeet on the east side of the mountains. It was very desirable, he admitted, but neither of these tribes would consent to it, he felt sure.

Upon this Joe blunt rose and said, “The great chief of the War-are-ree-kas is wise, and knows that enemies cannot be reconciled unless deputies are sent to make proposals of peace.”

“The Pale-face does not know the Blackfeet,” answered the chief. “Who will go into the lands of the Blackfeet? My young men have been sent once and again, and their scalps are now fringes to the leggings of their enemies. The War-are-ree-kas do not cross the mountains but for the purpose of making war.”

“The chief speaks truth,” returned Joe, “yet there are three men round the council-fire who will go to the Blackfeet and the Peigans with messages of peace from the Snakes if they wish it.”

Joe pointed to himself, Henri, and Dick as he spoke, and added, “We three do not belong to the camp of the fur-traders; we only lodge with them for a time. The Great Chief of the white men has sent us to make peace with the Red-men, and to tell them that he desires to trade with them—to exchange hatchets, and guns, and blankets for furs.”

This declaration interested the two chiefs greatly, and after a good deal of discussion they agreed to take advantage of Joe Blunt’s offer, and appoint him as a deputy to the court of their enemies. Having arranged these matters to their satisfaction, Cameron bestowed a red flag and a blue surtout with brass buttons on each of the chiefs, and a variety of smaller articles on the other members of the council, and sent them away in a particularly amiable frame of mind.

Pee-eye-em burst the blue surtout at the shoulders and elbows in putting it on, as it was much too small for his gigantic frame, but, never having seen such an article of apparel before, he either regarded this as the natural and proper consequence of putting it on, or was totally indifferent to it, for he merely looked at the rents with a smile of satisfaction, while his squaw surreptitiously cut off the two back buttons and thrust them into her bosom.

By the time the council closed the night was far advanced, and a bright moon was shedding a flood of soft light over the picturesque and busy scene.

“I’ll go to the Injun camp,” said Joe to Walter Cameron, as the chiefs rose to depart. “The season’s far enough advanced already; it’s time to be off; and if I’m to speak for the Red-skins in the Blackfeet Council, I’d need to know what to say.”

“Please yourself, Master Blunt,” answered Cameron. “I like your company and that of your friends, and if it suited you I would be glad to take you along with us to the coast of the Pacific; but your mission among the Indians is a good one, and I’ll help it on all I can. I suppose you will go also?” he added, turning to Dick Varley, who was still seated beside the council-fire caressing Crusoe.

“Wherever Joe goes, I go,” answered Dick.

Crusoe’s tail, ears and eyes demonstrated high approval of the sentiment involved in this speech.

“And your friend Henri?”

“He goes too,” answered Joe. “It’s as well that the Red-skins should see the three o’ us before we start for the east side o’ the mountains. Ho! Henri, come here, lad.”

Henri obeyed, and in a few seconds the three friends crossed the brook to the Indian camp, and were guided to the principal lodge by Pee-eye-em. Here a great council was held, and the proposed attempt at negotiations for peace with their ancient enemies fully discussed. While they were thus engaged, and just as Pee-eye-em had, in the energy of an enthusiastic peroration burst the blue surtout almost up to the collar, a distant rushing sound was heard, which caused every man to spring to his feet, run out of the tent, and seize his weapons.

“What can it be, Joe?” whispered Dick, as they stood at the tent door leaning on their rifles, and listening intently.

“Dunno,” answered Joe shortly.

Most of the numerous fires of the camp had gone out, but the bright moon revealed the dusky forms of thousands of Indians, whom the unwonted sound had startled, moving rapidly about.

The mystery was soon explained. The Indian camp was pitched on an open plain of several miles in extent, which took a sudden bend half a mile distant, where a spur of the mountains shut out the further end of the valley from view. From beyond this point the dull rumbling sound proceeded. Suddenly there was a roar as if a mighty cataract had been let loose upon the scene. At the same moment a countless herd of wild horses came thundering round the base of the mountain and swept over the plain straight towards the Indian camp.

“A stampedo!” cried Joe, springing to the assistance of Pee-eye-em, whose favourite horses were picketted near the tent.

On they came like a living torrent, and the thunder of a thousand hoofs was soon mingled with the howling of hundreds of dogs in the camp, and the yelling of Indians, as they vainly endeavoured to restrain the rising excitement of their steeds. Henri and Dick stood rooted to the ground, gazing in silent wonder at the fierce and uncontrollable gallop of the thousands of panic-stricken horses that bore down upon the camp with the tumultuous violence of a mighty cataract.

As the maddened troop drew nigh, the camp horses began to snort and tremble violently, and when the rush of the wild steeds was almost upon them, they became ungovernable with terror, broke their halters and hobbles, and dashed wildly about. To add to the confusion at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon and threw the whole scene into deep obscurity. Blind with terror, which was probably increased by the din of their own mad flight, the galloping troop came on, and, with a sound like the continuous roar of thunder that for an instant drowned the yell of dog and man, they burst upon the camp, trampling over packs and skins, and dried meat, etcetera, in their headlong speed, and overturning several of the smaller tents. In another moment they swept out upon the plain beyond, and were soon lost in the darkness of the night, while the yelping of dogs, as they vainly pursued them, mingled and gradually died away with the distant thunder of their retreat.

This was a “stampedo,” one of the most extraordinary scenes that can be witnessed in the western wilderness.

“Lend a hand, Henri,” shouted Joe, who was struggling with a powerful horse. “Wot’s comed over yer brains, man? This brute ’ll git off if ye don’t look sharp.”

Dick and Henri both answered to the summons, and they succeeded in throwing the struggling animal on its side and holding it down until its excitement was somewhat abated. Pee-eye-em had also been successful in securing his favourite hunter, but nearly every other horse belonging to the camp had broken loose and joined the whirlwind gallop, but they gradually dropped out, and, before morning, the most of them were secured by their owners. As there were at least two thousand horses and an equal number of dogs in the part of the Indian camp which had been thus over-run by the wild mustangs, the turmoil, as may be imagined, was prodigious! Yet, strange to say, no accident of a serious nature occurred beyond the loss of several chargers.

In the midst of this exciting scene there was one heart there which beat with a nervous vehemence that well-nigh burst it. This was the heart of Dick Varley’s horse, Charlie. Well-known to him was that distant rumbling sound that floated on the night air into the fur-trader’s camp where he was picketted close to Cameron’s tent. Many a time had he heard the approach of such a wild troop, and often, in days not long gone by, had his shrill neigh rung out as he joined and led the panic-stricken band. He was first to hear the sound, and by his restive actions, to draw the attention of the fur-traders to it. As a precautionary measure they all sprang up and stood by their horses to soothe them, but as a brook with a belt of bushes and quarter of a mile of plain intervened between their camp and the mustangs as they flew past, they had little or no trouble in restraining them. Not so, however, with Charlie. At the very moment that his master was congratulating himself on the supposed security of his position, he wrenched the halter from the hand of him who held it, burst through the barrier of felled trees that had been thrown round the camp, cleared the brook at a bound, and, with a wild hilarious neigh, resumed his old place in the ranks of the free-born mustangs of the prairie.

Little did Dick think, when the flood of horses swept past him, that his own good steed was there, rejoicing in his recovered liberty. But Crusoe knew it. Ay, the wind had borne down the information to his acute nose before the living storm burst upon the camp, and when Charlie rushed past with the long tough halter trailing at his heels, Crusoe sprang to his side, seized the end of the halter with his teeth, and galloped off along with him.

It was a long gallop and a tough one, but Crusoe held on, for it was a settled principle in his mind never to give in. At first the check upon Charlie’s speed was imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic dog began to tell, and, after a time, they fell a little to the rear; then, by good fortune, the troop passed through a mass of underwood, and the line, getting entangled, brought their mad career forcibly to a close; the mustangs passed on, and the two friends were left to keep each other company in the dark.

How long they would have remained thus is uncertain, for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a complicated entanglement; fortunately, however, in his energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe’s sharp teeth partially severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie caused it to part. Before he could escape, Crusoe again seized the end of it and led him slowly but steadily back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside until he had placed the line in Dick Varley’s hand.

“Hallo, pup! where have ye bin. How did ye bring him here?” exclaimed Dick, as he gazed in amazement at his foam-covered horse.

Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, “Be thankful that you’ve got him, Dick, my boy, and don’t ask questions that you know I can’t answer.”

“He must ha’ broke loose and jined the stampedo,” remarked Joe, coming out of the chief’s tent at the moment; “but tie him up, Dick, and come in, for we want to settle about startin’ to-morrow or nixt day.”

Having fastened Charlie to a stake, and ordered Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where the council had re-assembled, and where Pee-eye-em—having, in the recent struggle, split the blue surtout completely up to the collar, so that his backbone was visible throughout the greater part of its length—was holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient enemies of the Shirry-dikas, in particular.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Plans and prospects—Dick becomes home-sick, and Henri metaphysical—The Indians attack the camp—A blow-up.

On the following day the Indians gave themselves up to unlimited feasting, in consequence of the arrival of a large body of hunters with an immense supply of buffalo meat. It was a regular day of rejoicing. Upwards of six hundred buffaloes had been killed, and as the supply of meat before their arrival had been ample, the camp was now overflowing with plenty. Feasts were given by the chiefs, and the medicine-men went about the camp uttering loud cries, which were meant to express gratitude to the Great Spirit for the bountiful supply of food. They also carried a portion of meat to the aged and infirm who were unable to hunt for themselves, and had no young men in their family circle to hunt for them.

This arrival of the hunters was a fortunate circumstance, as it put the Indians in great good-humour, and inclined them to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, who for some time continued to drive a brisk trade in furs. Having no market for the disposal of their furs, the Indians of course had more than they knew what to do with, and were therefore glad to exchange those of the most beautiful and valuable kind for a mere trifle, so that the trappers laid aside their traps for a time and devoted themselves to traffic.

Meanwhile Joe Blunt and his friends made preparations for their return journey.

“Ye see,” remarked Joe to Henri and Dick, as they sat beside the fire in Pee-eye-em’s lodge, and feasted on a potful of grasshopper soup, which the great chiefs squaw had just placed before them,—“ye see, my calc’lations is as follows. Wot with trappin’ beavers and huntin’, we three ha’ made enough to sot us up, an it likes us, in the Mustang Valley—”

“Ha!” interrupted Dick, remitting for a few seconds the use of his teeth in order to exercise his tongue,—“ha! Joe, but it don’t like me! What, give up a hunter’s life and become a farmer? I should think not!”

“Bon!” ejaculated Henri, but whether the remark had reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment, we cannot tell.

“Well,” continued Joe, commencing to devour a large buffalo steak with a hunter’s appetite, “ye’ll please yourselves, lads, as to that; but, as I wos sayin’, we’ve got a powerful lot o’ furs, an’ a big pack o’ odds and ends for the Injuns we chance to meet with by the way, an’ powder and lead to last us a twelve-month, besides five good horses to carry us an’ our packs over the plains; so if it’s agreeable to you, I mean to make a bee-line for the Mustang Valley. We’re pretty sure to meet with Blackfeet on the way, and if we do we’ll try to make peace between them an’ the Snakes. I ’xpect it’ll be pretty well on for six weeks afore we git to home, so we’ll start to-morrow.”

“Dat is fat vill do ver’ vell,” said Henri; “vill you please donnez me one petit morsel of steak.”

“I’m ready for anything, Joe,” cried Dick, “you are leader. Just point the way, and I’ll answer for two o’ us followin’ ye—eh! won’t we, Crusoe?”

“We will,” remarked the dog quietly.

“How comes it,” inquired Dick, “that these Indians don’t care for our tobacco?”

“They like their own better, I s’pose,” answered Joe; “most all the western Injuns do. They make it o’ the dried leaves o’ the shumack and the inner bark o’ the red-willow, chopped very small an’ mixed together. They call this stuff Kinnekinnik, but they like to mix about a fourth o’ our tobacco with it, so Pee-eye-em tells me, an’ he’s a good judge; the amount that red-skinned mortal smokes is oncommon.”

“What are they doin’ yonder?” inquired Dick, pointing to a group of men who had been feasting for some time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio.

“Goin’ to sing, I think,” replied Joe.

As he spoke, six young warriors were seen to work their bodies about in a very remarkable way, and give utterance to still more remarkable sounds, which gradually increased until the singers burst out into that terrific yell, or war-whoop, for which American savages have long been famous. Its effect would save been appalling to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones, while their action corresponded thereto. Suddenly the furious style was revived, and the men wrought themselves into a condition little short of madness, while their yells rung wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary canine nature to withstand, so all the dogs in the neighbourhood joined in the horrible chorus.

Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities of Indians and their curs with dignified contempt. He paid no attention to this serenade, but lay sleeping by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take leave of their host, and return to the camp of the fur-traders. The remainder of that night was spent in making preparations for setting forth on the morrow, and when, at grey dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down to snatch a few hours’ repose, the yells and howling in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as ever.

The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when Dick, and Joe, and Henri mounted their gallant steeds, and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward, and bade adieu to the Indian camp.

Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well aware that he and his companions were on their way home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of Dick Varley’s cottage, and of Dick’s mild, kind-hearted mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been unworthy the title of hero if he hadn’t. Perchance he thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure. We rather think, upon the whole, that he did.

Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction of home. Sweet word! Those who have never left it cannot, by any effort of imagination, realise the full import of the word “home.” Dick was a bold hunter, but he was young, and this was his first long expedition. Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however, when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly, and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the chase, but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became thoroughly home-sick, and, while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades. He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was. But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his master’s new disease with the care and minute exactness of a physician; and, we doubt not, ultimately added the knowledge of the symptoms of homesickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition.

It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley’s spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the green sward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.

“D’ye know, Joe,” he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop, “d’ye know I’ve bin feelin’ awful low for some time past.”

“I know it, lad,” answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to express.

Dick felt surprised, but he continued, “I wonder what it could have bin. I never felt so before.”

“’Twas homesickness, boy,” returned Joe.

“How d’ye know that?”

“The same way as how I know most things, by experience an’ obsarvation. I’ve bin home-sick myself once—but it was long, long agone.”

Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical, and were hard to be understood. Most conversations that were not connected with eating and hunting were of this nature to Henri.

“Hom’-sik,” he cried, “veech mean bein’ sik of hom’! hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de expedition. Oui, vraiment.”

“I always packs up,” continued Joe, paying no attention to Henri’s remark,—“I always packs up an’ sots off for home when I gits home-sick; it’s the best cure, an’ when hunters are young like you, Dick, it’s the only cure. I’ve know’d fellers a’most die o’ homesickness, an’ I’m told they do go under altogether sometimes.”

“Go onder!” exclaimed Henri; “oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom’. If I have not git away, I not be here to-day.”

Henri’s idea of homesickness was so totally opposed to theirs, that his comrades only laughed, and refrained from attempting to set him right.

“The fust time I was took bad with it wos in a country somethin’ like that,” said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters of trees and wandering streamlets, that lay before them; “I had bin out about two months, an wos makin’ a good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to think somehow more than usual o’ home. My mother wos alive then.”

Joe’s voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence.

“Well, it grew worse and worse, I dreamed o’ home all night, an’ thought of it all day, till I began to shoot bad, an’ my comrades wos gittin’ tired o’ me; so says I to them one night, says I, ‘I give out, lads, I’ll make tracks for the settlement to-morrow.’ They tried to laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed up, bid them good-day, an’ sot off alone on a trip o’ five hundred miles. The very first mile o’ the way back I began to mend, and before two days I wos all right again.”

Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an eminence not half a mile distant. The three friends instantly drove their pack-horses behind a clump of trees, but not in time to escape the vigilant eye of the Red-man, who uttered a loud shout, which brought up a band of his comrades at full gallop.

“Remember, Henri,” cried Joe Blunt, “our errand is one of peace.”

The caution was needed, for in the confusion of the moment Henri was making preparation to sell his life as dearly as possible. Before another word could be uttered, they were surrounded by a troop of about twenty yelling Blackfeet Indians. They were, fortunately, not a war-party, and, still more fortunately, they were peaceably disposed, and listened to the preliminary address of Joe Blunt with exemplary patience; after which the two parties encamped on the spot, the council-fire was lighted, and every preparation made for a long palaver.

We will not trouble the reader with the details of what was said on this occasion. The party of Indians was a small one, and no chief of any importance was attached to it. Suffice it to say that the pacific overtures made by Joe were well received, the trifling gifts made thereafter were still better received, and they separated with mutual expressions of good will.

Several other bands which were afterwards met with were equally friendly, and only one war-party was seen. Joe’s quick eye observed it in time to enable them to retire unseen behind the shelter of some trees, where they remained until the Indian warriors were out of sight.

The next party they met with, however, were more difficult to manage, and, unfortunately, blood was shed on both sides before our travellers escaped.

It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war-party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the horizon. It chanced that the prairie at this place was almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal the horses. By dashing down the grassy wave into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting, Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave the word,—but at the same moment a shout from the Indians told that they were discovered.

“Look sharp, lads, throw down the packs on the highest point of the ridge,” cried Joe, undoing the lashings, seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to the top of the undulation with it; “we must keep them at arm’s length, boys—be alive. War-parties are not to be trusted.”

Dick and Henri seconded Joe’s efforts so ably, that in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded, the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a broken piece of ground, the horses picketted close beside them, and our three travellers peeping over the edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages—about thirty in number—came sweeping down towards them.

“I’ll try to git them to palaver,” said Joe Blunt, “but keep yer eye on ’em, Dick, an’ if they behave ill, shoot the horse o’ the leadin’ chief. I’ll throw up my left hand as a signal. Mind, lad, don’t hit human flesh till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don’t draw till I git back to ye.”

So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed, towards the Indians. In a few seconds he was close up with them, and in another moment was surrounded. At first the savages brandished their spears and rode round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and, drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what he was doing there.

Joe’s story was soon told; but instead of replying, they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant mischief.

“If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face, he will go back to his braves,” said Joe, passing suddenly between two of the warriors and taking a few steps towards the camp.

Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a hundred arrows, when he turned round and cried:—

“The Blackfeet must not advance a single step. The first that moves his horse shall die. The second that moves himself shall die.”

To this the Blackfoot chief replied scornfully, “The Pale-face talks with a big mouth. We do not believe his words. The Snakes are liars, we will make no peace with them.”

While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand; there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground.

The use of the rifle, as we have before hinted, was little known at this period among the Indians of the far west, and many had never heard the dreaded report before, although all were aware, from hearsay, of its fatal power. The fall of the chief’s horse, therefore, quite paralysed them for a few moments, and they had not recovered from their surprise when a second report was heard, a bullet whistled past, and a second horse fell. At the same moment there was a loud explosion in the camp of the Pale-faces, a white cloud enveloped it, and from the midst of this a loud shriek was heard, as Dick, Henri, and Crusoe bounded over the packs with frantic gestures.

At this the gaping savages wheeled their steeds round, the dismounted horsemen sprang on behind two of their comrades, and the whole band dashed away over the plains as if they were chased by evil spirits.

Meanwhile Joe hastened towards his comrades in a state of great anxiety, for he knew at once that one of the powder-horns must have been accidentally blown up.

“No damage done, boys, I hope?” he cried on coming up.

“Damage!” cried Henri, holding his hands tight over his face. “Oh! oui, great damage—moche damage, me two eyes be blowed out of dere holes.”

“Not quite so bad as that, I hope,” said Dick, who was very slightly singed, and forgot his own hurts in anxiety about his comrade. “Let me see?”

“My eye!” exclaimed Joe Blunt, while a broad grin overspread his countenance, “ye’ve not improved yer looks, Henri.”

This was true. The worthy hunter’s hair was singed to such an extent that his entire countenance presented the appearance of a universal frizzle. Fortunately the skin, although much blackened, was quite uninjured, a fact which, when he ascertained it beyond a doubt, afforded so much satisfaction to Henri, that he capered about shouting with delight, as if some piece of good fortune had befallen him.

The accident had happened in consequence of Henri having omitted to replace the stopper of his powder-horn, and when, in his anxiety for Joe, he fired at random amongst the Indians, despite Dick’s entreaties to wait, a spark communicated with the powder-horn and blew him up. Dick and Crusoe were only a little singed, but the former was not disposed to quarrel with an accident which had sent their enemies so promptly to the right-about.

This band followed them for some nights, in the hope of being able to steal their horses while they slept; but they were not brave enough to venture a second time within range of the death-dealing rifle.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Dangers of the prairie—Our travellers attacked by Indians, and delivered in a remarkable manner.

There are periods in the life of almost all men when misfortunes seem to crowd upon them in rapid succession, when they escape from one danger only to encounter another, and when, to use a well-known expression, they succeed in leaping out of the frying-pan at the expense of plunging into the fire.

So was it with our three friends upon this occasion. They were scarcely rid of the Blackfeet, who found them too watchful to be caught napping, when, about daybreak one morning they encountered a roving band of Camanchee Indians, who wore such a warlike aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible.

“They don’t see us yit, I guess,” said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie, “any if we only can escape their sharp eyes till we’re in yonder clump o’ willows, we’re safe enough.”

“But why don’t you ride up to them, Joe,” inquired Dick, “and make peace between them and the Pale-faces, as you ha’ done with other bands?”

“Because it’s o’ no use to risk our scalps for the chance o’ makin’ peace wi’ a rovin’ war-party. Keep yer head down, Henri! If they git only a sight o’ the top o’ yer cap, they’ll be down on us like a breeze o’ wind.”

“Hah! let dem come!” said Henri.

“They’ll come without askin’ yer leave,” remarked Joe drily.

Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henri had sufficient prudence to induce him to bend his head and shoulders, and in a few minutes they reached the shelter of the willows unseen by the savages. At least so thought Henri, Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best.

In the course of half an hour the last of the Camanchees was seen to hover for a second on the horizon, like a speck of black against the sky, and then to disappear.

Immediately the three hunters bolted on their steeds and resumed their journey; but before that evening closed they had sad evidence of the savage nature of the band from which they had escaped. On passing the brow of a slight eminence, Dick, who rode first, observed that Crusoe stopped and snuffed the breeze in an anxious, inquiring manner.

“What is’t, pup?” said Dick, drawing up, for he knew that his faithful dog never gave a false alarm.

Crusoe replied by a short, uncertain bark, and then bounding forward, disappeared behind a little wooded knoll. In another moment a long, dismal howl floated over the plains. There was a mystery about the dog’s conduct which, coupled with his melancholy cry, struck the travellers with a superstitious feeling of dread, as they sat looking at each other in surprise.

“Come, let’s clear it up,” cried Joe Blunt, shaking the reins of his steed, and galloping forward. A few strides brought them to the other side of the knoll where, scattered upon the torn and bloody turf, they discovered the scalped and mangled remains of about twenty or thirty human beings. Their skulls had been cleft by the tomahawk, and their breasts pierced by the scalping-knife; and from the position in which many of them lay, it was evident that they had been slain while asleep.

Joe’s brow flushed, and his lips became tightly compressed, as he muttered between his set teeth, “Their skins are white.”

A short examination sufficed to show that the men who had thus been barbarously murdered while they slept had been a band of trappers, or hunters; but what their errand had been, or whence they came, they could not discover.

Everything of value had been carried off, and all the scalps had been taken. Most of the bodies, although much mutilated, lay in a posture that led our hunters to believe they had been killed while asleep; but one or two were cut almost to pieces, and from the blood-bespattered and trampled sward around, it seemed as if they had struggled long and fiercely for life. Whether or not any of the savages had been slain, it was impossible to tell, for if such had been the case, their comrades, doubtless, had carried away their bodies. That they had been slaughtered by the party of Camanchees who had been seen at daybreak, was quite clear to Joe; but his burning desire to revenge the death of the white men had to be stifled, as his party was so small.

Long afterwards it was discovered that this was a band of trappers who, like those mentioned at the beginning of this volume, had set out to avenge the death of a comrade; but God, who has retained the right of vengeance in His own hand, saw fit to frustrate their purpose, by giving them into the hands of the savages whom they had set forth to slay.

As it was impossible to bury so many bodies, the travellers resumed their journey, and left them to bleach there in the wilderness; but they rode the whole of that day almost without uttering a word. Meanwhile the Camanchees, who had observed the trio, and had ridden away at first for the purpose of deceiving them into the belief that they had passed unobserved, doubled on their track, and took a long sweep in order to keep out of sight until they could approach under the shelter of a belt of woodland towards which the travellers now approached.

The Indians adopted this course instead of the easier method of simply pursuing so weak a party, because the plains at this part were bordered by a long stretch of forest into which the hunters could have plunged, and rendered pursuit more difficult, if not almost useless. The détour thus taken was so extensive that the shades of evening were beginning to descend before they could put their plan into execution. The forest lay about a mile to the right of our hunters, like some dark mainland, of which the prairie was the sea, and the scattered clumps of wood the islands.

“There’s no lack o’ game here,” said Dick Varley, pointing to a herd of buffaloes which rose at their approach, and fled away towards the wood.

“I think we’ll ha’ thunder soon,” remarked Joe. “I never feel it onnatteral hot like this without looking out for a plump.”

“Hah! den ve better look hout for one goot tree to get b’low,” suggested Henri. “Voilà!” he added, pointing with his finger towards the plain; “dere am a lot of wild hosses.”

A troop of about thirty wild horses appeared, as he spoke, on the brow of a ridge, and advanced slowly towards them.

“Hist!” exclaimed Joe, reining up; “hold on, lads. Wild horses! my rifle to a pop-gun there’s wilder men on t’other side o’ them.”

“What mean you, Joe?” inquired Dick, riding close up.

“D’ye see the little lumps on the shoulder o’ each horse?” said Joe. “Them’s Injun’s feet; an’ if we don’t want to lose our scalps we’d better make for the forest.”

Joe proved himself to be in earnest by wheeling round and making straight for the thick woods as fast as his horse could run. The others followed, driving the pack-horses before them.

The effect of this sudden movement on the so-called “wild horses” was very remarkable, and to one unacquainted with the habits of the Camanchee Indians, must have appeared almost supernatural. In the twinkling of an eye every steed had a rider on its back, and before the hunters had taken five strides in the direction of the forest, the whole band were in hot pursuit, yelling like furies.

The manner in which these Indians accomplish this feat is very singular, and implies great activity and strength of muscle on the part of the savages.

The Camanchees are low in stature, and usually are rather corpulent. In their movements on foot they are heavy and ungraceful, and they are, on the whole, a slovenly and unattractive race of men. But the instant they mount their horses they seem to be entirely changed, and surprise the spectator with the ease and elegance of their movements. Their great and distinctive peculiarity as horsemen is the power they have acquired of throwing themselves suddenly on either side of their horse’s body, and clinging on in such a way that no part of them is visible from the other side save the foot by which they cling. In this manner they approach their enemies at full gallop, and without rising again to the saddle, discharge their arrows at them over their horses’ backs, or even under their necks.

This apparently magical feat is accomplished by means of a halter of horsehair, which is passed round under the neck of the horse, and both ends braided into the mane, on the withers, thus forming a loop which hangs under the neck and against the breast. This being caught by the hand, makes a sling, into which the elbow falls, taking the weight of the body on the middle of the upper arm. Into this loop the rider drops suddenly and fearlessly, leaving his heel to hang over the horse’s back, to steady him, and also to restore him to his seat when desired.

By this stratagem the Indians had approached on the present occasion almost within rifle range before they were discovered, and it required the utmost speed of the hunters’ horses to enable them to avoid being overtaken. One of the Indians, who was better mounted than his fellows, gained on the fugitives so much that he came within arrow range, but reserved his shaft until they were close on the margin of the wood, when, being almost alongside of Henri, he fitted an arrow to his bow. Henri’s eye was upon him, however; letting go the line of the pack-horse which he was leading, he threw forward his rifle, but at the same moment the savage disappeared behind his horse, and an arrow whizzed past the hunter’s ear.

Henri fired at the horse, which dropped instantly, hurling the astonished Camanchee upon the ground, where he lay for some time insensible. In a few seconds pursued and pursuers entered the wood, where both had to advance with caution, in order to avoid being swept off by the overhanging branches of the trees.

Meanwhile the sultry heat of which Joe had formerly spoken increased considerably, and a rumbling noise, as if of distant thunder, was heard; but the flying hunters paid no attention to it, for the led horses gave them so much trouble, and retarded their flight so much, that the Indians were gradually and visibly gaining on them.

“We’ll ha’ to let the packs go,” said Joe, somewhat bitterly, as he looked over his shoulder. “Our scalps ’ll pay for’t if we don’t.”

Henri uttered a peculiar and significant hiss between his teeth, as he said, “P’raps ve better stop and fight!”

Dick said nothing, being resolved to do exactly what Joe Blunt bid him; and Crusoe, for reasons best known to himself, also said nothing, but bounded along beside his master’s horse, casting an occasional glance upwards to catch any signal that might be given.

They had passed over a considerable space of ground, and were forcing their way, at the imminent hazard of their necks, through a densely-clothed part of the wood, when the sound above referred to increased, attracting the attention of both parties. In a few seconds the air was filled with a steady and continuous rumbling sound, like the noise of a distant cataract. Pursuers and fugitives drew rein instinctively, and came to a dead stand, while the rumbling increased to a roar, and evidently approached them rapidly, though as yet nothing to cause it could be seen, except that there was a dense, dark cloud overspreading the sky to the southward. The air was oppressively still and hot.

“What can’t be?” inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed with concern, at the southern sky.

“Dunno, boy. I’ve bin more in the woods than in the clearin’ in my day, but I niver heerd the likes o’ that.”

“It am like t’ondre,” said Henri; “mais it nevair do stop.”

This was true. The sound was similar to continuous, uninterrupted thunder. On it came with a magnificent roar that shook the very earth, and revealed itself at last in the shape of a mighty whirlwind. In a moment the distant woods bent before it, and fell like grass before the scythe. It was a whirling hurricane, accompanied by a deluge of rain such as none of the party had ever before witnessed. Steadily, fiercely, irresistibly, it bore down upon them, while the crash of falling, snapping, and uprooting trees mingled with the dire artillery of that sweeping storm like the musketry on a battle-field.

“Follow me, lads!” shouted Joe, turning his horse and dashing at full speed towards a rocky eminence that offered shelter. But shelter was not needed. The storm was clearly defined. Its limits were as distinctly marked by its Creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice-cold rain fell upon them.

It passed directly between the Camanchee Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through. The storm blew for an hour, then it travelled onward in its might, and was lost in distance. Whence it came and whither it went none could tell; but, far as the eye could see on either hand, an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest. It had levelled everything with the dust; the very grass was beaten flat, the trees were torn, shivered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed up and furrowed with deep scars. The chaos was indescribable, and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour.

While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and awe-stricken. When it passed, no Indians were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their steeds, and, with feelings of gratitude to God for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey towards the Mustang Valley.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise—Safe home at last, and happy hearts.

One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given an account in the last chapter, old Mrs Varley was seated beside her own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested idly on her knee, grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a half-finished stocking.

On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of the shooting match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the widow’s face.

“Did ye say, my boy, that they were all killed?” inquired Mrs Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.

“Every one,” replied Marston. “Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said they wos all lyin’ dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o’ white men.”

Mrs Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to a similar fate. Mrs Varley was not given to nervous fears; but as she listened to the boy’s recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed inwardly to Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage.

After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:—

“Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?”

“Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to—to—” the lad hesitated.

“To whom, my boy? Why don’t ye go on?”

“To your son Dick.”

The widow’s hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her.

“O mother dear, don’t take on like that!” he cried, smoothing down the widow’s hair as her head rested on his breast.

For some time Mrs Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence, while her breast laboured with anxious dread.

“Tell me all,” she said at last, recovering a little. “Did Jim see—Dick?”

“No,” answered the boy. “He looked at all the bodies, but did not find his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p’raps he’s escaped.”

Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked God; but her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages.

While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to re-assure the widow.

“Ye see, mistress,” he said, “Dick is a oncommon tough customer, an’ if he could only git fifty yards start, there’s not a Injun in the west as could git hold o’ him agin; so don’t be takin’ on.”

“But what if he’s bin taken prisoner?” said the widow.

“Ay, that’s jest wot I’ve comed about. Ye see it’s not onlikely he’s bin took; so about thirty o’ the lads o’ the valley are ready jest now to start away and give the red riptiles chase, an’ I come to tell ye; so keep up heart, mistress.”

With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew, and Marston soon followed, leaving the widow to weep and pray in solitude.

Meanwhile an animated scene was going on near the block-house. Here thirty of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening their girths, preparatory to setting out in pursuit of the Indians who had murdered the white men, while hundreds of boys and girls, and not a few matrons, crowded round and listened to the conversation, and to the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever and anon by the younger men.

Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy major, unable to restrain his roving propensities, determined to revisit the Mustang Valley, and had arrived only two days before.

Backwoodsmen’s preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest. In a few minutes the cavalcade was ready, and away they went towards the prairies, with the bold major at their head. But their journey was destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close. A couple of hours’ gallop brought them to the edge of one of those open plains which sometimes break up the woodland near the verge of the great prairies. It stretched out like a green lake towards the horizon, on which, just as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun was descending in a blaze of glory.

With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger members of the party sprang forward into the plain at a gallop; but the shout was mingled with one of a different tone from the older men.

“Hist!—hallo!—hold on, ye cat-a-mounts! There’s Injuns ahead!”

The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry, and watched eagerly, and for some time in silence, the motions of a small party of horsemen who were seen in the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky.

“They come this way, I think,” said Major Hope, after gazing steadfastly at them for some minutes.

Several of the old hands signified their assent to this suggestion by a grunt, although to unaccustomed eyes the objects in question looked more like crows than horsemen, and their motion was for some time scarcely perceptible.

“I sees pack-horses among them,” cried young Marston in an excited tone; “an’ there’s three riders; but there’s somethin’ else, only wot it be I can’t tell.”

“Ye’ve sharp eyes, younker,” remarked one of the men, “an’ I do b’lieve yer right.”

Presently the horsemen approached, and soon there was a brisk fire of guessing as to who they could be. It was evident that the strangers observed the cavalcade of white men, and regarded them as friends, for they did not check the headlong speed at which they approached. In a few minutes they were clearly made out to be a party of three horsemen driving pack-horses before them, and somethin’ which some of the hunters guessed was a buffalo calf.

Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different. Moreover, it was uttered with a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest of all the savages. “Crusoe!” he shouted, while at the same moment he brought his whip heavily down on the flank of his little horse, and sprang over the prairie like an arrow.

One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of his comrades, and seemed as if encircled with the flying and voluminous mane of his magnificent horse.

“Hah! ho!” gasped Marston in a low tone to himself, as he flew along. “Crusoe! I’d know ye, dog, among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git on with ye!”

This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse, and was followed by a whack that increased the pace considerably.

The space between two such riders was soon devoured.

“Hallo! Dick,—Dick Varley!”

“Eh! why, Marston, my boy!”

The friends reined up so suddenly, that one might have fancied they had met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict.

“Is’t yerself, Dick Varley?”

Dick held out his hand, and his eyes glistened, but he could not find words.

Marston seized it, and pushing his horse close up, vaulted nimbly off and alighted on Charlie’s back behind his friend.

“Off ye go, Dick! I’ll take ye to yer mother.”

Without reply, Dick shook the reins, and in another minute was in the midst of the hunters.

To the numberless questions that were put to him he only waited to shout aloud, “We’re all safe! They’ll tell ye all about it,” he added, pointing to his comrades, who were now close at hand; and then, dashing onward, made straight for home, with little Marston clinging to his waist like a monkey.

Charlie was fresh, and so was Crusoe; so you may be sure it was not long before they all drew up opposite the door of the widow’s cottage. Before Dick could dismount, Marston had slipped off, and was already in the kitchen.

“Here’s Dick, mother!”

The boy was an orphan, and loved the widow so much that he had come at last to call her mother.

Before another word could be uttered, Dick Varley was in the room. Marston immediately stepped out, and softly shut the door. Reader, we shall not open it!

Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of the lake, and yelled with delight—usually terminating each paroxysm with the Indian war-whoop, with which he was well acquainted. Then he danced, and then he sat down on a rock, and became suddenly aware that there were other hearts there, close beside him, as glad as his own. Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost son.

Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection.

Talk of holding converse! Every hair on Crusoe’s body, every motion of his limbs, was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his mother’s mild eyes as if he would read her inmost soul (supposing that she had one). He turned his head to every possible angle, and cocked his ears to every conceivable elevation, and rubbed his nose against Fan’s, and barked softly, in every imaginable degree of modulation, and varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the rocks of the beach, and in among the bushes and out again, but always circling round and round Fan, and keeping her in view!

It was a sight worth seeing, and young Marston sat down on a rock, deliberately and enthusiastically, to gloat over it. But perhaps the most remarkable part of it has not yet been referred to. There was yet another heart there that was glad—exceeding glad—that day. It was a little one too, but it was big for the body that held it. Grumps was there, and all that Grumps did was to sit on his haunches and stare at Fan and Crusoe, and wag his tail as well as he could in so awkward a position! Grumps was evidently bewildered with delight, and had lost nearly all power to express it. Crusoe’s conduct towards him, too, was not calculated to clear his faculties. Every time he chanced to pass near Grumps in his elephantine gambols, he gave him a passing touch with his nose, which always knocked him head over heels; whereat Grumps invariably got up quickly and wagged his tail with additional energy. Before the feelings of those canine friends were calmed, they were all three ruffled into a state of comparative exhaustion.

Then young Marston called Crusoe to him, and Crusoe, obedient to the voice of friendship, went.

“Are you happy, my dog?”

“You’re a stupid fellow to ask such a question; however, it’s an amiable one. Yes, I am.”

“What do you want, ye small bundle o’ hair?”

This was addressed to Grumps, who came forward innocently, and sat down to listen to the conversation.

On being thus sternly questioned, the little dog put down its ears flat, and hung its head, looking up at the same time with a deprecatory look as if to say, “Oh, dear! I beg pardon; I—I only want to sit near Crusoe, please, but if you wish it I’ll go away, sad and lonely, with my tail very much between my legs—indeed I will, only say the word, but—but I’d rather stay if I might.”

“Poor bundle!” said Marston, patting its head, “you can stay then. Hooray! Crusoe, are you happy, I say? Does your heart bound in you like a cannon ball that wants to find its way out and can’t—eh?”

Crusoe put his snout against Marston’s cheek, and, in the excess of his joy, the lad threw his arms round the dog’s neck and hugged it vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore with characteristic meekness, and which Grumps regarded with idiotic satisfaction.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Rejoicings—The feast at the block-house—Grumps and Crusoe come out strong—The closing scene.

The day of Dick’s arrival with his companions was a great day in the annals of the Mustang Valley, and Major Hope resolved to celebrate it by an impromptu festival at the old block-house; for many hearts in the valley had been made glad that day, and he knew full well that, under such circumstances, some safety-valve must be devised for the escape of overflowing excitement.

A messenger was sent round to invite the population to assemble without delay in front of the block-house. With backwoods-like celerity the summons was obeyed; men, women, and children hurried towards the central point wondering, yet more than half suspecting, what was the major’s object in calling them together.

They were not long in doubt. The first sight that presented itself as they came trooping up the slope in front of the log hut, was an ox roasting whole before a gigantic bonfire. Tables were being extemporised on the broad level plot in front of the gate. Other fires there were, of smaller dimensions, on which sundry steaming pots were placed, and various joints of wild horse, bear, and venison roasted, and sent forth a savoury odour as well as a pleasant hissing noise. The inhabitants of the block-house were self-taught brewers, and the result of their recent labours now stood displayed in a row of goodly casks of beer—the only beverage with which the dwellers in these far-off regions were wont to regale themselves.

The whole scene—as the cooks moved actively about upon the lawn, and children romped round the fires, and settlers came flocking through the forests—might have recalled the revelry of merry England in the olden time, though the costumes of the far west were, perhaps, somewhat different from those of old England.

No one of all the band assembled there on that day of rejoicing required to ask what it was all about. Had any one been in doubt for a moment, a glance at the centre of the crowd assembled round the gate of the western fortress would have quickly enlightened him; for there stood Dick Varley, and his mild-looking mother, and his loving dog, Crusoe. There, too, stood Joe Blunt, like a bronzed warrior returned from the fight, turning from one to another as question poured in upon question almost too rapidly to permit of a reply. There, too, stood Henri, making enthusiastic speeches to whoever chose to listen to him,—now glaring at the crowd, with clenched fists and growling voice, as he told of how Joe and he had been tied hand and foot, and lashed to poles and buried in leaves, and threatened with a slow death by torture,—at other times bursting into a hilarious laugh as he held forth on the predicament of Mahtawa when that wily chief was treed by Crusoe in the prairie.

Young Marston was there too, hanging about Dick, whom he loved as a brother and regarded as a perfect hero. Grumps, too, was there, and Fan. Do you think, reader, that Grumps looked at any one but Crusoe? If you do you are mistaken. Grumps on that day became a regular, an incorrigible, utter, and perfect nuisance to everybody—not excepting himself, poor beast! Grumps was a dog of one idea, and that idea was Crusoe. Out of that great idea there grew one little secondary idea, and that idea was, that the only joy on earth worth mentioning was to sit on his haunches, exactly six inches from Crusoe’s nose, and gaze steadfastly into his face. Wherever Crusoe went Grumps went. If Crusoe stopped Grumps was down before him in an instant. If Crusoe bounded away, which, in the exuberance of his spirits, he often did, Grumps was after him like a bundle of mad hair. He was in everybody’s way—in Crusoe’s way, and being, so to speak, “beside himself,” was also in his own way. If people trod upon him accidentally, which they often did, Grumps uttered a solitary heart-rending yell, proportioned in intensity to the excruciating nature of the torture he endured, then instantly resumed his position and his fascinated stare. Crusoe generally held his head up, and gazed over his little friend at what was going on around him, but if for a moment he permitted his eye to rest on the countenance of Grumps, that creature’s tail became suddenly imbued with an amount of wriggling vitality that seemed to threaten its separation from the body.

It was really quite interesting to watch this unblushing, and disinterested, and utterly reckless display of affection on the part of Grumps, and the amiable way in which Crusoe put up with it—we say put up with it, advisedly, because it must have been a very great inconvenience to him, seeing that if he attempted to move, his satellite moved in front of him, so that his only way of escaping, temporarily, was by jumping over Grumps’s head.

Grumps was everywhere all day. Nobody, almost, escaped trampling on part of him. He tumbled over everything, into everything, and against everything. He knocked himself, singed himself, and scalded himself, and in fact forgot himself altogether; and when, late that night, Crusoe went with Dick into his mother’s cottage, and the door was shut, Grumps stretched his ruffled, battered, ill-used, and dishevelled little body down on the doorstep, thrust his nose against the opening below the door, and lay in humble contentment all night, for he knew that Crusoe was there.

Of course such an occasion could not pass without a shooting match. Rifles were brought out after the feast was over, just before the sun went down into its bed on the western prairies, and “the nail” was soon surrounded by bullets, tipped by Joe Blunt and Jim Scraggs, and, of course, driven home by Dick Varley, whose silver rifle had now become, in its owner’s hand, a never-failing weapon. Races, too, were started, and here again Dick stood pre-eminent, and when night spread her dark mantle over the scene, the two best fiddlers in the settlement were placed on empty beer-casks, and some danced by the light of the monster fires, while others listened to Joe Blunt as he recounted their adventures on the prairies and among the Rocky Mountains.

There were sweethearts, and wives, and lovers at the feast, but we question whether any heart there was so full of love, and admiration, and gratitude as that of the Widow Varley as she watched her son Dick, throughout that merry evening.

Years rolled by, and the Mustang Valley prospered. Missionaries went there, and a little church was built, and to the blessings of a fertile land were added the far greater blessings of Christian light and knowledge. One sad blow fell on the Widow Varley’s heart. Her only brother, Daniel Hood, was murdered by the Indians. Deeply and long she mourned, and it required all Dick’s efforts and those of the pastor of the settlement to comfort her. But from the first the widow’s heart was sustained by the loving hand that dealt the blow, and when time blunted the keen edge of her feelings, her face became as sweet and mild, though not so lightsome, as before.

Joe Blunt and Henri became leading men in the councils of the Mustang Valley, but Dick Varley preferred the woods, although, as long as his mother lived, he hovered round her cottage—going off sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week, but never longer. After her head was laid in the dust, Dick took altogether to the woods with Crusoe and Charlie the wild horse as his only companions, and his mother’s Bible in the breast of his hunting shirt. And soon Dick, the bold hunter, and his dog Crusoe, became renowned in the frontier settlements from the banks of the Yellow Stone River to the Gulf of Mexico.

Many a grizzly bear did the famous “silver rifle” lay low, and many a wild exciting chase and adventure did Dick go through, but during his occasional visits to the Mustang Valley, he was wont to say to Joe Blunt and Henri—with whom he always sojourned—that “nothin’ he ever felt or saw came up to his first grand dash over the Western Prairies into the heart of the Rocky Mountains.” And in saying this, with enthusiasm in his eye and voice, Dick invariably appealed to, and received a ready affirmative glance from, his early companion, and his faithful loving friend—the dog Crusoe.

The End.

Chapter One.

Adventures in the Far West.

The Cause of the Whole Affair.

Ned Sinton gazed at the scene before him with indescribable amazement! He had often witnessed strange things in the course of his short though chequered life, but he had never seen anything like this. Many a dream of the most extravagant nature had surrounded his pillow with creatures of curious form and scenes of magic beauty, but never before, either by actual observation or in nightly vision, had Ned Sinton beheld a scene so wonderful as that which now lay spread out before him.

Ned stood in the centre of a cavern of vast dimensions—so vast, and so full of intense light, that instead of looking on it as a huge cave, he felt disposed to regard it as a small world. The sides of this cavern were made of pure gold, and the roof—far above his head—was spangled all over with glittering points, like a starry sky. The ground, too, and, in short, everything within the cave, was made of the same precious metal. Thousands of stalactites hung from the roof like golden icicles. Millions of delicate threads of the same material also depended from the star-spangled vault, each thread having a golden ball at the end of it, which, strange to say, was transparent, and permitted a bright flame within to shine through, and shed a yellow lustre over surrounding objects. All the edges, and angles, and points of the irregularly-formed walls were of burnished gold, which reflected the rays of these pendant lamps with dazzling brilliancy, while the broad masses of the frosted walls shone with a subdued light. Magnificent curtains of golden filigree fell in rich voluminous folds on the pavement, half concealing several archways which led into smaller caverns, similar to the large one. Altogether it was a scene of luxurious richness and splendour that is utterly indescribable.

But the thing that amazed Ned Sinton most was, that the company of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who moved about in these splendid halls, and ate golden ices, or listened to the exquisite strains of music that floated on the atmosphere, were all as yellow as guineas! Ned could by no means understand this. In order to convince himself that there was no deception in the matter, he shook hands with several of the people nearest to him, and found that they were cold and hard as iron; although, to all appearance, they were soft and pliable, and could evidently move about with perfect freedom.

Ned was very much puzzled indeed. One would have thought he must have believed himself to be dreaming. Not a bit of it. He knew perfectly well that he was wide-awake. In fact, a doubt upon that point never crossed his mind for a moment. At length he resolved to ask the meaning of it all, and, observing a stout old gentleman, with a bland smile on his yellow countenance, in the act of taking a pinch of golden snuff from a gold snuff-box, he advanced and accosted him.

“Pray, sir,” began Ned, modestly, “may I take the liberty of asking you what is the meaning of all this?”

“All what, sir?” inquired the old gentleman, in a deep metallic voice.

“This golden cave, with its wonderful lamps, and especially these golden people; and—excuse me, sir, for remarking on the circumstance—you seem to be made of gold yourself. I have often heard the term applied to extremely rich persons, but I really never expected to see a man who was literally ‘worth his weight in gold.’”

The old gentleman laughed sarcastically at this sally, and took an enormous pinch of gold-dust.

As he did not seem inclined to be communicative, however, Ned said again, “What is the meaning of it all? can you explain what has done it?”

Smiling blandly at his interrogator, this gentleman of precious metal placed his head a little on one side, and tapped the lid of his snuff-box, but said nothing. Then he suddenly exclaimed, at the full pitch of his voice, “California, my boy! That’s what’s done it, Edward! California for ever! Ned, hurrah!”

As the deep tones of his voice rang through the star-spangled vault, the company took up the shout, and with “California for ever!” made the cavern ring again. In the excess of their glee the gentlemen took off their hats, and the ladies their wreaths and turbans, and threw them in the air. As many of them failed to catch these portions of costume in their descent, the clatter caused by their fall on the golden pavement was very striking indeed.

“Come here, my lad,” said the old gentleman, seizing Ned Sinton by the arm, and laughing heartily as he dragged him towards an immense mirror of burnished gold; “look at yourself there.”

Ned looked, and started back with horror on observing that he himself had been converted into gold. There could be no mistake whatever about it. There he stood, staring at himself like a yellow statue. His shooting-jacket was richly chased with alternate stripes of burnished and frosted work; the buttons on his vest shone like stars; his pantaloons were striped like the coat; his hair was a mass of dishevelled filigree; and his hands, when, in the height of his horror, he clasped them together, rang like a brass-founder’s anvil.

For a few moments he stood before the mirror speechless. Then a feeling of intense indignation unaccountably took possession of him, and he turned fiercely on the old gentleman, exclaiming—

“You have done this, sir! What do you mean by it? eh!”

“You’re quite mistaken, Ned. I didn’t do it. California has done it. Ha! ha! my boy, you’re done for! Smitten with the yellow fever, Neddy? California for ever! See here—”

As he spoke, the old gentleman threw out one leg and both arms, and began to twirl round, after the fashion of a peg-top, on one toe. At first he revolved slowly, but gradually increased his speed, until no part of him could be distinctly observed. Ned Sinton stood aghast. Suddenly the old gentleman shot upwards like a rocket, but he did not quit the ground; he merely elongated his body until his head stuck against the roof of the cave. Then he ceased to revolve, and remained in the form of a golden stalactite—his head surrounded by stars and his toe resting on the ground!

While Ned stood rooted to the spot, turning the subject over in his mind, and trying to find out by what process of chemical or mechanical action so remarkable a transformation could have been accomplished, he became aware that his uncle, old Mr Shirley, was standing in the middle of the cave regarding him with a look of mingled sarcasm and pity. He observed, too, that his uncle was not made of gold, like the people around him, but was habited in a yeomanry uniform. Mr Shirley had been a yeoman twenty years before his nephew was born. Since that time his proportions had steadily increased, and he was now a man of very considerable rotundity—so much so, that his old uniform fitted him with excessive tightness; the coat would by no means button across his capacious chest, and, being much too short, shewed a very undignified amount of braces below it.

“Uncle!” exclaimed Ned Sinton, rushing up to his relative, “what can be the meaning of all this? Everybody seems to be mad. I think you must be mad yourself, to come here such a figure as that; and I’m quite sure I shall go mad if you don’t explain it to me. What does it all mean?”

“California,” replied Mr Shirley, becoming more sarcastic in expression and less pitiful.

“Why, that’s what everybody cries,” exclaimed Ned, who was now driven almost to desperation. “My dear uncle, do look like yourself and exercise some of your wonted sagacity. Just glance round at the cave and the company, all made of gold, and look at me—gold too, if not pinchbeck, but I’m not a good-enough judge of metals to tell which. What has done it, uncle? Do look in a better humour, and tell me how it has happened.”

“California,” replied Mr Shirley.

“Yes, yes; I know that. California seems to be everything here. But how has it come about? Why are you here, and what has brought me here?”

“California,” repeated Mr Shirley.

“Uncle, I’ll go deranged if you don’t answer me. What do you mean?”

“California,” reiterated Mr Shirley.

At the same moment a stout golden lady with a filigree turban shouted, “for ever!” at the top of a very shrill voice, and immediately the company took up the cry again, filling the cave with deafening sounds.

Ned Sinton gave one look of despair at his relative—then turned and fled.

“Put him out,” shouted the company. “Down with the intruder!”

Ned cast a single glance backward, and beheld the people pushing and buffeting his uncle in a most unceremonious manner. His helmet was knocked down over his eyes, and the coat—so much too small for him—was rendered an easy fit by being ripped up behind to the neck. Ned could not stand this. He was stout of limb and bold as a lion, although not naturally addicted to fighting, so he turned suddenly round and flew to the rescue. Plunging into the midst of the struggling mass of golden creatures, Ned hit out right and left like a young Hercules, and his blows rang upon their metal chests and noses like the sound of sledge-hammers, but without any other effect.

Suddenly he experienced an acute sensation of pain, and—awoke to find himself hammering the bed-post with bleeding knuckles, and his uncle standing beside his bed chuckling immensely.

“O uncle,” cried Ned, sitting up in his bed, and regarding his knuckles with a perplexed expression of countenance, “I’ve had such an extraordinary dream!”

“Ay, Ned,” interrupted his uncle, “and all about California, I’ll be bound.”

“Why, how did you guess that?”

“It needs not a wizard to guess that, lad. I’ve observed that you have read nothing in the newspapers for the last three months but the news from the gold-diggings of California. Your mind has of late been constantly running on that subject, and it is well-known that day-dreams are often reproduced at night. Besides, I heard you shouting the word in your sleep as I entered your room. Were you fighting with gold-diggers, eh! or Indians?”

“Neither, uncle; but I was fighting with very strange beings, I assure you, and—”

“Well, well,” interrupted Mr Shirley, “never mind the dream just now; we shall have it at some other time. I have important matters to talk over with you, my boy. Morton has written to me. Get up and come down as quickly as you can, and we’ll discuss the matter over our breakfast.”

As the door closed after the retreating form of his uncle, Edward Sinton leaped out of bed and into his trousers. During his toilet he wondered what matters of importance Mr Shirley could intend to discuss with him, and felt half inclined to fear, from the grave expression of his uncle’s face when he spoke of it, that something of a disagreeable nature awaited him. But these thoughts were intermingled with reminiscences of the past night. His knuckles, too, kept constantly reminding him of his strange encounter, and, do what he would, he could not banish from his mind the curious incidents of that remarkable golden dream.

Chapter Two.

Our Hero.

We have entered thus minutely into the details of our hero’s dream, because it was the climax to a long series of day-dreams in which he had indulged ever since the discovery of gold in California.

Edward Sinton was a youth of eighteen at the time of which we write, and an orphan. He was tall, strong, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed, Roman-nosed, and gentle as a lamb. This last statement may perhaps appear inconsistent with the fact that, during the whole course of his school-life, he had a pitched battle every week—sometimes two or three in the week. Ned never began a fight, and, indeed, did not like fighting. But some big boys will domineer over little ones, and Ned would not be domineered over; consequently he had to be thrashed. He was possessed, even in boyhood, of an amount of physical courage that would have sufficed for any two ordinary men. He did not boast. He did not quarrel. He never struck the first blow, but, if twenty boys had attacked him, he would have tried to fight them all. He never tyrannised over small boys. It was not his nature to do so; but he was not perfect, any more than you are, dear reader. He sometimes punched small boys’ heads when they worried him, though he never did so without repenting of it, and doing them a kindness afterwards in order to make up. He was very thoughtless, too, and very careless; nevertheless he was fond of books—specially of books of adventure—and studied these like a hero—as he was.

Boys of his own size, or even a good deal bigger, never fought with Ned Sinton. They knew better than that; but they adored him, in some cases envied him, and in all cases trusted and followed him. It was only very big boys who fought with him, and all they got by it was a good deal of hard pummelling before they floored their little adversary, and a good deal of jeering from their comrades for fighting a small boy. From one cause or another, Ned’s visage was generally scratched, often cut, frequently swelled, and almost always black and blue.

But as Ned grew older, the occasions for fighting became less frequent; his naturally amiable disposition improved, (partly owing, no doubt, to the care of his uncle, who was, in every sense of the term, a good old man,) and when he attained the age of fifteen and went to college, and was called “Sinton,” instead of “Ned,” his fighting days were over. No man in his senses would have ventured to attack that strapping youth with the soft blue eyes, the fair hair, the prominent nose, and the firm but smiling lips, or, if he had, he would have had to count on an hour’s extremely hard work, whether the fortune of war went for or against him.

When Ned had been three years at college, his uncle hinted that it was time to think of a profession, and suggested that as he was a first-rate mathematician, and had been fond of mechanics from his childhood, he should turn an engineer. Ned would probably have agreed to this cheerfully, had not a thirst for adventure been created by the stirring accounts which had begun to arrive at this time from the recently-discovered gold-fields of California. His enthusiastic spirit was stirred, not so much by the prospect of making a large fortune suddenly by the finding of a huge nugget—although that was a very pleasant idea—as by the hope of meeting with wild adventures in that imperfectly-known and distant land. And the effect of such dreams was to render the idea of sitting down to an engineer’s desk, or in a mercantile counting-room, extremely distasteful.

Thus it came to pass that Edward Sinton felt indisposed to business, and disposed to indulge in golden visions.

When he entered the breakfast-parlour, his mind was still full of his curious dream.

“Come along, my lad,” cried Mr Shirley, laying down the Bible, and removing his spectacles from a pair of eyes that usually twinkled with a sort of grave humour, but in which there was now an expression of perplexity; “set to work and get the edge off your appetite, and then I’ll read Moxton’s letter.”

When Mr Shirley had finished breakfast, Ned was about half done, having just commenced his third slice of toast. So the old gentleman complimented his nephew on the strength of his appetite, put on his spectacles, drew a letter from his pocket, and leaned back in his chair.

“Now, lad, open your ears and consider what I am about to read.”

“Go on, uncle, I’m all attention,” said Ned, attacking slice number four.

“This is Moxton’s letter. It runs thus—

“‘Dear Sir,—I beg to acknowledge receipt of yours of the 5th inst. I shall be happy to take your nephew on trial, and, if I find him steady, shall enter into an engagement with him, I need not add that unremitting application to business is the only road to distinction in the profession he is desirous of adopting. Let him call at my office to-morrow between ten and twelve.—Yours very truly, Daniel Moxton.’”

“Is that all?” inquired Ned, drawing his chair towards the fire, into which he gazed contemplatively.

Mr Shirley looked at his nephew over the top of his spectacles, and said—

“That’s all.”

“It’s very short,” remarked Ned.

“But to the point,” rejoined his uncle. “Now, boy, I see that you don’t relish the idea, and I must say that I would rather that you became an engineer than a lawyer; but then, lad, situations are difficult to get now-a-days, and, after all, you might do worse than become a lawyer. To be sure, I have no great love for the cloth, Ned; but the ladder reaches very high. The foot is crowded with a struggling mass of aspirants, many of whom are of very questionable character, but the top reaches to one of the highest positions in the empire. You might become the Lord High Chancellor at last, who knows! But seriously, I think you should accept this offer. Moxton is a grave, stern man, but a sterling fellow for all that, and in good practice. Now, what do you think!”

“Well, uncle,” replied Ned, “I’ve never concealed my thoughts from you since the day you took me by the hand, eleven years ago, and brought me to live under your roof; and I’ll not begin to dissemble now. The plain truth is, that I don’t like it at all.”

“Stop, now,” cried Mr Shirley, with a grieved expression of countenance; “don’t be hasty in forming your opinion. Besides, my boy, you ought to be more ready to take my advice, even although it be not altogether palatable.”

“My dear uncle, you quite misunderstand me. I only tell you what I think about the proposal. As to taking your advice, I fully intend to do that whether I like it or not; but I think, if you will listen to me for a few minutes, you will change your mind in regard to this matter. You know that I am very fond of travelling, and that I dislike the idea of taking up my abode on the top of a three-legged stool, either as a lawyer’s or a merchant’s clerk. Well, unless a man likes his profession, and goes at it with a will, he cannot hope to succeed, so that I have no prospect of getting on, I fear, in the line you wish me to adopt. Besides, there are plenty of poor fellows out of work, who love sitting still from nine a.m. to ten p.m., and whose bread I would be taking out of their mouths by devoting myself to the legal profession, and—”

At this point Ned hesitated for a moment, and his uncle broke in with—

“Tell me, now, if every one thought about business as you do, how would the world get on, think you?”

“Badly, I fear,” replied the youth, with a smile; “but everybody doesn’t think of it as I do; and, tell me, uncle, if everybody thought of business as you would wish me to do, what would come of the soldiers and sailors who defend our empire, and extend our foreign trade, and achieve the grand geographical discoveries that have of late added so much lustre to the British name?”

Ned flushed and became quite eloquent at this point. “Now, look at California,” he continued; “there’s a magnificent region, full of gold; not a mere myth, or an exaggeration, but a veritable fact, attested by the arrival of letters and gold-dust every month. Surely that land was made to be peopled; and the poor savages who dwell there need to be converted to Christianity, and delivered from their degraded condition; and the country must be worked, and its resources be developed; and who’s to do it, if enterprising clergymen, and schoolmasters, and miners do not go to live there, and push their fortunes?”

“And which of the three callings do you propose adopting?” inquired Mr Shirley, with a peculiar smile.

“Well uncle, I—a—the fact is, I have not thought much about that as yet. Of course, I never thought of the first. I do not forget your own remark, that the calling of a minister of the gospel of Christ is not, like other professions, to be adopted merely as a means of livelihood. Then, as to the second, I might perhaps manage that; but I don’t think it would suit me.”

“Do you think, then, that you would make a good digger?”

“Well, perhaps I would,” replied Ned, modestly.

Mr Shirley gravely regarded the powerful frame that reclined in the easy-chair before him, and was compelled to admit that the supposition was by no means outrageous.

“Besides,” continued the youth, “I might turn my hand to many things in a new country. You know I have studied surveying, and I can sketch a little, and know something of architecture. I suppose that Latin and Greek would not be of much use, but the little I have picked up of medicine and surgery among the medical students would be useful. Then I could take notes, and sketch the scenery, and bring back a mass of material that might interest the public, and do good to the country.”

“Oh,” said the old gentleman, shortly; “come back and turn author, in fact, and write a book that nobody would publish, or which, in the event of its being published, nobody would read!”

“Come, now, my dear uncle, don’t laugh at me. I assure you it seems very reasonable to me to think that what others have done, and are doing every day, I am able to do.”

“Well, I won’t laugh at you; but, to be serious, you are wise enough to know that an old man’s experience is worth more than a youth’s fancies. Much of what you have said is true, I admit, but I assure you that the bright prospects you have cut out for yourself are very delusive. They will never be realised, at least in the shape in which you have depicted them on your imagination. They will dissolve, my boy, on a nearer approach, and, as Shakespeare has it, ‘like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wrack behind,’ or, at least, not much more than a wrack.”

Ned reverted to the golden dream, and felt uneasy under his uncle’s kind but earnest gaze.

“Most men,” continued Mr Shirley, “enjoy themselves at first, when they go to wild countries in search of adventure, but they generally regret the loss of their best years afterwards. In my opinion men should never emigrate unless they purpose making the foreign land they go to their home. But I won’t oppose you, if you are determined to go; I will do all I can to help you, and give you my blessing; but before you make up your mind, I would recommend you to call on Mr Moxton, and hear what prospects he holds out to you. Then take a week to think seriously over it; and if at the end of that time, you are as anxious to go as ever, I’ll not stand in your way.”

“You are kind to me, uncle; more so than I deserve,” said Ned earnestly. “I’ll do as you desire, and you may depend upon it that the generous way in which you have left me to make my own choice will influence me against going abroad more than anything else.”

Ned sighed as he rose to quit the room, for he felt that his hopes at that moment were sinking.

“And before you take a step in the matter, my boy,” said old Mr Shirley, “go to your room and ask counsel of Him who alone has the power to direct your steps in this life.”

Ned replied briefly, “I will, uncle,” and hastily left the room. Mr Shirley poked the fire, put on his spectacles, smoothed out the wrinkles on his bald forehead with his hand, took up the Times, and settled himself down in his easy-chair to read; but his nephew’s prospects could not be banished from his mind. He went over the whole argument again, mentally, with copious additions, ere he became aware of the fact, that for three-quarters of an hour he had been, (apparently), reading the newspaper upside down.

Chapter Three.

Hopes and Fears—Mr Shirley receives a Visit and a Wild Proposal.

When Edward Sinton left his chamber, an hour after the conversation related in the last chapter, his brow was unruffled and his step light. He had made up his mind that, come what might, he would not resist the wishes of his only near relative and his best friend.

There was a day in the period of early boyhood that remained as fresh on the memory of young Sinton as if it had been yesterday—the day on which his mother died. The desolation of his early home on that day was like the rising of a dark thunder-cloud on a bright sky. His young heart was crushed, his mind stunned, and the first ray of light that broke upon him—the first gush of relief—was when his uncle arrived and took him on his knee, and, seated beside the bed where that cold, still form lay, wept upon the child’s neck as if his heart would break. Mr Shirley buried the sister whom he had been too late to see alive. Then he and his little nephew left the quiet country village and went to dwell in the great city of London. From that time forward Mr Shirley was a father to Ned, who loved him more than any one else on earth, and through his influence he was early led to love and reverence his heavenly Father and his blessed Redeemer.

The subject of going abroad was the first in regard to which Ned and his uncle had seriously disagreed, and the effect on the feelings of both was very strong.

Ned’s mind wandered as he put on his hat, and buttoned his great-coat up to the chin, and drew on his gloves slowly. He was not vain of his personal appearance; neither was he reckless of it. He always struck you as being a particularly well-dressed man, and he had naturally a dashing look about him. Poor fellow! he felt anything but dashing or reckless as he hurried through the crowded streets in the direction of the city that day.

Moxton’s door was a green one, with a brass knocker and a brass plate, both of which ornaments, owing to verdigris, were anything but ornamental. The plate was almost useless, being nearly illegible, but the knocker was still fit for duty. The street was narrow—as Ned observed with a feeling of deep depression—and the house to which the green door belonged, besides being dirty, retreated a little, as if it were ashamed of itself.

On the knocker being applied, the green door was opened by a disagreeable-looking old woman, who answered to the question, “Is Mr Moxton in?” with a short “Yes,” and, without farther remark, ushered our hero into a very dingy and particularly small office, which, owing to the insufficient quantity of daylight that struggled through the dirty little windows, required to be lighted with gas. Ned felt, so to speak, like a thermometer which was falling rapidly.

“Can I see Mr Moxton?” he inquired of a small dishevelled clerk, who sat on a tall stool behind a high desk, engaged in writing his name in every imaginable form on a sheet of note paper.

The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner apartment, and resumed his occupation.

Ned tapped at the door indicated.

“Come in,” cried a stern voice.

Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower. On entering, he beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with his back to the fire.

Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face. Thermometrically speaking, he fell to the freezing-point.

“You are young Sinton, I suppose. You’ve come later than I expected.”

Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding the house.

“Umph! Your uncle tells me that you’re a sharp fellow, and write a good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?”

“No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible.”

“At least!” said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant for smile, perhaps for a grin. “Why, that’s the most you could say of it. No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be bad that is legible. Have you studied law?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Umph! you’re too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?”

“Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day.”

“Well, you may come here on Monday, and I’ll speak to you again, and see what you can do. I’m too busy just now. Good-morning.”

Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the door-handle.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “may I ask what room I shall occupy, if—if—I come to work here?”

Mr Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, “There.” Ned fell to twenty below the freezing-point.

“And pray, sir,” he continued, “may I ask what are office-hours?”

“From nine a.m. till nine p.m., with an interval for meals,” said Mr Moxton, sharply; “but we usually continue at work till eleven at night, sometimes later. Good-morning.”

Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office.

It was a hard struggle, a very hard struggle, but he recalled to mind all that his uncle had ever done for him, and the love he bore him, and manfully resolved to cast California behind his back for ever, and become a lawyer.

Meanwhile Mr Shirley received a visit from a very peculiar personage. He was still seated in his arm-chair pondering his nephew’s prospects when this personage entered the room, hat in hand—the hat was a round straw one—and cried heartily, “Good day, kinsman.”

“Ha! Captain Bunting, how are ye? Glad to see you, old fellow,” exclaimed Mr Shirley, rising and seizing the sailor by the hand. “Sit down, sit down, and let’s hear your news. Why, I believe it’s six months since I saw you.”

“Longer, Shirley, longer than that,” replied the captain, seating himself in the chair which Ned Sinton had vacated a short time before. “I hope your memory is not giving way. I have been half round the world, and it’s a year and six months to-day since I sat here last.”

“Is it?” cried Mr Shirley, in surprise. “Now, that is very remarkable. But do you know, captain, I have often thought upon that subject, and wondered why it is that, as we get older, time seems to fly faster, and events which happened a month ago seem as if they only occurred yesterday. But let me hear all about it. Where have you been, and where are you going next?”

“I’ve been,” replied the captain, who was a big, broad man with a rough over-all coat, rough pilot-cloth trousers, rough red whiskers, a shaggy head of hair, and a rough-skinned face; the only part of him, in fact, which wasn’t rough was his heart; that was soft and warm—

“I’ve been, as I remarked before, half round the world, and I’m goin’ next to America. That’s a short but comprehensive answer to your question. If you have time and patience, kinsman, I’ll open the log-book of my memory and give you some details of my doings since we last met. But first tell me, how is my young friend, Ned?”

“Oh, he’s well—excellently well—besides being tall and strong. You would hardly know him, captain. He’s full six feet high, I believe, and the scamp has something like a white wreath of smoke over his upper lip already! I wish him to become an engineer or a lawyer, but the boy is in love with California just now, and dreams about nothing but wild adventures and gold-dust.”

The captain gave a grunt, and a peculiar smile crossed his rugged visage as he gazed earnestly and contemplatively into the fire.

Captain Bunting was a philosopher, and was deeply impressed with the belief that the smallest possible hint upon any subject whatever was sufficient to enable him to dive into the marrow of it, and prognosticate the probable issue of it, with much greater certainty than any one else. On the present occasion, however, the grunt above referred to was all he said.

It is not necessary to trouble the reader with the lengthened discourse that the captain delivered to his kinsman. When he concluded, Mr Shirley pushed his spectacles up on his bald head, gazed at the fire, and said, “Odd, very odd; and interesting too—very interesting.” After a short pause, he pulled his spectacles down on his nose, and looking over them at the captain, said, “And what part of America are you bound for now?”

“California,” answered the captain, slowly.

Mr Shirley started, as if some prophetic vision had been called up by the word and the tone in which it was uttered.

“And that,” continued the captain, “brings me to the point. I came here chiefly for the purpose of asking you to let your nephew go with me, as I am in want of a youth to assist me, as a sort of supercargo and Jack-of-all-trades. In fact, I like your nephew much, and have long had my eye on him. I think him the very man for my purpose. I want a companion, too, in my business—one who is good at the pen and can turn his hand to anything. In short, it would be difficult to explain all the outs and ins of why I want him. But he’s a tight, clever fellow, as I know, and I do want him, and if you’ll let him go, I promise to bring him safe back again in the course of two years—if we are all spared. From what you’ve told me, I’ve no doubt the lad will be delighted to go. And, believe me, his golden dreams will be all washed out by the time he comes back. Now, what say you!”

For the space of five minutes Mr Shirley gazed at the captain over his spectacles in amazement, and said nothing. Then he threw himself back on his chair, pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazed at him from underneath these assistants to vision. The alteration did not seem to improve matters, for he still continued to gaze in silent surprise. At last his lips moved, and he said, slowly but emphatically—

“Now, that is the most remarkable coincidence I ever heard of.”

“How so?” inquired the captain.

“Why, that my nephew should be raving about going to California, and that you should be raving about getting him to go, and that these things should suddenly come to a climax on the same forenoon. It’s absolutely incredible. If I had read it in a tale, now, or a romance, I would not have been surprised, for authors are such blockheads, generally, that they always make things of this kind fit in with the exactness of a dove-tail; but that it should really come to pass in my own experience, is quite incomprehensible. And so suddenly, too!”

“As to that,” remarked the captain, with a serious, philosophical expression of countenance, “most things come to a climax suddenly, and coincidences invariably happen together; but, after all, it doesn’t seem so strange to me, for vessels are setting sail for California every other day, and—”

“Well,” interrupted Mr Shirley, starting up with energy, as if he had suddenly formed a great resolve, “I will let the boy go. Perhaps it will do him good. Besides, I have my own reasons for not caring much about his losing a year or two in regard to business. Come with me to the city, captain, and we’ll talk over it as we go along.” So saying, Mr Shirley took his kinsman by the arm, and they left the house together.

Chapter Four.

The End of the Beginning—Farewell to Old England.

As Captain Bunting sagaciously remarked, “most things come to a climax suddenly.”

On the evening of the day in which our tale begins, Edward Sinton—still standing at zero—walked into his uncle’s parlour. The old gentleman was looking earnestly, though unintentionally, at the cat, which sat on the rug; and the cat was looking attentively at the kettle, which sat on the fire, hissing furiously, as if it were disgusted at being kept so long from tea.

Ned’s face was very long and sad as he entered the room.

“Dear uncle,” said he, taking Mr Shirley by the hand, “I’m not going to take a week to think over it. I have made up my mind to remain at home, and become a lawyer.”

“Ned,” replied Mr Shirley, returning his nephew’s grasp, “I’m not going to take a week to think over it either. I have made up my mind that you are to go to California, and become a—a—whatever you like, my dear boy; so sit down to tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Ned was incredulous at first, but as his uncle went on to explain how matters stood, and gradually diverged from that subject to the details of his outfit, he recovered from his surprise, and sprang suddenly up to 100 degrees of Fahrenheit, even in the shade of the prospect of parting for a time from old Mr Shirley.

Need we be surprised, reader, that our hero on that night dreamed the golden dream over again, with many wonderful additions, and sundry remarkable variations.

Thus it came to pass that, two weeks afterwards, Ned and his uncle found themselves steaming down the Thames to Gravesend, where the good ship Roving Bess lay riding at anchor, with a short cable, and top-sails loose, ready for sea.

“Ned,” said Mr Shirley, as they watched the receding banks of the noble river, “you may never see home again, my boy. Will you be sure not to forget me! will you write often, Ned!”

“Forget you, uncle!” exclaimed Ned, in a reproachful voice, while a tear sprang to his eye. “How can you suggest such a—”

“Well, well, my boy, I know it—I know it; but I like to hear the assurance repeated by your own lips. I’m an old man now, and if I should not live to see you again, I would like to have some earnest, loving words to think upon while you are away.” The old man paused a few moments, and then resumed—

“Ned, remember when far from home, that there is another home—eternal in the heavens—to which, if you be the Lord’s child, you are hastening. You will think of that home, Ned, won’t you! If I do not meet you again here at any rate I shall hope to meet you there.”

Ned would have spoken, but his heart was too full. He merely pressed old Mr Shirley’s arm.

“Perhaps,” continued his uncle, “it is not necessary to make you promise to read God’s blessed Word. You’ll be surrounded by temptations of no ordinary kind in the gold-regions; and depend upon it that the Bible, read with prayer, will be the best chart and compass to guide you safely through them all.”

“My dear uncle,” replied Ned, with emotion, “perhaps the best promise I can make is to assure you that I will endeavour to do, in all things and at all times, as you have taught me, ever since I was a little boy. If I succeed, I feel assured that I shall do well.”

A long and earnest conversation ensued between the uncle and nephew, which was interrupted at last, by the arrival of the boat at Gravesend. Jumping into a wherry, they pushed off, and were soon alongside of the Roving Bess, a barque of about eight hundred tons burden, and, according to Captain Bunting, “an excellent sea-boat.”

“Catch hold o’ the man-ropes,” cried the last-named worthy, looking over the side; “that’s it; now then, jump! all right! How are ye, kinsman? Glad to see you, Ned. I was afraid you were goin’ to give me the slip.”

“I have not kept you waiting, have I?” inquired Ned.

“Yes, you have, youngster,” replied the captain, with a facetious wink, as he ushered his friends into the cabin, and set a tray of broken biscuit and a decanter of wine before them. “The wind has been blowin’ off shore the whole morning, and the good ship has been straining at a short cable like a hound chained up. But we’ll be off now in another half-hour.”

“So soon?” said Mr Shirley, with an anxious expression on his kind old face.

“All ready to heave up the anchor, sir,” shouted the first mate down the companion.

The captain sprang on deck, and soon after the metallic clatter of the windlass rang a cheerful accompaniment to the chorus of the sailors. One by one the white sails spread out to the breeze, and the noble ship began to glide through the water.

In a few minutes more the last words were spoken, the last farewell uttered, and Mr Shirley stood alone in the stern-sheet of the little boat, watching the departing vessel as she gathered way before the freshening breeze. As long as the boat was visible Ned Sinton stood on the ship’s bulwarks, holding on to the mizzen shrouds, and waving his handkerchief from time to time. The old man stood with his head uncovered, and his thin locks waving in the wind.

Soon the boat was lost to view. Our hero brushed away a tear, and leaped upon the deck, where the little world, of which for many days to come he was to form a part, busied itself in making preparation for a long, long voyage. The British Channel was passed; the Atlantic Ocean was entered; England sank beneath the horizon; and, for the first time in his life, Ned Sinton found himself—at sea.

Chapter Five.

The Sea—Dangers of the Deep, and Uncertainty of Human Affairs—A Disastrous Night and a Bright Morning—California at last.

Only those who have dwelt upon the ocean for many months together can comprehend the feelings of delight with which the long-imprisoned voyager draws near to his desired haven. For six long months did the Roving Bess do battle with the surging billows of the great deep. During that time she steered towards the Gulf of Mexico—carefully avoiding that huge reservoir of sea-weed, termed the Saragossa sea, in which the unscientific but enterprising mariners of old used to get becalmed oftentimes for days and weeks together—she coasted down the eastern shores of South America; fired at, and “shewed her heels” to, a pirate; doubled Cape Horn; fought with the tempests that take special delight in revelling there; and, finally, spreading her sails to the genial breezes of the Pacific Ocean, drew near to her voyage-end.

All this the good ship Roving Bess did with credit to herself and comfort to her crew; but a few weeks after she entered the Pacific, she was met, contrary to all expectation, by the bitterest gale that had ever compelled her to scud under bare poles.

It was a beautiful afternoon when the first symptoms of the coming storm were observed. Captain Bunting had just gone down below, and our hero was standing at the weather gangway, observing the sudden dart of a shoal of flying-fish, which sprang out of the sea, whizzed through the air a few hundred feet, and fell with a splash into the water, in their frantic efforts to escape from their bitter enemy, the dolphin.

While Ned gazed contemplatively at the spot where the winged fish had disappeared, the captain sprang on deck.

“We’re goin’ to catch it,” he said, hurriedly, as he passed forward; “tumble up, there; tumble up; all hands to shorten sails. Hand down the royals, and furl the t’gallant sails, Mr Williams, (to the first mate,) and look alive.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was answered in that prompt tone of voice which indicates thorough discipline and unquestioning obedience, while the men scrambled up the fore-hatch, and sprang up the ratlines hand over hand. A moment before, the vessel had lain quietly on the bosom of the unruffled deep, as if she were asleep, now she was all uproar and apparent confusion; sails slewed round, ropes rattled, and blocks creaked, while the sonorous voice of the first mate sounded commands like a trumpet from the quarter-deck.

“I see no indication of a storm,” remarked young Sinton, as the captain walked aft.

“Possibly not, lad; but I do. The barometer has fallen lower, all of a sadden, than I ever saw it fall before. You may depend upon it, we shall have to look out for squalls before long. Just cast your eyes on the horizon over the weather bows there; it’s not much of a cloud, and, to say truth, I would not have thought much of it had the glass remained steady, but that faithful servant never—”

“Better close-reef the top-sails, sir,” said the mate, touching his cap, and pointing to the cloud just referred to.

“Do so, Mr Williams, and let the watch below remain on deck, and stand by to man the halyards.”

In less than an hour the Roving Bess was running at the rate of twelve knots, under close-reefed top-sails, before a steady gale, which in half-an-hour later increased to a hurricane, compelling them to take in all sail and “lay to.” The sun set in a blaze of mingled black and lurid clouds, as if the heavens were on fire; the billows rose to their utmost height as the shrieking winds heaved them upwards, and then, cutting off their crests, hurled the spray along like driving clouds of snow, and dashed it against the labouring ship, as if impatient to engulf her in that ravening maw which has already swallowed up so many human victims.

But the little vessel faced the tempest nobly, and rose like a sea-mew on the white crest of each wave, while the steersmen—for there were two lashed to the wheel—kept her to the wind. Suddenly the sheet of the fore trysail parted, the ship came up to the wind, and a billow at that moment broke over her, pouring tons of water on her deck, and carrying away the foremast, main-top-masts, and the jib-boom.

“Clear the wreck—down the helm, and let her scud,” shouted the captain, who stood by the mizzen-mast, holding on to a belaying-pin. But the captain’s voice was drowned by the whistling winds, and, seeing that the men were uncertain what to do, he seized one of the axes which were lashed to the foot of the mast, and began to cut away the ropes which dragged the wreck of the foremast under the lee of the ship. Williams, the mate, and the second mate, followed his example, while Ned sprang to the wheel to see the orders to the steersmen obeyed. In half-an-hour all was clear, and the ship was scudding before the gale under bare poles.

“We’ve not seen the worst of it,” remarked the captain, as he resumed his post on the quarter-deck, and brushed the brine from his whiskers; “I fear, too, that she has received some bad thumps from the wreck of the foremast. You’d better go below, Sinton, and put on a topcoat; its no use gettin’ wetter than you can help.”

“I’m as wet as I can be, captain; besides, I can work better as I am, if there’s anything for me to do.”

“Well, there ain’t much: you’ll have enough to do to keep yourself from being washed overboard. How’s her head, Larry?”

“Nor’ east an’ by east,” replied one of the men at the wheel, Larry O’Neil by name—a genuine son of Erin, whose jovial smile of rollicking good humour was modified, but by no means quenched, by the serious circumstances in which he found himself placed. His comrade, William Jones, who stood on the larboard side of the wheel, was a short, thick-set, stern seaman, whose facial muscles were scarcely capable of breaking into a smile, and certainly failed to betray any of the owner’s thoughts or feelings, excepting astonishment. Such passions as anger, pity, disgust, fear, and the like, whatever place they might have in Jones’s breast, had no visible index on his visage. Both men were sailor-like and powerful, but they were striking contrasts to each other, as they stood—the one sternly, the other smilingly—steering the Roving Bess before that howling storm.

“Is not ‘nor’ east and by east’ our direct course for the harbour of San Francisco?” inquired Ned Sinton.

“It is,” replied the captain, “as near as I can guess; but we’ve been blown about so much that I can’t tell exactly. Moreover, it’s my opinion we can’t be far off the coast now; and if this gale holds on I’ll have to bring to, at the risk of bein’ capsized. Them plaguey coral-reefs, too, are always springin’ up in these seas where you least expect ’em. If we go bump against one as we are goin’ now, its all up with us.”

“Not a pleasant idea,” remarked Ned, somewhat gravely. “Do these storms usually last long?”

Before the captain could reply, the first mate came up and whispered in his ear.

“Eh! how much d’ye say?” he asked quickly.

“Five feet, sir; she surged heavily once or twice on the foremast, and I think must have started a plank.”

“Call all hands to work the pumps; and don’t let the men know how much water there is in the hold. Come below, Ned. I want you. Keep her head steady as she goes.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” sang out O’Neil, as the captain descended the companion-hatch to the cabin, followed by his young friend.

The dim light in the swinging lamp flickered fitfully when the ship plunged into the troughs of the seas, and rose again with a violent surge, as each wave passed under her, while every plank and spar on board seemed to groan under the strain. Darkness now added to the terrors of the wild storm.

Sitting down on a locker, Captain Bunting placed his elbows on the table, and covering his face with his hands, remained silent for several minutes, while Ned sat down beside him, but forbore to interrupt his thoughts.

“Boy,” he said, at length, looking up anxiously, “we’ve sprung a leak, and a few minutes will shew what our fate is to be. Five feet of water in the hold in so short a time implies a bad one.”

“Five feet two, sir,” said the mate, looking in at the cabin door; “and the carpenter can’t get at the leak.”

“I feared as much,” muttered the captain. “Keep the men hard at the pumps, Mr Williams, and let me hear how it stands again in ten minutes.”

“Captain,” said Ned, “it does not become a landsman to suggest, perhaps, but I can’t help reminding you, that leaks of this kind have been stopped by putting a sail below the ship’s bottom.”

“I know it, boy, I know it; but we could never get a sail down in such a night.”

“Can nothing be done, then?”

“Yes, lad; it’s hard to do it, but it must be done; life is more precious than gold—we must heave the cargo overboard. I have invested every farthing I have in the world in this venture,” continued Captain Bunting, sadly, “but there’s no help for it. Now, you were at the shifting of the cargo when we opened the hatches during the calms off the Brazilian coast, and as you know the position of the bales and boxes, I want you to direct the men so as to get it hove out quickly. Luckily, bein’ a general cargo, most o’ the bales are small and easily handled. Here comes the mate again—well, Mr Williams?”

“Up another inch, sir.”

“Go, Ned, over with it. I’ll superintend above; so good-bye to our golden dreams.”

There was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain’s voice as he spoke, but it passed away quickly, and the next instant he was on deck encouraging his men to throw the valuable cargo over the side. Bale after bale and box after box were tossed ruthlessly out upon the raging sea until little was left in the ship, save the bulky and less valuable portion of the cargo. Then a cry arose that the leak was discovered! The carpenter had succeeded in partially stopping it with part of a sail, and soon the pumps began to reduce the quantity of water in the hold. At last the leak was gained and effectually stopped, and before daybreak the storm began to subside. While part of the crew, being relieved from the harassing work at the pumps, busied themselves in repairing damages, Ned went to his cabin to put on dry clothes and take a little rest, of which he stood much in need.

Next day the bright sun rose in a cloudless sky, and a gentle breeze now wafted the Roving Bess over the Pacific, whose bosom still heaved deeply from the effects of the recent storm. A sense of fervent thankfulness to God for deliverance filled the heart of our hero as he awoke and beheld the warm sunbeams streaming in at the little window of his cabin. Suddenly he was roused from a deep reverie by the shout of “Land, ho!” on deck.

Words cannot convey an adequate idea of the effect of such a shout upon all on board. “Land, ho!” was repeated by every one, as he sprang in dishabille up the hatchway.

“Where away?” inquired Captain Bunting.

“Right ahead, sir,” answered the look-out.

“Ay, there it is,” said the captain, as Ned, without coat or vest, rushed to his side, and gazed eagerly over the bow, “there it is, Ned,—California, at last! Yonder rise the golden mountains that have so suddenly become the world’s magnet; and yonder, too, is the ‘Golden Gate’ of the harbour of San Francisco. Humph! much good it’ll do us.”

Again there was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain’s voice.

“Don’t let down your spirits, captain,” said Ned, in a cheering tone; “there is still enough of the cargo left to enable us to make a start for the gold-fields. Perhaps we may make more money there than we would have made had we sold the cargo at a large profit by trafficking on the coast.”

Captain Bunting hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and shook his head. It was evident that he had no faith in gold-digging. Meanwhile the crew had assembled on the forecastle, and were looking out ahead with wistful and excited glances; for the fame of the golden land to which they were approaching had spread far and wide, and they longed to see the gold-dust and nuggets with their own eyes.

“It’s a beautiful land, intirely,” exclaimed Larry O’Neil, with an irrepressible shout of enthusiasm, which called forth a general cheer from the men.

“Arrah, now,” remarked another Patlander, “don’t ye wish ye wos up to the knees and elbows in the goolden sands already? Faix I’d give a month’s pay to have wan day at the diggin’s.”

“I don’t believe a word about it—I don’t,” remarked Jones, with the dogged air of a man who shouldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t believe, and yet felt, somehow, that he couldn’t help it.

“Nother do I,” said another, “It’s all a sham; come, now, ain’t it, Bill?” he added, turning to a bronzed veteran who had visited California two years before.

“A sham!” exclaimed Bill. “I tell ’e wot it is, messmate, when you comes for to see the miners in San Francisco drinkin’ shampain like water, an’ payin’ a dollar for a glass o’ six-water grog, you’ll—”

“How much is a dollar?” inquired a soft-looking youth, interrupting him.

Bill said it was “’bout four shillin’s,” and turned away with a look of contempt at such a display of ignorance.

“Four shillin’s!” exclaimed the soft youth, in amazement.

“Clear the anchor, and clew up the main-topsail,” shouted the mate.

In another moment the crew were scattered, some aloft to “lay out” on the topsail yard, some to the clew-lines, and some to clear the anchor, which latter had not been disturbed since the Roving Bess left the shores of Old England.

Chapter Six.

San Francisco—An Unexpected Desertion—Captain Bunting takes a Gloomy View of Things in General—New Friends and New Plans—Singular Facts and Curious Fancies.

The “Golden Gates,” as they are called, of San Francisco, are two rocky headlands, about a mile apart, which form the entrance to one of the finest harbours, or rather land-locked seas, in the world. This harbour is upwards of forty miles long, by about twelve miles broad at its widest point, and receives at its northern end the waters of the noble Sacramento river, into which all the other rivers in California flow.

Nearly opposite to the mouth of the Sacramento, on the southern shores of the bay, stands the famous city of San Francisco, close to which the Roving Bess let go her anchor and clasped the golden strand.

The old adage that, “truth is strange, stranger than fiction,” was never more forcibly verified than in the growth and career of this wonderful city. No dreams of Arabian romance ever surpassed the inconceivable wonders that were matters of every-day occurrence there during the first years of the gold-fever; and many of the results attributed to Aladdin’s wonderful lamp were almost literally accomplished—in some cases actually surpassed—in and around the cities of California.

Before the discovery of gold, San Francisco was a mere hamlet. It consisted of a few rude cottages, built of sun-dried bricks, which were tenanted by native Californians; there were also a few merchants who trafficked in hides and horns. Cruisers and whalers occasionally put into the harbour to obtain fresh supplies of water, but beyond these and the vessels engaged in the hide-trade few ships ever visited the port, and the name of San Francisco was almost unknown.

But the instant the rumour got abroad that gold had been discovered there, the eyes of the world were turned towards it. In a few months men and ships began to pour into the capacious harbour; a city of tents overspread the sand-hills on which the hamlet stood; thousands upon thousands of gold-hunters rushed to the mines; the golden treasures of the land were laid bare, and immense fortunes were made literally in the course of a few weeks. In many cases these were squandered or gambled away almost as soon as made; but hundreds of men retired from the gold-fields after a few months’ labour, and returned home possessed of ample fortunes. Thousands, too, failed—some from physical inability to stand the fatiguing labour of the mines, and some from what they termed “want of luck,” though want of perseverance was, in nine cases out of ten, the real cause; while many hundreds perished from exposure and from the diseases that were prevalent in the country.

Well would it have been for these last had they remembered God’s word, “Make not haste to be rich;” but the thirst for gold, and the prospect of the sudden acquisition of enormous wealth, had blinded them to the fact that their frames were not equal to the rough life at the mines.

The excitement was at its height when the Roving Bess anchored off the shores of this land of gold.

The sun was just setting as the anchor dropped, and the crippled ship swung round towards the shore, for the tide had just begun to rise.

“Faix, it’s a quare town,” said Larry O’Neil to Ned, who was gazing in wrapt, astonishment and admiration ever the stern.

It was indeed “quare.” The entire city was made up of the most flimsy and make-shift materials that can be conceived. Many of the shops were mere tents with an open framework of wood in front; some were made of sheet-iron nailed to wooden posts; some were made of zinc; others, (imported from the States), of wood, painted white, and edged with green; a few were built of sun-dried bricks, still fewer of corrugated iron, and many of all these materials pieced together in a sort of fancy patchwork. Even boats were used as dwellings, turned keel up, with a hole cut in their sides for the egress of a tin smoke-pipe, and two others of larger size to serve as door and window.

Finding space scarce, owing to the abrupt rise of the hills from the shore, many enterprising individuals had encroached upon the sea, and built houses on piles driven into the sand nearly half-a-mile below the original high water mark.

Almost every nation under the sun had representatives there, and the consequent confusion of tongues was equal to that of Babel.

The hills overhanging the lower part of the town were also well covered with tents, temporary houses, and cottages that had some appearance of comfort about them.

Such was the city on which the sun went down that night, and many were the quaint, sagacious, and comic remarks made by the men as they sat round their various mess-tables in the forecastle of the Roving Bess, speculating noisily and half-seriously on the possibility of getting a run into the interior for a day or two.

But there was a party of men in the ship whose conversation that night was neither so light-hearted nor so loud. They sat in a dark corner of the forecastle talking earnestly in subdued tones after the watch for the night was set. Their chief spokesman was a rough, ill-looking fellow, named Elliot.

“Ye see, lads,” said this man to the half-dozen comrades around him, “we must do it to-night, if we’re to do it at all. There’s the captain’s small boat layin’ out astarn, which comes quite handy, an’, as we lose all our pay by the dodge, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take it.”

The man struck his fist into his left palm, and looked round the circle for opinions.

“I don’t half like it,” said one; “it seems to me a sneaking way of doin’ it.”

“Bah!” ejaculated another, “wot gammon you do talk. If he lose the boat, don’t we lose the tin? Besides, are we agoin’ to let sich a trifle stand in the way o’ us an’ our fortins?”

“Have ye spoken to the other men, Elliot?” inquired one of the group.

“Ay, in coorse I have; an’ they’re all agreeable. Young Spense stood out pretty stiff at first; but I talked him over. Only I said nothing to Larry O’Neil or Bill Jones. I know it’s of no use. They’ll never agree; and if we wos to speak of it to either on ’em, he’d go right away aft an’ tell the captain. Their watch below ’ll come on in an hour, an’ then the watch on deck’ll be on our side. So, lads, go and git ready—an’ sharp’s the word.”

The party broke up, and went quietly below to prepare for flight, leaving no one on deck except O’Neil and Jones, and two of their comrades, who formed part of the watch. As Elliot had said, the watch was changed in about an hour. The mate and captain came on deck, looked round to see that all was right, and then returned to the cabin, to consult about the preliminary arrangements for disposing of the remnant of the cargo. Ned Sinton had turned in to have a good sleep before the expected toil and bustle of the following day; O’Neil and Jones, being relieved from duty, were glad to jump into their hammocks; and the deck was left in charge of the conspirators.

It was a clear, lovely night. Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the sea, in whose depths the starry host and the images of a hundred ships of all shapes and tonnage were faithfully mirrored. Bright lights illumined the city, those in the tents giving to them the appearance of cones and cubes of solid fire. The subdued din of thousands of human voices floated over the water, and mingled with the occasional shout or song that rose from the fleet and the splash of oars, as boats passed to and from the shore. Over all, the young moon shed a pale, soft light, threw into deep shadow the hills towards the north, which rose abruptly to a height of 3000 feet, and tipped with a silver edge the peak of Monte Diavolo, whose lofty summit overlooks all the golden land between the great range of the Sierra Nevada and the ocean. It was a scene of peaceful beauty, well fitted to call forth the adoration of man to the great and good Creator. Doubtless there were some whose hearts rose that night above the sordid thoughts of gain and gold; but few such were recognisable by their fellow-men, compared with the numerous votaries of sin and so-called pleasure.

Towards midnight, Captain Bunting turned in, ordering the steward to call him at daybreak; and shortly afterwards the mate retired, having previously looked round the deck and spoken the watch. A few minutes after, Elliot and his comrades appeared on deck, with their boots and small bundles in their hands.

“Is all right?” whispered Elliot.

“All right!” replied one of the watch.

Nothing more was said; the boat was hauled softly alongside, and held firmly there while two men descended and muffled the oars; then one by one the men slid down the side, and a bag of biscuit and a junk of beef were lowered into it by the second mate, who was one of the conspirators.

At that moment the first mate came on deck, and went forward to inquire what was wrong.

“It’s something in the boat, sir,” replied the second mate.

The mate looked over the side, and the sailors felt that they must be discovered, and that their plans were about to be frustrated. But the second mate was a man of decision. He suddenly seized Williams round the neck, and, covering his mouth with his hand, held him as if in a vice until he was secured and gagged.

“Shall we leave him!” whisperingly inquired one of the men.

“No, he’d manage to kick up a row; take him with us.”

The helpless mate was immediately passed over the side, the rope was cast off; and the boat floated softly away. At first, the oars were dipped so lightly that no sound was heard, even by those on board, except the drops of brine that trickled from the blades as they rose from the water; then, as the distance increased, the strokes were given more vigorously, and, at last, the men bent to it “with a will;” and they were soon shooting over the vast bay in the direction of the Sacramento river, up which they meant to proceed to the “diggings.”

With the exception of O’Neil and Jones, who had already reached the diggings in their dreams, the whole crew, sixteen in all, levanted, leaving Captain Bunting to navigate the ship back to Old England as he best might.

It is easier to conceive than to describe the feelings of the captain, when, on the following morning, he discovered that his crew had fled. He stamped, and danced, and tugged his hair, and pursed up his lips so tight that nothing but an occasional splutter escaped them! Then he sat down on the cabin skylight, looked steadily at Ned, who came hurriedly on deck in his shirt and drawers to see what was wrong, and burst into a prolonged fit of laughter.

“Hallo, captain! what’s up!”

“Nothin’, lad, ha! ha! Oh yes, human flesh is up, Ned; sailors is riz, an’ we’ve been sold;—we have—uncommon!”

Hereupon the captain roared again; but there was a slight peculiarity in the tone, that indicated a strong infusion of rage with the seeming merriment.

“They’re all gone—every man, Jack,” said Jones, with a face of deep solemnity, as he stood looking at the captain.

“So they are, the blackguards; an’ that without biddin’ us good mornin’, bad luck to them,” added O’Neil.

At first, Ned Sinton felt little disposed to take a comic view of the affair, and urged the captain strongly to take the lightest boat and set off in pursuit; but the latter objected to this.

“It’s of no use,” he said, “the ship can’t be repaired here without heavy expense; so, as I don’t mean to go to sea again for some time, the desertion of the men matters little after all.”

“Not go to sea again!” exclaimed Ned, in surprise. “What, then, do you mean to do?”

“That’s more than I can tell. I must see first how the cargo is to be disposed of; after that, it will be time enough to concoct plans for the future. It is quite clear that the tide of luck is out about as far as it can go just now; perhaps it may turn soon.”

“No doubt of it, captain,” cried his young protégé with a degree of energy that shewed he had made up his mind as to what his course should be, in the event of things coming to the worst. “I’ll go down and put on a few more articles of clothing, and then we’ll have a talk over matters.”

The “talk,” which was held over the breakfast-table in the cabin, resulted in the captain resolving to go ashore, and call on a Scotch merchant, named Thompson, to whom he had a letter of introduction. Half-an-hour later this resolve was carried out. Jones rowed them ashore in the smallest boat they had, and sculled back to the ship, leaving O’Neil with them to assist in carrying up two boxes which were consigned to Mr Thompson.

The quay on which they stood was crowded with men of all nations, whose excited looks, and tones, and “go-ahead” movements, testified to the high-pressure speed with which business in San Francisco was transacted.

“It’s more nor I can do to carry them two boxes at wance,” said Larry O’Neil, regarding them with a puzzled look, “an’ sorra a porter do I see nowhere.”

As he spoke, a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, in a red-flannel shirt, round-crowned wide-awake, long boots, and corduroys, stepped forward, and said, “I’ll help you, if you like.”

“D’ye think ye can lift it!” inquired Larry, with a dubious look.

The youth replied by seizing one of the boxes, and lifting it with ease on his shoulder, shewing that, though destitute of fat, he had more than the average allowance of bone and sinew.

“I doubt if you could do it better than that yourself, Larry,” said Ned, laughing. “Come along, now, close at our heels, lest we get separated in the crowd.”

The young porter knew the residence of Mr Thompson well, and guided them swiftly through the crowded thoroughfares towards it. Passing completely through the town, he led them over the brow of one of the sand-hills beyond it, and descended into a little valley, where several neat villas were scattered along the sides of a pleasant green slope, that descended towards another part of the bay. Turning into the little garden in front of one of these villas, he placed the box on the wooden platform before the door, and said, “This is Mr Thompson’s house.”

There was something striking in the appearance of this young porter; he seemed much above his station in life; and Ned Sinton regarded his bronzed and handsome, but somewhat haggard and dissipated countenance, with interest, as he drew out his purse, and asked what was to pay.

“Two dollars,” answered the man.

Ned looked up in surprise. The idea of paying eight shillings for so slight a service had never entered his imagination. At that moment the door opened, and Mr Thompson appeared, and invited them to enter. He was a shrewd, business-like man, with stern, but kind expression of countenance.

“Come in, come in, and welcome to California,” he said, on perusing the captain’s letter of introduction. “Glad to see you, gentlemen. You’ve not had breakfast, of course; we are just about to sit down. This way,” he added, throwing open the door of a comfortable and elegantly-furnished parlour. “Bring the boxes into the passage—that will do. Here, Lizette, pay the men, dear; two dollars a-piece, I fancy—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Captain Bunting, “only one bas to be paid, the other is one of my sailors.”

“Ah! very good; which is he?”

Larry O’Neil stepped forward, hat in hand.

“Go in there, my man, and cook will attend to you.”

Larry passed through the doorway pointed out with a pleasant, fluttering sensation at the heart, which was quickly changed to a feeling of considerable disappointment on discovering that “cook” was a negro.

Meanwhile Lizette took two dollars from her purse, and bowing modestly to the strangers as she passed out of the room, advanced with them towards the young porter.

Now, Lizette was not beautiful—few women are, in the highest sense of the term, and the few who are, are seldom interesting; but she was pretty, and sweet, and innocent, and just turned sixteen. Fortunately for the male part of the world, there are many such. She had light-brown hair, which hung in dishevelled curls all round, a soft fair complexion, blue eyes, and a turned-up nose—a pert little nose that said plainly, “I will have my own way; now see if I don’t.” But the heart that animated the body to which that nose belonged, was a good, kind, earnest one; therefore, the nose having its own way was rather a blessing than otherwise to those happy individuals who dwelt habitually in the sunshine of Lizette’s presence.

At this particular time, ladies were scarce in California. The immense rush of men from all parts of the earth to the diggings had not been accompanied as yet by a corresponding rush of women, consequently the sight of a female face was, as it always ought to be, a source of comfort to mankind. We say “comfort” advisedly, because life at the gold-mines was a hard, riotous, mammon-seeking, rugged, and, we regret to say it, ungodly life; and men, in whom the soft memories of “other days” were not entirely quenched, had need, sometimes, of the comforting reflection that there still existed beings on the earth who didn’t rant, and roar, and drink, and swear, and wear beards, and boots, and bowie-knives.

There was double cause, then, for the gaze of respectful admiration with which the young porter regarded Lizette, as she said, “Here is your fare, porter,” and put the money into his hand, which he did not even thank her for, but continued to hold extended as if he wished her to take it back again.

Lizette did not observe the gaze, for she turned away immediately after giving him the money, and re-entered the parlour, whereupon the youth thrust both hands into his breeches-pockets, left the house, and returned slowly to the city, with the expression on his countenance of one who had seen a ghost.

Meanwhile Captain Bunting and Ned Sinton sat down with their host and hostess to a second breakfast, over which the former related the circumstances of the double loss of his crew and cargo.

“You are unfortunate,” said Mr Thompson, when the captain paused; “but there are hundreds in nearly the same predicament. Many of the fine-looking vessels you see in the harbour have lain helplessly there for months, the crews having taken French leave, and gone off to the diggings.”

“It’s awkward,” said the captain, with a troubled expression, as he slowly raised a square lump of pork to his mouth; “what would you advise me to do?”

“Sell off the remnant of the cargo, and set up a floating boarding-house.”

The square lump of pork disappeared, as the captain thrust it into his cheek in order to say, “What?” with a look of intense amazement.

Lizette laughed inadvertently, and, feeling that this was somewhat rude, she, in her effort to escape, plunged deeper into misfortune by turning to Sinton, with a blushing countenance, and asking him to take another cup of tea—a proposal that was obviously absurd, seeing that she had a moment before filled up his second cup.

Thus suddenly appealed to, Ned stammered, “Thank you—if you—ah!—no, thank you, not any more.”

“Set up a floating boarding establishment,” reiterated the merchant, in a tone of decision that caused them all to laugh heartily.

“It may sound strange,” he continued, “but I assure you it’s not a bad speculation. The captain of an American schooner, whose crew deserted the very day she arrived, turned his vessel into a floating boarding-house, about two months ago, and I believe he’s making a fortune.”

“Indeed,” ejaculated the captain, helping himself to another mass of pork, and accepting Lizette’s proffer of a third cup of tea.

“You have no idea,” continued the merchant, as he handed the bread to Ned, and pressed him to eat—“you have no idea of the strange state of things here just now, and the odd ways in which men make money. Owing to the rush of immigrants everything is enormously dear, and house-room is not to be had for love or money, so that if you were to fit up your ship for the purpose you could fill it at once. At the various hotels in the city an ordinary meal at the table d’hôte costs from two to three dollars—eight and twelve shillings of our money—and there are some articles that bear fabulous prices. It’s a fact that eggs at this moment sell at a shilling each, and onions and potatoes at the same price; but then wages are enormously high. How long this state of things will last no one can tell; in the meantime, hundreds of men are making fortunes. Only the other day a ship arrived from New York, and one of the passengers, a ‘’cute’ fellow, had brought out fifteen hundred copies of several newspapers, which he sold for a dollar each in less than two hours! Then, rents are tremendous. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you that the rent paid by the landlord of one of the hotels here is 110,000 dollars—about 22,000 pounds—a year, and it is but a poor building too. My own warehouse, which is a building of only one storey, with a front of twenty feet, is rented to me at 40,000 dollars—8000 pounds a year—and rents are rising.”

Ned and the captain leaned back in their chairs aghast at such statements, and began to entertain some doubts as to the sanity of their host; but the worthy merchant was a grave, quiet man, without a particle of romance in his composition, and he went on coolly telling them facts which Ned afterwards said made his hair almost stand on end, when he thought of how little money he possessed, and how much he would have to pay for the bare necessaries of life.

After some further converse on men and things in general, and on prospects at the mines, Mr Thompson said, “And now, Captain Bunting, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I will go down to your ship, overhaul the cargo, and make you an offer for the whole in the lump, taking the saleable with the unsaleable. This will, at any rate, put you in funds at once, and enable you to follow what course seems best. Will that suit you?”

“It will,” said the captain, “and thank ’ee. As for turning a boardin’-house keeper, I don’t think I’m cut out for it. Neither is my friend Sinton, eh?”

“Certainly not,” answered Ned, laughing: “we might as well become washerwomen.”

“You’d make a pretty good thing of it if you did,” retorted Mr Thompson; “would they not, Lizette? you know more about these things than I do.”

“Indeed, I cannot tell, papa, as I do not know the capabilities of our friends in that way; but I think the few washerwomen in the city must be making fortunes, for they charge two shillings a-piece for everything, large and small.”

“Now, then, gentlemen,” said the merchant, rising, “if you have quite finished, we will walk down to the harbour and inspect the goods.”

An arch smile played round Lizette’s lips as she shook hands with Ned at parting, and she seemed on the point of speaking, but checked herself.

“I beg pardon,” said Ned, pausing, “did you—”

“Oh, it was nothing!” said Lizette; “I was only going to remark that—that if you set up in the washing line, I shall be happy to give you all the work I can.”

“Ahem!” coughed Ned gravely, “and if we should set up in the other line, will you kindly come and board with us?”

“Hallo, Ned, what’s keeping you?” roared the captain.

“Coming,” shouted Ned, as he ran after him. “Where has Larry O’Neil gone?”

“He’s away down before us to have a look at the town. We shall find him, I doubt not, cruising about the quay.”

In a few minutes the three friends were wending their way through the crowded streets back to the shore.

Chapter Seven.

The Fate of the Roving Bess—Gambling Scenes—Mr Sinton makes a New Friend—Larry O’Neil makes Money in Strange Ways—A Murder, and a Beggar’s Death—Ned becomes a Poor Man’s Heir.

The remnant of the cargo of the Roving Bess proved to be worth comparatively little—less even than had been anticipated. After a careful inspection, Mr Thompson offered to purchase it “in the slump” for 1000 dollars—about 200 pounds sterling. This was a heavy blow to poor Captain Bunting, who had invested his all—the savings of many years—in the present unfortunate venture. However, his was not a nature to brood over misfortunes that could not be avoided, so he accepted the sum with the best grace he might, and busied himself during the next few days in assisting the merchant to remove the bales.

During this period he did not converse much with any one, but meditated seriously on the steps he ought to take. From all that he heard, it seemed impossible to procure hands to man the ship at that time, so he began to entertain serious thoughts of “taking his chance” at the diggings after all. He was by nature averse to this, however; and had nearly made up his mind to try to beat up recruits for the ship, when an event occurred that settled the matter for him rather unexpectedly. This event was the bursting out of a hurricane, or brief but violent squall, which, before assistance could be procured, dragged the Roving Bess from her moorings, and stranded her upon the beach, just below the town. Here was an end to sea-faring prospects. The whole of his limited capital would not have paid for a tenth part of the labour necessary to refloat the ship, so he resolved to leave her on the beach, and go to the diggings.

Mr Thompson advised him to sell the hull, as it would fetch a good price for the sake of the timber, which at that time was much wanted in the town, but the captain had still a lurking hope that he might get his old ship afloat at some future period, and would not hear of it.

“What,” said he, “sell the Roving Bess, which stands A1 at Lloyd’s, to be broken up to build gold-diggers houses? I trow not. No, no; let her lie where she is in peace.”

On the day after the squall, as Ned and the captain were standing on the shore regarding their late floating, and now grounded, home in sad silence, a long-legged, lantern-jawed man, in dirty canvas trousers, long boots, a rough coat, and broad straw hat, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, and both hands in his trousers-pockets, walked up and accosted them. It did not require a second glance to know that he was a Yankee.

“Guess that ’ere’s pretty wall fixed up, stranger,” he said, addressing the captain, and pointing with his nose to the stranded vessel.

“It is,” answered the captain, shortly.

“Fit for nothin’ but firewood, I calculate.”

To this the captain made no reply.

“I say, stranger,” continued the Yankee, “I wouldn’t mind to give ’e 1000 dollars for her slick off.”

“I don’t wish to sell her,” replied the captain.

“Say 1500,” replied the man.

“I tell you, I won’t sell her.”

“No! Now that is kurous. Will ’e loan her, then!”

Here Ned whispered a few words to the captain, who nodded his head, and, turning to the Yankee, said—

“How much will you give?”

“Wall, I reckon, she’s too far out to drive a screamin’ trade, but I don’t mind sayin’ 100 dollars a month.”

After some consultation with Ned, and a little more talk with the Yankee, Captain Bunting agreed to this proposal, only stipulating that the bargain should hold good for a year, that the hull should not be cut or damaged in any way, and that the rent should be paid in advance into the hands of Mr Thompson, as he himself was about to proceed to the gold-fields. Having sealed and settled this piece of business at a neighbouring tavern, where the Yankee—Major Whitlaw—ordered a “brandy-smash” for himself and two “gin-slings” for his companions, (which they civilly declined, to his intense amazement,) the contracting parties separated.

“That’s rather a sudden transfer of our good ship,” said Ned, laughing, as they walked towards the Plaza, or principal square of the town, where some of the chief hotels and gambling-houses were situated.

“I feel half sorry for havin’ done it,” replied the captain; “however, it can’t be helped now, so I’ll away to our friend Thompson’s office, and tell him about it.”

“Then I shall wander about here until you return. It will be dinner time at the hotels two hours hence. Suppose we meet at the Parker House, and talk over our future plans while we discuss a chop?”

To this the captain agreed, and then hurried off to his friend’s office, while Ned entered the hotel. A large portion of this building was rented by gamblers, who paid the enormous sum of 60,000 dollars a year for it, and carried on their villainous and degrading occupation in it night and day. The chief games played were monte and faro, but no interest attached to the games as such, the winning or losing of money was that which lent fascination to the play.

Ned had intended to stroll through the hotel and observe the various visitors who thronged the bar, but the crash of a brass band in the gambling-saloons awakened his curiosity, and induced him to enter. The scene that met his eyes was, perhaps, the strangest and the saddest he had ever looked upon. The large saloon was crowded with representatives of almost every civilised nation under the sun. English, Scotch, Irish, Yankees, French, Russians, Turks, Chinese, Mexicans, Indians, Malays, Jews, and negroes—all were there in their national costumes, and all were, more or less, under the fascinating influence of the reigning vice of California, and especially of San Francisco. The jargon of excited voices can neither be conceived nor described. Crowds surrounded the monte tables, on which glittering piles of gold and silver coin were passing from hand to hand according to varying fortune. The characteristics—and we may add the worst passions—of the various nations were ever and anon brought strongly out. The German and Spaniard laid down their money, and lost or won without a symptom of emotion; the Turk stroked his beard as if with the view of keeping himself cool; the Russian looked stolid and indifferent; the Frenchman started, frowned, swore, and occasionally clutched his concealed pistol or bowie-knife; while the Yankee stamped and swore. But, indeed, the men of all nations cursed and swore in that terrible place.

Those who dwelt in the city staked gold and silver coin, while the men just returned from the mines staked gold-dust and nuggets. These last were conspicuous from their rough clothing, rugged, bronzed, and weather-worn countenances. Many of them played most recklessly. Several successful diggers staked immense sums, and either doubled or lost, in two or three throws, the hard earnings of many months of toil, and left the rooms penniless.

At one end of the saloon there was a counter, with a plentiful supply of stimulants to feed the excitement of the wretched gamblers; and the waiter here was kept in constant employment. Ned had never been within the unhallowed precincts of a gambling-house before, and it was with a feeling of almost superstitious dread that he approached the table, and looked on. A tall, burly, bearded miner stepped forward at the moment and placed a huge purse of gold-dust on the table—

“Now, then,” he cried, with a reckless air, “here goes—neck or nothin’.”

“Nothin’!” he muttered with a fearful oath, as the president raked the purse into his coffers.

The man rose and strode sullenly from the room, his fingers twitching nervously about the hilt of his bowie-knife; an action which the president observed, but heeded not, being prepared with a concealed revolver for whatever might occur. Immediately another victim stepped forward, staked five hundred dollars—and won. He staked again a thousand dollars—and won; then he rose, apparently resolved to tempt fickle fortune no more, and left the saloon. As he retired his place was filled by a young man who laid down the small sum of two dollars. Fortune favoured this man for a long time, and his pile of dollars gradually increased until he became over-confident and staked fully half of his gains—and lost.

Ned’s attention was drawn particularly to this player, whom he thought he had seen before. On looking more fixedly at him, he recognised the young porter who had carried up the box to the merchant’s house. His next stake was again made recklessly. He laid down all he possessed—and lost. Then he rose suddenly, and drawing a pistol from his breast, rushed towards the door. None of the players who crowded the saloon paid him more than momentary attention. It mattered not to them whether he meditated suicide or murder. They made way for him to pass, and then, closing in, were deep again in the all-absorbing game.

But our hero was not thus callous. A strong feeling of sympathy filled his breast, prompting him to spring through the doorway, and catch the youth by the shoulder just as he gained the street. He turned round instantly, and presented the revolver at Ned’s breast, but the latter caught his right arm in his powerful grasp and held it in the air.

“Be calm, my poor fellow,” he said, “I mean you no harm; I only wish to have a word of conversation with you. You are an Englishman, I perceive.”

The young man’s head fell on his breast, and he groaned aloud.

“Come, come,” said Ned, releasing his arm, “don’t give way like that.”

“I’m lost,” said the youth, bitterly. “I have struggled against this passion for gaming, but it has overcome me again and again. It is vain to fight against it any longer.”

“Not a bit of it, man,” said Ned, in a cheering tone, as he drew the arm of the young man within his own, and led him slowly along the street. “You are excited just now by your disappointments. Let us walk together a while, for I have something to say to you. I am quite a stranger here, and it’s a comfort to have a countryman to talk with.”

The kind words, and earnest, hearty manner of our hero, had the effect of soothing the agitated feelings of his new friend, and of winning his confidence. In the course of half-an-hour, he drew from him a brief account of his past history.

His name, he said, was Collins; he was the son of a clergyman, and had received a good education. Five years before the period of which we now write, he had left his home in England, and gone to sea, being at that time sixteen years of age. For three years he served before the mast in a South-Sea whale-ship, and then returned home to find his father and mother dead. Having no near relations alive, and not a sixpence in the world, he turned once more towards the sea, with a heavy heart and an empty pocket, obtained a situation as second mate in a trading vessel which was about to proceed to the Sandwich Islands. Encountering a heavy gale on the western coast of South America, his vessel was so much disabled as to be compelled to put into the harbour of San Francisco for repairs. Here the first violent attack of the gold-fever had set in. The rush of immigrants was so great, that goods of all kinds were selling at fabulous prices, and the few bales that happened to be on board the ship were disposed off for twenty times their value. The captain was in ecstasies, and purposed sailing immediately to the nearest civilised port for a cargo of miscellaneous goods; but the same fate befell him which afterwards befell Captain Bunting, and many hundreds of others—the crew deserted to the mines. Thereupon the captain and young Collins also betook themselves to the gold-fields, leaving the ship to swing idly at her anchor. Like most of the first arrivals at the mines, Collins was very successful, and would soon—in diggers’ parlance—have “made his pile,”—i.e. his fortune, had not scurvy attacked and almost killed him; compelling him to return to San Francisco in search of fresh vegetables and medicine, neither of which, at that time, could be obtained at the mines for love or money. He recovered slowly; but living in San Francisco was so expensive that, ere his health was sufficiently recruited to enable him to return to the gold-fields, his funds were well-nigh exhausted. In order to recruit them he went, in an evil hour, to the gaming-saloons, and soon became an inveterate gambler.

In the providence of God he had been led, some years before, to become an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and, remaining firm to his pledge throughout the course of his downward career, was thus saved from the rapid destruction which too frequently overtook those who to the exciting influences of gambling added the maddening stimulus of alcohol. But the constant mental fever under which he laboured was beginning to undermine a naturally-robust constitution, and to unstring the nerves of a well-made, powerful frame. Sometimes, when fortune favoured him, he became suddenly possessor of a large sum of money, which he squandered in reckless gaiety, often, however, following the dictates of an amiable, sympathetic disposition, he gave the most of it away to companions and acquaintances in distress. At other times he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner, in which case he took the first job that offered in order to procure a few dollars. Being strong and active, he frequently went down to the quays and offered his services as a porter to any of the gold-hunters who were arriving in shoals from all parts of the world. It was thus, as we have seen, that he first met with Ned Sinton and his friends.

All this, and a great deal more, did Ned worm out of his companion in the course of half-an-hour’s stroll in the Plaza.

“Now,” said he, when Collins had finished, “I’m going to make a proposal to you. I feel very much interested in all that you have told me; to be candid with you, I like your looks, and I like your voice—in fact, I like yourself, and—but what’s your Christian name?”

“Tom,” replied the other.

“Very well; then I’ll call you Tom in future, and you’ll call me Ned. Now, Tom, you must come with me and Captain Bunting to the gold-fields, and try your fortune over again—nay, don’t shake your head, I know what you would say, you have no money to equip yourself, and you won’t be indebted to strangers, and all that sort of stuff; but that won’t do, my boy. I’m not a stranger; don’t I know all your history from first to last?”

Tom Collins sighed.

“Well, perhaps I don’t know it all, but I know the most of it, and besides, I feel as if I had known you all my life—”

“Ned,” interrupted the other, in an earnest tone of voice, “I feel your kindness very much—no one has spoken to me as you have done since I came to the diggings—but I cannot agree to your proposal to-day. Meet me at the Parker House to-morrow, at this time, and I shall give you a final answer.”

“But why not give it now?”

“Because—because, I want to—to get paid for a job I expect to get—”

“Tom,” said Ned, stopping and laying his hand on the shoulder of his companion, while he looked earnestly into his face, “let us begin our friendship with mutual candour. Do you not intend to make a few dollars, and then try to increase them by another throw at the gaming-table!”

The youth’s brow flushed slightly as he answered, “You are right, I had half an intention of trying my fortune for the last time—”

“Then,” said Ned firmly and emphatically, “you shall do nothing of the sort. Gambling for money is a mean, pitiful, contemptible thing—don’t frown, my dear fellow, I do not apply these terms to you, I apply them to the principle of gambling—a principle which you do not hold, as I know from your admission, made to me not many minutes ago, that you have often striven against the temptation. Many men don’t realise the full extent of the sinfulness of many of their practices, but although that renders them less culpable, it does not render them innocent, much less does it justify the evil practices. Gambling is all that I have styled it, and a great deal worse; and you must give it up—I insist on it. Moreover, Tom, I insist on your coming to dine with me at the Parker House. I shall introduce you to my friend Captain Bunting, whom you already know by sight—so come along.”

“Well, I will,” said Tom, smiling at his friend’s energy, but still hanging back; “but you must permit me to go to my lodgings first. I shall be back immediately.”

“Very good. Remember, we dine in the course of an hour, so be punctual.”

While Tom Collins hurried away to his lodgings, Ned Sinton proceeded towards the shores of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind, intending to pass his leisure hour in watching the thousands of interesting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place on the crowded quays, where the passengers from a newly-arrived brig were looking in bewildered anxiety after their luggage, and calling for porters; where traffic, by means of boats, between the fleet and the land created constant confusion and hubbub; where men of all nations bargained for the goods of all climes in every known tongue.

While he gazed in silence at the exciting and almost bewildering scene, his attention was attracted to a group of men, among whose vociferating tones he thought he distinguished familiar voices.

“That’s it; here’s your man, sir,” cried one, bursting from the crowd with a huge portmanteau on his shoulder. “Now, then, where’ll I steer to?”

“Right ahead to the best hotel,” answered a slim Yankee, whose black coat, patent-leather boots, and white kids, in such a place, told plainly enough that a superfine dandy had mistaken his calling.

“Ay, ay, sir!” shouted Bill Jones, as he brushed past Ned, in his new capacity of porter.

“Faix, ye’ve cotched a live Yankee!” exclaimed a voice there was no mistaking, as the owner slapped Bill on the shoulder. “He’ll make yer fortin’, av ye only stick by him. He’s just cut out for the diggin’s, av his mother wos here to take care of him.”

Larry O’Neil gave a chuckle, slapped his pockets, and cut an elephantine caper, as he turned from contemplating the retreating figure of his shipmate’s employer, and advanced towards the end of the quay.

“Now, thin, who’s nixt?” cried he, holding out both arms, and looking excited, as if he were ready to carry off any individual bodily in his arms to any place, for mere love, without reference to money. “Don’t all spake at wance. Tshoo dollars a mile for anythin’ onder a ton, an’ yerself on the top of it for four! Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is it yerself? Och, but this is the place intirely—goold and silver for the axin’ a’most! Ah, ye needn’t grin. Look here!”

Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulled them forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining little nuggets of gold interspersed among them.

Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apart from the crowd, asked how he had come by so much money.

“Come by it!” he exclaimed; “ye could come by twice the sum, av ye liked. Sure, didn’t I find that they wos chargin’ tshoo dollars—aiqual to eight shillin’s, I’m towld—for carryin’ a box or portmanter the length o’ me fut; so I turns porter all at wance, an’ faix I made six dollars in less nor an hour. But as I was comin’ back, I says to myself, says I, ‘Larry, ye’ll be the better of a small glass o’ somethin’—eh!’ So in I goes to a grog-shop, and faix I had to pay half-a-dollar for a thimbleful o’ brandy, bad luck to them, as would turn the stomik o’ a pig. I almost had a round wi’ the landlord; but they towld me it wos the same iverywhere. So I wint and had another in the nixt shop I sees, jist to try; and it was thrue. Then a Yankee spies my knife,—the great pig-sticker that Bob Short swopped wi’ me for my junk o’ plum-duff off the Cape. It seems they’ve run out o’ sich articles just at this time, and would give handfuls o’ goold for wan. So says I, ‘Wot’ll ye give?’

“‘Three dollars, I guess,’ says wan.

“‘Four,’ says another; ‘he’s chaitin’ ye.’

“‘Four’s bid,’ says I, mountin’ on a keg o’ baccy, and howldin up the knife; ‘who says more? It’s the rale steel, straight from Manchester or Connaught, I misremimber which. Warranted to cut both ways, av ye only turn the idge round, and shove with a will.’

“I begood in joke; but faix they took me up in arnest, an’ run up the price to twinty dollars—four pounds, as sure as me name’s Larry—before I know’d where I wos. I belave I could ha’ got forty for it, but I hadn’t the heart to ax more, for it wasn’t worth a brass button.”

“You’ve made a most successful beginning, Larry. Have you any more knives like that one?”

“Sorrow a wan—more’s the pity. But that’s only a small bit o’ me speckilations. I found six owld newspapers in the bottom o’ me chist, and, would ye belave it, I sowld ’em, ivery wan, for half-a-dollar the pace; and I don’t rightly know how much clear goold I’ve got by standin’ all mornin’ at the post-office.”

“Standing at the post-office! What do you mean?”

“Nother more or less nor what I say. I suppose ye know the mail’s comed in yisterday morning; so says I to myself this mornin’, ‘Ye’ve got no livin’ sowl in the owld country that’s likely to write to ye, but ye better go, for all that, an’ ax if there’s letters. Maybe there is; who knows?’ So away I wint, and sure enough I found a row o’ men waitin’ for their letters; so I crushes for’ard—och! but I thought they’d ha’ hung me on the spot,—and I found it was a rule that ‘first come first sarved—fair play and no favour.’ They wos all standin’ wan behind another in a line half-a-mile long av it wos a fut, as patient as could be; some readin’ the noosepapers, and some drinkin’ coffee and tay and grog, that wos sowld by men as went up an’ down the line the whole mornin’. So away I goes to the end o’ the line, an’ took my place, detarmined to stand it out; and, in three minutes, I had a tail of a dozen men behind me. ‘Faix, Larry,’ says I, ‘it’s the first time ye iver comminced at the end of a thing in order to git to the beginnin’.’

“Well, when I wos gittin’ pretty near the post-office windy, I hears the chap behind me a-sayin’ to the fellow behind him that he expected no letters, but only took up his place in the line to sell it to them what did. An’ sure enough I found that lots o’ them were there on the same errand. Just then up comes a miner, in big boots and a wide-awake.

“‘Och,’ says he, ‘who’ll sell me a place?’ and with that he offered a lot o’ pure goold lumps.

“‘Guess it’s too little,’ says the man next me.

“‘Ah, ye thievin’ blackguard!’ says I. ‘Here, yer honer, I’ll sell ye my place for half the lot. I can wait for me letter, more be token I’m not sure there is wan.’ For, ye see, I wos riled at the Yankee’s greed. So out I steps, and in steps the miner, and hands me the whole he’d offered at first.

“‘Take them, my man,’ says he; ‘you’re an honest fellow, and it’s a trate to meet wan here.’”

“Capital,” cried Ned, laughing heartily; “and you didn’t try for a letter after all?”

“Porter there?” shouted a voice from the quay.

“That’s me, yer honer. Here ye are,” replied the Irishman, bounding away with a yell, and shouldering a huge leathern trunk, with which he vanished from the scene, leaving Ned to pursue the train of thought evoked by his account of his remarkable experiences.

We deem it necessary here to assure the reader that the account given by Larry O’Neil of his doings was by no means exaggerated. The state of society, and the eccentricities of traffic displayed in San Francisco and other Californian cities during the first years of the gold-fever, beggars all description. Writers on that place and period find difficulty in selecting words and inventing similes in order to convey anything like an adequate idea of their meaning. Even eye-witnesses found it almost impossible to believe the truth of what they heard and saw; and some have described the whole circle of life and manners there to have been more like to the wild, incongruous whirl of a pantomime than to the facts of real life.

Even in the close and abrupt juxtaposition of the ludicrous and the horrible this held good. Ned Sinton had scarcely parted from his hilarious shipmate, when he was attracted by shouts, as if of men quarrelling, in a gaming-house; and, a few moments later, the report of a pistol was heard, followed by a sharp cry of agony. Rushing into the house, and forcing his way through the crowd, he reached the table in time to see the bloody corpse of a man carried out. This unfortunate had repeatedly lost large sums of money, and, growing desperate, staked his all on a final chance. He lost; and, drawing his bowie-knife, in the heat of despair, rushed at the president of the table. A dozen arms arrested him, and rendered his intended assault abortive; nevertheless, the president coolly drew a revolver from under the cloth, and shot him dead. For a few minutes there was some attempt at disturbance, and some condemned, while others justified the act. But the body was removed, and soon the game went on again as if nothing had occurred.

Sickened with the sight, Ned hurried from the house, and walked rapidly towards the shores of the bay, beyond the limits of the canvas town, where he could breathe the free ocean air, and wander on the sands in comparative solitude.

The last straggling tent in that quarter was soon behind bun, and he stopped by the side of an old upturned boat, against which he leaned, and gazed out upon the crowded bay with saddened feelings. As he stood in contemplation, he became aware of a sound, as if of heaving, plethoric breathing under the boat. Starting up, he listened intently, and heard a faint groan. He now observed, what had escaped his notice before, that the boat against which he leaned was a human habitation. A small hole near the keel admitted light, and possibly, at times, emitted smoke. Hastening round to the other side, he discovered a small aperture, which served as a doorway. It was covered with a rag of coarse canvas, which he lifted, and looked in.

“Who’s there?” inquired a voice, as sharply as extreme weakness would allow. “Have a care! There’s a revolver pointing at your head. If you come in without leave, I’ll blow out your brains.”

“I am a friend,” said Ned, looking towards the further end of the boat, where, on a couch of straw, lay the emaciated form of a middle-aged man. “Put down your pistol, friend; my presence here is simply owing to the fact that I heard you groan, and I would relieve your distress, if it is in my power.”

“You are the first that has said so since I lay down here,” sighed the man, falling back heavily.

Ned entered, and, advancing as well as he could in a stooping posture, sat down beside the sick man’s pallet, and felt his pulse. Then he looked anxiously in his face, on which the hand of death was visibly placed.

“My poor fellow!” said Ned, in a soothing tone, “you are very ill, I fear. Have you no one to look after you?”

“Ill!” replied the sick man, almost fiercely, “I am dying. I have seen death too often, and know it too well, to be mistaken.” His voice sank to a whisper as he added, “It is not far off now.”

For a few seconds Ned could not make up his mind what to say. He felt unwilling to disturb the last moments of the man. At last he leaned forward, and repeated from memory several of the most consoling passages of Scripture. Twice over he said, “Though thy sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as wool,” and, “Him that cometh unto Me, (Christ), I will in no wise cast out.”

The man appeared to listen, but made no reply. Suddenly he started up, and, leaning on his elbow, looked with an awfully earnest stare into Ned’s face.

“Young man, gold is good—gold is good—remember that, if you don’t make it your god.”

After a pause, he continued, “I made it my god. I toiled for it night and day, in heat and cold, wet and dry. I gave up everything for it; I spent all my time in search of it—and I got it—and what good can it do me now? I have spent night and day here for weeks, threatening to shoot any one who should come near my gold—Ha!” he added, sharply, observing that his visitor glanced round the apartment, “you’ll not find it here. No, look, look round, peer into every corner, tear up every plank of my boat, and you’ll find nothing but rotten wood, and dust, and rusty nails.”

“Be calm, my friend,” said Ned, who now believed that the poor man’s mind was wandering, “I don’t want your gold; I wish to comfort you, if I can. Would you like me to do anything for you after—”

“After I’m dead,” said the man, abruptly. “No, nothing. I have no relations—no friends—no enemies, even, now. Yes,” he added, quickly, “I have one friend. You are my friend. You have spoken kindly to me—a beggar. You deserve the name of friend. Listen, I want you to be my heir. See here, I have had my will drawn up long ago, with the place for the name left blank I had intended—but no matter—what is your name?”

“Edward Sinton.”

“Here, hand me that ink-horn, and the pen. There,” continued the man, pushing the paper towards him, “I have made over to you the old boat, and the ground it lies on. Both are mine. The piece of ground is marked off by four posts. Take care of the—”

The man’s voice sank to a mere whisper; then it ceased suddenly. When Ned looked at him again, he started, for the cold hand of death had sealed his lips for ever.

A feeling of deep, intense pity filled the youth’s heart, as he gazed on the emaciated form of this friendless man—yet he experienced a sensation approaching almost to gladness, when he remembered that the last words he had spoken to him were those of our blessed Saviour to the chief of sinners.

Spreading the ragged piece of canvas that formed a quilt over the dead man’s face, he rose, and left the strange dwelling, the entrance to which he secured, and then hastened to give information of the death to the proper authorities.

Ned was an hour too late for dinner when he arrived at the hotel, where he found Captain Bunting and his new friend awaiting him in some anxiety. Hastily informing them of the cause of his detention, he introduced them to each other, and forgot for a time the scene of death he had just witnessed, in talking over plans for the future, and in making arrangements for a trip to the diggings.

Chapter Eight.

Our Hero and his Friends start for the Diggings—The Captain’s Portrait—Costumes, and Scenery, and Surprises—The Ranche by the Road-Side—Strange Travellers—They meet with a New Friend, and adopt him—The Hunter’s Story—Larry offers to fight a Yankee—High Prices and Empty Purses.

Ovid never accomplished a metamorphosis more striking or complete than that effected by Captain Bunting upon his own proper person. We have said, elsewhere, that the worthy captain was a big, broad man, with a shaggy head of hair, and red whiskers. Moreover, when he landed in San Francisco, he wore a blue coat, with clear brass buttons, blue vest, blue trousers, and a glazed straw hat; but in the course of a week he effected such a change in his outward man, that his most intimate friend would have failed to recognise him.

No brigand of the Pyrenees ever looked more savage—no robber of the stage ever appeared more outrageously fierce. We do not mean to say that Captain Bunting “got himself up” for the purpose of making himself conspicuous. He merely donned the usual habiliments of a miner; but these habiliments were curious, and the captain’s figure in them was unusually remarkable.

In order that the reader may have a satisfactory view of the captain, we will change the scene, and proceed at once to that part of the road to the gold-fields which has now been reached by our adventurers.

It is a wide plain, or prairie, on which the grass waves like the waters of the sea. On one side it meets the horizon, on another it is bounded by the faint and far-distant range of the Sierra Nevada. Thousands of millions of beautiful wild-flowers spangle and beautify the soft green carpet, over which spreads a cloudless sky, not a whit less blue and soft than the vaunted sky of Italy. Herds of deer are grazing over the vast plain, like tame cattle. Wild geese and other water-fowl wing their way through the soft atmosphere, and little birds twitter joyously among the flowers. Everything is bright, and green, and beautiful; for it is spring, and the sun has not yet scorched the grass to a russet-brown, and parched and cracked the thirsty ground, and banished animal and vegetable life away, as it will yet do, ere the hot summer of those regions is past and gone.

There is but one tree in all that vast plain. It is a sturdy oak, and near it bubbles a cool, refreshing spring, over which, one could fancy, it had been appointed guardian. The spot is hundreds of miles from San Francisco, on the road to the gold-mines of California. Beneath that solitary oak a party of weary travellers have halted, to rest and refresh themselves and their animals; or, as the diggers have it, to take their “nooning.” In the midst of that party sits our captain, on the back of a long-legged mule.

On his head is, or, rather, was—for he has just removed it, in order to wipe the perspiration from his forehead—a brown felt wide-awake, very much battered in appearance, suggesting the idea that the captain had used it constantly as a night-cap, which, indeed, is the fact. Nothing but a flannel shirt, of the brightest possible scarlet, clothes the upper portion of his burly frame, while brown corduroys adorn the lower. Boots of the most ponderous dimensions engulf, not only his feet, but his entire legs, leaving only a small part of the corduroys visible. On his heels, or, rather, just above his heels, are strapped a pair of enormous Mexican spurs, with the frightful prongs of which he so lacerated the sides of his unfortunate mule, during the first part of the journey, as to drive that animal frantic, and cause it to throw him off at least six times a day. Dire necessity has now, however, taught the captain that most difficult and rarely-accomplished feat of horsemanship, to ride with the toes well in, and the heels well out.

Round Captain Bunting’s waist is a belt, which is of itself quite a study. It is made of tough cow-hide, full two and a half inches broad, and is fastened by a brass buckle that would cause the mouth of a robber-chief to water. Attached to it in various ways and places are the following articles:— A bowie-knife of the largest size—not far short of a small cutlass; a pair of revolving pistols, also large, and having six barrels each; a stout leathern purse; and a leathern bag of larger dimensions for miscellaneous articles. As the captain has given up shaving for many weeks past, little of his face is visible, except the nose, eyes, and forehead. All besides is a rugged mass of red hair, which rough travel has rendered an indescribable and irreclaimable waste. But the captain cares not: as long as he can clear a passage through the brushwood to his mouth, he says, his mind is easy.

Such is Captain Bunting, and such, with but trifling modifications, is every member of his party. On Ned Sinton and his almost equally stalwart and handsome friend, Tom Collins, the picturesque costume of the miner sits well; and it gives a truly wild, dashing look to the whole party, as they stand beneath the shade of that lovely oak, preparing to refresh themselves with biscuit and jerked beef, and pipes of esteemed tobacco.

Besides those we have mentioned, Larry O’Neil is there,—busy carrying water in a bucket to the horses, and as proud of his Mexican spurs as if they were the golden spurs of the days of chivalry. Bill Jones is there, with a blue instead of a red-flannel shirt, and coarse canvas ducks in place of corduroys. Bill affects the sailor in other respects, for he scorns heavy boots, and wears shoes and a straw hat; but he is compelled to wear the spurs, for reasons best known to his intensely obstinate mule. There is also among them a native Californian,—a vaquero, or herd,—who has been hired to accompany the party to the diggings, to look after the pack-mules, of which there are two, and to assist them generally with advice and otherwise. He is a fine athletic fellow—Spanish-like, both in appearance and costume; and, in addition to bad Spanish, gives utterance to a few sounds, which he calls “Encleesh.” The upper part of his person is covered by the serape, or Mexican cloak, which is simply a blanket, with a hole in its centre, through which the head of the wearer is thrust, the rest being left to fall over the shoulders.

Our travellers had reached the spot on which we now find them by means of a boat voyage of more than a hundred miles, partly over the great bay of San Francisco, and partly up the Sacramento River, until they reached the city of Sacramento. Here they purchased mules and provisions for the overland journey to the mines—a further distance of about a hundred and fifty miles,—and also the picks, shovels, axes, pewter plates, spoons, pans, and pannikins, and other implements and utensils that were necessary for a campaign among the golden mountains of the Sierra Nevada. For these the prices demanded were so enormous, that when all was ready for a start they had only a few dollars left amongst them. But being on their way to dig for gold, they felt little concern on this head.

As the Indians of the interior had committed several murders a short time before, and had come at various times into collision with the gold-diggers, it was deemed prudent to expend a considerable sum on arms and ammunition. Each man, therefore, was armed with a rifle or carbine, a pistol of some sort, and a large knife or short sword. Captain Bunting selected a huge old bell-mouthed blunderbuss, having, as he said, a strong partiality for the weapons of his forefathers. Among other things, Ned, by advice of Tom Collins, purchased a few simple medicines; he also laid in a stock of drawing-paper, pencils, and water-colours, for his own special use, for which he paid so large a sum that he was ashamed to tell it to his comrades; but he was resolved not to lose the opportunity of representing life and scenery at the diggings, for the sake of old Mr Shirley, as well as for his own satisfaction. Thus equipped they set forth.

Before leaving San Francisco, the captain, and Ned, and Tom Collins had paid a final visit to their friend the merchant, Mr Thompson, and committed their property to his care—i.e. the hull of the good ship Roving Bess—the rent of which he promised to collect monthly—and Ned’s curious property, the old boat and the little patch of barren sand on which it stood. The boat itself he made over, temporarily, to a poor Irishman who had brought out his wife with him, and was unable to proceed to the diggings in consequence of the said wife having fallen into a delicate state of health. He gave the man a written paper empowering him to keep possession until his return, and refused to accept of any rent whereat the poor woman thanked him earnestly, with the tears running down her pale cheeks.

It was the hottest part of an exceedingly hot day when the travellers found themselves, as we have described, under the grateful shade of what Larry termed the “lone oak.”

“Now our course of proceeding is as follows,” said Ned, at the conclusion of their meal—“We shall travel all this afternoon, and as far into the night as the mules can be made to go. By that time we shall be pretty well off the level ground, and be almost within hail of the diggings—”

“I don’t belave it,” said Larry O’Neil, knocking the ashes out of his pipe in an emphatic manner; “sure av there was goold in the country we might have seed it by this time.”

Larry’s feelings were a verification of the words, “hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” He had started enthusiastically many days before on this journey to the gold regions, under the full conviction that on the first or second day he would be, as he expressed it, “riding through fields of goold dust;” instead of which, day after day passed, and night after night, during which he endured all the agonies inseparable from a first journey on horseback, and still not a symptom of gold was to be seen, “no more nor in owld Ireland itself.” But Larry bore his disappointments like an Irishman, and defied “fortin’ to put him out of timper by any manes wotiver.”

“Patience,” said Bill Jones, removing his pipe to make room for the remark, “is a wirtue—that’s wot I says. If ye can’t make things better, wot then? why, let ’em alone. W’en there’s no wind, crowd all canvas and ketch wot there is. W’en there is wind, why then, steer yer course; or, if ye can’t, steer as near it as ye can. Anyhow, never back yer fore-topsail without a cause—them’s my sentiments.”

“And very good sentiments they are, Bill,” said Tom Collins, jumping up and examining the girth of his horse; “I strongly advise you to adopt them, Larry.”

“Wot a bottle o’ wisdom it is,” said O’Neil, with a look of affected contempt at his messmate. “Wos it yer grandmother, now, or yer great wan, that edicated ye?—Arrah, there ye go! Oh, morther, ye’ll break me heart!”

The latter part of this remark was addressed to his mule, which at that moment broke its laryat, and gambolled gaily away over the flowering plain. Its owner followed, yelling like a madman. He might as well have chased the wind; and it is probable that he would never have mounted his steed again had not the vaquero come to his aid. This man, leaping on his own horse, which was a very fine one, dashed after the runaway, with which he came up in a few minutes; then grasping the long coil of line that hung at his saddle-bow, he swung it round once or twice, and threw the lasso, or noose, adroitly over the mule’s head, and brought it up.

“Yer a cliver fellow,” said Larry, as he came up, panting; “sure ye did it be chance?”

The man smiled, and without deigning a reply, rode back to the camp, where the party were already in the saddle. In a few minutes they were trotting rapidly over the prairie.

Before evening closed, the travellers arrived at one of the road-side inns, or, as they were named, ranches, which were beginning at this time to spring up in various parts of the country, for the accommodation of gold-hunters on their way to the mines. This ranche belonged to a man of the name of Dawson, who had made a few hundred dollars by digging, and then set up a grog-shop and house of entertainment, being wise enough to perceive that he could gain twice as much gold by supplying the diggers with the necessaries of life than he could hope to procure by digging. His ranche was a mere hovel, built of sun-dried bricks, and he dealt more in drinks than in edibles. The accommodation and provisions were of the poorest description, but, as there was no other house of entertainment near, mine host charged the highest possible prices. There was but one apartment in this establishment, and little or no furniture. Several kegs and barrels supported two long pine planks which constituted at different periods of the day the counter, the gaming-table, and the table d’hôte. A large cooking stove stood in the centre of the house, but there were no chairs; guests were expected to sit on boxes and empty casks, or stand. Beds there were none. When the hour for rest arrived, each guest chose the portion of the earthen floor that suited him best, and, spreading out his blankets, with his saddle for a pillow, lay down to dream of golden nuggets, or, perchance, of home, while innumerable rats—the bane of California—gambolled round and over him.

The ranchero, as the owner of such an establishment is named, was said to be an escaped felon. Certainly he might have been, as far as his looks went. He was surly and morose, but men minded this little, so long as he supplied their wants. There were five or six travellers in the ranche when our party arrived, all of whom were awaiting the preparation of supper.

“Here we are,” cried the captain, as they trotted into the yard, “ready for supper, I trow; and, if my nose don’t deceive me, supper’s about ready for us.”

“I hope they’ve got enough for us all,” said Ned, glancing at the party inside, as he leaped from the saddle, and threw the bridle to his vaquero. “Halloo, Boniface! have ye room for a large party in there?”

“Come in an’ see,” growled Dawson, whose duties at the cooking stove rendered him indifferent as to other matters.

“Ah, thin, ye’ve got a swate voice,” said Larry O’Neil, sarcastically, as he led his mule towards a post, to which Bill Jones was already fastening his steed. “I say, Bill,” he added, pointing to a little tin bowl which stood on an inverted cask outside the door of the ranche, “wot can that be for?”

“Dunno,” answered Bill; “s’pose it’s to wash in.”

At that moment a long, cadaverous miner came out of the hut, and rendered further speculation unnecessary, by turning up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, and commencing his ablutions in the little tin bowl, which was just large enough to admit both his hands at once.

“Faix, yer mouth and nose ought to be grateful,” said Larry, in an undertone, as he and Jones stood with their arms crossed, admiring the proceedings of the man.

This remark had reference to the fact that the washer applied the water to the favoured regions around his nose and mouth, but carefully avoided trespassing on any part of the territory lying beyond.

“Oh! morther, wot nixt?” exclaimed Larry.

Well might he inquire, for this man, having combed his hair with a public comb, which was attached to the door-post by a string, and examined himself carefully in a bit of glass, about two inches in diameter, proceeded to cleanse his teeth with a public tooth-brush which hung beside the comb. All these articles had been similarly used by a miner ten minutes previously; and while this one was engaged with his toilet, another man stood beside him awaiting his turn!

“W’en yer in difficulties,” remarked Bill Jones, slowly, as he entered the ranche, and proceeded to fill his pipe, “git out of ’em, if ye can. If ye can’t, why wot then? circumstances is adwerse, an’ it’s o’ no use a-tryin’ to mend ’em. Only my sentiments is, that I’ll delay washin’ till I comes to a river.”

“You’ve come from San Francisco, stranger?” said a rough-looking man, in heavy boots, and a Guernsey shirt, addressing Captain Bunting.

“Maybe I have,” replied the captain, regarding his interrogator through the smoke of his pipe, which he was in the act of lighting.

“Goin’ to the diggin’s, I s’pose?”

“Yes.”

“Bin there before?”

“No.”

“Nor none o’ your party, I expect?”

“None, except one.”

“You’ll be goin’ up to the bar at the American Forks now, I calc’late?”

“Don’t know that I am.”

“Perhaps you’ll try the northern diggin’s?”

“Perhaps.”

How long this pertinacious questioner might have continued his attack on the captain is uncertain, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the announcement that supper was ready, so he swaggered off to the corner of the hut where an imposing row of bottles stood, demanded a “brandy-smash,” which he drank, and then, seating himself at the table along with the rest of the party, proceeded to help himself largely to all that was within his reach.

The fare was substantial, but not attractive. It consisted of a large junk of boiled salt beef, a mass of rancid pork, and a tray of broken ship-biscuit. But hungry men are not particular, so the viands were demolished in a remarkably short space of time.

“I’m a’most out o’ supplies,” said the host, in a sort of apologetic tone, “an’ the cart I sent down to Sacramento some weeks ago for more’s not come back.”

“Better than nothin’,” remarked a bronzed, weatherbeaten hunter, as he helped himself to another junk of pork. “If ye would send out yer boy into the hills with a rifle now an’ again, ye’d git lots o’ grizzly bars.”

“Are grizzly-bears eaten here?” inquired Ned Sinton, pausing in the act of mastication, to ask the question.

“Eaten!” exclaimed the hunter, in surprise, “in coorse they is. They’re uncommon good eatin’ too, I guess. Many a one I’ve killed an’ eaten myself; an’ I like ’em better than beef—I do. I shot one up in the hills there two days agone, an’ supped off him; but bein’ in a hurry, I left the carcase to the coyotes.” (Coyotes are small wolves.)

The men assembled round the rude table d’hôte were fifteen in number, including our adventurers, and represented at least six different nations—English, Scotch, Irish, German, Yankee, and Chinese. Most of them, however, were Yankees, and all were gold-diggers; even the hunter just referred to, although he had not altogether forsaken his former calling, devoted much of his time to searching for gold. Some, like our friends, were on their way to the diggings for the first time; others were returning with provisions, which they had travelled to Sacramento city to purchase; and one or two were successful diggers who had made their “piles,”—in other words, their fortunes—and were returning home with heavy purses of gold-dust and nuggets.

Good humour was the prevailing characteristic of the party, for each man was either successful or sanguinely hopeful, and all seemed to be affected by a sort of undercurrent of excitement, as they listened to, or related, their adventures at the mines. There was only one serious drawback to the scene, and that was, the perpetual and terrible swearing that mingled with the conversation. The Americans excelled in this wicked practice. They seemed to labour to invent oaths, not for the purpose of venting angry feelings, but apparently with the view of giving emphasis to their statements and assertions. The others swore from habit. They had evidently ceased to be aware that they were using oaths—so terribly had familiarity with sinful practices blunted the consciences of men who, in early life, would probably have trembled in this way to break the law of God.

Yes, by the way, there was one other drawback to the otherwise picturesque and interesting group, and this was the spitting propensity of the Yankees. All over the floor—that floor, too, on which other men besides themselves were to repose—they discharged tobacco-juice and spittle. The nation cannot be too severely blamed and pitied for this disgusting practice, yet we feel a tendency, not to excuse, but to deal gently with individuals, most of whom, having been trained to spitting from their infancy, cannot be expected even to understand the abhorrence with which the practice is regarded by men of other nations.

Nevertheless, brother Jonathan, it is not too much to expect that you ought to respect the universal condemnation of your spitting propensities—by travellers from all lands—and endeavour to believe that ejecting saliva promiscuously is a dirty practice, even although you cannot feel it. We think that if you had the moral courage to pass a law in Congress to render spitting on floors and carpets a capital offence, you would fill the world with admiration and your own bosoms with self-respect, not to mention the benefit that would accrue to your digestive powers in consequence thereof!

All of the supper party were clad and armed in the rough-and-ready style already referred to, and most of them were men of the lower ranks, but there were one or two who, like Ned Sinton, had left a more polished class of mortals to mingle in the promiscuous crowd. These, in some cases, carried their manners with them, and exerted a modifying influence on all around. One young American, in particular, named Maxton, soon attracted general attention by the immense fund of information he possessed, and the urbane, gentlemanly manner in which he conveyed it to those around him. He possessed in an eminent degree those qualities which attract men at once, and irresistibly good nature, frankness, manliness, considerable knowledge of almost every subject that can be broached in general conversation, united with genuine modesty. When he sat down to table he did not grasp everything within his reach; he began by offering to carve and help others, and when at length he did begin to eat, he did not gobble. He “guessed” a little, it is true, and “calculated” occasionally, but when he did so, it was in a tone that fell almost as pleasantly on the ear as the brogue of old Ireland.

Ned happened to be seated beside Maxton, and held a good deal of conversation with him.

“Forgive me, if I appear inquisitive,” said the former, helping himself to a handful of broken biscuit, “but I cannot help expressing a hope that our routes may lie in the same direction—are you travelling towards Sacramento city or the mines?”

“Towards the mines; and, as I observed that your party came from the southward, I suppose you are going in the same direction. If so, I shall be delighted to join you.”

“That’s capital,” replied Ned, “we shall be the better of having our party strengthened, and I am quite certain we could not have a more agreeable addition to it.”

“Thank you for the compliment. As to the advantage of a strong party, I feel it a safeguard as well as a privilege to join yours, for, to say truth, the roads are not safe just now. Several lawless scoundrels have been roving about in this part of the country committing robberies and even murder. The Indians, too, are not so friendly as one could wish. They have been treated badly by some of the unprincipled miners; and their custom is to kill two whites for every red-man that falls. They are not particular as to whom they kill, consequently the innocent are frequently punished for the guilty.”

“This is sad,” replied Ned. “Are, then, all the Indian tribes at enmity with the white men?”

“By no means. Many tribes are friendly, but some have been so severely handled, that they have vowed revenge, and take it whenever they can with safety. Their only weapons, however, are bows and arrows, so that a few resolute white men, with rifles, can stand against a hundred of them, and they know this well. I spent the whole of last winter on the Yuba River; and, although large bands were in my neighbourhood, they never ventured to attack us openly, but they succeeded in murdering one or two miners who strayed into the woods alone.”

“And are these murders passed over without any attempt to bring the murderers to justice?”

“I guess they are not,” replied Maxton, smiling; “but justice is strangely administered in these parts. Judge Lynch usually presides, and he is a stern fellow to deal with. If you listen to what the hunter, there, is saying just now, you will hear a case in point, if I mistake not.”

As Maxton spoke, a loud laugh burst from the men at the other end of the table.

“How did it happen?” cried several.

“Out wi’ the yarn, old boy.”

“Ay, an’ don’t spin it too tight, or, faix, ye’ll burst the strands,” cried Larry O’Neil, who, during the last half-hour, had been listening, open-mouthed, to the marvellous anecdotes of grizzlies and red-skins, with which the hunter entertained his audience.

“Wall, boys, it happened this ways,” began the man, tossing off a gin-sling, and setting down the glass with a violence that nearly smashed it. “Ye see I wos up in the mountains, near the head waters o’ the Sacramento, lookin’ out for deer, and gittin’ a bit o’ gold now an’ again, when, one day, as I was a-comin’ down a gully in the hills, I comes all of a suddint on two men. One wos an Injun, as ugly a sinner as iver I seed; t’other wos a Yankee lad, in a hole diggin’ gold. Before my two eyes were well on them, the red villain lets fly an arrow, and the man fell down with a loud yell into the hole. Up goes my rifle like wink, and the red-skin would ha’ gone onder in another second, but my piece snapped—cause why? the primin’ had got damp; an’ afore I could prime agin, he was gone.

“I went up to the poor critter, and sure enough it wos all up with him. The arrow went in at the back o’ his neck. He niver spoke again. So I laid him in the grave he had dug for himself, and sot off to tell the camp. An’ a most tremendous row the news made. They got fifty volunteers in no time, and went off, hot-fut, to scalp the whole nation. As I had other business to look after, and there seemed more than enough o’ fightin’ men, I left them, and went my way. Two days after, I had occasion to go back to the same place, an’ when I comed in sight o’ the camp, I guess there was a mighty stir.

“‘Wot’s to do?’ says I to a miner in a hole, who wos diggin’ away for gold, and carin’ nothin’ about it.

“‘Only scraggin’ an Injun,’ he said, lookin’ up.

“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll go and see.’

“So off I sot, and there wos a crowd o’ about two hundred miners round a tree; and, jest as I come up, they wos puttin’ the rope round the neck of a poor wretch of an old grey-haired red-skin, whose limbs trembled so that they wos scarce able to hold him up.

“‘Heave away now, Bill,’ cried the man as tied the noose.

“But somethin’ was wrong with the hitch o’ the rope round the branch o’ the tree, an’ it wouldn’t draw, and some time wos spent in puttin’ it right. I felt sorter sorry for the old man, for his grave face was bold enough, and age more than fear had to do with the tremblin’ o’ his legs. Before they got it right again, my eye fell on a small band o’ red-skins, who were lookin’ quietly on; and foremost among them the very blackguard as shot the man in the galley. I knew him at once by his ugly face. Without sayin’ a word, I steps for’ard to the old Injun, and takes the noose off his neck.

“‘Halloo!’ cried a dozen men, jumpin’ at me. ‘Wot’s that for?’ ‘Scrag the hunter,’ cries one. ‘Howld yer long tongues, an’ hear what he’s got to say,’ shouts an Irishman.

“‘Keep your minds easy,’ says I, mountin’ a stump, ‘an’ seize that Injun, or I’ll have to put a ball into him before he gits off’—for, ye see, I obsarved the black villain took fright, and was sneakin’ away through the crowd. They had no doubt who I meant, for I pinted straight at him; and, before ye could wink, he was gripped, and led under the tree, with a face paler than ever I saw the face o’ a red-skin before.

“‘Now,’ says I, ‘wot for are ye scraggin’ this old man?’ So they told me how the party that went off to git the murderer met a band o’ injuns comin’ to deliver him up to be killed, they said, for murderin’ the white man. An’ they gave up this old Injun, sayin’ he wos the murderer. The diggers believed it, and returned with the old boy and two or three others that came to see him fixed off.

“‘Very good,’ says I, ‘ye don’t seem to remimber that I’m the man what saw the murder, and told ye of it. By good luck, I’ve come in time to point him out—an’ this is him.’ An’ with that I put the noose round the villain’s neck and drawed it tight. At that he made a great start to shake it off, and clear away; but before you could wink, he was swingin’ at the branch o’ the tree, twinty feet in the air.

“Sarved him right,” cried several of the men, emphatically, as the hunter concluded his anecdote.

“Ay,” he continued, “an’ they strung up his six friends beside him.”

“Sarved ’em right too,” remarked the tall man, whose partiality for the tin wash-hand basin and the tooth-brush we have already noticed. “If I had my way, I’d shoot ’em all off the face o’ the ’arth, I would, right away.”

“I’m sorry to hear they did that,” remarked Larry O’Neil looking pointedly at the last speaker, “for it only shewed they was greater mortherers nor the Injuns—the red-skins morthered wan man, but the diggers morthered six.

“An’ who are you that finds fault wi’ the diggers?” inquired the tall man, turning full round upon the Irishman, with a tremendous oath.

“Be the mortial,” cried the Irishman, starting up like a Jack-in-the-box, and throwing off his coat, “I’m Larry O’Neil, at yer sarvice. Hooroo! come on, av’ ye want to be purtily worked off.”

Instantly the man’s hand was on the hilt of his revolver; but, before he could draw it, the rest of the company started up and overpowered the belligerents.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the host of the ranche, stepping forward, “it’s not worth while quarrelling about a miserable red-skin.”

“Put on your coat, Larry, and come, let’s get ready for a start,” said Ned; “you can’t afford to fight till you’ve made your fortune at the diggings. How far is it to the next ranche, landlord?”

This cool attempt to turn the conversation was happily successful. The next ranche, he was told, was about ten miles distant, and the road comparatively easy; so, as it was a fine moonlight night, and he was desirous of reaching the first diggings on the following day as early as possible, the horses and mules were saddled, and the bill called for.

When the said bill was presented, or rather, announced to them, our travellers opened their eyes pretty wide; they had to open their purses pretty wide too, and empty them to such an extent that there was not more than a dollar left among them all!

The supper, which we have described, cost them two and a half dollars—about ten shillings and sixpence a head, including a glass of bad brandy; but not including a bottle of stout which Larry, in the ignorance and innocence of his heart, had asked for, and which cost him three dollars extra! An egg, also, which Ned had obtained, cost him a shilling.

“Oh, morther!” exclaimed Larry, “why didn’t ye tell us the price before we tuck them?”

“Why didn’t ye ax?” retorted the landlord.

“It’s all right,” remarked Maxton. “Prices vary at the diggings, as you shall find ere long. When provisions run short, the prices become exorbitant; when plentiful, they are more moderate, but they are never low. However, men don’t mind much, for most diggers have plenty of gold.”

Captain Bunting and Bill Jones were unable to do more than sigh out their amazement and shake their heads, as they left the ranche and mounted their steeds; in doing which the captain accidentally, as usual, drove both spurs into the sides of his mule, which caused it to execute a series of manoeuvres and pirouettes that entertained the company for a quarter of an hour, after which they rode away over the plain.

It was a beautiful country through which they now ambled pleasantly. Undulating and partially wooded, with fine stretches of meadow land between, from which the scent of myriads of wild-flowers rose on the cool night air. The moon sailed low in a perfectly cloudless sky, casting the shadows of the horsemen far before them as they rode, and clothing hill and dale, bush and tree, with a soft light, as if a cloud of silver gauze had settled down upon the scene. The incident in the ranche was quickly banished, and each traveller committed himself silently to the full enjoyment of the beauties around him—beauties which appeared less like reality than a vision of the night.

Chapter Nine.

A Night Ride in the Woods—The Encampment—Larry’s First Attempt to dig for Gold—An Alarm—A Suspicious Stranger—Queer Creatures.

In less than two hours the travellers reached the second ranche, which was little better, in appearance or accommodation, than the one they had left. Having no funds, they merely halted to water their cattle, and then pushed forward.

The country became more and more undulating and broken as they advanced, and beyond the second ranche assumed the appearance of a hill country. The valleys were free from trees, though here and there occurred dense thickets of underwood, in which Maxton told them that grizzly-bears loved to dwell—a piece of information that induced most of the party to carry their rifles in a handy position, and glance suspiciously at every shadow. Large oaks and bay-trees covered the lower slopes of the hills, while higher up the white oak and fir predominated.

About an hour after midnight the moon began to descend towards the horizon, and Ned Sinton, who had been unanimously elected commander of the little band, called a halt in the neighbourhood of a rivulet, which flowed round the base of an abrupt cliff whose sides were partially clothed with scrubby bushes.

“We shall encamp here for the night, comrades,” said he, dismounting; “here is water and food for our nags, a fine piece of greensward to spread our blankets on, and a thick-leaved oak to keep the dew off us. Now, Maxton, you are an old campaigner, let us see how soon you’ll have a fire blazing.”

“I’ll have it ready before you get the camp kettles and pans out,” answered Maxton, fastening his horse to a tree, seizing an axe, and springing into the woods on the margin of the stream.

“And, Captain Bunting,” continued Ned, “do you water the horses and mules: our vaquero will help you. Jones will unpack the provender. Tom Collins and I will see to getting supper ready.”

“An’, may I ax, commodore,” said Larry O’Neil, touching his hat, “wot I’m to do?”

“Keep out of everybody’s way, and do what you pleases, Larry.”

“Which manes, I’m to make myself ginerally useful; so here goes.” And Larry, springing through the bushes, proceeded to fulfil his duties, by seizing a massive log, which Maxton had just cut, and, heaving it on his powerful shoulder, carried it to the camp.

Each was immediately busied with his respective duties. Bustling activity prevailed for the space of a quarter of an hour, the result of which was that, before the moon left them in total darkness, the ruddy glare of a magnificent fire lighted up the scene brilliantly, glanced across the sun-burnt faces and vivid red shirts of our adventurers, as they clustered round it, and threw clouds of sparks in among the leaves of the stout old oak that overspread the camp.

“Now, this is what I call uncommon jolly,” said Captain Bunting, sitting down on his saddle before the cheerful blaze, rubbing his hands, and gazing round, with a smile of the utmost benignity on his broad, hairy countenance.

“It is,” replied Maxton, with an approving nod. “Do you know, I have often thought, captain, that an Indian life must be a very pleasant one—”

“Av coorse it must,” interrupted Larry, who at that moment was luxuriating in the first rich, voluminous puffs of a newly-filled pipe—“av coorse it must, if it’s always like this.”

“Ay,” continued Maxton, “but that’s what I was just going to remark upon—it’s not always like this. As a general rule, I have observed, men who are new to backwoods life, live at first in a species of terrestrial paradise. The novelty and the excitement cause them to revel in all that is enjoyable, and to endure with indifference all that is disagreeable; sometimes, even, to take pleasure in shewing how stoically they can put up with discomfort. But after a time the novelty and excitement wear away, and then it is usual to hear the praises of Indian life spoken of immediately before and immediately after supper. Towards midnight—particularly if it should rain, or mosquitoes be numerous—men change their minds, and begin to dream of home, if they can sleep, or to wish they were there, if they can’t.”

“Get out! you horrid philosopher,” cried Tom Collin as he gazed wistfully into the iron pot, whose savoury contents, (i.e. pork, flour, and beans), he was engaged in stirring. “Don’t try to dash the cup of romance from our lips ere we have tasted it. Believe me, comrades, our friend Maxton is a humbug. I am an old stager myself; have lived the life of an Indian for months and months together, and I declare to you, I’m as jolly and enthusiastic now as ever I was.”

“That may be quite true,” observed Maxton, “seeing that it is possible you may have never been jolly or enthusiastic at all; but even taking your words as you mean them to be understood, they only tend to enforce what I have said, for, you know, the exception proves the rule.”

“Bah! you sophisticator,” ejaculated Tom, again inspecting the contents of the pot.

“Och, let him spake, an’ be aisy,” remarked Larry, with a look of extreme satisfaction on his countenance; “we’re in the navelty an’ excitement stage o’ life just now, an faix we’ll kape it up as long as we can. Hand me a cinder, Bill Jones, an’ don’t look as if ye wos meditatin’ wot to say, for ye know that ye can’t say nothin’.”

Bill took no further notice of this remark than to lift a glowing piece of charcoal from the fire with his fingers, as deliberately as if they were made of iron, and hand it to O’Neil, who received it in the same cool manner, and relighted his pipe therewith.

“It strikes me we shall require all our jollity and enthusiasm to keep up our spirits, if we don’t reach the diggings to-morrow,” said Ned Sinton, as he busied himself in polishing the blade of a superb hunting-knife, which had been presented to him by a few college friends at parting; “you all know that our funds are exhausted, and it’s awkward to arrive at a ranche without a dollar to pay for a meal—still more awkward to be compelled to encamp beside a ranche and unpack our own provisions, especially if it should chance to be a wet night. Do you think we shall manage to reach the diggings to-morrow, Maxton?”

“I am certain of it. Twelve miles will bring us to Little Creek, as it is called, where we can begin to take initiative lessons in gold-washing. In fact, the ground we stand on, I have not a doubt, has much gold in it. But we have not the means of washing it yet.”

Larry O’Neil caught his breath on hearing this statement. “D’ye mane to tell me,” he said, slowly and with emphasis, “that I’m maybe sittin’ at this minute on the top o’ rale goold?”

“You may be,” answered Maxton, laughing.

“W’en ye don’t know,” remarked Bill Jones, sententiously, removing the pipe from his lips, and looking fixedly at his messmate, “W’en ye don’t know wot’s under ye, nor the coorse o’ nature, w’ich is always more or less a-doin’ things oncommon an’ out o’ the way, ye shouldn’t ought to speckilate on wot ye know nothin’ about, until ye find out how’s her head, an’ w’ich way the land lies. Them’s my sentiments.”

“Halloo! Larry,” cried the captain and Tom Collins simultaneously, “look out for the kettle. It’ll boil over.”

Larry’s feelings had been deeply stirred at that moment, so that the union of the sudden shout, with the profundity of Bill’s remark, had the effect of causing him to clutch at the tea-kettle with such haste that he upset it into the fire.

“Oh! bad luck to ye!”

“Clumsy fellow!” ejaculated Ned. “Off with you to the creek, and refill it.”

Larry obeyed promptly, but the mischance, after all, was trifling, for the fire was fierce enough to have boiled a twenty-gallon caldron in a quarter of an hour. Besides, the contents of the iron pot had to be discussed before the tea was wanted. In a few minutes supper was ready, and all were about to begin, when it was discovered that O’Neil was missing.

“Ho! Larry, come to supper!” shouted one.

“Hi! where are you?” cried another.

But there was no reply, until the captain put both hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to the nautical halloo with which, in days gone by, he was wont to hail the look-out at the main-top.

“Ay, ay, comin’ sir–r,” floated back on the night wind; and, shortly afterwards, the Irishman stumbled into camp with his hands, his face, and his clothes plentifully bedaubed with mud.

“Why, what have you been about?” inquired Ned.

“Diggin’ for goold, sure. I’ve made a hole in the banks o’ the creek with me two hands that ye might bury a young buffalo in, an’ sorrow a bit o’ goold have I got for me pains.”

A general laugh greeted the enthusiastic digger, as he wiped his hands and sat down to supper.

“Musha! av I didn’t git goold, I’ve dug up a mortial big appetite, anyhow. Hand me the wooden spoon, Mister Collins; it’s more the gauge o’ me pratie-trap than the pewter wans. D’ye know, comrades, I’m a’most sure I seed an Injun in the bush. Av it wasn’t, it was a ghost.”

“What like was he?”

“Look there, and judge for yourselves,” cried O’Neil, jumping suddenly to his feet, and pointing towards the wood, where a solitary figure was seen dimly against the dark background.

Every man leaped up and seized his weapons.

“Who goes there?” shouted Ned, advancing towards the edge of the circle of light.

“A friend,” was the reply, in English.

Relieved to find that he was not the advance-guard of a band of savages, Ned invited the stranger to approach, and immediately he stepped within the sacred circle of the camp-fire’s light. This unexpected addition to the party was by no means a pleasant one. His complexion was exceedingly dark, and he wore a jet-black beard. In manners he was coarse and repulsive—one of those forbidding men who seem to be born for the purpose of doing evil in whatever position of life or part of the world they happen to be placed. The rude garments of the miner harmonised with the rugged expression of his bearded and bronzed face, and the harsh voice in which he addressed the party corresponded therewith.

“I s’pose ye’ll not object to let me rest by yer fire, strangers?” he said, advancing and seating himself without waiting for a reply.

“You’re welcome,” answered Ned, curtly, for he neither liked the manners nor the aspect of the man.

“Ye might ha’ wished us the top o’ the mornin’, I think,” suggested Larry. “Here, try an’ soften yer sperrits with a sup,” he added, pushing a pewter plate of soup and a spoon towards him.

The man made no reply, but ate ravenously, as if he had been starving. When he had finished, he lighted his pipe, and drew his knees up to his chin as he warmed his hands before the blaze. Little information of any kind could be drawn out of this taciturn wanderer. To Ned’s questions, he replied that he had been at the diggings on the Yuba River, which he described as being rich; that he had made enough gold to satisfy all his wants, and was on his way to San Francisco, where he intended to ship for England. His name, he said, was Smith.

He carried a short rifle, with a peculiarly large bore, and a heavy hunting-knife, the point of which was broken off. This last Bill Jones observed, as the man laid it down, after cutting up some tobacco, preparatory to refilling his pipe.

“A good knife! How did ye break it?” inquired Bill, taking up the weapon and examining it.

“Never you mind,” answered the man, snatching it rudely from him, and sheathing it.

At this O’Neil regarded him with an angry expression.

“Faix, av ye wasn’t livin’, so to spake, in me own house, I’d make ye change yer tone.”

“I don’t mean no offence,” said Smith, endeavouring to speak a little less gruffly. “The fact is, gents, I’m out o’ sorts, ’cos I lost a grizzly bar in the hills an hour or two agone. I shot him dead, as I thought, and went up and drove my knife into his side, but it struck a rib and broke the pint, as ye see; and a’most afore I could get up a tree, he wos close up behind me. He went away after a while, and so I got clear off.”

To the immense satisfaction of every one, this disagreeable guest arose after finishing his pipe, knocked the ashes out, shouldered his rifle, and, bidding his entertainers good-night, re-entered the forest, and disappeared.

“You’re well away,” remarked Tom Collins, looking after him; “I couldn’t have slept comfortably with such a fellow in camp. Now, then, I’m going to turn in.”

“So am I,” said Maxton, rolling himself in a blanket, and pillowing his head on a saddle, without more ado.

In a few minutes the camp was as silent as it had previously been noisy. Captain Bunting’s plethoric breathing alone told that human beings rested on that wild spot; and this, somewhat incongruously united with the tinkling of the rivulet hard by, and the howling of coyotes, constituted their lullaby. During the night the most of the travellers were awakened once or twice by a strange and very peculiar sensation, which led them to fancy the earth on which they reposed was possessed of life. The lazy members of the party lay still, and dreamily wondered until they fell asleep; those who were more active leaped up, and, lifting their blankets, gazed intently at the sward, which darkness prevented them from seeing, and felt it over with their hands, but no cause for the unwonted motion could be discovered, until the light of dawn revealed the fact that they had made their beds directly above the holes of a colony, of ground-squirrels, which little creatures, poking upwards with their noses in vain attempts to gain the upper world, had produced the curious sensations referred to.

Rough travelling, however, defies almost all disadvantages in the way of rest. Tired and healthy men will sleep in nearly any position, and at any hour, despite all interruptions, so that when our friends rose at daybreak to resume their journey, they were well refreshed and eager to push on.

Chapter Ten.

Game and Cookery—Arrival at the Diggings—Little Creek—Law and Order in the Mines—Nooning at Little Creek—Hard-up—Our Adventurers get Credit and begin Work—A Yankee Outwitted.

Deer, hares, crows, blackbirds, magpies, and quails, were the creatures that bounded, scampered, hopped, and flew before the eyes of the travellers at every step, as they wended their way pleasantly, beneath a bright morning sun, over the hills and through the lesser valleys of the great vale of the Sacramento. And all of these creatures, excepting the crows and magpies, fell before the unerring and unexpectedly useful blunderbuss of Captain Bunting, passed a temporary existence in the maw of the big iron pot, and eventually vanished into the carnivorous jaws of Ned Sinton and his friends.

Crows were excluded from their bill of fare, because the whole party had an unconquerable antipathy to them; and Larry said he had “aiten many pies in his lifetime, but he had niver aiten magpies, and he’d be shot av he wos goin’ to begin now.”

The duties of chief hunter devolved upon the captain,—first, because he was intensely fond of shooting; and, secondly, because game was so plentiful and tame, that it was difficult to avoid hitting something, if one only fired straight before one. For the same reasons the blunderbuss proved to be more effectual than the rifle. The captain used to load it with an enormous charge of powder and a handful of shot—swan-shot, two sizes of duck-shot, and sparrow-hail, mixed, with an occasional rifle-ball dropped in to the bargain. The recoil of the piece was tremendous, but the captain was a stout buffer—if we may be permitted the expression—and stood the shock manfully.

Stewed squirrels formed one of their favourite dishes, it was frequently prepared by Tom Collins, whose powers in the culinary department proved to be so great that he was unanimously voted to the office of chef de cuisine—Bill Jones volunteering, (and being accepted), to assist in doing the dirty work; for it must be borne in mind that the old relations of master and man no longer subsisted amongst any of the travellers now—excepting always the native vaquero. All were equal at starting for the diggings, and the various appointments were made by, and with the consent of the whole party.

Little Creek diggings were situated in a narrow gorge of the mountains, through which flowed a small though turbulent stream. The sides of the hills were in some places thickly clothed with trees, in others they were destitute not only of vegetation but of earth, the rock on the steeper declivities of the hills having been washed bare by the periodical heavy rains peculiar to those regions. Although wild and somewhat narrow, this little valley was, nevertheless, a cheerful spot, in consequence of its facing almost in a southerly direction: while, towards the east, there were several wide and picturesque gaps in the hills which seemed to have been made for the express purpose of letting the sun shine the greater part of the day upon the diggers while they were at work—an advantage, no doubt, when the weather was cool, but rather the reverse when it was hot.

The entrance to Little Creek was about two miles wide, undulating, and beautifully diversified, resembling pleasure grounds rather than a portion of the great wilderness of the far west; but the vale narrowed abruptly, and, about three miles further into the mountains, became a mere gap or ravine through which the streamlet leaped and boiled furiously.

It was an hour before noon when our travellers came suddenly upon the wide entrance to the valley.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Ned, as he reined up to gaze in admiration over the flowering plain, with its groups of noble trees.

“Ay,” said Maxton, enthusiastically, “you may well say that. There may be, perchance, as grand, but I am certain there is not a grander country in the world than America—the land of the brave and free.”

Ned did not assent at once to the latter part of this proposition.

“You forget,” he said, hesitatingly, as if disinclined to hurt the feelings or prejudices of his new friend, “you forget that it is the land of slaves!”

“I confess that I did forget that at the moment,” answered Maxton, while the blood mounted to his forehead. “It is the foulest blot upon my country’s honour; but I at least am guiltless of upholding the accursed institution, as, also, are thousands of my countrymen. I feel assured, however, that the time is coming when that blot shall be wiped away.”

“I am glad, my friend,” said Ned, heartily, “to hear you speak thus; to be frank with you, I could not have prevailed upon myself to have held out to you the hand of intimate friendship had you proved to be a defender of slavery.”

“Then you’ll form few friendships in this country,” said Tom Collins, “for many of the Yankees here have been slave-holders in their day, and almost all defend the custom.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by Larry O’Neil uttering a peculiarly Hibernian exclamation, (which no combination of letters will convey,) and pointing in an excited manner to an object a few hundred yards in advance of them.

“What d’ye see, lad!” inquired Bill Jones, shading his eyes with his hand.

The whole party came to a halt, and gazed earnestly before them for a few minutes in silence.

“Och!” said O’Neil, slowly, and with trembling earnestness, “av me two eyes are spakin’ truth, it’s—it’s a goold digger!—the first o’ the goold-diggers!”—and Larry followed up the discovery with a mingled cheer and war-whoop of delight that rang far and wide over the valley.

At such an unwonted, we might almost say, appalling, sound, the “first o’ the goold-diggers,”—who was up to his waist in a hole, quietly and methodically excavating the earth on the river’s bank with a pick-axe—raised his head, and, leaning on the haft of his pick, scrutinised the new arrivals narrowly.

“Hooray, my hearty!” shouted Larry, as he advanced at a gallop, followed by his laughing comrades. “The top o’ the mornin’ to ye—it’s good luck I’m wishin’ ye, avic. How are ye gittin’ on in the goold way, honey?”

The rough-looking, dusty, and bearded miner, smiled good-humouredly, as he replied, in a gentle tone of voice that belied his looks—“Pretty well, friend; though not quite so well as some of my neighbours. I presume that you and your friends have just arrived at the mines?”

“Tear an’ ages! it’s a gintleman, I do belave,” cried Larry, turning to his companions with a look of surprise.

The miner laughed at the remark, and, leaping out of the hole, did his best to answer the many questions that were put to him in a somewhat excited tone by the party.

“Where’s the gold?” inquired Jones, gravely, going down on his knees at the side of the excavation, and peering into it. “I don’t see none, wotsomediver.”

“The dust is very fine here,” answered the miner, “and not easily detected until washed. Occasionally we come upon nuggets and pockets in the dry parts of the river’s bed, and the cañons of the hills, but I find it most profitable to work steadily down here where the whole earth, below the surface, is impregnated with fine particles of gold. Many of the diggers waste their time in prospecting, which word, I suppose you know, means looking out for new diggings; but, according to the proverb of my country, I prefer to remain ‘contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair.’”

“Are we far-distant from the other miners in this creek?” inquired Ned.

“No; you are quite close. You will come upon the colony after passing that bluff of trees ahead of you,” answered the Scotchman; “but come, I will shew you the way; it is not far from nooning-time, when I usually cease work for a couple of hours.”

So saying, the miner threw his pick-axe and shovel into the hole, and led the way towards the colony of Little Creek.

“Ain’t you afraid some of the bad-looking scoundrels in these parts may take a fancy to your pick and shovel?” inquired the captain, as they rode along at a foot pace.

“Not in the least. Time was when I would have feared to leave them; for at one time neither life nor property was safe here, where so many ruffians congregated from all parts of the world; but the evil wrought its own cure at last. Murders and robberies became so numerous, that the miners took to Lynch law for mutual protection. Murderers and thieves were hanged, or whipped almost to death, with such promptitude, that it struck terror into the hearts of evil-doers; and the consequence is, that we of this valley are now living in a state of perfect peace and security, while in other districts, where the laws of Judge Lynch are not so well administered, murders and thefts are occasionally heard of. Here, if a man takes a fancy to go prospecting for a time, he has only to throw his pick and shovel into his claim, or upon his heap of dirt, ( see note 1) and he will be sure to find them there untouched on his return, even though he should be absent several weeks. Our tents, too, are left unwatched, and our doors unfastened, with perfect safety, though it is well-known that hundreds and thousands of dollars in gold-dust lie within. I do not mean to assert that we have attained to absolute perfection—a murder and a theft do occasionally occur, but such are the exceptions, security is the rule.”

“Truly,” said Ned Sinton, “you seem to live in a golden age in all respects.”

“Not in all,” answered the Scot; “the terrors of the law deter from open violence, but they do not enforce morality, as the language and deportment of miners generally too plainly shew. But here we are at the colony of Little Creek.”

They rounded the projecting spur of one of the hills as he spoke, and the whole extent of the little valley opened up to view. It was indeed a romantic and curious sight. The vale, as we have said, was narrow, but by no means gloomy. The noontide sun shed a flood of light over the glistening rocks and verdant foliage of the hills on the left, and cast the short, rounded shadows of those on the right upon the plain. Through the centre of this the Little Creek warbled on its course; now circling round some wooded knoll, until it almost formed an island; anon dropping, in a quiet cascade, over the edge of a flat rock; in some places sweeping close under the base of a perpendicular cliff; in others shooting out into a lake-like expanse of shallow water across a bright-green meadow, as it murmured on over its golden bed towards the Sacramento.

Higher up the valley the cliffs were more abrupt. Dark pines and cedars, in groups or singly, hung on their sides, and gave point to the landscape, in the background of which the rivulet glittered like a silver thread where the mountains rose in peaks towards the sky.

Along the whole course of this rivulet, as far as the eye could trace it, searchers for gold were at work on both banks, while their white tents, and rude wooden shanties, were scattered, singly or in clusters of various extent, upon the wooded slopes, in every pleasant and suitable position. From the distance at which our party first beheld the scene, it appeared as if the miners were not men, but little animals grubbing in the earth. Little or no sound reached their ears; there was no bustle, no walking to and fro, as if the hundreds there assembled had various and diverse occupations. All were intently engaged in one and the same work. Pick-axe and shovel rose and fell with steady regularity as each individual wrought with ceaseless activity within the narrow limits of his own particular claim, or rocked his cradle beside it. Dig, dig, dig; rock, rock, rock; shovel, shovel, shovel, was the order of the day, as long as day lasted; and then the gold-hunters rested until recruited strength and dawning light enabled them again to go down into the mud and dig, and rock, and shovel as before.

Many, alas! rocked themselves into a fatal sleep, and dug and shovelled their own graves among these golden hills. Many, too, who, although they dug and toiled for the precious metal, had neither made it their god nor their chief good, were struck down in the midst of their heavy toils, and retired staggering to their tents, and there, still clad in their damp garments, laid their fevered heads on their saddles—not unfrequently on their bags of gold-dust—to dream of the distant homes and the loved faces they were doomed to see no more; and thus, dreaming in solitude, or watched, mayhap, by a rough though warm-hearted mate, breathed out their spirits to Him who gave them, and were laid in their last resting-place with wealth untold beneath them, and earth impregnated with gold-dust for their winding-sheet. Happy, thrice happy, the few who in that hour could truly say to Jesus, “Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.”

Just as our travellers approached the nearest and largest cluster of huts and tents, a sudden change came over the scene. The hour of noon had arrived, and, as if with one consent, the miners threw down their tools, and swarmed, like the skirmishers of an invading host, up from the stream towards the huts—a few of the more jovial among them singing at the full pitch of their lungs, but most of them too wearied to care for aught save food and repose.

Noon is the universal dinner-hour throughout the gold-mines, an hour which might be adopted with profit in every way, we venture to suggest, by those who dig for gold in commercial and legal ledgers and cash-books in more civilised lands. When the new-comers reached a moderately-sized log-cabin, which was the chief hotel of the colony, they found it in all the bustle of preparation for an immediate and simple, though substantial, meal.

“Can we have dinner!” inquired Ned, entering this house of entertainment, while his companions were unsaddling and picketing their horses and mules.

“To be sure ye can, my hearty,” answered the smiling landlord, “if ye pay for it.”

“That’s just the reason I asked the question,” answered Ned, seating himself on a cask—all available chairs, stool; and benches having been already appropriated by mud-bespattered miners, “because, you must know, I can’t pay for it.”

“Ho!” ejaculated mine host, with a grin, “hard-up, eh! got cleaned out with the trip up, an’ trust to diggin’ for the future? Well, I’ll give ye credit; come on, and stick in. It’s every man for himself here, an’ no favour.”

Thus invited, Ned and his friends squeezed themselves into seats beside the long table d’hôte—which boasted a canvas table-cloth, and had casks for legs—and made a hearty meal, in the course of which they obtained a great deal of useful information from their friend McLeod the Scotchman.

After dinner, which was eaten hurriedly, most of the miners returned to their work, and Ned with his friend; under the guidance of McLeod, went down to the river to be initiated into the mysteries of gold-digging and washing. As they approached several of the claims which their owners were busy working, a Yankee swaggered up to them with a cigar in his mouth, an impudent expression on his face, and a pick-axe on his shoulder.

“Guess you’ve just come to locate in them diggin’s, strangers,” he said, addressing the party at large, but looking at Ned, whose superior height and commanding cast of countenance proved him unmistakeably to be a leader.

“We have,” replied Ned, who disliked the look of the man.

“Thought so. I’m jest goin’ to quit an’ make tracks for the coast. ’Bliged to cut stick on business that won’t wait, I calc’late. It’s plaguey unlucky, too, for my claim’s turnin’ out no end o’ dollars, but I must sell it slick off so I don’t mind to let ye have it cheap.”

“Is your claim better than the others in the neighbourhood?” inquired Ned.

“Wall, I jest opine it is. Look here,” cried the Yankee, jumping into his claim, which was a pit of about eight feet square and three deep, and delving the shovel into the earth, while Ned and his friends, besides several of the other miners, drew near to witness the result. Maxton and Tom Collins, however, winked knowingly at each other, and, with the Scotchman, drew back to the rear of the group.

The first shovelful of earth thrown up was absolutely full of glittering particles of gold, and the second was even more richly impregnated with the precious metal.

Ned and the captain stood aghast with amazement, and Bill Jones opened mouth and eyes to their utmost extent.

“Hooroo! och! goold galore! there it is at last!” shouted Larry O’Neil, tossing up his arms with delight. “Do buy it, Mr Ned, darlint.”

“I needn’t turn up more, I guess,” said the Yankee, carelessly throwing down his shovel, and filling the earth into a tin bowl or pan; “I’ll jest wash it out an’ shew ye what it’s like.”

So saying he dipped the pan into the stream gently, and proceeded to wash out the gold. As this was done in the way usually practised by diggers, we shall describe it.

Setting down the tin pan of earth and water, the Yankee dipped both hands into it and stirred its contents about until it became liquid mud, removing the stones in the operation. It was then moved round quickly with a peculiar motion which caused some off the top to escape over the edge of the pan with each revolution; more water was added from time to time, and the process continued until all the earthy matter was washed away, and nothing but a kind of black sand, in which the gold is usually contained, remained at the bottom.

“There you are,” cried the man, exultingly, lifting up a handful of the heavy and shining mixture; “fifteen dollars at least in two shovelfuls. I’ll sell ye the claim, if ye like, for two hundred dollars.”

“I would give it at once,” said Ned, feeling at the moment deeply troubled on account of his poverty; “but, to say truth, I have not a farthing in the world.”

A peculiar grin rested on the faces of the miners who looked on as he spoke, but before he could inquire the cause, Tom Collins stepped forward, and said:

“That’s a first-rate claim of yours. What did ye say was your charge for it?”

“Three hundred dollars down.”

“I’ll tell ye what,” rejoined Tom, “I’ll give you six hundred dollars for it, if you take out another shovelful of dirt like that!”

This remark was greeted by a general laugh from, the bystanders, which was joined in by the Yankee himself as he leaped out of the hole, and, shouldering his shovel, went off with his friends, leaving Ned and some others of his party staring at each other in astonishment.

“What does it all mean?” he inquired, turning to Tom Coffins, whose laughing countenance shewed that he at least was not involved in mystery.

“It means simply that we were all taken for green-horns, which was quite a mistake, and that we were to have been thoroughly cheated—a catastrophe which has happily been prevented. Maxton and I determined to let the rascally fellow go as far as he could, and then step in and turn the laugh against him, as we have done.”

“But explain yourself. I do not yet understand,” repeated Ned, with a puzzled look.

“Why, the fact is, that when strangers arrive at the diggings, full of excitement and expectation, there are always a set of sharpers on the look-out, who offer to sell their claims, as they often say, ‘for a mere song,’ and in order to prove their worth, dig out a little dirt, and wash it, as you have just seen done; taking care beforehand, however, to mingle with it a large quantity of gold-dust, which, of course, comes to light, and a bargain is generally struck on the spot, when the sharper goes off with the price, and boasts of having ‘done’ a green-horn, for which he is applauded by his comrades. Should the fraud be detected before the completion of the bargain, as in our case, he laughs with the rest, and says, probably, he ‘warn’t so ’cute as usual.’”

“Och, the scoundrels!” cried Larry; “an’ is there no law for sich doin’s?”

“None; at least in most diggings men are left to sharpen their own wits by experience. Sometimes, however, the biter is pretty well bitten. There was a poor Chilian once who was deceived in this way, and paid four hundred dollars for a claim that was scarcely worth working. He looked rather put out on discovering the imposture, but was only laughed at by most of those who saw the transaction for his softness. Some there were who frowned on the sharper, and even spoke of lynching him, but they were a small minority, and had to hold their peace. However, the Chilian plucked up heart, and, leaping into his claim, worked away like a Trojan. After a day or two he hit upon a good layer of blue clay, and from that time he turned out forty dollars a day for two months.”

“Ah! good luck to him,” cried Larry.

“And did the sharper hear of it?” inquired the captain.

“That he did, and tried to bully the poor fellow, and get his claim back again; but there was a strong enough sense of justice among the miners to cause such an outcry that the scoundrel was fain to seek other diggings.”

Chapter Eleven.

Gold-Washing—Our Adventurers count their Gains, and are Satisfied—The “R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny” begins to Prosper—Frying Gold—Night Visit to the Grave of a Murdered Man—A Murderer Caught—The Escape and Pursuit.

Having escaped from the Yankee land-shark, as has been related, our adventurers spent the remainder of the day in watching the various processes of digging and washing out gold, in imbibing valuable lessons, and in selecting a spot for their future residence.

The two processes in vogue at Little Creek at that time were the pan and the cradle washing. The former has been already adverted to, and was much practised because the ground at that time was rich in the precious metal and easily wrought; the extreme simplicity, too, of the operation, which only required that the miner should possess a pick, a shovel, and a tin pan, commended it to men who were anxious to begin at once. An expert man, in favourable ground, could gather and wash a panful of “dirt,” as it is called, every ten minutes; and there were few places in Little Creek that did not yield half-a-dollar or more to the panful, thus enabling the digger to work out gold-dust to the value of about twenty-five dollars, (five pounds sterling), every day, while occasionally he came upon a lump or nugget, equal, perhaps, to what he could produce by the steady labour of a week or more.

Many of the more energetic miners, however, worked in companies and used cradles, by means of which they washed out a much larger quantity of gold in shorter time; and in places which did not yield a sufficient return by the pan process to render it worth while working, the cradle-owners obtained ample remuneration for their toil.

The cradle is a very simple machine, being a semicircular trough, hollowed out of a log, from five to six feet long by sixteen inches in diameter. At one end of this is a perforated copper or iron plate, with a rim of wood round it, on which the “dirt” is thrown, and water poured thereon by one man, while the cradle is rocked by another. The gold and gravel are thus separated from the larger stones, and washed down the trough, in which, at intervals, two transverse bars, half-an-inch high, are placed; the first of these arrests the gold, which, from its great weight, sinks to the bottom, while the gravel and lighter substances are swept away by the current. The lower bar catches any particles of gold that, by awkward management, may have passed the upper one. Three men usually worked together at a rocker, one digging, one carrying the “dirt” in a bucket, and one rocking the cradle.

The black sand, which, along with the gold, is usually left after all the washing and rocking processes are completed, is too heavy to be separated by means of washing. It has therefore to be blown away from the gold after the mass has been dried over a fire, and in this operation great care is requisite lest the finer particles of gold should be blown off along with it.

The spot fixed on as the future residence of our friends was a level patch of greensward about a stone-cast from the banks of the stream, and twice that distance from the lowest cabin of the colony, which was separated and concealed from them by a group of wide-spreading oaks and other trees. A short distance behind the spot the mountains ascended in steep wooded slopes, and, just in front, the cliffs of the opposite hills rose abruptly from the edge of the stream, but a narrow ravine, that split them in a transverse manner, afforded a peep into the hills beyond. At evening, when the rest of the vale of Little Creek was shrouded in gloom, this ravine permitted the last beams of the setting sun to stream through and flood their encampment with rosy light.

Here the tent was pitched, and a fire kindled by Tom Collins, he being intrusted with the command of the party, whose duty it was to prepare the camp. This party included Bill Jones, Maxton, and the vaquero. Ned, the captain, and Larry O’Neil went, under the guidance of McLeod, to select a claim, and take lessons in washing.

“This seems a likely spot,” said the Scotchman, as he led his new acquaintances down to the stream, a few yards below their encampment. “You may claim as much ground as you please, for there is room enough and to spare for all at the Creek yet. I would recommend a piece of ground of ten or twelve feet square for each to begin with.”

“Here is a level patch that I shall appropriate, then,” said Ned, smiling at the idea of becoming so suddenly and easily a landed proprietor—and to such an extent.

“I suppose we don’t require to make out title-deeds!” remarked the captain.

“There’s my title dade,” cried Larry, driving his pick into the earth.

“You are right, Larry,” said McLeod, laughing, “no other deed is required in this delightfully-free country.”

“Ah! thin, it’s quite to my taste; sure I niver thought to see the swate spot where I could pick out me property an’ pick up me fortin’ so aisy.”

“Don’t count your chickens quite so fast,” said Ned, “may be it won’t be so easy as you think. But let us begin and ascertain the value of our claims; I vote that Larry shall have the honour of washing out the first panful of gold, as a reward for his enthusiasm.”

“A very proper obsarvation,” remarked the Irishman, as he commenced work without further delay.

In the course of ten minutes part of the layer of surface-earth was removed, revealing the bluish-clay soil in which gold was usually found; the pan was filled with this “pay-dirt,” as it was called, in contradistinction to the “surface-dirt,” which didn’t “pay,” and was taken down to the stream, where Larry washed it out under the eye of McLeod; but he did it clumsily, as might be expected, and lost a considerable amount of valuable material. Still, for a first attempt, it was pretty well done, and his companions watched the result with feelings of excited earnestness, that they felt half-ashamed to admit even to themselves. There was mingled with this feeling a sort of vague incredulity, and a disposition to ridicule the idea that they were actually endeavouring to wash gold out of the ground; but when Larry’s panful began to diminish, and the black sand appeared, sparkling with unmistakeably-brilliant particles of reddish-yellow metal, they felt that the golden dream was in truth becoming a sober reality.

As the process proceeded, and the precious metal began to appear, Larry’s feelings found vent in abrupt remarks.

“Och! av me tshoo eyes—musha! there it is—goold intirely—av it isn’t brass. Ah ye purty little stars!—O Larry, it’s yerself as’ll buy yer owld mother a pig, an’ a coach to boot. Hooroo! Mr Scotchman, I misremimber yer name, wot’s that?”

Larry started up in excitement, and held up between his fore-finger and thumb what appeared to be a small stone.

“Ha! friend, you’re in luck. That’s a small nugget,” replied McLeod, examining the lump of gold. “It’s worth ten dollars at least. I have worked often two or three weeks at a time without coming on such a chunk as that.”

“Ye don’t mane it! eh! Och! give it me. Hooray!” and the Irishman, seizing the little lump with trembling eagerness, rushed off, shouting and yelling, towards the camp to make his good fortune known to Bill Jones, leaving the pan of black sand unheeded. This Ned took up, and tried his hand at the work of washing. When done, the residue was found to be exceedingly rich, so he and the captain proceeded without loss of time to test their separate claims. Soon after, their obliging friend, the miner, returned to his own claim further down the valley, leaving them hard at work.

That night, when the bright stars twinkled down upon the camp at Little Creek, our gold-hunters, wet and tired, but hearty and hopeful, assembled round the fire in front of their little tent among the oak-trees.

The entire party was assembled there, and they were gazing earnestly, as might be expected of hungry men, into the frying-pan. But they did not gaze at supper. No, that night the first thing they fried was a mixture of black sand and gold. In fact, they were drying and blowing the result of their first day’s work at the diggings, and their friend the Scotch miner was there to instruct them in the various processes of their new profession, and to weigh the gold for them, in his little pair of scales, when it should be finally cleared of all grosser substances.

As each panful was dried and blown, the gold was weighed, and put into a large white breakfast cup, the bottom of which was soon heaped up with shining particles, varying in size from the smallest visible speck, to little lumps like grains of corn.

“Bravo!” exclaimed McLeod, as he weighed the last pan, and added the gold to that already in the cup. “I congratulate you, gentlemen, on your success. The day’s work is equal to one hundred and eighty dollars—about thirty dollars per man. Few men are so lucky their first day, I assure you, unless, as has been the case once or twice they should hit upon a nugget or two.”

“That being the case, we shall have supper,” cried Ned Sinton; “and while we are about it, do you go, Larry, to mine host of the hotel, and pay for the dinner for which he gave us credit. I don’t wish to remain an hour in debt, if I can avoid it.”

“Mister McLeod,” slowly said Bill Jones—who, during the whole operation of drying and weighing the gold, had remained seated on a log, looking on with an expression of imbecile astonishment, and without uttering a word—“Mister McLeod, if I may make bold to ax, how much is one hundred and eighty dollars?”

Bill’s calculating powers were of the weakest possible character.

“About thirty-six pounds sterling,” replied McLeod. Bill’s eyes were wide open before, but the extent to which he opened them on hearing this was quite alarming, and suggested the idea that they would never close again. The same incapacity to calculate figures rendered him unable to grasp correlative facts. He knew that thirty-six pounds in one day was a more enormous and sudden accumulation of wealth than had ever entered into his nautical mind to conceive of. But to connect this with the fact that a voyage and journey of many months had brought him there; that a similar journey and voyage would be required to reconduct him home; and that in the meantime he would have to pay perhaps five pounds sterling for a flannel shirt, and probably four pounds or more for a pair of boots, and everything else in proportion, was to his limited intellectual capacity a simple impossibility. He contented himself with remarking, in reference to these things, that “w’en things in gin’ral wos more nor ord’nar’ly oncommon, an’ w’en incomprehensibles was blowin’ a reg’lar hurricane astarn, so that a man couldn’t hold on to the belayin’-pins he’d bin used to, without their breakin’ short off an’ lettin’ him go spin into the lee-scuppers,—why wot then? a wise man’s course wos to take in all sail, an’ scud before it under bare poles.”

Next day all the miners in the colony were up and at work by dawn. Ned and his friends, you may be sure, were not last to leave their beds and commence digging in their separate claims, which they resolved to work out by means of pan-washing, until they made a little ready cash, after which they purposed constructing two rockers, and washing out the gold more systematically and profitably.

They commenced by removing the surface-soil to the depth of about three feet, a work of no small labour, until the subsoil, or “pay-dirt,” was reached. Of this they dug out a small quantity, and washed it; put the produce of black sand and gold into leathern bags, and then, digging out another panful, washed it as before. Thus they laboured till noon, when they rested for an hour and dined. Then they worked on again until night and exhaustion compelled them to desist; when they returned to camp, dried and blew away the sand, weighed the gold, which was put carefully into a general purse—named by Larry the “R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny”—after which they supped, and retired to rest.

The gold was found at various depths, the “dirt” on the bed-rock being the richest, as gold naturally, in consequence of its weight, sinks through all other substances, until arrested in its downward career by the solid rock.

Of course, the labour was severe to men unaccustomed to the peculiar and constant stooping posture they were compelled to adopt, and on the second morning more than one of the party felt as if he had been seized with lumbago, but this wore off in the course of a day or two.

The result of the second day was about equal to that of the first; the result of the third a good deal better, and Bill, who was fortunate enough to discover a small nugget, returned to camp with a self-satisfied swagger that indicated elation, though his visage expressed nothing but stolidity, slightly tinged with surprise. On the fourth day the cradles were made, and a very large portion of their gains thereby swept away in consequence of the unconscionable prices charged for every article used in their construction. However, this mattered little, Maxton said, as the increased profits of their labour would soon repay the outlay. And he was right. On the fifth day their returns were more than trebled, and that evening the directors of the “R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny” found themselves in possession of capital amounting to one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, or, as Tom Collins carefully explained to Bill, about 230 pounds.

On the sixth day, however, which was Saturday, Larry O’Neil, who was permitted to work with the pan in the meantime, instead of assisting with the cradles, came up to dinner with a less hearty aspect than usual, and at suppertime he returned with a terribly lugubrious visage and a totally empty bag. In fact his claim had become suddenly unproductive.

“Look at that,” he cried, swaggering recklessly into camp, and throwing down his bag; “I haven’t got a rap; faix the bag’s as empty as my intarior.”

“What! have you worked out your claim already!” inquired Maxton.

“Troth have I, and almost worked out me own body too.”

“Well, Larry, don’t lose heart,” said Ned, as he dried the last panful of sand over the fire, “there are plenty more claims beside your present one. We, too, have not been as successful as before. I find the result is only fifty dollars amongst us all.”

“That’s a sudden falling off,” remarked Tom Collins; “I fear the ‘pay-dirt’ is not deep near us, nevertheless it pays well enough to keep us going for some time to come. I shall mark off a new space on Monday.”

“By the way, Maxton,” asked Ned, handing over the frying-pan to Collins, who soon filled it with a less valuable, but at that time not less needful commodity than gold-dust—namely, pork and beef—“how do the miners spend the Sabbath here? I suppose not much better than in the cities.”

“Here comes McLeod, who will be better able to answer than I am,” replied Maxton.

The Scot strode into the camp as he spoke, and, saluting the party, seated himself beside the fire.

“I’ve come to tell you a piece of news, and to ask advice,” he said; “but before doing so, I may tell you, in answer to your question, that the Sabbath here is devoted to drinking, gambling, and loafing about.”

“I am not surprised to hear it,” said Captain Bunting; “but pray what’s i’ the wind? Any new diggin’s discovered?”

“A new digging certainly has been discovered,” replied McLeod, with a peculiar smile, “but not precisely such a digging as one is wont to search for. The fact is, that in prospecting along the edge of the woods about a mile from this to-day, I came upon the body of a murdered man. It was covered with stones and branches of trees, which I removed, and I immediately recognised it to be that of a poor man who used to work not far from my own claim. I had missed him for more than a week past, but supposed that he had either gone to other diggings, or was away prospecting.”

“Poor fellow!” said Ned; “but how, in such a matter, can we help you with advice?”

“Well, you see I’m in difficult circumstances,” rejoined the Scot, “for I feel certain that I could point out the murderer, yet I cannot prove him to be such, and I want your advice as to what I should do.”

“Let it be known at once that you have discovered the murdered man at any rate,” said Maxton.

“That I have done already.”

“Who do you think was the murderer?” inquired Ned.

“A man who used to live in the same tent with him at one time, but who quarrelled with him frequently, and at last went off in a rage. I know not what was the cause, but I heard him vow that he would be revenged. He was a great coarse fellow, more like a brute than a man, with a black beard, and the most forbidding aspect I think I ever saw.”

“Wot wos his name?” inquired Bill Jones, while the party looked at each other as if they knew of such a character.

“Smith was the name he went by oftenest, but the diggers called him Black Jim sometimes.”

“Ha! Smith—black beard—forbidding aspect! It strikes me that I too have seen the man,” said Ned Sinton, who related to McLeod the visit paid to them in their camp by the surly stranger. While he was speaking, Larry O’Neil sat pondering something in his mind.

“Mister McLeod,” said he, when Ned concluded, “will ye shew me the body o’ this man? faix, I’m of opinion I can prove the murder; but, first of all, how is the black villain to be diskivered?”

“No difficulty about that. He is even now in the colony. I saw him in a gambling-house half-an-hour since. My fear is that, now the murder’s out, he’ll bolt before we can secure him.”

“It’s little trouble we’d have in preventin’ that,” suggested Larry.

“The consequences might be more serious, however, than you imagine. Suppose you were to seize and accuse him, and fail to prove the murder, the jury would acquit him, and the first thing he would do, on being set free, would be to shoot you, for which act the morality of the miners would rather applaud him than otherwise. It is only on cold-blooded, unprovoked murder and theft that Judge Lynch is severe. It is a recognised rule here, that if a man, in a row, should merely make a motion with his hand towards his pistol, his opponent is entitled to shoot him first if he can. The consequence is, that bloody quarrels are very rare.”

“Niver a taste do I care,” cried Larry; “they may hang me tshoo times over, but I’ll prove the murder, an’ nab the murderin’ blackguard too.”

“Have a care,” said Ned; “you’ll get yourself into a scrape.”

“Make sure you are right before you act,” added Maxton. Larry O’Neil paid no attention to these warnings. “Are ye ready to go, Mister McLeod?” said he, impatiently.

“Quite,” replied the other.

“Then come along.” And the two left the camp together, armed with their rifles, knives, revolvers, and a shovel.

It was a dark night. Heavy clouds obscured the face of the sky, through which only one or two stars struggled faintly, and rendered darkness visible. The two men passed rapidly along the little footpath that led from the colony to the more open country beyond. This gained, they turned abruptly to the right, and, entering a narrow defile, proceeded at a more cautious pace into the gloomy recesses of the mountains.

“Have a care, Larry O’Neil,” whispered the Scotchman, as they advanced; “the road is not so safe here, owing to a number of pits which have been made by diggers after gold—they lie close to the edge of the path, and are pretty deep.”

“All right; I’m lookin’ out,” replied Larry, groping his way after his comrade, at the base of a steep precipice.

“Here is the place,” said McLeod, stopping and pushing aside the bushes which lined the path. “Keep close to me—there is no road.”

“Are ye sure o’ the spot?” inquired Larry, in an undertone, while a feeling of awe crept over him at the thought of being within a few yards of a murdered man in such a dark, wild place.

“Quite sure. I have marked the trees. See there!” He pointed to a white spot on the stem of a tree, where a chip had been cut off, and close to which was a mound of earth and stones. This mound the two men proceeded to break up, and in less than ten minutes they disentombed the body from its shallow grave, and commenced to examine the fatal wound. It was in an advanced state of decomposition, and they hurried the process by the light of a bright solitary star, whose flickering rays pierced through the overspreading branches and fell upon the ghastly countenance of the murdered man.

While thus occupied, they were startled by the sound of breaking twigs, as if some one were slowly approaching; whispering voices were also heard.

“It must be hereabouts,” said a voice in a low tone; “he pointed out the place.”

“Ho!” cried McLeod, who, with Larry, had seized and cocked his rifle, “is that you, Webster?”

“Halloo! McLeod, where are you?”

In another moment a party of miners broke through the underwood, talking loudly, but they dropped their voices to a whisper on beholding the dead body.

“Whist, boys,” said Larry, holding up his hand. “We’ve jist got hold o’ the bullet. It’s flattened the least thing, but the size is easy to see. There’s a wound over the heart, too, made with a knife; now that’s wot I want to get at the bottom of, but I don’t like to use me own knife to cut down.”

As none of the others felt disposed to lend their knives for such a purpose, they looked at each other in silence.

“Mayhap,” said the rough-looking miner who had been hailed by McLeod as Webster—“mayhap the knife o’ the corpse is lyin’ about.”

The suggestion was a happy one. After a few minutes’ search the rusty knife of the murdered man was discovered, and with this Larry succeeded in extracting from the wound over the heart of the body a piece of steel, which had evidently been broken off the point of the knife with which the poor wretch had been slain. Larry held it up with a look of triumph.

“I’ll soon shew ye who’s the murderer now, boys, av ye’ll help me to fill up the grave.”

This was speedily accomplished; then the miners, hurrying in silence from the spot, proceeded to the chief hotel of the place, in the gambling-saloon of which they found the man Smith, alias Black Jim, surrounded by gamblers, and sitting on a corner of the monte table watching the game. Larry went up to him at once, and, seizing him by the collar, exclaimed—“I’ve got ye, have I, ye murderer, ye black villain! Come along wid ye, and git yer desarts—call a coort, boys, an’ sot up Judge Lynch.”

Instantly the saloon was in an uproar. Smith turned pale as death for a moment, but the blood returned with violence to his brazen forehead; he seized Larry by the throat, and a deadly struggle would speedily have taken place between the two powerful men had not Ned Sinton entered at the moment, and, grasping Smith’s arms in his Herculean gripe, rendered him helpless.

“What, comrades,” cried Black Jim, with an oath, and looking fiercely round, “will ye see a messmate treated like this? I’m no murderer, an’ I defy any one to prove it.”

There was a move among the miners, and a voice was heard to speak of rescuing the prisoner.

“Men,” cried Ned, still holding Smith, and looking round upon the crowd, “men—”

“I guess there are no men here,” interrupted a Yankee; “we’re all gentlemen.”

“Being a man does not incapacitate one from being a gentleman,” said Ned, sharply, with a look of scorn at the speaker, who deemed it advisable to keep silence.

After a moment’s pause, he continued—“If this gentleman has done no evil, I and my friends will be answerable to him for what we have done; but my comrade, Larry O’Neil, denounces him as a murderer; and says he can prove it. Surely the law of the mines and fair play demand that he should be tried!”

“Hear! hear! well said. Git up a bonfire, and let’s have it out,” cried several voices, approvingly.

The miners rushed out, dragging Black Jim along with them to an open level space in front of the hotel, where stood a solitary oak-tree, from one of whose sturdy arms several offenders against the laws of the gold-mines had, at various times, swung in expiation of their crimes. Here an immense fire was kindled, and hither nearly all the miners of the neighbourhood assembled.

Black Jim was placed under the branch, from which depended part of the rope that had hanged the last criminal. His rifle, pistols, and knife, were taken from him, amid protestations of innocence, and imprecations on the heads of his accusers. Then a speech was made by an orator who was much admired at the place, but whose coarse language would scarcely have claimed admiration in any civilised community. After this Larry O’Neil stepped forward with McLeod, and the latter described all he knew of the former life of the culprit, and his conduct towards the murdered man. When he had finished, Larry produced the bullet, which was compared with the rifle and the bullets in Smith’s pouch, and pronounced similar to the latter. At this, several of the miners cried out, “Guilty, guilty; string him up at once!”

“There are other rifles with the same bore,” said Smith. “I used to think Judge Lynch was just, but he’s no better I find than the land-sharks elsewhere. Hang me if you like, but if ye do, instead o’ gittin’ rid o’ one murderer, ye’ll fill the Little Creek with murderers from end to end. My blood will be on your heads.”

“Save yer breath,” said Larry, drawing Smith’s knife from its scabbard. “See here, boys, sure two dovetails niver fitted closer than this bit o’ steel fits the pint o’ Black Jim’s knife. Them men standin’ beside me can swear they saw me take it out o’ the breast o’ the morthered man, an’ yerselves know that this is the murderer’s knife.”

Almost before Larry had concluded, Smith, who felt that his doom was sealed, exerted all his strength, burst from the men who held him, and darted like an arrow towards that part of the living circle which seemed weakest. Most of the miners shrank back—only one man ventured to oppose the fugitive; but he was driven down with such violence, that he lay stunned on the sward, while Smith sprang like a goat up the steep face of the adjacent precipice. A dozen rifles instantly poured forth their contents, and the rocks rang with the leaden hail; but the aim had been hurried, and the light shed by the fire at that distance was uncertain.

The murderer, next moment, stood on the verge of the precipice, from which he wrenched a mass of rock, and, shouting defiance, hurled it back, with a fearful imprecation, at his enemies. The rock fell into the midst of them, and fractured the skull of a young man, who fell with a groan to the earth. Smith, who paused a moment to witness the result of his throw, uttered a yell of exultation, and darted into the mountains, whither, for hours after, he was hotly pursued by the enraged miners. But one by one they returned to the Creek exhausted, and telling the same tale—“Black Jim had made his escape.”

Chapter Twelve.

Sabbath at the Diggings—Larry O’Neil takes to Wandering, and meets with Adventures—An Irish Yankee discovered—Terrible Calamities befall Travellers on the Overland Route.

There is no country in our fallen world, however debased and morally barren, in which there does not exist a few green spots where human tenderness and sympathy are found to grow. The atmosphere of the gold-regions of California was, indeed, clouded to a fearful extent with the soul-destroying vapours of worldliness, selfishness, and ungodliness, which the terrors of Lynch law alone restrained from breaking forth in all their devastating strength.

And this is not to be wondered at, for Europe and America naturally poured the flood of their worst inhabitants over the land, in eager search for that gold, the love of which, we are told in Sacred Writ, “is the root of all evil.” True, there were many hundreds of estimable men who, failing, from adverse circumstances, to make a livelihood in their native lands, sought to better their fortunes in the far west; but, in too many cases, the gold-fever which raged there soon smote them down; and men who once regarded gold as the means to an end, came at last to esteem gold to be the end, and used every means, fair and foul, to obtain it. Others there were, whose constitutions were proof against the national disease; whose hearts deemed love to be the highest bliss of man, and doing good his greatest happiness.

But stilling and destructive though the air of the gold-mines was, there were a few hardy plants of moral goodness which defied it—and some of these bloomed in the colony of Little Creek.

The Sabbath morning dawned on Ned Sinton and his friends—the first Sabbath since they had begun to dig for gold. On that day the miners rested from their work. Shovel and pick lay quiet in the innumerable pits that had been dug throughout the valley; no cradle was rocked, no pan of golden earth was washed. Even reckless men had come to know from experience, that the Almighty in His goodness had created the Sabbath for the special benefit of man’s body as well as his soul, and that they wrought better during the six days of the week when they rested on the seventh.

Unfortunately they believed only what experience taught them; they kept the Sabbath according to the letter, not according to the spirit; and although they did not work, they did not refrain from “thinking their own thoughts and finding their own pleasure,” on God’s holy day. Early in the morning they began to wander idly about from hut to hut, visited frequently the grog-shops, and devoted themselves to gambling, which occupation materially marred even the physical rest they might otherwise have enjoyed.

“Comrades,” said Ned Sinton, as the party sat inside their tent, round the napkin on which breakfast was spread, “it is long since we have made any difference between Saturday and Sunday, and I think it would be good for us all if we were to begin now. Since quitting San Francisco, the necessity of pushing forward on our journey has prevented our doing so hitherto. How far we were right in regarding rapid travelling as being necessary, I won’t stop to inquire; but I think it would be well if we should do a little more than merely rest from work on the Sabbath. I propose that, besides doing this, we should read a chapter of the Bible together as a family, morning and evening on Sundays. What say you?”

There was a pause. It was evident that conflicting feelings were at work among the party.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Maxton; “I confess that I have troubled myself very little about religion since I came out here, but my conscience has often reproached me for it.”

“Don’t you think, messmates,” said Captain Bunting, lighting his pipe, “that if it gets wind the whole colony will be laughin’ at us?”

“Sure they may laugh,” said Larry O’Neil, “an’ after that they may cry, av it’ll do them good. Wot’s the differ to us?”

“I don’t agree with you, Ned,” said Tom Collins, somewhat testily; “for my part I like to see men straightforward, all fair and above-board, as the captain would say. Hypocrisy is an abominable vice, whether it is well meaning or ill meaning, and I don’t see the use of pretending to be religious when we are not.”

“Tom,” replied Ned, in an earnest voice, “don’t talk lightly of serious things. I don’t pretend to be religious, but I do desire to be so: and I think it would be good for all of us to read a portion of God’s Word on His own day, both for the purpose of obeying and honouring Him, and of getting our minds filled, for a short time at least, with other thoughts than those of gold-hunting. In doing this there is no hypocrisy.”

“Well, well,” rejoined Tom, “I’ll not object if the rest are agreed.”

“Agreed,” was the unanimous reply. So Ned rose, and, opening his portmanteau, drew forth the little Bible that had been presented to him by old Mr Shirley on the day of his departure from home.

From that day forward, every Sabbath morning and evening, Ned Sinton read a portion of the Word of God to his companions, as long as they were together; and each of the party afterwards, at different times, confessed that, from the time the reading of the Bible was begun, he felt happier than he did before.

After breakfast they broke up, and went out to stroll for an hour or two upon the wooded slopes of the mountains. Ned and Tom Collins went off by themselves, the others, with the exception of Larry, walked out together.

That morning Larry O’Neil felt less sociable than was his wont, so he sallied forth alone. For some time he sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, his black pipe in his mouth, a thick oak cudgel, of his own making, under his arm, and his hat set jauntily on one side of his head. He went along with an easy swagger, and looked particularly reckless, but no man ever belied his looks more thoroughly. The swagger was unintentional, and the recklessness did not exist. On the contrary, the reading of the Bible had brought back to his mind a flood of home memories, which forced more than one tear from his susceptible heart into his light-blue eye, as he wandered in memory over the green hills of Erin.

But the scenes that passed before him as he roamed about among the huts and tents of the miners soon drew his thoughts to subjects less agreeable to contemplate. On week-days the village, if we may thus designate the scattered groups of huts and tents, was comparatively quiet, but on Sundays it became a scene of riot and confusion. Not only was it filled with its own idle population of diggers, but miners from all the country round, within a circuit of eight or ten miles, flocked into it for the purpose of buying provisions for the week, as well as for the purpose of gambling and drinking, this being the only day in all the week in which they indulged in what they termed “a spree.”

Consequently the gamblers and store-keepers did more business on Sunday than on any other day. The place was crowded with men in their rough, though picturesque, bandit-like costumes, rambling about from store to store, drinking and inviting friends to drink, or losing in the gaming-saloons all the earnings of a week of hard, steady toil—toil more severe than is that of navvies or coal-heavers. There seemed to be an irresistible attraction in these gambling-houses. Some men seemed unable to withstand the temptation, and they seldom escaped being fleeced. Yet they returned, week after week, to waste in these dens of iniquity the golden treasure gathered with so much labour during their six working days.

Larry O’Neil looked through the doorway of one of the gambling-houses as he passed, and saw men standing and sitting round the tables, watching with eager faces the progress of the play, while ever and anon one of them would reel out, more than half-drunk with excitement and brandy. Passing on through the crowded part of the village, which looked as if a fair were being held there, he entered the narrow footpath that led towards the deeper recesses at the head of the valley. O’Neil had not yet, since his arrival, found time to wander far from his own tent. It was therefore with a feeling of great delight that he left the scene of riot behind him, and, turning into a bypath that led up one of the narrow ravines, opening into the larger valley, strolled several miles into deep solitudes that were in harmony with his feelings.

The sun streamed through the entrance to this ravine, bathing with a flood of light crags and caves and bush-encompassed hollows, that at other times were shrouded in gloom. As the Irishman stood gazing in awe and admiration at the wild, beautiful scene, beyond which were seen the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, he observed a small solitary tent pitched on a level patch of earth at the brow of a low cliff. Curiosity prompted him to advance and ascertain what unsociable creature dwelt in it. A few minutes sufficed to bring him close upon it, and he was about to step forward, when the sound of a female voice arrested him. It was soft and low, and the accents fell upon his ear with the power of an old familiar song. Being at the back of the tent, he could not see who spoke, but, from the monotonous regularity of the tone, he knew that the woman was reading. He passed noiselessly round to the front, and peeping over the tops of bushes, obtained a view of the interior.

The reader was a young woman, whose face, which was partially concealed by a mass of light-brown hair as she bent over her book, seemed emaciated and pale. Looking up just as Larry’s eye fell upon her, she turned towards a man whose gaunt, attenuated form lay motionless on a pile of brushwood beside her, and said, tenderly:

“Are ye tired, Patrick, dear, or would you like me to go on?”

Larry’s heart gave his ribs such a thump at that moment that he felt surprised the girl did not hear it. But he could not approach; he was rooted to the earth as firmly, though not as permanently, as the bush behind which he stood. An Irish voice, and an Irish girl, heard and seen so unexpectedly, quite took away his breath.

The sick man made some reply which was not audible, and the girl, shutting the book, looked up for a few moments, as if in silent prayer, then she clasped her hands upon her knees, and laying her head upon them, remained for some time motionless. The hands were painfully thin, as was her whole frame. The face was what might have been pretty at one time, although it was haggard enough now, but the expression was peculiarly sorrowful.

In a few minutes she looked up again, and spread the ragged blanket more carefully over the shoulders of the sick man, and Larry, feeling that he was at that time in the questionable position of an eavesdropper, left his place of concealment, and stood before the tent.

The sick man saw him instantly, and, raising himself slightly, exclaimed, “Who goes there? Sure I can’t git lave to die in pace!”

The familiar tones of a countryman’s voice fell pleasantly on Larry’s ear as he sprang into the tent, and, seizing the sick man’s hand, cried, “A blissin’ on the mouth that said that same. O Pat, darlint! I’m glad to mate with ye. What’s the matter with ye? Tell me now, an’ don’t be lookin’ as if ye’d seen a ghost.”

“Kape back,” said the girl, pushing Larry aside, with a half-pleased, half-angry expression. “Don’t ye see that ye’ve a’most made him faint? He’s too wake intirely to be—”

“Ah! then, cushla, forgive me; I wint and forgot meself. Blissin’s on yer pale face! sure yer Irish too.”

Before the girl could reply to this speech, which was uttered in a tone of the deepest sympathy, the sick man recovered sufficiently to say—

“Sit down, friend. How comed ye to larn me name? I guess I never saw ye before.”

“Sure, didn’t I hear yer wife say it as I come for’ard to the tint,” answered Larry, somewhat staggered at the un-Irish word “guess.”

“He is my brother,” remarked the girl.

“Troth, ye’ve got a dash o’ the Yankee brogue,” said Larry, with a puzzled look; “did ye not come from the owld country?”

The sick man seemed too much exhausted to reply, so the girl said—

“Our father and mother were Irish, and left their own country to sittle in America. We have never seen Ireland, my brother nor I, but we think of it as almost our own land. Havin’ been brought up in the woods, and seein’ a’most no one but father and mother for days an’ weeks at a time, we’ve got a good deal o’ the Irish tone.”

“Ah! thin, ye have reason to be thankful for that same,” remarked Larry, who was a little disappointed that his new friends were not altogether Irish; but, after a few minutes’ consideration, he came to the conclusion, that people whose father and mother were natives of the Emerald Isle could no more be Americans, simply because they happened to be born in America, than they could be fish if they chanced to be born at sea. Having settled this point to his satisfaction, he proceeded to question the girl as to their past history and the cause of their present sad condition, and gradually obtained from her the information that their father and mother were dead, and that, having heard of the mines of California, her brother had sold off his farm in the backwoods, and proceeded by the overland route to the new land of gold, in company with many other western hunters and farmers. They reached it, after the most inconceivable sufferings, in the beginning of winter, and took up their abode at Little Creek.

The rush of emigration from the western states to California, by the overland route, that took place at this time, was attended with the most appalling sufferings and loss of life. Men sold off their snug farms, packed their heavy waggons with the necessaries for a journey, with their wives and little ones, over a wilderness more than two thousand miles in extent, and set off by scores over the prairies towards the Ultima Thule of the far west. The first part of their journey was prosperous enough, but the weight of their waggons rendered the pace slow, and it was late in the season ere they reached the great barrier of the Rocky Mountains. But severe although the sufferings of those first emigrants were, they were as nothing compared with the dire calamities that befell those who started from home later in the season. All along the route the herbage was cropped bare by those who had gone before; their oxen broke down; burning sandy deserts presented themselves when the wretched travellers were well-nigh exhausted; and when at length they succeeded in reaching the great mountain-chain, its dark passes were filled with the ice and snow of early winter.

Hundreds of men, women, and children, fell down and died on the burning plain, or clambered up the rugged heights to pillow their dying heads at last on wreaths of snow. To add to the unheard-of miseries of these poor people, scurvy in its worst forms attacked them; and the air of many of their camping places was heavy with the stench arising from the dead bodies of men and animals that had perished by the way.

“It was late in the season,” said Kate Morgan, as Larry’s new friend was named, “when me brother Patrick an’ I set off with our waggon and oxen, an’ my little sister Nelly, who was just able to run about, with her curly yellow hair streamin’ over her purty shoulders, an’ her laughin’ blue eyes, almost spakin’ when they looked at ye.”

The poor girl spoke with deep pathos as she mentioned Nelly’s name, while Larry O’Neil sat with his hands clasped, gazing at her with an expression of the deepest commiseration.

“We got pretty well on at first,” she continued, after a pause, “because our waggon was lighter than most o’ the others; but it was near winter before we got to the mountains, an’ then our troubles begood. First of all, one o’ the oxen fell, and broke its leg. Then darlin’ Nelly fell sick, and Patrick had to carry her on his back up the mountains, for I had got so weak meself that I wasn’t fit to take her up. All the way over I was troubled with one o’ the emigrants that kep’ us company—there was thirty o’ us altogether—he was a very bad man, and none o’ us liked him. He took a fancy to me, an’ asked me to be his wife so often that I had to make Patrick order him to kape away from us altogether. He wint off in a black rage, swearin’ he’d be revenged,—an’ oh!” continued Kate, wringing her hands, “he kept his word. One day there was a dispute between our leaders which way we should go, for we had got to two passes in the mountains; so one party went one way, and we went another. Through the night, my—my lover came into our camp to wish me good-bye, he said, for the last time, as he was goin’ with the other party. After he was gone, I missed Nelly, and went out to seek for her among the tents o’ my neighbours, but she was nowhere to be found. At once I guessed he had taken her away, for well did he know I would sooner have lost my life than my own darlin’ Nell.”

Again the girl paused a few moments; then she resumed, in a low voice—

“We never saw him or Nelly again. It is said the whole party perished, an’ I believe it, for they were far spent, and the road they took, I’ve been towld, is worse than the one we took. It was dead winter when we arrived, and Patrick and me came to live here. We made a good deal at first by diggin’, but we both fell sick o’ the ague, and we’ve been scarce able to kape us alive till now. But it won’t last long. Dear Patrick is broken down entirely, as ye see, and I haven’t strength a’most to go down to the diggin’s for food. I haven’t been there for a month, for it’s four miles away, as I dare say ye know. We’ll both be at rest soon.”

“Ah! now, don’t say that again, avic,” cried Larry, smiting his thigh with energy; “ye’ll be nothin’ o’ the sort, that ye won’t; sure yer brother Pat is slaipin’ now like an infant, he is, an’ I’ll go down meself to the stores and git ye medicines an’ a doctor, an’ what not. Cheer up, now—”

Larry’s enthusiastic efforts to console his new friend were interrupted by the sick man, who awoke at the moment, and whispered the word “food.”

His sister rose, and taking up a small tin pan that simmered on the fire in front of the tent, poured some of its contents into a dish.

“What is it ye give him?” inquired Larry, taking the dish from the girl’s hands and putting it to his lips. He instantly spat out the mouthful, for it was soup made of rancid pork, without vegetables of any kind.

“’Tis all I’ve got left,” said the girl. “Even if I was able to go down for more, he wouldn’t let me; but I couldn’t, for I’ve tried more than once, and near died on the road. Besides, I haven’t a grain o’ goold in the tent.”

“O morther! Tare an’ ages!” cried Larry, staring first at the girl and then at her brother, while he slapped his thighs and twisted his fingers together as if he wished to wrench them out of joint.

“Howld on, faix I’ll do it. Don’t give it him, plaze; howld on, do!”

Larry O’Neil turned round as he spoke, seized his cudgel, sprang right over the bushes in front of the tent, and in two minutes more was seen far down the ravine, spurning the ground beneath him as if life and death depended on the race.

Chapter Thirteen.

Kindness to Strangers in Distress—Remarks in Reference to Early Rising—Diggings wax Unproductive—Ned takes a Ramble, and has a Small Adventure—Plans Formed and Partly Developed—Remarkable Human Creatures Discovered, and still more Remarkable Converse held with them.

“I’ll throuble ye for two pounds of flour,” cried Larry O’Neil, dashing into one of the stores, which was thronged with purchasers, whom he thrust aside rather unceremoniously.

“You’ll have to take your turn, stranger, I calculate,” answered the store-keeper, somewhat sharply.

“Ah thin, avic, plaze do attind to me at wance; for sure I’ve run four miles to git stuff for a dyin’ family—won’t ye now?”

The earnest manner in which Larry made this appeal was received with a laugh by the bystanders, and a recommendation to the store-keeper to give him what he wanted.

“What’s the price?” inquired Larry, as the man measured it out.

“Two dollars a pound,” answered the man.

“Musha! I’ve seed it chaiper.”

“I guess so have I; but provisions are gittin’ up, for nothin’ has come from Sacramento for a fortnight.”

“Tay an’ sugar’ll be as bad, no doubt!”

“Wuss, they are; for there’s next to none at all, I opine, in this here location.”

“Faix, I’ll have a pound o’ both, av they wos two dollars the half-ounce. Have ye got raisins an’ sago?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a pound o’ that, aich.”

These articles having been delivered and paid for, Larry continued—

“Ye’ll have brandy, av coorse?”

“I guess I have; plenty at twenty dollars a bottle.”

“Och, morther, it’ll brake the bank intirely; but it’s little I care. Hand me wan bottle, plaze.”

The bottle of brandy was added to his store, and then the Irishman, shouldering his bundle of good things, left the shop, and directed his steps once more towards the ravine in which dwelt Kate Morgan and her brother Pat.

It was late when the Irishman returned from his mission of kindness, and he found the fire nearly out, the tent closed, and all his comrades sound asleep, so, gently lifting the curtain that covered the entrance, he crept quietly in, lay down beside Bill Jones, whose nasal organ was performing a trombone solo, and in five minutes was sound asleep.

It seemed to him as if he had barely closed his eyes, when he was roused by his comrades making preparations to resume work; nevertheless, he had rested several hours, and the grey hue of early day that streamed in through the opening of the tent warned him that he must recommence the effort to realise his golden dreams. The pursuit of gold, however engrossing it may be, does not prevent men from desiring to lie still in the morning, or abate one jot of the misery of their condition when they are rudely roused by early comrades, and told that “it’s time to get up.” Larry O’Neil, Tom Collins, and Maxton groaned, on receiving this information from Ned, turned, and made as if they meant to go to sleep. But they meant nothing of the sort; it was merely a silent testimony to the fact of their thorough independence—an expressive way of shewing that they scorned to rise at the bidding of any man, and that they would not get up till it pleased themselves to do so. That this was the case became evident from their groaning again, two minutes afterwards, and turning round on their backs. Then they stretched themselves, and, sitting up, stared at each other like owls. A moment after, Maxton yawned vociferously, and fell back again quite flat, an act which was instantly imitated by the other two. Such is the force of bad example.

By this time the captain and Jones had left the tent, and Ned Sinton was buckling on his belt.

“Now, then, get up, and don’t be lazy,” cried the latter, as he stepped out, dragging all the blankets off the trio as he took his departure, an act which disclosed the fact that trousers and flannel shirts were the sleeping garments of Maxton and Tom, and that Larry had gone to bed in his boots.

The three sprang up immediately, and, after performing their toilets, sallied forth to the banks of the stream, where the whole population of the place was already hard at work.

Having worked out their claims, which proved to be pretty good, they commenced new diggings close beside the old ones, but these turned out complete failures, excepting that selected by Captain Bunting, which was as rich as the first. The gold deposits were in many places very irregular in their distribution, and it frequently happened that one man took out thirty or forty dollars a day from his claim, while another man, working within a few yards of him, was, to use a mining phrase, unable “to raise the colour;” that is, to find gold enough to repay his labour.

This uncertainty disgusted many of the impatient gold-hunters, and not a few returned home, saying that the finding of gold in California was a mere lottery, who, if they had exercised a little patience and observation, would soon have come to know the localities in which gold was most likely to be found. There is no doubt whatever, that the whole country is impregnated more or less with the precious material. The quartz veins in the mountains are full of it; and although the largest quantities are usually obtained in the beds of streams and on their banks, gold is to be found, in smaller quantities, even on the tops of the hills.

Hitherto the miners at Little Creek had found the diggings on the banks of the stream sufficiently remunerative; but the discovery of several lumps of gold in its bed, induced many of them to search for it in the shallow water, and they were successful. One old sea-captain was met by Bill Jones with a nugget the size of a goose-egg in each hand, and another man found a single lump of almost pure gold that weighed fourteen pounds. These discoveries induced Ned Sinton to think of adopting a plan which had been in his thoughts for some time past; so one day he took up his rifle, intending to wander up the valley, for the double purpose of thinking out his ideas, and seeing how the diggers higher up got on.

As he sauntered slowly along, he came to a solitary place where no miners were at work, in consequence of the rugged nature of the banks of the stream rendering the labour severe. Here, on a projecting cliff; which overhung a deep, dark pool or eddy, he observed the tall form of a naked man, whose brown skin bespoke him the native of a southern clime. While Ned looked at him, wondering what he could be about, the man suddenly bent forward, clasped his hands above his head, and dived into the pool. Ned ran to the margin immediately, and stood for nearly a minute observing the dark indistinct form of the savage as he groped along the bottom. Suddenly he rose, and made for the shore with a nugget of gold in his hand.

He seemed a little disconcerted on observing Ned, who addressed him in English, French, and Spanish, but without eliciting any reply, save a grunt. This, however, did not surprise our hero, who recognised the man to be a Sandwich Islander whom he had met before in the village, and whose powers of diving were well-known to the miners. He ascertained by signs, however, that there was much gold at the bottom of the stream, which, doubtless, the diver could not detach from the rocks during the short period of his immersion, so he hastened back to the tent, determined to promulgate his plan to his comrades. It was noon when he arrived, and the miners were straggling from all parts of the diggings to the huts, tents, and restaurants.

“Ha! Maxton, glad I’ve found you alone,” cried Ned, seating himself on an empty box before the fire, over which the former was engaged in culinary operations. “I have been thinking over a plan for turning the course of the stream, and so getting at a portion of its bed.”

“Now that’s odd,” observed Maxton, “I have been thinking of the very same thing all morning.”

“Indeed! wits jump, they say. I fancied that I had the honour of first hitting on the plan.”

“First hitting on it!” rejoined Maxton, smiling. “My dear fellow, it has not only been hit upon, but hit off, many months ago, with considerable success in some parts of the diggings. The only thing that prevents it being generally practised is, that men require to work in companies, for the preliminary labour is severe, and miners seem to prefer working singly, or in twos and threes, as long as there is good ‘pay-dirt’ on the banks.”

“Well, then, the difficulty does not affect us, because we are already a pretty strong company, although our vaquero has left us, and I have seen a place this morning which, I think, will do admirably to begin upon; it is a deep pool, a few miles up the stream, under—”

“I know it,” interrupted Maxton, putting a large slice of pork into the frying-pan, which hissed delightfully in the ears of hungry men. “I know the place well, but there is a much better spot not a quarter of a mile higher up, where a Chinaman, named Ah-wow, lives; it will be more suitable, you’ll find, when I shew it you.”

“We’ll go and have a look at it after dinner,” observed Ned; “meanwhile, here are our comrades, let us hear what they have to say about the proposal.”

As he spoke, Collins, Jones, Larry, and the captain advanced in single file, and with disconsolate looks, that told of hard toil and little reward.

“Well, what have you got, comrades?”

“Nothin’,” answered Bill Jones, drawing forth his comforter. Bill’s comforter was black and short, and had a bowl, and was at all times redolent of tobacco.

“Niver a speck,” cried Larry O’Neil, setting to with energy to assist in preparing dinner.

“Well, friends, I’ve a plan to propose to you, so let us take the edge off our appetites, and I’ll explain.”

Ned sat down tailor-fashion on the ground with his companions round him, and, while they devoted themselves ravenously and silently to tea, flour-cake, salt-pork, and beans, he explained to them the details of his plan, which explanation, (if it was not the dinner), had the effect of raising their spirits greatly. Instead, therefore, of repairing to their profitless claims after dinner, they went in a body up the stream to visit the Chinaman’s diggings. Captain Bunting alone remained behind, as his claim was turning out a first-rate one.

“Sure, there’s a human!” cried Larry, as they turned a projecting point, about an hour and a half later, and came in sight of Ah-wow’s “lo-cation,” as the Yankees termed it.

“It may be a human,” remarked Ned, laughing, “but it’s the most inhuman one I ever saw. I think yonder fellow must be performing a surgical operation on the Chinaman’s head.”

Ah-wow was seated on a stone in front of his own log-hut, with his arms resting on his knees, and an expression of supreme felicity on his yellow face, while a countryman, in what appeared a night-gown, and an immense straw hat, dressed his tail for him.

Lest uninformed readers should suppose that Ah-wow belonged to the monkey-tribe, we may mention that the Chinaman’s head was shaved quite bald all round, with the exception of a tail of hair, about two feet long, and upwards of an inch thick, which jutted from the top of his caput, and hung down his back. This tail he was in the act of getting dressed when our party of miners broke in upon the privacy of his dressing-room.

Ah-wow had a nose which was very flat and remarkably broad, with the nostrils pointing straight to the front. He also had a mouth which was extremely large, frightfully thick-lipped, and quite the reverse of pretty. He had two eyes, also, not placed, like the eyes of ordinary men, across his face, on either side of his nose, but set in an angular manner on his visage, so that the outer corners pointed a good deal upwards, and the inner corners pointed a good deal downwards—towards the point of his nose, or, rather, towards that vacant space in front of his nostrils which would have been the point of his nose if that member had had a point at all. Ah-wow also had cheek bones which were uncommonly high, and a forehead which was preposterously low, and a body which was rather squat, and a tout ensemble which was desperately ugly. Like his hairdresser, he wore a coat somewhat resembling a night-shirt, with a belt round it, and his feet were thrust into yellow slippers. These last, when he went to dig for gold, he exchanged for heavy boots.

When Ned and his friends walked up and stood in a grinning row before him, Ah-wow opened his little eyes to the uttermost, (which wasn’t much), and said, “How!”

If he had affixed “d’ye do” to it, the sentence would have been complete and intelligible. His companion attempted to vary the style of address by exclaiming, “Ho!”

“Can you speak English?” inquired Ned, advancing.

A shake of the head, and a consequent waggle of the tail was the reply.

“Or French?”

(Shake and waggle.)

“Maybe ye can do Irish?” suggested Larry.

The shake and waggle were more vigorous than before but Ah-wow rose, and, drawing on his boots, made signs to his visitors to follow him, which they did, through the bushes, round the base of a steep precipice. A short walk brought them to an open space quite close to the banks of the stream, which at that place was broken by sundry miniature waterfalls and cascades, whose puny turmoil fell like woodland music on the ear. Here was another log-hut of minute dimensions and ruinous aspect, in front of which sat another Chinaman, eating his dinner. Him Ah-wow addressed as Ko-sing. After a brief conversation, Ko-sing turned to the strangers, and said—

“Ho! Kin speek English, me can. What you want?”

“We want to look at your diggings,” answered Ned.

“We are going to turn the river here, if we can; and if you and your companions choose to join us, we will give you good wages.”

“Kin speek, but not fery well kin on’erstan’. Work, work you say, an’ pay we?”

“Yes, that’s it; you work for us, and we’ll pay you.”

“How moche?” inquired the cautious Celestial.

“Five dollars a day,” replied Ned.

The Chinaman put on a broad grin, and offered to shake hands, which offer was accepted, not only by Ned, but by the whole party; and the contract was thus settled on the spot, to the satisfaction of all parties.

After this they spent some time in examining the bed of the stream, and having fixed upon a spot on which to commence operations, they prepared, about sunset, to return for their tent and mining tools, intending to make a moonlight flitting in order to avoid being questioned by over-curious neighbours. All their horses and mules, except Ned’s charger, having been sold a few days before to a Yankee who was returning to Sacramento, they expected to get off without much noise, with their goods and chattels on their backs.

Before starting on their return, while the rest of the party were crowding round and questioning Ko-sing, Bill Jones—whose mind since he arrived in California seemed to be capable of only one sensation, that of surprise—went up to Ah-wow, and glancing round, in order to make sure that he was not observed, laid his hand on his shoulder, and looked inquiringly into the Chinaman’s face. The Chinaman returned the compliment with interest, throwing into his sallow countenance an expression of, if possible, blanker astonishment.

“O-wow!” said Bill, with solemn gravity, and pausing, as if to give him time to prepare for what was coming. “O-wow! wot do you dress your pig-tail with?”

“Ho!” replied the Chinaman.

“Ho!” echoed Bill; “now, that’s curious. I thought as how you did it with grease, for it looks like it. Tell me now, how long did it take afore it growed that long?” He lifted the end of the tail as he spoke.

“How!” ejaculated the Chinaman.

“Ay, how long?” repeated Bill.

We regret that we cannot give Ah-wow’s answer to this question, seeing that it was never given, in consequence of Bill being suddenly called away by Ned Sinton, as he and his friends turned to go.

“Come, Bill, let’s be off.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Bill, turning from the Chinaman and following his comrades with solemn stolidity, or, if you prefer the expression, with stolid solemnity.

“Don’t linger, Larry,” shouted Tom Collins.

“Ah! thin, it’s cruel to tear me away. Good-night to ye, Bow-wow, we’ll be back before mornin’, ye purty creature.” With this affectionate farewell, Larry ran after his friends and followed them down the banks of the tumbling stream towards the ‘R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny,’ which was destined that night, for a time at least, to close its doors.

Chapter Fourteen.

The New Diggings—Bright Prospects—Great Results spring from Great Exertions, even in California—Captain Bunting is seized with a Great Passion for Solitary Rambling, and has two Desperate Encounters; one with a Man, the other with a Rear.

The part of the Little Creek diggings to which the gold-hunters transported their camp, was a wild, secluded spot, not much visited by the miners, partly on account of its gloomy appearance, and partly in consequence of a belief that the Celestials located there were getting little or no gold. In this supposition they were correct. Ah-wow and Ko-sing being inveterately lazy, contented themselves with digging just enough gold to enable them to purchase a sufficiency of the necessaries of life. But the region was extremely rich, as our adventurers found out very soon after their arrival. One of the ravines, in particular, gave indications of being full of gold, and several panfuls of earth that were washed out shewed so promising a return, that the captain and Larry were anxious to begin at once. They were overruled, however, by the others, who wished to make trial of the bed of the stream.

Six days of severe labour were undergone by the whole party ere their task was accomplished, during which period they did not make an ounce of gold, while, at the same time, their little store was rapidly melting away. Nevertheless, they worked heartily, knowing that a few days of successful digging would amply replenish their coffers. At grey dawn they set to work; some, with trousers tucked up, paddling about in the water all day, carrying mud and stones, while others felled trees and cut them into logs wherewith to form the dam required to turn the stream from its course. This was a matter of no small difficulty. A new bed had to be cut to the extent of eight or ten yards, but for a long time the free and jovial little mountain stream scorned to make such a pitiful twist in its course, preferring to burst its way headlong through the almost completed barricade by which it was pent-up.

Twice did it accomplish this feat, and twice, in so doing, did it sweep Captain Bunting off his legs and roll him along bodily, in a turmoil of mud and stones and dirty water, roaring, as it gushed forth, as if in savage triumph. On the second occasion, Bill Jones shared the captain’s ducking, and all who chanced to be working about the dam at the time were completely drenched. But, however much their bodies might be moistened, no untoward accident could damp the ardour of their spirits. They resumed work again; repaired the breach, and, finally, turned the obstinate stream out of the course which, probably, it had occupied since creation. It rushed hissing, as if spitefully, along its new bed for a few yards, and then darted, at a right angle, back into its former channel, along which it leaped exultingly as before.

But the object for which all this trouble had been undertaken was attained. About eight yards of the old bed of the torrent were laid bare, and the water was drained away, whereat each of the party exhibited his satisfaction after his own peculiar manner—Larry O’Neil, as usual, giving vent to his joy in a hearty cheer.

The result was even more successful than had been anticipated. During the next few days the party conversed little; their whole energies being devoted to eating, sleeping, and digging. The bed of the stream was filled with stones, among which they picked up numerous nuggets of various sizes—from a pea to a walnut—some being almost pure gold, while others were, more or less, mixed with quartz. A large quantity of the heavy black sand was also found at the bottom of a hole, which once had been an eddy—it literally sparkled with gold-dust, and afforded a rich return for the labour previously expended in order to bring it to light. The produce of the first two days’ work was no less than fourteen pounds weight of gold!

The third day was the Sabbath, and they rested from their work. It is, however, impossible for those who have never been in similar circumstances to conceive how difficult it was for our party of gold-hunters to refrain from resuming work as usual on that morning. Some of them had never been trained to love or keep the Sabbath, and would have certainly gone to work had not Ned and the captain remonstrated. All were under great excitement in consequence of their valuable discovery, and anxious to know whether the run of luck was likely to continue, and not one of the party escaped the strong temptation to break the Sabbath-day, except, indeed, the Chinamen, who were too easy-going and lazy to care whether they worked or rested. But the inestimable advantage of good early training told at this time on Ned Sinton. It is questionable whether his principles were strong enough to have carried him through the temptation, but Ned had been trained to reverence the Lord’s-day from his earliest years, and he looked upon working on the Sabbath with a feeling of dread which he could not have easily shaken off, even had he tried. The promise, in his case, was fulfilled—“Train up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it when he is old;” and though no mother’s voice of warning was heard in that wild region of the earth, and no guardian’s hand was there to beckon back the straggler from the paths of rectitude, yet he was not “let alone;” the arm of the Lord was around him, and His voice whispered, in tones that could not be misunderstood, “Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy.”

We have already said, that the Sabbath at the mines was a day of rest as far as mere digging went, but this was simply for the sake of resting the wearied frame, not from a desire to glorify God. Had any of the reckless miners who filled the gambling-houses been anxious to work during Sunday on a prolific claim, he would not have hesitated because of God’s command.

The repose to their overworked muscles, and the feeling that they had been preserved from committing a great sin, enabled the party to commence work on Monday with a degree of cheerfulness and vigour that told favourably on their profits that night, and in the course of a few days they dug out gold to the extent of nearly two thousand pounds sterling.

“We’re goin’ to get rich, no doubt of it,” said the captain one morning to Ned, as the latter was preparing to resume work in the creek; “but I’ll tell you what it is, I’m tired o’ salt beef and pork, and my old hull is gettin’ rheumatic with paddling about barefoot in the water, so I mean to go off for a day’s shootin’ in the mountains.”

“Very good, captain,” replied Ned; “but I fear you’ll have to go by yourself, for we must work out this claim as fast as we can, seeing that the miners further down won’t be long of scenting out our discovery.”

Ned’s words were prophetic. In less than half-an-hour after they were uttered a long-visaged Yankee, in a straw hat, nankeen trousers, and fisherman’s boots, came to the spot where they were at work, and seated himself on the trunk of a tree hard by to watch their proceedings.

“Guess you’ve got som’thin’,” he said, as Larry, after groping in the mud for a little, picked up a lump of white quartz with a piece of gold the size of a marble embedded in the side of it.

“Ah! but ye’re good for sore eyes,” cried Larry, examining the nugget carefully.

“I say, stranger,” inquired the Yankee, “d’ye git many bits like that in this location?”

The Irishman regarded his question with an expressive leer. “Arrah! now, ye won’t tell?” he said, in a hoarse whisper; “sure it’ll be the death o’ me av ye do. There’s no end o’ them things here—as many as ye like to pick; it’s only the day before to-morrow that I turned up a nugget of pure goold the size of me head; and the capting got hold o’ wan that’s only half dug out yet, an’ wot’s seen o’ ’t is as big as the head o’ a five-gallon cask—all pure goold.”

The Yankee was not to be put off the scent by such a facetious piece of information. He continued to smoke in silence, sauntered about with his hands in his nankeen pockets, watched the proceedings of the party, inspected the dirt cast ashore, and, finally, dug out and washed a panful of earth from the banks of the stream, after which he threw away the stump of his cigar, and went off whistling. Three hours later he returned with a party of friends, laden with tents, provisions, and mining tools, and they all took up their residence within twenty yards of our adventurers, and commenced to turn the course of the river just below them.

Larry and Jones were at first so angry that they seriously meditated committing an assault upon the intruders, despite the remonstrances of Tom Collins and Maxton, who assured them that the new-comers had a perfect right to the ground they occupied, and that any attempt to interrupt them by violence would certainly be brought under the notice of Judge Lynch, whose favourite punishments, they well knew, were whipping and hanging.

Meanwhile Captain Bunting had proceeded a considerable way on his solitary hunting expedition into the mountains, bent upon replenishing the larder with fresh provisions. He was armed with his favourite blunderbuss, a pocket-compass, and a couple of ship-biscuits. As he advanced towards the head of the valley, the scenery became more and more gloomy and rugged, but the captain liked this. Having spent the greater part of his life at sea, he experienced new and delightful sensations in viewing the mountain-peaks and ravines by which he was now surrounded; and, although of a sociable turn of mind, he had no objection for once to be left to ramble alone, and give full vent to the feelings of romance and enthusiastic admiration with which his nautical bosom had been filled since landing in California.

Towards noon, the captain reached the entrance to a ravine, or gorge, which opened upon the larger valley, into which it discharged a little stream from its dark bosom. There was an air of deep solitude and rugged majesty about this ravine that induced the wanderer to pause before entering it. Just then, certain sensations reminded him of the two biscuits in his pocket, so he sat down on a rock and prepared to dine. We say prepared to dine, advisedly, for Captain Bunting had a pretty correct notion of what comfort meant, and how it was to be attained. He had come out for the day to enjoy himself and although his meal was frugal, he did not, on that account, eat it in an off-hand easy way, while sauntering along, as many would have done. By no means. He brushed the surface of the rock on which he sat quite clean, and, laying the two biscuits on it, looked first at one and then at the other complacently, while he slowly, and with great care, cut his tobacco into delicate shreds, and filled his pipe. Then he rose, and taking the tin prospecting-pan from his belt, went and filled it at the clear rivulet which murmured at his feet, and placed it beside the biscuits on the rock. This done, he completed the filling of his pipe, and cast a look of benignity at the sun, which at that moment happened in his course to pass an opening between two lofty peaks, which permitted him to throw a cloth of gold over the captain’s table.

Captain Bunting’s mind now became imbued with those aspirations after knowledge, which would have induced him, had he been at sea, to inquire, “How’s her head?” so he pulled out his pocket-compass, and having ascertained that his nose, when turned towards the sun, pointed exactly “south-south-west, and by south,” he began dinner. Thereafter he lit his pipe, and, reclining on the green turf beside the rock, with his head resting on his left hand, and wreaths of smoke encircling his visage, he—he enjoyed himself. To elaborate a description, reader, often weakens it—we cannot say more than that he enjoyed himself—emphatically.

Had Captain Bunting known who was looking at him in that solitary place, he would not have enjoyed himself quite so much, nor would he have smoked his pipe so comfortably.

On the summit of the precipice at his back stood, or rather sat, one of the natives of the country, in the shape of a grizzly-bear. Bruin had observed the captain from the time he appeared at the entrance of the ravine, and had watched him with a curious expression of stupid interest during all his subsequent movements. He did not attempt to interrupt him in his meal, however, on two grounds—first, because the nature of the grizzly-bear, if not molested, induces him to let others alone; and secondly, because the precipice, on the top of which he sat, although conveniently close for the purposes of observation, was too high for a safe jump.

Thus it happened that Captain Bunting finished his meal in peace, and went on his way up the wild ravine, without being aware of the presence of so dangerous a spectator. He had not proceeded far, when his attention was arrested by the figure of a man seated on a ledge of rock that over hung a yawning gulf into which the little stream plunged.

So still did the figure remain, with the head drooping on the chest, as if in deep contemplation, that it might have been mistaken for a statue cut out of the rock on which it sat. A deep shadow was cast over it by the neighbouring mountain-peaks, yet, as the white sheet of a waterfall formed the background, it was distinctly visible.

The captain advanced towards it with some curiosity, and it was not until he was within a hundred yards that a movement at length proved it to be a living human being.

The stranger rose hastily, and advanced to meet a woman, who at the same moment issued from an opening in the brushwood near him. The meeting was evidently disagreeable to the woman, although, from the manner of it, and the place, it did not seem to be accidental; she pushed the man away several times, but their words were inaudible to the captain, who began to feel all the discomfort of being an unintentional observer. Uncertainty as to what he should do induced him to remain for a few moments inactive, and he had half made up his mind to endeavour to retreat unobserved, when the man suddenly struck down the female, who fell with a faint cry to the earth.

In another minute the captain was at the side of the dastardly fellow, whom he seized by the neck with the left hand, while with the right he administered a hearty blow to his ribs. The man turned round fiercely, and grappled with his assailant; and then Captain Bunting became aware that his antagonist was no other than Smith, alias Black Jim, the murderer.

Smith, although a strong man, was no match for the captain, who soon overpowered him.

“Ha! you villain, have I got you?” cried he, as he almost throttled the man. “Get up now, an’ come along peaceably. If you don’t, I’ll knock your brains out with the butt of my gun.”

He permitted Black Jim to rise as he spoke, but held him fast by the collar, having previously taken from him his knife and rifle.

Black Jim did not open his lips, but the scowl on his visage shewed that feelings of deadly hatred burned in his bosom.

Meanwhile, the girl had recovered, and now approached.

“Ah! plase, sir,” she said, “let him off. Shure I don’t mind the blow; it’s done me no harm—won’t ye, now?”

“Let him off!” exclaimed the captain, violently; “no, my good girl; if he has not murdered you, he has at any rate murdered one human being that I know of, and if I can, I’ll bring him to justice.”

Kate, (for it was she), started at this reply, and looked earnestly at the man, who hung his head, and, for the first time, shewed symptoms of a softer feeling.

“Ah! it’s true, I see, an’ all hope is gone. If he’d commit a murder, he’d tell a lie too. I thought he spoke truth when he said Nelly was alive, but—”

The girl turned as she spoke, and left the spot hurriedly, while the captain took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to fasten the arms of his prisoner behind him. But Black Jim was not to be secured without a struggle. Despair lent him energy and power. Darting forward, he endeavoured to throw his captor down, and partially succeeded; but Captain Bunting’s spirit was fully roused, and, like most powerful men whose dispositions are habitually mild and peaceful, he was in a blaze of uncontrollable passion. For some time Black Jim writhed like a serpent in the strong grasp of his antagonist, and once or twice it seemed as if he would succeed in freeing himself, but the captain’s hands had been trained for years to grasp and hold on with vice-like tenacity, and no efforts could disengage them. The two men swayed to and fro in their efforts, no sound escaping them, save an occasional gasp for breath as they put forth renewed energy in the deadly struggle. At last Black Jim began to give way. He was forced down on one knee, then he fell heavily on his side, and the captain placed his knee on his chest.

Just then a peculiar hiss was heard behind them, and the captain, looking back, observed that a third party had come upon the scene. The grizzly-bear, which has been described as watching Captain Bunting at dinner, had left its former position on the brow of the precipice, and, whether from motives of curiosity, or by accident, we will not presume to say, had followed the captain’s track. It now stood regarding the two men with an uncommonly ferocious aspect. Its indignation may, perhaps, be accounted for by the fact that they stood in the only path by which it could advance—a precipice on one side and a thicket on the other rendering the passage difficult or impossible. Grizzlies are noted for their objection to turn out of their way for man or beast, so the combatants no sooner beheld the ferocious-looking animal than they sprang up, seized their weapons, and fired together at their common enemy. Bruin shook his head, uttered a savage growl, and charged. It seemed as if Black Jim had missed altogether—not to be wondered at considering the circumstances—and the mixture of shot and slugs from the blunderbuss was little more hurtful than a shower of hail to the thick-skinned monarch of these western hills. Be this as it may, the two men were compelled to turn and flee for their lives. Black Jim, being the nimbler of the two, was soon out of sight among the rocks of the precipices, and, we may remark in passing, he did not again make his appearance. Inwardly thanking the bear for its timely appearance, he ran at top speed into the mountains, and hid himself among those wild lonely recesses that are visited but rarely by man or beast.

Captain Bunting endeavoured to save himself by darting up the face of the precipice on his left, but the foot-hold was bad, and the bear proved about as nimble as himself, compelling him to leap down again and make for the nearest tree. In doing so, he tripped over a fallen branch, and fell with stunning violence to the ground. He rose, however, instantly, and grasping the lower limb of a small oak, drew himself with some difficulty up among the branches.

The bear came thundering on, and reached the tree a few seconds later. It made several abortive efforts to ascend, and then, sitting down at the foot, it looked up, grinning and growling horribly in disappointed rage.

The captain had dropped the blunderbuss in his fall, and now, with deep regret, and not a little anxiety, found himself unarmed and a prisoner. True, his long knife was still in its place, but he was too well aware of the strength and ferocity of the grizzly-bear—from hearsay, and now from ocular demonstration—to entertain the idea of acting on the offensive with such a weapon.

The sun sank behind the mountain-peaks, and the shades of night began to fall upon the landscape, and still did Captain Bunting and the bear sit—the one at the top, and the other at the foot of the oak-tree—looking at each other. As darkness came on, the form of the bear became indistinct and shadowy; and the captain’s eyes waxed heavy, from constant staring and fatigue, so that at length bruin seemed, to the alarmed fancy of the tree’d mariner, to be twice the size of an elephant. At last the darkness became so deep that its form mingled with the shadows on the ground, and for some time the uncertainty as to its actual presence kept the prisoner wakeful; but soon his eyes began to close, despite his utmost efforts to keep them open; and for two hours he endured an agonising struggle with sleep, compared to which his previous struggle with Black Jim was mere child’s-play. He tried every possible position among the branches, in the hope of finding one in which he might indulge in sleep without the risk of falling, but no such position was to be found; the limbs of the tree were too small and too far apart.

At last, however, he did find a spot to lie down on, and, with a sigh of relief, lay back to indulge in repose. Alas! the spot was a myth—he merely dreamed it; the next moment he dropt, like a huge over-ripe pear, to the ground. Fortunately a bush broke the violence of his fall, and, springing up with a cry of consternation, he rushed towards the tree, expecting each instant to feel the terrible hug of his ursine enemy. The very marrow in his back-bone seemed to shrink, for he fancied that he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and panting violently among the branches.

We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but another and a better result flowed from it,—the involuntary hubbub created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not far-distant ears.

During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result of the captain’s hunting expedition—expressing opinions regarding the powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O’Neil said, “to spake behind its back;” but as night drew on, they conversed more seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious.

“It’s quite clear that something’s wrong,” cried Ned Sinton, entering the tent hastily, “we must up and search for him. The captain’s not the man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks round him.”

All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while eagerly suggesting plans of search.

“Who can make a torch?” inquired Ned.

“Here’s one ready made to hand,” cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot and lighting it.

“Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don’t sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now then, the rest of you, come along.”

Ned issued from the tent as he spoke, and walked at a rapid pace along the track leading up the valley, followed closely by Tom Collins, Larry O’Neil, and Bill Jones—all of whom were armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives. For a long time they walked on in silence, guided by the faint light of the stars, until they came to the flat rock which had formed the captain’s dinner-table. Here they called a halt, in order to discuss the probability of their lost comrade having gone up the ravine. The question was soon settled by Larry, who discovered a few crumbs of the biscuit lying on the rock, and footprints leading up the ravine; for the captain, worthy man, had stepped recklessly into the little stream when he went to fill his pannikin, and his wet feet left a distinct track behind him for some distance.

“He can’t have gone far up such a wild place as this,” said Tom Collins, while they moved cautiously along. “Kindle the torch, Ned, it will light us on our way, and be a guide to the captain if he’s within sight.”

“It will enlighten enemies, too, if any are within range,” replied Ned, hesitating.

“Oh, no fear,” rejoined Tom, “our greatest enemy is darkness; here, Jones, hand me your match-box.”

In a few seconds the torch flared forth, casting a broad glare of light on their path, as they advanced, examining the foot of precipices.

“Give a shout, Larry,” said Ned.

Larry obeyed, and all listened intently, but, save the echo from the wild cliffs, no reply was heard.

Had the captain been wide-awake at the time, he would, doubtless, have heard the friendly shout, but his ears were dull from prolonged watching. It was thought needless to repeat the cry, so the party resumed their search with anxious forebodings in their hearts, though their lips were silent.

They had not proceeded far, however, when the noise occasioned by the captain’s fall from the tree, as already described, struck upon their ears.

“Och! what’s that?” exclaimed Larry, with a look of mingled surprise and superstitious fear.

For a minute the party seemed transformed into statues, as each listened intently to the mysterious sounds.

“They come from the other side of the point ahead,” remarked Ned, in a whisper. “Light another torch, Larry, and come on—quick!”

Ned led the way at a run, holding one of the torches high above his head, and in a few minutes passed round the point above referred to. The glare of his torch immediately swept far ahead, and struck with gladsome beam on the now wakeful eye of the captain, who instantly greeted it with one of his own peculiarly powerful and eminently nautical roars.

“Hooroo!” yelled Larry, in reply, dashing forward at full speed. “Here we are all right, capting, comin’ to the rescue; don’t give in, capting; pitch into the blackguards—”

“Look out for the grizzly-bear,” roared the captain, as his friends advanced at a run, waving their torches encouragingly.

The whole party came to a dead halt on this unexpected caution, and each cocked his piece as they looked, first into the gloom beyond, and then at each other, in surprise and perplexity.

“Halloo! captain, where are you?” shouted Ned.

“And where’s the bear!” added Tom Collins.

“Right in front o’ you,” replied the captain, “about fifty yards on. The bear’s at the bottom o’ the tree, and I’m a-top of it. Come on, and fire together; but aim low, d’ye hear?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Bill Jones, as if he were answering a command on shipboard, while he advanced boldly in the direction indicated.

The others were abreast of him instantly, Ned and Larry holding the torches high in their left hands as they approached, step by step, with rifles ready for instant use.

“Have a care,” cried the captain; “I see him. He seems to be crouchin’ to make a rush.”

This caused another halt; but as no rush was made, the party continued to advance very slowly.

“Oh! av ye would only shew yerself,” said Larry, in a suppressed tone of exasperation at being kept so long in nervous expectation.

“I see him,” cried Ned, taking aim.

The rest of the party cried “Where!” aimed in the same direction, and the whole fired a volley, the result of which was, that Captain Bunting fell a second time to the ground, crashing through the branches with a terrible noise, and alighting heavily at the foot of the tree. To the surprise of all, he instantly jumped up, and seizing Ned and Tom as they came up, shook them warmly by the hand.

“Och! are ye not shot, capting?” exclaimed Larry.

“Not a bit; not even hurt,” answered the captain, laughing.

The fact was, that Captain Bunting, in his anxiety to escape being accidentally shot by his comrades, had climbed to the utmost possible height among the tender top branches of the oak. When the volley was fired, he lost his balance, fell through the tree, the under branches of which happily broke his fall, and finally alighted on the back of the grizzly-bear itself, which lay extended, and quite dead, on the ground.

“Faix we’ve polished him off for wance,” cried Larry, in the excess of his triumph, as he stood looking at the fallen bear.

“Faix we’ve done nothing of the sort,” retorted Tom Collins, who was examining the carcase. “It’s been dead for hours, and is quite cold. Every bullet has missed, too, for the shot that settled him is on the side next the ground. So much for hasty shooting. Had bruin been alive when we fired, I’m inclined to think that some of us would not be alive now.”

“Now, that’s wot I wos sure of,” remarked Bill Jones. “Wot I says is this—w’en yer goin’ aloft to reef to’sails, don’t be in a hurry. It’s o’ no manner o’ use tryin’ to shove on the wind. If ye’ve got a thing to do, do it slow—slow an’ sure. If ye haven’t got a thing to do, in coorse ye can’t do it, but if ye have, don’t be in a hurry—I says.”

Bill Jones’s maxim is undoubtedly a good one. Not a scratch had the bear received from any one of the party. The bullet of Black Jim had laid him low. Although hurriedly aimed, it had reached the animal’s heart, and all the time that Captain Bunting was struggling to overcome his irresistible tendency to sleep, poor bruin was lying a helpless and lifeless body at the foot of the oak-tree.

Chapter Fifteen.

Ah-wow saved from an Untimely Fate—Lynch Law Enforced—Ned Sinton resolves to renounce Gold-Digging for a Time, and Tom Collins seconds him.

Ah-wow sat on the stump of an oak-tree, looking, to use a familiar, though incorrect expression, very blue indeed. And no wonder, for Ah-wow was going to be hanged. Perhaps, courteous reader, you think we are joking, but we assure you we are not. Ah-wow had just been found guilty, or pronounced guilty—which, at the diggings, meant the same thing—of stealing two thousand dollars’ worth of gold-dust, and was about to expiate his crime on the branch of a tree.

There could be no doubt of his guilt; so said the enlightened jury who tried him; so said the half-tipsy judge who condemned him; and so said the amiable populace which had assembled to witness his execution. It cannot be denied that appearances went very much against Ah-wow—so much so, that Maxton, and even Captain Bunting, entertained suspicions as to his innocence, though they pleaded hard for his pardon. The gold had been discovered hid near the Chinaman’s tent, and the bag containing it was recognised and sworn to by at least a dozen of the diggers as that belonging to the man from whom the gold had been stolen. The only point that puzzled the jury was the strong assertions of Captain Bunting, Maxton, and Collins, that, to their certain belief, the poor Celestial had dug beside them each day, and slept beside them each night for three weeks past, at a distance of three miles from the spot where the robbery took place. But the jury were determined to hang somebody, so they shut their ears to all and sundry, save and except to those who cried out, “String the riptile up—sarves him right!”

Ko-sing also sat on the tree-stump, endeavouring to comfort Ah-wow by stroking his pig-tail and howling occasionally in an undertone. It seemed indeed that the poor man’s career was drawing to a close, for two men advanced, and, seizing his pinioned arms, led him under the fatal limb; but a short respite occurred in consequence of a commotion in the outskirts of the crowd, where two men were seen forcing a passage towards the centre. Ned Sinton and Larry O’Neil had been away in the mountains prospecting at the time when Ah-wow was captured and led to the settlement, near the first residence of our adventurers, to stand his trial. The others accompanied the condemned man, in order, if possible, to save him, leaving Jones behind to guard their property, and acquaint Ned with the state of affairs on his return. Our hero knew too well the rapid course of Lynch law to hesitate. He started at once with Larry down the stream, to save, if possible, the life of his servant, for whom he felt a curious sort of patronising affection, and who he was sure must be innocent. He arrived just in time.

“Howld on, boys,” cried Larry, flourishing his felt hat as they pushed through the crowd.

“Stay, friends,” cried Ned, gaining the centre of the circle at last; “don’t act hastily. This man is my servant.”

“That don’t make him an honest man, I guess,” said a cynical bystander.

“Perhaps not,” retorted Ned; “but it binds me in honour to clear him, if I can.”

“Hear, hear,” said several voices; “get up on the stump an’ fire away, stranger.”

Ned obeyed.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I can swear, in the first place, that the Chinaman has not been a quarter of a mile from my tent for three weeks past, so that he could not have stolen the gold—”

“How then came it beside his tent?” inquired a voice.

“I’ll tell you, if you will listen. This morning early I started on a prospecting ramble up the stream, and not long after I set out I caught a glance of that villain Black Jim, who, you know, has been supposed for some time back to have been lurking in the neighbourhood. He ran off the moment he caught sight of me, and although I followed him at full speed for a considerable distance, he succeeded in escaping. However, I noticed the print of his footsteps in a muddy place over which he passed, and observed that his right boot had no heel. On returning home this afternoon, and hearing what had happened, I went to the spot where the bag of gold had been discovered, and there, sure enough, I found footprints, one of which shewed that the wearer’s right boot had no heel. Now, gentlemen, it don’t need much speaking to make so clear a matter clearer, I leave you to judge whether this robbery has been committed by the Chinaman or not.”

Ned’s speech was received with various cries; some of which shewed that the diggers were not satisfied with his explanation, and Ah-wow’s fate still trembled in the balance, when the owner of the bag of gold stepped forward and admitted that he had observed similar foot-marks in the neighbourhood of his tent just after the robbery was committed, and said that he believed the Chinaman was innocent. This set the matter at rest. Ah-wow was cast loose and congratulated by several of the bystanders on his escape, but there seemed a pretty general feeling amongst many of the others that they had been unjustly deprived of their prey, and there is no saying what might have happened had not another culprit appeared on the scene to divert their attention.

The man who was led forward had all the marks of a thorough desperado about him. From his language it was impossible to judge what country had the honour of giving him birth, but it was suspected that his last residence had been Botany Bay. Had this man’s innocence been ever so clearly proved he could not have escaped from such judges in their then disappointed state of mind; but his guilt was unquestionable. He had been caught in the act of stealing from a monté table. The sum was not very large, however, so it was thought a little too severe to hang him; but he was condemned to have his head shaved, his ears cut off, and to receive a hundred lashes.

The sentence was executed promptly, notwithstanding the earnest remonstrances of a few of the better-disposed among the crowd: and Ned, seeing that he could do nothing to mitigate the punishment of the poor wretch, left the spot with his comrades and the rescued Chinaman.

That night, as they all sat round their camp-fire, eating supper with a degree of zest known only to those who labour at severe and out-of-door occupation all day, Ned Sinton astonished his companions not a little, by stating his intention to leave them for the purpose of making a tour through the country.

“Make a tour!” exclaimed Maxton, in surprise.

“An’ lave all the goold!” cried Larry O’Neil, pausing in his mastication of a tough lump of bear-steak.

“Why, boy,” said Captain Bunting, laying down his knife, and looking at Ned in amazement, “what’s put that in your head, eh?”

“Being somewhat tired of grubbing in the mud has put it into my head,” replied Ned, smiling. “The fact is, comrades, that I feel disposed for a ramble, and I don’t feel bent on making a fortune. You may, perhaps, be surprised to hear such a statement, but—”

“Not at all—by no means,” interrupted Bill Jones; “I’m surprised at nothin’ in this here country. If I seed a first-rate man-o’-war comin’ up the valley at fifteen knots, with stun’-sails alow and aloft, stem on, against the wind, an’ carryin’ all before it, like nothin’, I wouldn’t be surprised, not a bit, so I wouldn’t!”

“Well, perhaps not,” resumed Ned; “but, surprised or not, my statement is true. I don’t care about making my ‘pile’ in a hurry. Life was not given to us to spend it in making or digging gold; and, being quite satisfied, in the meantime, with the five or six hundred pounds of profits that fall to my share, I am resolved to make over my unfinished claim to the firm, and set out on my travels through the country. I shall buckle on my bowie-knife and revolver, and go where fancy leads me, as long as my funds last; when they are exhausted, I will return, and set to work again. Now, who will go with me?”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Tom Collins.

“In earnest! ay, that am I; never was more so in my life. Why, I feel quite ashamed of myself. Here have I been living for weeks in one of the most romantic and beautiful parts of this world, without taking more notice of it, almost, than if it did not exist. Do you think that with youth and health, and a desire to see everything that is beautiful in creation, I’m going to stand all day and every day up to the knees in dirty water, scraping up little particles of gold? Not I! I mean to travel as long as I have a dollar in my pocket; when that is empty, I’ll work.”

Ned spoke in a half-jesting tone, but there is no doubt that he gave utterance to the real feelings of his heart. He felt none of that eager thirst for gold which burned, like a fever, in the souls of hundreds and thousands of the men who poured at that time in a continuous and ever-increasing stream into California. Gold he valued merely as a means of accomplishing present ends; he had no idea of laying it up for the future; married men, he thought, might, perhaps, with propriety, amass money for the benefit of their families, but he wasn’t a married man, and didn’t mean to be one, so he felt in duty bound to spend all the gold he dug out of the earth.

We do not pretend to enter into a disquisition as to the correctness or incorrectness of Ned’s opinions; we merely state them, leaving our reader to exercise his own reasoning powers on the subject, if so disposed.

For a few seconds after Ned’s last speech, no sound escaped the lips of his comrades, save those resulting from the process of mastication. At last, Tom Collins threw down his knife, and slapped his thigh energetically, as he exclaimed, “I’ll go with you, Ned! I’ve made up my mind. I’m tired of digging, too; and I’m game for a ramble into the heart of the Rocky Mountains, if you like.”

“Bravo! Tom,” cried Captain Bunting, slapping his companion on the shoulder—“well and bravely spoken; but you’re a goose for all that, and so, saving his presence, is Commodore Ned Sinton. Why, you’ll just waste two months or so in profitless wandering, and return beggars to the Little Creek to begin the work all over again. Take my advice, lads—the advice of an old salt, who knows a thing or two—and remain where you are till we have worked out all the gold hereabouts. After that you may talk of shifting.”

“You’re a very sour old salt to endeavour to damp our spirits in that way at the outset, but it won’t do; my mind is made up, and I’m glad to find that there is at least one of the party who is strong enough to break these golden chains.”

“Faix I comed here for goold, an’ I stop here for the same raison,” remarked Larry, scraping the last morsels from the bottom of the kettle with an iron spoon; “I’ve thravelled more nor enough in me day, so I can affoord to stop at home now.”

“Get out, you renegade! do you call this home?” cried Ned.

“’Tis all that’s of it at present, anyhow.”

“When shall we start?” inquired Tom Collins.

“To-morrow. We have few preparations to make, and the sooner we go the better; for when the rainy season sets in, our journeying will be stopped perforce. I have a plan in my mind which I shall detail to you after we retire to rest. Meanwhile I’ll go and improve my bed, which has been so uncomfortable for some nights past that my very bones are aching.”

Ned rose, took up an axe, and, going into the bush in rear of the tent, cut down a young pine-tree, the tender shoots and branches of which he stripped off and strewed thickly on the ground on which he was wont to sleep; over these he spread two thick blankets, and on this simple but springy and comfortable couch he and Tom Coffins lay down side by side to talk over their future plans, while their comrades snored around them.

Daylight found them still talking; so, pausing by mutual consent, they snatched an hour’s repose before commencing the needful preparations for their contemplated journey.

Chapter Sixteen.

Ned and Tom take to Wandering—Philosophical Speculations—A Startling Apparition—The Digger Indians—Water boiled in a Basket—The Gloomy Pass—The Attack by Robbers—The Fight—A Surprise—The Encampment.

Change is one of the laws of nature. We refer not to small-change, reader, but to physical, material change. Everything is given to change; men, and things, and place, and circumstances, all change, more or less, as time rolls on in its endless course. Following, then, this inevitable law of nature, we, too, will change the scene, and convey our reader deeper in among the plains and mountains of the far, “far west.”

It is a beautiful evening in July. The hot season has not yet succeeded in burning up all nature into a dry russet-brown. The whole face of the country is green and fresh after a recent shower, which has left myriads of diamond-drops trembling from the point of every leaf and blade. A wide valley, of a noble park-like appearance, is spread out before us, with scattered groups of trees all over it, blue mountain-ranges in the far distance circling round it, and a bright stream winding down its emerald breast. On the hill-sides the wild-flowers grow so thickly that they form a soft, thick couch to lie upon, immense trees, chiefly pines and cedars, rise here and there like giants above their fellows. Oaks, too, are numerous, and the scene in many places is covered with mansanita underwood, a graceful and beautiful shrub. The trees and shrubbery, however, are not so thickly planted as to intercept the view, and the ground undulates so much that occasionally we overtop them, and obtain a glimpse of the wide vale before us. Over the whole landscape there is a golden sunny haze, that enriches while it softens every object, and the balmy atmosphere is laden with the sweet perfume called forth by the passing shower.

One might fancy Eden to have been somewhat similar to this, and here, as there, the presence of the Lord might be recognised in a higher degree than in most other parts of this earth, for, in this almost untrodden wilderness, His pre-eminently beautiful works have not yet to any great extent been marred by the hand of man.

Far away towards the north, two horsemen may be seen wending their way through the country at a slow, ambling pace, as if they would fain prolong their ride in such a lovely vale. The one is Ned Sinton, the other Tom Collins.

It had cost these worthies a week of steady riding to reach the spot on which we now find them, during which time they had passed through great varieties of scenery, had seen many specimens of digging-life, and had experienced not a few vicissitudes; but their griefs were few and slight compared with their enjoyments, and, at the moment we overtake them, they were riding they knew not and they cared not whither! Sufficient for them to know that the wilds before them were illimitable; that their steeds were of the best and fleetest Mexican breed; that their purses were well-lined with dollars and gold-dust; that they were armed with rifles, pistols, knives, and ammunition, to the teeth; and that the land was swarming with game.

“’Tis a perfect paradise!” exclaimed Tom Collins, as they reined up on the brow of a hill to gaze at the magnificent prospect before them.

“Strange,” murmured Ned, half soliloquising, “that, although so wild and uncultivated, it should remind me so forcibly of home. Yonder bend in the stream, and the scenery round it, is so like to the spot where I was born, and where I spent my earliest years, that I can almost fancy the old house will come into view at the next turn.”

“It does indeed remind one of the cultivated parks of England,” replied Tom; “but almost all my early associations are connected with cities. I have seen little of uncontaminated nature all my life, except the blue sky through chimney tops, and even that was seen through a medium of smoke.”

“Do you know,” remarked Ned, as they resumed their journey at a slow pace, “it has always seemed to me that cities are unnatural monstrosities, and that there should be no such things!”

“Indeed,” replied Tom, laughing; “how, then, would you have men to live?”

“In the country, of course, in cottages and detached houses. I would sow London, Liverpool, Manchester, etcetera, broadcast over the land, so that there would be no spot in Britain in which there were not clusters of human dwellings, each with its little garden around it, and yet no spot on which a city could be found.

“Hum, rather awkward for the transaction of business, I fear,” suggested Tom.

“Not a bit; our distances would be greater, but we could overcome that difficulty by using horses more than we do—and railroads.”

“And how would you manage with huge manufactories?” inquired Tom.

“I’ve not been able to solve that difficulty yet,” replied Ned, smiling; “but my not being able to point out how things may be put right, does not, in the least degree, alter the fact that, as they are at present, they are wrong.”

“Most true, my sagacious friend,” said Tom; “but, pray, how do you prove the fact that things are wrong?”

“I prove it thus:— You admit, I suppose, that the air of all large cities is unhealthy, as compared with that of the country, and that men and women who dwell in cities are neither so robust nor so healthy as those who dwell in country places?”

“I’m not sure that I do admit it,” answered Tom.

“Surely you don’t deny that people of the cities deem it a necessary of life to get off to the country at least once a year, in order to recruit, and that they invariably return better in health than when they left?”

“True; but that is the result of change.”

“Ay,” added Ned, “the result of change from worse to better.”

“Well, I admit it for the sake of argument.”

“Well, then, if the building of cities necessarily and inevitably creates a condition of atmosphere which is, to some extent, no matter how slight, prejudicial to health, those who build them and dwell in them are knowingly damaging the life which has been given them to be cherished and taken care of.”

“Ned,” said Tom, quietly, “you’re a goose!”

“Tom,” retorted Ned, “I know it; but, in the sense in which you apply the term, all men are geese. They are divided into two classes—namely, geese who are such because they can’t and won’t listen to reason, and geese who are such because they take the trouble to talk philosophically to the former; but to return from this digression, what think you of the argument?”

Tom replied by reining up his steed, pointing to an object in front, and inquiring, “What think you of that?”

The object referred to was a man, but, in appearance at least, he was not many degrees removed from the monkey. He was a black, squat, hideous-looking native, and his whole costume, besides the little strip of cloth usually worn by natives round the loins, consisted of a black silk hat and a pair of Wellington boots!

Dear reader, do not suppose that I am trying to impose upon your good-natured credulity. What I state is a fact, however unlikely it may appear in your eyes.

The natives of this part of the country are called digger Indians, not with reference to gold-digging, but from the fact of their digging subterranean dwellings, in which they pass the winter, and also from the fact that they grub in the earth a good deal for roots, on which they partly subsist. They are degraded, miserable creatures, and altogether uncivilised, besides being diminutive in stature.

Soon after the first flood of gold-hunters swept over their lands these poor creatures learned the value of gold, but they were too lazy to work diligently for it. They contented themselves with washing out enough to purchase a few articles of luxury, in the shape of cast-off apparel, from the white men. When stores began to be erected here and there throughout the country, they visited them to purchase fresh provisions and articles of dress, of which latter they soon became passionately fond.

But the digger Indians were not particular as to style or fashion—glitter and gay colour were the chief elements of attraction. Sometimes a naked savage might be seen going about with a second-hand dress-coat put on the wrong way, and buttoned up the back. Another would content himself with a red silk handkerchief tied round his head or shoulders. A third would thrust his spindle-shanks through the arms of a sleeved vest, and button the body round his loins; while a fourth, like the one now under consideration, would parade about in a hat and boots.

The poor digger had drawn the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right—a matter of little moment, however, as they were immensely too large for him, as was also the hat, which only remained on his brows by being placed very much back on the head. He was a most singular being, and Ned and Tom, after the first glance of astonishment, were so un-mannered as to laugh at him until they almost fell off their horses. The digger was by no means disconcerted. He evidently was accustomed to the free and easy manners of white men, and while they rolled in their saddles, he stood quietly beside them, grinning hideously from ear to ear.

“Truly, a rare specimen of humanity,” cried Ned, when he recovered his composure. “Where did you come from, old boy?”

The digger shook his head, and uttered some unintelligible words.

“It’s of no use speaking to him; he don’t understand English,” said Tom Collins, with a somewhat puzzled expression.

The two friends made several attempts to ask him, by signs, where he lived, but they utterly failed. Their first efforts had the effect of making the man laugh, but their second attempts, being more energetic and extravagant, frightened him so that he manifested a disposition to run away. This disposition they purposely encouraged until he fairly took to his heels, and, by following him, they at last came upon the village in which his tribe resided.

Here they found an immense assemblage of men, and women, and children, whose appearance denoted dirtiness, laziness, and poverty. They were almost all in a state bordering on nudity, but a few of them wore miscellaneous portions of European apparel. The hair of the men was long, except on the forehead, where it was cut square, just above the eyebrows. The children wore no clothes at all. The infants were carried on stiff cradles, similar to those used by North American Indians. They all resided in tents, made of brushwood and sticks, and hundreds of mangy, half-starved curs dwelt along with them.

The hero of the hat and boots was soon propitiated by the gift of a few inches of tobacco, and Ned Sinton and Tom Collins were quickly on intimate terms with the whole tribe.

It is difficult to resist the tendency to laugh when a human being stands before you in a ludicrously-meagre costume, making hideous grimaces with his features, and remarkable contortions with his limbs, in the vain efforts to make himself understood by one who does not speak his language! Ned’s powers of endurance were tested in this way by the chief of the tribe, an elderly man with a beard so sparse that each stumpy hair might have been easily counted.

This individual was clad in the rough, ragged blue coat usually worn by Irish labourers of the poorest class. It was donned with the tails in front; and two brass buttons, the last survivors of a once glittering double row, fastened it across the back of its savage owner.

“What can he mean?” said Ned, at the close of a series of pantomimic speeches, in which the Indian vainly endeavoured to get him to understand something having reference to the mountains beyond, for he pointed repeatedly towards them.

“It seems to me that he would have us understand,” said Tom, “that the road lies before us, and the sooner we take ourselves off the better.”

Ned shook his head. “I don’t think that likely; he seems rather to wish us to remain; more than once he has pointed to his tent, and beckoned us to enter.”

“Perhaps the old fellow wants us to become members of his tribe,” suggested Tom. “Evidently he cannot lead his braves on the war-path as he was wont to do, and he wishes to make you chief in his room. What think you? Shall we remain? The blue coat would suit you admirably.”

During this colloquy the old savage looked from one speaker to another with great eagerness, as if trying to comprehend what they said, then, renewing his gesticulations, he succeeded at last in convincing the travellers that he wished them not to pursue their journey any further in the direction in which they were going. This was a request with which they did not, however, feel disposed to comply; but seeing that he was particularly anxious that they should accept of his hospitality, they dismounted, and, fastening their horses to a tree close beside the opening of the chief’s hut, they entered.

The inside of this curious bee-hive of a dwelling was dirty and dark, besides being half-full of smoke, created by the pipe of a squaw—the old man’s wife—who regaled herself there with the soothing weed. There were several dogs there also, and two particularly small infants in wooden cradles, who were tied up like mummies, and did nothing but stare right before them into space.

“What’s that?” inquired Tom, pointing to a basketful of smoking water.

“It looks like a basket,” replied Ned.

“It is a basket,” remarked Tom, examining the article in question, “and, as I live, superb soup in it.”

“Tom,” said Ned Sinton, solemnly, “have a care; if it is soup, depend upon it, dogs or rats form the basis of its composition.”

“Ned,” said Tom, with equal solemnity, “eat, and ask no questions.”

Tom followed his own advice by accepting a dish of soup, with a large lump of meat in it, which was at that moment offered to him by the old chief who also urged Ned Sinton to partake; but he declined, and, lighting his pipe, proceeded to enjoy a smoke, at the same time handing the old man a plug of tobacco, which he accepted promptly, and began to use forthwith.

While thus engaged, they had an opportunity of observing how the squaw boiled water in a basket. Laying aside her pipe, she hauled out a goody-sized and very neatly-made basket of wicker-work, so closely woven by her own ingenious hands, that it was perfectly water-tight; this she three-quarters filled, and then put into it red-hot stones, which she brought in from a fire kindled outside. The stones were thrown in in succession, till the temperature was raised to the boiling point, and afterwards a little dead animal was put into the basket.

The sight of this caused Tom Collins to terminate his meal somewhat abruptly, and induced Ned to advise him to try a little more.

“No, thank you,” replied Tom, lighting his pipe hastily, and taking up a bow and several arrows, which he appeared to regard with more than usual interest. The bow was beautifully made;—rather short, and tipped with horn.

The arrows were formed of two distinct pieces of wood spliced together, and were shod with flint; they were feathered in the usual way. All the articles manufactured by these natives were neatly done, and evinced considerable skill in the use of their few and simple tools.

After resting half-an-hour, the two friends rose to depart, and again the old Indian manifested much anxiety to prevail on them to remain; but resisting all his entreaties, they mounted their horses and rode away, carrying with them the good wishes of the community, by the courtesy of their manners, and a somewhat liberal distribution of tobacco at parting.

The country through which they passed became wilder at every step, for each hour brought them visibly nearer the mountain-range, and towards night-fall they entered one of the smaller passes or ravines that divided the lower range of hills at which they first arrived. Here a rugged precipice, from which projected pendent rocks and scrubby trees, rose abruptly on the right of the road, and a dense thicket of underwood, mingled with huge masses of fallen rock, lay on their left. We use the word road advisedly, for the broad highway of the flowering plains, over which the horsemen had just passed, narrowed at this spot as it entered the ravine, and was a pretty-well-defined path, over which parties of diggers and wandering Indians occasionally passed.

“Does not this wild spot remind you of the nursery tales we used to read?” said Ned, as they entered the somewhat gloomy defile, “which used to begin, ‘Once upon a time—’”

“Hist, Ned, is that a grizzly?”

Both riders drew up abruptly, and grasped their rifles.

“I hear nothing,” whispered Ned.

“It must have been imagination,” said Tom, throwing his rifle carelessly over his left arm, as they again advanced. The gloom of the locality, which was deepened by the rapidly-gathering shades of night, quieted their spirits, and induced them to ride on in silence. About fifty yards further on, the rustling in the bushes was again heard, and both travellers pulled up and listened intently.

“Pshaw!” cried Ned, at last, urging his horse forward, and throwing his piece on his shoulder, “we are starting at the rustling of the night wind; come, come, Tom, don’t let us indulge superstitious feelings—”

At that moment there was a crash in the bushes on both sides of them, and their horses reared wildly, as four men rushed upon them. Before their steeds became manageable, they were each seized by a leg, and hurled from their saddles. In the fall, their rifles were thrown out of their grasp into the bushes; but this mattered little, for in a close struggle pistols are better weapons. Seizing their revolvers, Ned and Tom instantly sprang up, and fired at their assailants, but without effect, both being so much shaken by their fall. The robbers returned the fire, also without effect. In the scuffle, Ned was separated from his friend, and only knew that he maintained the fight manfully, from the occasional shots that were fired near him. His whole attention, however, had to be concentrated on the two stalwart ruffians with whom he was engaged.

Five or six shots were fired at a few yards’ distance, quick as lightning, yet, strange to say, all missed. Then the taller of the two opposed to Ned, hurled his revolver full in his face, and rushed at him. The pistol struck Ned on the chest, and almost felled him, but he retained his position, and met the highwayman with a well-directed blow of his fist right between the eyes. Both went down, under the impetus of the rush, and the second robber immediately sprang upon Ned, and seized him by the throat. But he little knew the strength of the man with whom he had to deal. Our hero caught him in the iron grasp of his right hand, while, with his left, he hurled aside the almost inanimate form of his first assailant; then, throwing the other on his back, he placed his knee on his chest, and drew his bowie-knife.

Even in the terrible passion of mortal combat, Ned shuddered at the thought of slaying a helpless opponent. He threw the knife aside, and struck the man violently with his fist on the forehead, and then sprang up to rescue Tom who, although he had succeeded at the outset in felling one of the robbers with the butt of his pistol, was still engaged in doubtful strife with a man of great size and power. When Ned came up, the two were down on their knees, each grasping the other’s wrist in order to prevent their bowie-knives from being used. Their struggles were terrible; for each knew that the first who freed his right hand would instantly take the other’s life. Ned settled the matter, however, by again using his fist, which he applied so promptly to the back of the robber’s neck, that he dropped as if he had been shot.

“Thank you—God bless you, Ned,” gasped Tom, as soon as he recovered breath; “you have saved my life, for certainly I could not have held out a minute longer. The villain has all but broken my right arm.”

“Never mind,” cried Ned, stooping down, and turning the stunned robber over on his face, “give me a hand, boy; we must not let the fellows recover and find themselves free to begin the work over again. Take that fellow’s neckcloth and tie his hands behind his back.”

Tom obeyed at once, and in a few minutes the four highwaymen were bound hand and foot, and laid at the side of the road.

“Now,” said Ned, “we must push on to the nearest settlement hot-haste, and bring a party out to escort—Halloo! Tom, are you wounded?”

“Not badly—a mere cut on the head.”

“Why, your face is all covered with blood!”

“It’s only in consequence of my wiping it with a bloody handkerchief, then; but you can examine, and satisfy yourself.”

“The wound is but slight, I see,” rejoined Ned, after a brief manipulation of Tom’s skull; “now, then, let us away.”

“We’ll have to catch our horses first, and that won’t be an easy matter.”

Tom was right. It cost them half-an-hour to secure them and recover their rifles and other arms, which had been scattered over the field of battle. On returning to the spot where the robbers lay, they found them all partially recovered, and struggling violently to free themselves. Three of them failed even to slacken their bonds, but the fourth, the powerful man who had nearly overcome Tom Collins, had well-nigh freed his hands when his captors came up.

“Lie quiet,” said Ned, in a low tone, “if you don’t want the butt of my rifle on your skull.”

The man lay down instantly.

“Tom, go and cut a stake six feet long, and I’ll watch these fellows till you come back.”

The stake was soon brought and lashed to the robber’s back in such a manner that he was rendered utterly powerless. The others were secured in a similar manner, and then the two travellers rode forward at a gallop.

For nearly an hour they continued to advance without speaking or drawing rein. At the end of that time, while sweeping round the jutting base of a precipitous rock, they almost ran into a band of horsemen who were trotting briskly towards them. Both parties halted, and threw forward their rifles, or drew their revolvers for instant use, gazing at each other the while in silent surprise at the suddenness of their meeting.

“Give in, ye villains,” at last shouted a stern voice, “or we’ll blow ye out o’ the saddle. You’ve no chance; down your arms, I say.”

“Not until I know what right you have to command us,” replied Ned, somewhat nettled at the overbearing tone of his opponent. “We are peaceable travellers, desiring to hurt no one; but if we were not, surely so large a party need not be afraid. We don’t intend to run away, still less do we intend to dispute your passage.”

The strangers lowered their fire-arms, as if half-ashamed at being surprised into a state of alarm by two men.

“Who said we were ‘afraid,’ young man?” continued the first speaker, riding up with his comrades, and eyeing the travellers narrowly. “Where have you come from, and how comes it that your clothes are torn, and your faces covered with blood?”

The party of horsemen edged forward, as he spoke, in such a manner as to surround the two friends, but Ned, although he observed the movement, was unconcerned, as, from the looks of the party, he felt certain they were good men and true.

“You are a close interrogator for a stranger,” he replied. “Perhaps you will inform me where you have come from, and what is your errand in these lonesome places at this hour of the night?”

“I’ll tell ye wot it is, stranger,” answered another of the party—a big, insolent sort of fellow—“we’re out after a band o’ scoundrels that have infested them parts for a long time, an’ it strikes me you know more about them than we do.”

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Ned.

“Mayhap they’re not very, far off from where we’re standin’,” continued the man, laying his hand on Tom Collins’s shoulder. Tom gave him a look that induced him to remove the hand.

“Right again,” rejoined Ned, with a smile. “I know where the villains are, and I’ll lead you to them in an hour, if you choose to follow me.”

The men looked at each other in surprise.

“You’ll not object to some o’ us ridin’ before, an’ some behind ye!” said the second speaker, “jist by way o’ preventin’ yer hosses from runnin’ away; they looks a little skeary.”

“By no means,” answered Ned, “lead on; but keep off the edge of the track till I call a halt.”

“Why so, stranger?”

“Never mind, but do as I bid you.”

The tone in which this was said effectually silenced the man, and during the ride no further questions were asked. About a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards the moon rose, and they advanced at such a rapid pace that in a short time they were close upon the spot where the battle had taken place. Just before reaching it Ned called a halt, and directed the party to dismount and follow him on foot. Although a good deal surprised, they obeyed without question; for our hero possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of constituting himself a leader among those with whom he chanced to come into contact.

Fastening his horse to a tree, Ned led the men forward a hundred yards.

“Are these the men you search for!” he inquired.

“They are, sir,” exclaimed one of the party, in surprise, as he stooped to examine the features of the robbers, who lay where they had been left.

“Halloo!” exclaimed Tom Collins, “I say, the biggest fellow’s gone! Didn’t we lay him hereabouts?”

“Eh! dear me, yes; why, this is the very spot, I do believe—”

All further remarks were checked at that moment by the sound of horses’ hoofs approaching, and, almost before any one could turn round, a horseman came thundering down the pass at full gallop. Uttering a savage laugh of derision, he discharged his pistol full into the centre of the knot of men as he passed, and, in another moment, was out of sight. Several of the onlookers had presence of mind enough to draw their pistols and fire at the retreating figure, but apparently without effect.

“It’s him!” cried Tom Collins; “and he’s mounted on your horse, Ned.”

“After him, lads!” shouted Ned, as he ran back towards the place where the horses were fastened. “Whose is the best horse?”

“Hold on, stranger,” said one of the men, as he ran up to Ned, “ye may save yer wind. None o’ the horses can overtake your one, I guess. I was lookin’ at him as we came along. It would only be losin’ time for nothin’, an’ he’s miles ahead by this time.”

Ned Sinton felt that the man’s remarks were too true, so he returned to the spot where the remaining robbers lay, and found that the miners had cut their fastenings, and were busily engaged in rebinding their hands behind them, preparatory to carrying them back to their settlement. It was discovered that the lashings of one of the men had been partly severed with a knife, and, as he could not have done it himself, it was plain that the robber who had escaped must have done it, and that the opportune arrival of the party had prevented him from accomplishing his purpose. How the man had broken his own bonds was a mystery that could not now be solved, but it was conjectured they must have been too weak, and that he had burst them by main strength.

Another discovery was now made, namely, that one of the three robbers secured was no other than Black Jim himself; the darkness of the night had prevented Ned and Tom from making this discovery during the fight.

In less time than we have taken to describe it, the robbers were secured, and each was mounted behind one of his captors.

“Ain’t you goin’ with us?” inquired one of the men, observing that Ned Sinton stood leaning on his rifle, as if he meant to remain behind.

“No,” answered Ned; “my companion and I have travelled far to-day, besides fighting a somewhat tough battle; we mean to camp here for the night, and shall proceed to your settlement to-morrow.”

The men endeavoured to dissuade them from their purpose, but they were both fatigued, and persisted in their determination. The impression they had made, however, on their new friends was so favourable, that one of their number, a Yankee, offered the loan of his horse to Ned, an offer which the latter accepted thankfully, promising to return it safe and sound early on the following day. Five minutes later the sound of the retreating hoofs died away, and the travellers stood silently side by side in the gloomy ravine.

For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in his companion’s face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said:

“It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that we are a couple of beggars?”

“If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you.”

“Well, I’ve no objection,” rejoined Ned, “to your taking my words in that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real, veritable, bona fide beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in the world.”

Tom Collins’s visage grew exceedingly long.

“Our united purse,” pursued Ned, “hung, as you are aware, at my saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed, is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!”

Tom’s countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture to speak.

“Now,” continued Ned, forcing a smile, “there is nothing for it but to make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as we please, my dear fellow, but there’s no denying that we are in what the Yankees would call an ‘oncommon fix.’”

Ned’s remark as to “laughing at it,” was altogether uncalled for and inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins’s thoughts at that moment than laughing.

“Are the victuals gone too?” inquired Ned, hastily.

Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins’s horse, which grazed hard by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse, pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and assuming that the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands, and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom’s assertion, “happy as kings.”

The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable dispute.

“I recommend the level turf under this oak,” said Ned, pointing to a huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward.

“It’s too low,” objected Tom, (Tom could always object—a quality which, while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to gunpowder in that of others;) “it’s too low, and, doubtless, moist. I think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot.”

“Now, who is to decide the question if I don’t give in, Tom? For I assume, of course, that you will never give in.”

At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them. It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of summer, that they snap off without a moment’s warning, often when there is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches.

An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had barely passed Ned’s lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground.

“That settles it,” said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its branches.

In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pass, while they cooked and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on their saddles, and murmuring “Good-night,” forgot their troubles in the embrace of deep, refreshing slumber.

Chapter Seventeen.

A Curious and Valuable Draught—Lynch Law applied—Black Jim’s Confession—Ned becomes a Painter, and finds the Profession Profitable as well as Amusing—The First Portrait.

Next morning the travellers were up and away by daybreak, and in the afternoon they came upon a solitary miner who was prospecting in a gulch near the road-side.

This word gulch is applied to the peculiarly abrupt, short ravines, which are a characteristic feature in Californian more than in any other mountains. The weather was exceedingly hot, and the man took off his cap and wiped his streaming brow as he looked at the travellers who approached him.

“Ha! you’ve got water there, I see,” cried Tom Collins, leaping off his horse, seizing a cup which stood on the ground full of clear water, and draining it eagerly.

“Stop!” cried the man, quickly.

“Why!” inquired Tom, smacking his lips.

The miner took the empty cup and gazed inquiringly into it.

“Humph! you’ve drunk it, every grain.”

“Drop, you mean,” suggested Tom, laughing at the man’s expression; “of course I have, and why not? There’s plenty more of the same tap here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind the water,” replied the man, “if ye had only left the gold-dust behind, but you’ve finished that too.”

“You don’t mean it!” gasped Tom, while the questions flashed across his mind—Is gold-dust poison? And if not, is it digestible? “How—how much have I swallowed?”

“Only about two dollars—it don’t signify,” answered the man, joining in the burst of laughter to which Ned and Tom gave way on this announcement.

“I’m afraid we must owe you the sum, then,” said Ned, recovering his composure, “for we have only one dollar left, having been robbed last night; but as we mean to work in this neighbourhood, I dare say you will trust us.”

The man agreed to this, and having directed the travellers to the settlement of Weaver Creek, resumed his work, while they proceeded on their way. Tom’s digestion did not suffer in consequence of his golden draught, and we may here remark, for the benefit of the curious, that he never afterwards experienced any evil effects from it. We may further add, that he did not forget to discharge the debt.

After half-an-hour’s ride they came in sight of a few straggling diggers, from whom they learned that the settlement, or village, or town of Weaver Creek was about two miles further on, and in a quarter of an hour they reached it.

The spot on which it stood was wild and romantic, embosomed among lofty wooded hills, whose sides were indented by many a rich ravine, and seamed by many a brawling water-course. Here digging was, as the miners have it, in full blast. Pick, and shovel, and cradle, and long-tom, and prospecting-pan—all were being plied with the utmost energy and with unwearied perseverance. The whole valley was cut up and converted into a net-work of holes and mud-heaps, and the mountain slopes were covered with the cabins, huts, and canvas tents of the miners.

About the centre of the settlement, which was a very scattered one, stood a log-house or cabin, of somewhat larger dimensions than the generality of those around it. This was the grand hotel, restaurant, and gambling-house of the place, besides being the scene of the trials and executions that occasionally took place. Some such work was going forward when our travellers rode up, for the area in front of the hotel was covered with a large concourse of miners.

“I suspect they are about to try the poor wretches who attacked us last night,” said Ned, dismounting at the door of the house.

He had scarcely spoken, when a couple of men ran towards them.

“Here you are, strangers,” they cried, “come along and bear witness agin’ them blackguards; they’re just about to be strung up. We’ll look after your horses.”

The duty was a disagreeable one, but it could not be avoided, so Ned and Tom suffered themselves to be led into the centre of the ring where the three culprits were standing already pinioned, and with the ropes round their necks. For a short time silence was obtained while Ned stated the circumstances of the robbery, and also the facts regarding the murder of which Black Jim had been previously found guilty. Then there was a general shout of “String ’em up!” “Up wi’ the varmints!” and such phrases; but a short respite was granted in consequence of Black Jim expressing a desire to speak with Ned Sinton.

“What have you to say to me?” inquired Ned, in a low tone, as he walked close up to the wretched man, who, although his minutes on earth were numbered, looked as if he were absolutely indifferent to his fate.

“I’ve only to say,” answered the culprit, sternly, “that of all the people I leaves behind me in this world there’s but one I wish I hadn’t bin bad to, and that’s Kate Morgan. You know something of her, though you’ve never seen her—I know that. Tell her I—no, tell her she’ll find the gold I robbed her of at the foot o’ the pine-tree behind the tent she’s livin’ in jist now. An’ tell her that her little sister’s not dead, though she don’t believe me. I took the child to—”

“Come, come, ha’ done wi’ yer whisperin’,” cried several of the bystanders, who were becoming impatient of delay.

“Have patience,” said Ned, raising his hand. “The man is telling me something of importance.”

“I’ve done,” growled Black Jim, scowling on the crowd with a look of hate; “I wish I hadn’t said so much.”

The rope was tightened as he spoke, and Ned, turning abruptly on his heel, hurried away with his friend from the spot just as the three robbers were run up and suspended from the branch of the tree, beneath and around which the crowd stood.

Entering the inn, and seating themselves in a retired corner of the crowded gambling-room, Ned and Tom proceeded to discuss their present prospects and future plans in a frame of mind that was by no means enviable. They were several hundreds of miles distant from the scene of their first home at the diggings, without a dollar in their pockets, and only a horse between them. With the exception of the clothes on their backs, and Ned’s portfolio of drawing materials, which he always carried slung across his shoulder, they had nothing else in the world. Their first and most urgent necessity was supper, in order to procure which it behoved them to sell Tom’s horse. This was easily done, as, on application to the landlord, they were directed to a trader who was on the point of setting out on an expedition to Sacramento city, and who readily purchased the horse for less than half its value.

Being thus put in possession of funds sufficient at least for a few days, they sat down to supper with relieved minds, and afterwards went out to stroll about the settlement, and take a look at the various diggings. The miners here worked chiefly at the bars or sand-banks thrown up in various places by the river which coursed through their valley; but the labour was severe, and the return not sufficient to attract impatient and sanguine miners, although quite remunerative enough to those who wrought with steady perseverance. The district had been well worked, and many of the miners were out prospecting for new fields of labour. A few companies had been formed, and these, by united action and with the aid of long-toms, were well rewarded, but single diggers and pan-washers were beginning to become disheartened.

“Our prospects are not bright,” observed Tom, sitting down on a rock close to the hut of a Yankee who was delving busily in a hole hard by.

“True,” answered Ned, “in one sense they are not bright, but in another sense they are, for I never yet, in all my travels, beheld so beautiful and bright a prospect of land and water as we have from this spot. Just look at it, Tom; forget your golden dreams for a little, if you can, and look abroad upon the splendid face of nature.”

Ned’s eye brightened as he spoke, for his love and admiration of the beauties and charms of nature amounted almost to a passion. Tom, also, was a sincere admirer of lovely, and especially of wild, scenery, although he did not express his feelings so enthusiastically.

“Have you got your colours with you?” he inquired.

“I have; and if you have patience enough to sit here for half-an-hour I’ll sketch it. If not, take a stroll, and you’ll find me here when you return.”

“I can admire nature for even longer than that period, but I cannot consent to watch a sketcher of nature even for five minutes, so I’ll take a stroll.”

In a few minutes Ned, with book on knee and pencil in hand, was busily engaged in transferring the scene to paper, oblivious of gold, and prospects, and everything else, and utterly ignorant of the fact that the Yankee digger, having become curious as to what the stranger could be about, had quitted his hole, and now stood behind him quietly looking over his shoulder.

The sketch was a very beautiful one, for, in addition to the varied character of the scenery and the noble background of the Sierra Nevada, which here presented some of its wildest and most fantastic outlines, the half-ruined hut of the Yankee, with the tools and other articles scattered around it, formed a picturesque foreground. We have elsewhere remarked that our hero was a good draughtsman. In particular, he had a fine eye for colour, and always, when possible, made coloured sketches during his travels in California. On the present occasion, the rich warm glow of sunset was admirably given, and the Yankee stood gazing at the work, transfixed with amazement and delight. Ned first became aware of his proximity by the somewhat startling exclamation, uttered close to his ear—

“Wall, stranger, you air a screamer, that’s a fact!”

“I presume you mean that for a compliment,” said Ned, looking up with a smile at the tall, wiry, sun-burnt, red-flannel-shirted, straw-hatted creature that leaned on his pick-axe beside him.

“No, I don’t; I ain’t used to butter nobody. I guess you’ve bin raised to that sort o’ thing?”

“No, I merely practise it as an amateur,” answered Ned, resuming his work.

“Now, that is cur’ous,” continued the Yankee; “an’ I’m kinder sorry to hear’t, for if ye was purfessional I’d give ye an order.”

Ned almost laughed outright at this remark, but he checked himself as the idea flashed across him that he might perhaps make his pencil useful in present circumstances.

“I’m not professional as yet,” he said, gravely; “but I have no objection to become so if art is encouraged in these diggings.”

“I guess it will be, if you shew yer work. Now, what’ll ye ax for that bit!”

This was a home question, and a poser, for Ned had not the least idea of what sum he ought to ask for his work, and at the same time he had a strong antipathy to that species of haggling, which is usually prefaced by the seller, with the reply, “What’ll ye give?” There was no other means, however, of ascertaining the market-value of his sketch, so he put the objectionable question.

“I’ll give ye twenty dollars, slick off.”

“Very good,” replied Ned, “it shall be yours in ten minutes.”

“An’ I say, stranger,” continued the Yankee, while Ned put the finishing touches to his work, “will ye do the inside o’ my hut for the same money?”

“I will,” replied Ned.

The Yankee paused for a few seconds, and then added—

“I’d like to git myself throwd into the bargain, but I guess ye’ll ask more for that.”

“No, I won’t; I’ll do it for the same sum.”

“Thank’ee; that’s all square. Ye see, I’ve got a mother in Ohio State, an’ she’d give her ears for any scrap of a thing o’ me or my new home; an’ if ye’ll git ’em both fixed off by the day arter to-morrow, I’ll send ’em down to Sacramento by Sam Scott, the trader. I’ll rig out and fix up the hut to-morrow mornin’, so if ye come by breakfast-time I’ll be ready.”

Ned promised to be there at the appointed hour, as he rose and handed him the sketch, which the man, having paid the stipulated sum, carried away to his hut with evident delight.

“Halloo, I say,” cried Ned.

“Wall?” answered the Yankee, stopping with a look of concern, as if he feared the artist had repented of his bargain.

“Mind you tell no one my prices, for, you see, I’ve not had time to consider about them yet.”

“All right; mum’s the word,” replied the man, vanishing into his little cabin just as Tom Collins returned from his ramble.

“Halloo, Ned, what’s that I hear about prices? I hope you’re not offering to speculate in half-finished holes, or anything of that sort, eh?”

“Sit down here, my boy, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Tom obeyed, and, with a half-surprised and more than half-amused expression, listened to his companion’s narration of the scene that had just taken place, and of the plan which he had formed in his mind. This plan was carried out the following day.

By daybreak Ned was up preparing his drawing materials; then he and Tom breakfasted at the table d’hôte, after which the latter went to hunt for a suitable log-hut in which to carry on their joint labours, while the former proceeded to fulfil his engagement. Their night’s lodging and breakfast made a terribly large gap in their slender fortune, for prices at the time happened to be enormously high, in consequence of expected supplies failing to arrive at the usual time. The bill at the hotel was ten dollars a day per man; and provisions of all kinds were so dear, that the daily earnings of the miners barely sufficed to find them in the necessaries of life. It therefore behoved our friends to obtain a private dwelling and remunerative work as fast as possible.

On reaching the little log-hut, Ned found the Yankee ready to receive him. He wore a clean new red-flannel shirt, with a blue silk kerchief round the throat; a broad-brimmed straw hat, corduroys, and fisherman’s long boots. To judge from his gait, and the self-satisfied expression of his bronzed countenance, he was not a little proud of his personal appearance.

While Ned arranged his paper and colours, and sharpened the point of his pencil, the Yankee kept up a running commentary on men and things in general, rocking himself on a rudely-constructed chair the while, and smoking his pipe.

The hut was very small—not more than twelve feet by eight, and just high enough inside to permit of a six-foot man grazing the beams when he walked erect. But, although small, it was exceedingly comfortable. Its owner was his own architect and builder, being a jack-of-all-trades, and everything about the wooden edifice betokened the hand of a thorough workman, who cared not for appearance, but was sensitively alive to comfort. Comfort was stamped in unmistakeable characters on every article of furniture, and on every atom that entered into the composition of the Yankee’s hut. The logs of which it was built were undressed; they were not even barked, but those edges of them that lay together were fitted and bevelled with such nicety that the keenest and most searching blast of north wind failed to discover an entrance, and was driven baffled and shrieking from the walls. The small fire-place and chimney, composed of mud and dry grass, were rude in appearance; but they were substantial, and well calculated for the work they had to perform. The seats, of which there were four—two chairs, a bench, and a stool—were of the plainest wood, and the simplest form; but they were solid as rocks, and no complaining creak, when heavy men sat down on them, betokened bad or broken constitutions. The little table—two feet by sixteen inches—was in all respects worthy of the chairs. At one end of the hut there was a bed-place, big enough for two; it was variously termed a crib, a shelf, a tumble-in, and a bunk. Its owner called it a “snoosery.” This was a model of plainness and comfort. It was a mere shell about two and a half feet broad, projecting from the wall, to which it was attached on one side, the other side being supported by two wooden legs a foot high. A plank at the side, and another at the foot, in conjunction with the walls of the cottage, converted the shelf into an oblong box. But the mattress of this rude couch was formed of buffalo-skins, covered with thick, long luxurious hair; above which were spread two large green mackinaw blankets of the thickest description; and the canvas pillow-case was stuffed with the softest down, purchased from the wild-fowl of California with leaden coin, transmitted through the Yankee’s unerring rifle.

There was a fishing-rod in one corner, a rifle in another, a cupboard in a third; poles and spears, several unfinished axe-handles, and a small fishing-net lay upon the rafters overhead; while various miscellaneous articles of clothing, and implements for mining hung on pegs from the walls, or lay scattered about everywhere; but in the midst of apparent confusion comfort reigned supreme, for nothing was placed so as to come in one’s way; everything was cleverly arranged, so as to lie close and fit in; no article or implement was superfluous; no necessary of a miner’s life was wanting; an air of thorough completeness invested the hut and everything about it; and in the midst of all sat the presiding genius of the place, with his long legs comfortably crossed, the tobacco wreaths circling round his lantern jaws, the broad-brimmed straw hat cocked jauntily on one side, his arms akimbo, and his rather languid black eyes gazing at Ned Sinton with an expression of comfortable self-satisfaction and assurance that was quite comforting to behold.

“Wall, mister, if you’re ready, I guess ye’d better fire away.”

“One second more and I shall commence,” replied Ned; “I beg pardon, may I ask your name?”

“Jefferson—Abel Jefferson to command,” answered the Yankee, relighting the large clay pipe which he had just filled, and stuffing down the glowing tobacco with the end of his little finger as slowly and deliberately as though that member were a salamander. “What’s yourn!”

“Edward Sinton. Now, Mr Jefferson, in what position do you intend to sit?”

“Jest as I’m settin’ now.”

“Then you must sit still, at least for a few minutes at a time, because I cannot sketch you while you keep rocking so.”

“No! now that’s a pity, for I never sits no other way when I’m to home; an’ it would look more nat’ral an’ raal like to the old ’ooman if I was drawd rockin’. However, fire away, and sing out when ye want me to stop. Mind ye, put in the whole o’ me. None o’ yer half-lengths. I never goes in for half-lengths. I always goes the whole length, an’ a leetle shave more. See that ye don’t forget the mole on the side o’ my nose. My poor dear old mother wouldn’t believe it was me if the mole warn’t there as big as life, with the two hairs in the middle of it. An’ I say, mister, mind that I hate flatterers, so don’t flatter me no how.”

“It wouldn’t be easy to do so,” thought Ned, as he plied his pencil, but he did not deem it advisable to give expression to his thoughts.

“Now, then, sit still for a moment,” said Ned.

The Yankee instantly let the front legs of his chair come to the ground with a bang, and gazed right before him with that intensely-grave, cataleptic stare that is wont to overspread the countenances of men when they are being photographed.

Ned laughed inwardly, and proceeded with his work in silence.

“I guess there’s Sam at the door,” said Abel Jefferson, blowing a cloud of smoke from his mouth that might have made a small cannon envious.

The door flew open as he spoke, and Sam Scott, the trader, strode into the hut. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a good-humoured but intensely impudent expression of countenance, and tanned to a rich dark brown by constant exposure to the weather in the prosecution of his arduous calling.

“Halloo! stranger, what air you up to!” inquired Sam, sitting down on the bench behind Ned, and looking over his shoulder.

Ned might perhaps have replied to this question despite its unceremoniousness, had not the Yankee followed it up by spitting over his shoulder into the fire-place. As it was, he kept silence, and went on with his work.

“Why I do declare,” continued Sam, “if you ain’t photogged here as small as life, mole an’ all, like nothin’. I say, stranger, ain’t you a Britisher?”

Sam again followed up his question with a shot at the fire-place.

“Yes,” answered Ned, somewhat angrily, “and I am so much of a Britisher, that I positively object to your spitting past my ear.”

“No, you don’t, do you? Now, that is cur’ous. I do believe if you Britishers had your own way, you’d not let us spit at all. What air you better than we, that you hold your heads so high, and give yourselves sich airs! that’s what I want to know.”

Ned’s disgust having subsided, he replied—

“If we do hold our heads high, it is because we are straightforward, and not afraid to look any man in the face. As to giving ourselves airs, you mistake our natural reserve and dislike to obtrude ourselves upon strangers for pride; and in this respect, at least, if in no other, we are better than you—we don’t spit all over each other’s floors and close past each other’s noses.”

“Wall, now, stranger, if you choose to be resarved, and we choose to be free-an’-easy, where’s the differ? We’ve a right to have our own customs, and do as we please as well as you, I guess.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Abel Jefferson, commencing to rock himself again, and to smoke more violently than ever. “What say ye to that, mister?”

“Only this,” answered Ned, as he put the finishing touches to his sketch, “that whereas we claim only the right to do to and with ourselves what we please, you Yankees claim the right to do to and with everybody, else what you please. I have no objection whatever to your spitting, but I do object to your spitting over my shoulder.”

“Do you?” said Sam Scott, in a slightly sarcastic tone, “an’ suppose I don’t stop firin’ over your shoulder, what then?”

“I’ll make you,” replied Ned, waxing indignant at the man’s cool impudence.

“How?” inquired Sam.

Ned rose and shook back the flaxen curls from his flushed face, as he replied, “By opening the door and kicking you out of the hut.”

He repented of the hasty expression the moment it passed his lips, so he turned to Jefferson and handed him the drawing for inspection. Sam Scott remained seated. Whether he felt that Ned was thoroughly capable of putting his threat in execution or not we cannot tell, but he evinced no feeling of anger as he continued the conversation.

“I guess if you did that, you’d have to fight me, and you’d find me pretty smart with the bowie-knife an’ the revolver, either in the dark or in daylight.”

Sam here referred to the custom prevalent among the Yankees in some parts of the United States of duelling with bowie-knives or with pistols in a darkened room.

“And suppose,” answered Ned, with a smile—“suppose that I refused to fight, what then?”

“Why, then, you’d be called a coward all over the diggin’s, and you’d have to fight to clear your character.”

“And suppose I didn’t care a straw for being called a coward, and wouldn’t attempt to clear my character?”

“Why, then, I guess, I’d have to kick you in public till you were obligated to fight.”

“But suppose still further,” continued Ned, assuming the air of a philosopher discussing a profoundly-abstruse point in science—“suppose that, being the stronger man, I should prevent you from kicking me by knocking you down, what then?”

“Why, then, I’d be compelled to snuff you out slick off?”

Sam Scott smiled as he spoke, and touched the handle of his revolver.

“Which means,” said Ned, “that you would become a cold-blooded murderer.”

“So you Britishers call it.”

“And so Judge Lynch would call it, if I am not mistaken, which would insure your being snuffed out too, pretty effectually.”

“Wrong, you air, stranger,” replied the trader; “Judge Lynch regards affairs of honour in a very different light, I guess. I don’t think he’d scrag me for that.”

Further investigation of this interesting topic was interrupted by Abel Jefferson, who had been gazing in wrapt admiration at the picture for at least five minutes, pronouncing the work “fuss rate,” emphatically.

“It’s jest what’ll warm up the old ’ooman’s heart, like a big fire in a winter day. Won’t she screech when she claps her peepers on’t, an’ go yellin’ round among the neighbours, shewin’ the pictur’ o’ ‘her boy Abel,’ an’ his house at the gold diggin’s?”

The two friends commented pretty freely on the merits of the work, without the smallest consideration for the feelings of the artist. Fortunately they had nothing but good to say about it. Sam Scott, indeed, objected a little to the sketchy manner in which some of the subordinate accessories were touched in, and remarked that the two large hairs on the mole were almost invisible; but Jefferson persisted in maintaining that the work was “fuss rate,” and faultless.

The stipulated sum was paid; and Ned, bidding his new friends good-morning, returned to the inn, for the purpose of discussing dinner and plans with Tom Collins.

Chapter Eighteen.

Ned’s New Profession pays admirably—He and Tom Wax Philosophical—“Pat” comes for a “Landscape” of himself—Lynch Law and the Doctors—Ned’s Sitters—A Yankee Swell receives a Gentle Rebuff.

The ups and downs, and the outs and ins of life are, as every one is aware, exceedingly curious,—sometimes pleasant, often the reverse, and not infrequently abrupt.

On the day of their arrival at the settlement, Ned and Tom were almost beggars; a dollar or two being all the cash they possessed, besides the gold-dust swallowed by the latter, which being, as Tom remarked, sunk money, was not available for present purposes.

One week later, they were, as Abel Jefferson expressed it, “driving a roaring trade in pictur’s,” and in the receipt of fifty dollars, or 10 pounds a day! Goods and provisions of all kinds had been suddenly thrown into the settlement by speculators, so that living became comparatively cheap; several new and profitable diggings had been discovered, in consequence of which gold became plentiful; and the result of all was that Edward Sinton, esquire, portrait and landscape painter, had more orders than he could accept, at almost any price he chose to name. Men who every Saturday came into the settlement to throw away their hard-earned gains in the gambling-houses, or to purchase provisions for the campaign of the following week, were delighted to have an opportunity of procuring their portraits, and were willing to pay any sum for them, so that, had our hero been so disposed, he could have fleeced the miners to a considerable extent. But Ned was not so disposed, either by nature or necessity. He fixed what he considered fair remunerative prices for his work, according to the tariff of the diggings, and so arranged it that he made as much per day as he would have realised had he been the fortunate possessor of one of the best “claims” in the neighbourhood.

Tom Collins, meanwhile, went out prospecting, and speedily discovered a spot of ground which, when wrought with the pan, turned him in twenty dollars a day. So that, in the course of a fortnight, our adventurers found themselves comparatively rich men. This was satisfactory, and Ned admitted as much one morning to Tom, as he sat on a three-legged stool in his studio—i.e. a dilapidated log-hut—preparing for a sitter, while the latter was busily engaged in concluding his morning repast of damper, pork, and beans.

“There’s no doubt about it, Tom,” said he, pegging a sheet of drawing-paper to a flat board, “we are rapidly making our fortunes, my boy; but d’you know, I’m determined to postpone that desirable event, and take to rambling again.”

“There you go,” said Tom, somewhat testily, as he lit a cigar, and lay down on his bed to enjoy it; “you are never content; I knew it wouldn’t last; you’re a rolling stone, and will end in being a beggar. Do you really mean to say that you intend to give up a lucrative profession and become a vagrant?—for such you will be, if you take to wandering about the country without any object in view.”

“Indeed, I do,” answered Ned. “How often am I to tell you that I don’t and won’t consider the making of money the chief good of this world? Doubtless, it is an uncommonly necessary thing, especially to those who have families to support; but I am firmly convinced that this life was meant to be enjoyed, and I mean to enjoy it accordingly.”

“I agree with you, Ned, heartily; but if every one enjoyed life as you propose to do, and took to rambling over the face of the earth, there would be no work done, and nothing could be had for love or money—except what grew spontaneously; and that would be a joyful state of things, wouldn’t it?”

Tom Collins, indulging the belief that he had taken up an unassailable position, propelled from his lips a long thin cloud of smoke, and smiled through it at his friend.

“Your style of reasoning is rather wild, to say the least of it,” answered Ned, as he rubbed down his colours on the bottom of a broken plate. “In the first place, you assume that I propose to spend all my life in rambling; and, in the second place, you found your argument on the absurd supposition that everybody else must find their sole enjoyment in the same occupation.”

“How I wish,” sighed Tom Collins, smoking languidly, “that there was no such thing as reasoning. You would be a much more agreeable fellow, Ned, if you didn’t argue.”

“It takes two to make an argument,” remarked Ned. “Well, but couldn’t you converse without arguing?”

“Certainly, if you would never contradict what I say, nor make an incorrect statement, nor draw a wrong conclusion, nor object to being contradicted when I think you are in the wrong.”

Tom sighed deeply, and drew comfort from his cigar. In a few minutes he resumed,—“Well, but what do you mean by enjoying life?”

Ned Sinton pondered the question a few seconds, and then replied—

“I mean this:— the way to enjoy life is to do all the good you can, by working just enough to support yourself and your family, if you have one; to assist in spreading the gospel, and to enable you to help a friend in need; and to alleviate the condition of the poor, the sick, and the destitute. To work for more than this is to be greedy; to work for less is to be reprehensibly lazy. This amount of work being done, men ought to mingle with their fellow-creatures, and wander abroad as much as may be among the beautiful works of their Creator.”

“A very pretty theory, doubtless,” replied Tom; “but, pray, in what manner will your proposed ramble advance the interests of religion, or enable you to do the extra ordinary amount of good you speak of?”

“There you go again, Tom; you ask me the abstract question, ‘What do you mean by enjoying life?’ and when I reply, you object to the answer as not being applicable to the present case. Of course, it is not. I did not intend it to be. The good I mean to do in my present ramble is chiefly, if not solely, to my own body and mind—”

“Stop, my dear fellow,” interrupted Tom, “don’t become energetic! I accept your answer to the general question; but how many people, think you, can afford to put your theory in practice?”

“Very, very few,” replied Ned, earnestly; “but that does not affect the truth of my theory. Men will toil night and day to accumulate gold, until their bodies and souls are incapable of enjoying the good things which gold can purchase, and they are infatuated enough to plume themselves on this account, as being diligent men of business; while others, alas! are compelled thus to toil in order to procure the bare necessaries of life; but these melancholy facts do not prove the principle of ‘grind-and-toil’ to be a right one; much less do they constitute a reason for my refusing to enjoy life in the right way when I have the power.”

Tom made no reply, but the vigorous puffs from his cigar seemed to indicate that he pondered these things deeply. A few minutes afterwards, Ned’s expected sitter entered. He was a tall burly Irishman, with a red-flannel shirt, open at the neck, a pair of huge long boots, and a wide-awake.

“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees,” said the man, pulling off his hat as he entered.

“Good-morning, friend,” said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his pick and shovel, and left the hut. “You are punctual, and deserve credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down.”

“Faix, then, I don’t know what a ‘quality’ is, but av it’s a good thing I’ve no objection,” replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the bed which Tom had just vacated. “I wos wantin’ to ax ye, sir, av ye could put in me pick and shovel in the lan’scape.”

“In the landscape, Pat!” exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the generic name of the species; “I thought you wanted a portrait.”

“Troth, then, I don’t know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur’ o’ meself all over, from the top o’ me hat to the sole o’ me boots. Isn’t that a lan’scape?”

“No, it’s a portrait.”

“Then it’s a porthraite I wants; an’ if ye’ll put in the pick and shovel, I’ll give ye two dollars a pace for them.”

“I’ll put them in, Pat, for nothing,” replied Ned, smiling, as he commenced his sketch. “I suppose you intend to send this to some fair one in old Ireland?”

Pat did not reply at once. “Sure,” said he, slowly, “I niver thought of her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she’s been a’most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It’s for me grandmother I want it.”

“Your grandmother! that’s curious, now; the last man I painted meant to send the likeness to his mother.”

“Not so cur’ous neither,” replied the man, with some feeling; “it’s my opinion, the further a man goes from the owld country, and the rougher he becomes wi’ scrapin’ up and down through the world, the more tinder his heart gits when he thinks o’ his mother. Me own mother died whin I wos a bit spalpeen, an’ I lived wi’ me grandmother, bliss her heart, ever since,—at laste till I took to wanderin’, which was tin years past.”

“So long! Pat, you must have wandered far in that time. Have you ever been away far into the interior of this country, among the mountains, in the course of your wanderings!”

“Among the mountains, is it? Indeed I have, just; an’ a most tree-mendous beautiful sight it is. Wos ye goin’ there?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. Is the shooting good?”

“Shootin’, ah! av ye’d bin wi’ me an’ Bill Simmons, two summers ago, ye’d have had more nor enough o’ shootin’. The grizzlies are thick as paes, and the buffaloes swarm in the valleys like muskaitoes, not to mintion wolves, and beavers, and badgers, and deer, an’ sich like—forby the red Injuns; we shot six o’ them critters about the legs an’ arms in self defence, an’ they shot us too—they put an arrow dane through the pint o’ Bill’s nose, an’ wan ripped up me left arm, it did.” (Pat bared the brawny limb, and exhibited the wound as he spoke.) “Shootin’, is it? faix there’s the hoith o’ shootin’ there, an’ no end o’ sainery.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the door being burst violently open, and several men rushing into the hut. They grasped the Irishman by the arms, and attempted to drag him out, but Pat seized hold of the plank on the edge of which he sat, and refused to move at first.

“Come along, boy,” cried one, boisterously; “we’re goin’ to lynch a doctor, an’ we want you to swear to him.”

“Ay, an’ to swear at him too, if ye like; he’s a rig’lar cheat; bin killin’ us off by the dozen, as cool as ye like, and pretendin’ to be an M.D. all the time.”

“There’s more than wan,” cried another man, seizing Pat again by the arm; “won’t ye come, man?”

“Och! av coorse I will; av it’s to do any good to the public, I’m yer man. Hooray! for the people, an’ down wi’ the aristock-racy.”

This sentiment was received with a shout of delight, and several exclamations of “Bah!” as the party hurried in a body from the studio. Ned, having thus nothing to do, rose, and followed them towards the centre of the settlement, where a large crowd was collecting to try the unhappy doctors above referred to.

There were six of them, all disreputable-looking rascals, who had set up for doctors, and had carried on a thriving business among the sick miners,—of whom there were many at that time,—until a genuine doctor arrived at the place, and discovered and exposed them. The miners were fortunately not bloodthirsty at this time, so the six self-dubbed M.D.s, instead of being hanged, were banished for ever from the settlement. Half-an-hour later the miners were busy in their respective claims, and Ned Sinton was again seated before his “lan’scape” of the Irishman.

Just as he was completing the sketch, the door opened slowly, and a very remarkable man swaggered into the room, and spat on the centre of the floor. He was dressed in the extreme of the fashion then prevalent in the Eastern States. A superfine black coat, silk vest, superfine black trousers, patent-leather boots, kid gloves, and a black silk hat! A more unnatural apparition at the diggings could not well be imagined. Ned Sinton could hardly credit his eyes, but no rubbing of them would dispel the vision. There he stood, a regular Broadway swell, whose love of change had induced him to seek his fortune in the gold-regions of California, and whose vanity had induced him to retain his drawing-room costume.

This man, besides being possessed of a superabundance of supercilious impudence, also possessed a set of digging tools, the handles of which were made of polished oak and walnut, with bright brass ferrules. With these he proposed to dig his fortune in a leisurely way; meanwhile, finding the weather rather hot, he had made up his mind to have his portrait done.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, this gentleman shut the door with his heel, turned his back to the fire-place—from the mere force of habit, for there was no fire—and again spat upon the floor, after which he said:

“I say, stranger, what’s your charge for a likeness?”

“You will excuse me, sir,” answered Ned, “if, before replying to that question, I beg of you not to spit on my floor.”

The Yankee uttered an exclamation of surprise, and asked, “Why not, stranger?”

“Because I don’t like it.”

“You wouldn’t have me spit in my hat, would you?” inquired the dandy.

“Certainly not.”

“Where then?”

Ned pointed to a large wooden box which stood close to the fire-place, and said, “There—I have provided a box for the accommodation of those sitters who indulge in that disagreeable practice. If you can’t avoid spitting, do it there.”

“Wall, now, you Britishers are strange critters. But you haven’t told me your price for a portrait.”

“I fear that I cannot paint you at any price,” replied Ned, without looking up from his paper, while Pat listened to the conversation with a comical leer on his broad countenance.

“Why not, stranger?” asked the dandy, in surprise.

“Because I’m giving up business, and don’t wish to take any more orders.”

“Then I’ll set here, I guess, an’ look at ye while ye knock off that one,” said the man, sitting down close to Ned’s elbow, and again spitting on the floor. Whether he did so intentionally or not we cannot tell, probably not, but the effect upon Ned was so strong that he rose deliberately, opened the door, and pointed to the passage thus set free, without uttering a word. His look, however, was quite sufficient. The dandy rose abruptly, and walked out in silence, leaving Ned to shut the door quietly behind him and return to his work, while the Irishman rolled in convulsions of laughter on Tom Collins’s bed.

Ned’s sitters, as we have hinted, were numerous and extremely various. Sometimes he was visited by sentimental and home-sick miners, and occasionally by dandy miners, such as we have described, but his chief customers were the rough, hearty men from “old England,” “owld Ireland,” and from the Western States; with all of whom he had many a pleasant and profitable hour’s conversation, and from many of whom, especially the latter, he obtained valuable and interesting information in reference to the wild regions of the interior which he longed so much to see.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Wilderness again—A Splendid Valley—Gigantic Trees and Waterfalls—Tom meets with an Accident—Both meet with many Surprises—Mysteries, Caverns, Doleful Sounds, and Grizzly-Bear-Catchers.

Mounted on gallant steeds, Ned and his friend again appear in the wilderness in the afternoon of a beautiful autumn day. They had ridden far that day. Dust covered their garments, and foam bespattered the chests of their horses, but the spirits of men and beasts were not yet subdued, for their muscles, by long practice, were inured to hardship. Many days had passed since they left the scene of their recent successful labours, and many a weary league had been traversed over the unknown regions of the interior. They were lost, in one sense of that term—charmingly, romantically lost—that is to say, neither Ned nor Tom had the most distant idea of where they were, or what they were coming to, but both of them carried pocket-compasses, and they knew that by appealing to these, and to the daily jotting of the route they had travelled, they could ascertain pretty closely the direction that was necessary to be pursued in order to strike the great San Joaquin river.

Very different was the scenery through which they now rode from that of the northern diggings. The most stupendous and magnificent mountains in the world surrounded, on all sides, the valley through which they passed, giving to it an air of peaceful seclusion; yet it was not gloomy, for the level land was broad and fertile, and so varied in aspect that it seemed as though a beautiful world were enclosed by those mighty hills.

Large tracts of the valley were covered with wild oats and rich grass, affording excellent pasturage for the deer that roamed about in large herds. Lakes of various sizes sustained thousands of wild-fowl on their calm breasts, and a noble river coursed down its entire length. Oaks, chestnuts, and cypresses grew in groups all over the landscape, and up on the hill-sides firs of gigantic size reared their straight stems high above the surrounding trees.

But the point in the scenery which struck the travellers as being most peculiar was the precipitous character of the sides of many of the vast mountains and the flatness of their summits. Tom Collins, who was a good judge of heights, having travelled in several mountainous regions of the world, estimated the nearest precipices to be upwards of three thousand feet, without a break from top to bottom, but the ranges in the background towered far above these, and must have been at least double.

“I never saw anything like this before, Tom,” said Ned, in a suppressed voice.

“I did not believe such sublime scenery existed,” replied his companion. “I have travelled in Switzerland and Norway, but this surpasses both. Truly it was worth while to give up our gold-digging in order to see this.”

“Yet there are many,” rejoined Ned, “who travel just far enough into California to reach the diggings, where they remain till their fortunes are made, or till their hopes are disappointed, and then return to England and write a book, perchance, in which they speak as authoritatively as if they had swept the whole region, north and south, east and west. Little wonder that we find such travellers contradicting each other flatly. One speaks of ‘California’ as being the most splendid agricultural country in the world, and advises every one to emigrate at once; while another condemns it as an arid, unproductive region, fit only for the support of Indians and grizzly-bears;—the fact being, that both speak, (correctly enough, it may be), of the very small portion of California they have respectively visited. Why, the more I travel in this wonderful land the more I feel how very little I know about it; and had I returned to England without having seen this valley, I should have missed one of the most remarkable sights, not only in the country, but, I verily believe, in the world. If you ever return home, Tom, and are persuaded, ‘at the earnest request of numerous friends,’ to write a book, don’t dogmatise as to facts; remember how limited your experience has been, and don’t forget that facts in one valley are not facts at all in another valley eight or ten miles off.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Tom Collins, patting the arched neck of his steed—“perhaps the advice with which you have just favoured me might, with greater propriety, have proceeded from me to you; for, considering the copious variety of your sentiments on this and other subjects, and the fluency with which you utter them, it is likely that you will rush into print long before I timidly venture, with characteristic modesty, even to grasp the pen!”

As Tom ceased speaking they came upon a forest of pine, or fir trees, in the midst of which towered a tree of such gigantic height, that its appearance caused them simultaneously to draw up, and gaze at it in silent wonder.

“Can it be possible,” said Ned, “that our eyes don’t deceive us! Surely some peculiarity in the atmosphere gives that tree false proportions?”

Without answering, Tom galloped towards the tree in question, closely followed by his friend.

Instead of any delusive haze being cleared away, however, the tree grew larger as they approached, and when they halted about twenty yards from it, they felt that they were indeed in the presence of the monarch of the forest. The tree, which they measured, after viewing it in wondering admiration from all points of view, was ninety-three feet in circumference, and it could not have been less than three hundred and sixty feet high. They little knew that, many years afterwards, the bark of this giant tree, to the height of a hundred and sixteen feet, was to be removed to England, built up in its original form, and exhibited in the great Crystal Palace of Sydenham; yet so it was, and part of the “mother of the forest” may be seen there at this day.

Towards evening the travellers drew near to the head of the valley.

“We must be approaching a waterfall of no ordinary size,” remarked Tom, as they rode through the dark shades of the forest, which were pretty extensive there.

“I have heard its roar for some time,” answered Ned, “but until we clear this belt of trees we shan’t see it.”

Just then the roar of the fall burst upon them with such deafening violence, that they involuntarily started. It seemed as if a mighty torrent had burst its bounds and was about to sweep them away, along with the forest through which they rode. Pressing forward in eager haste, they soon found that their having doubled round a huge mountain barrier, which the trees had hitherto concealed from them, was the cause of the sudden increase in the roar of the fall, but they were still unable to see it, owing to the dense foliage that overshadowed them. As they galloped on, the thunder of falling waters became more deep and intense, until they reached an elevated spot, comparatively free from trees, which overlooked the valley, and revealed a sight such as is not equalled even by Niagara itself.

A succession of wall-like mountains rose in two tiers before them literally into the clouds, for several of the lower clouds floated far below the highest peaks, and from the summit of the highest range a river, equal to the Thames at Richmond, dropt sheer down a fall of above two thousand feet. Here it met the summit of the lower mountain-range, on which it burst with a deep-toned, sullen, never-ceasing roar, comparable only to eternal thunder. A white cloud of spray received the falling river in its soft embrace, and sent it forth again—turbulent and foam bespeckled—towards its second leap, another thousand feet, into the plain below. The entire height of the fall was above three thousand feet. Its sublimity no language can convey. Its irresistible effect on the minds of the wanderers was to turn their thoughts to the almighty Creator of so awe-inspiring and wonderful a scene.

Here they discovered another tree, which was so large that their thoughts were diverted even from the extraordinary cataract for a short time. Unlike the previous one, this monarch of the woods lay prostrate on the ground, but its diameter near the root was so great that they could not see over it though seated on horseback. It measured a hundred and twenty feet in circumference, and, when standing, must have been little, if at all, short of five hundred feet in height.

Surrounded as they were by such noble and stupendous works of God, the travellers could not find words to express their feelings. Deep emotion has no articulate language. The heaving breast and the glowing eye alone indicate the fervour of the thoughts within. For a long time they sat gazing round them in silent wonder and admiration, then they dismounted to measure the great tree, and after that Ned sat down to sketch the fall, while his companion rode forward to select a spot for camping on.

Tom had not proceeded far when he came upon the track of wheels in the grass, a sight which surprised him much, for into that remote region he had supposed few travellers ventured, even on horseback. The depth and breadth of the tracks, too, surprised him not a little. They were much deeper and broader than those caused by any species of cart he had yet seen or heard of in the country, and the width apart was so great, that he began to suspect he must have mistaken a curious freak of nature for the tracks of a gigantic vehicle. Following the track for some distance, he came to a muddy spot, where the footprints of men and horses became distinctly visible. A little further on he passed the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern, and, being of an inquisitive disposition, he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, intending to examine the entrance.

To enter a dark cave, in a wild, unknown region, with the din of a thundering cataract filling the ears, just after having discovered tracks of a mysterious nature in the neighbourhood, was so trying to Tom’s nervous system, that he half resolved to give it up; but the exploration of a cavern has a fascination to some dispositions which every one cannot understand. Tom said “Pshaw!” to himself in an undertone, and boldly stepping into the dark portals of the cave, he disappeared.

Meanwhile, Edward Sinton finished his sketch, and, supposing that Tom was waiting for him in advance, he mounted and galloped forward as fast as the nature of the ground would allow.

Soon he came to the tracks before mentioned, and shortly after to the muddy spot with the footprints. Here he drew rein, and dismounted to examine the marks more closely. Our hero was as much perplexed as his friend had been at the unusually broad tracks of the vehicle which had passed that way. Leading his horse by the bridle, he advanced slowly until he came to the spot where Tom’s horse stood fastened to a tree,—a sight which alarmed him greatly, for the place was not such as any one would have selected for an encampment, yet had any foul play befallen his friend, he knew well that the horse would not have been left quietly there.

Sorely puzzled, and filled with anxious fears, he examined the spot carefully, and at last came upon the entrance to the cavern, before which he paused, uncertain what to do. The shadows of evening were fast falling on the scene, and he experienced a feeling of dread as he gazed into the profound gloom. He was convinced that Tom must be there; but the silence, and the length of time he had been absent, led him to fear that some accident had befallen his friend.

“Ho! Tom!” he shouted, on entering, “are you there?” There was a rolling echo within, but no voice replied to the question.

Again Ned shouted at the full pitch of his lungs, and this time he thought he heard a faint reply. Hurrying forward eagerly, as quickly as he dared, he repeated his shout, but the declivity of the entrance became so great that he lost his footing and well-nigh fell headlong down a steep incline. He succeeded, however, in regaining his hold, and clambered back to the entrance as quickly as possible.

Here he caught up a pine-knot, struck a light and kindled it, and, with this torch held high above his head, advanced once more into the cavern.

The voice of Tom Collins at this moment came loud and full from the interior,—“Take care, Ned, there’s a sharp descent; I’ve tumbled down it, but I don’t think I’m much hurt.”

“Cheer up, my boy,” cried Ned, heartily; “I’ll get you out in a minute.”

The next moment he stood beside his friend, who had risen from the rugged floor of the cave, and sat on a piece of rock, resting his head on his hand.

“Are you badly hurt, my poor fellow?” said Ned, anxiously, going down on one knee and endeavouring to raise his friend’s head. “I fear you are. Here, try a drop of this brandy. That’s it. Why, you look better already. Come, now, let me examine you.”

The spirit revived Tom at once, and he replied cheerfully, as he submitted to inspection,—“All right, I was only stunned a little by the fall. Catch me exploring again without a light!”

On examination, Ned found, to his great relief; that his friend’s hurts were slight. He had been stunned by the severity of his fall, but no bones were broken, and only a few scratches received, so that, after another sip of brandy, he felt almost as well as ever. But he firmly resisted his companion’s entreaty to leave the cavern.

“No, my boy,” said he, “after paying such a price as entrance fee, I’m not going to quit until I have explored the whole of this cave, so please go out for another pine-knot or two, and I’ll wait for you.”

Seeing that he was determined, Ned obeyed, and soon returned with several fresh torches, two of which were ignited, and a bright light sent far and wide into the roof of the cave, which was at a great height above them.

The walls were of curious, and in some places grotesque, forms. Immense stalactites hung from the roof, and these were of varied colours,—pale green, pink, and white,—while some of them looked like cascades, which sprang from the walls, and had been petrified ere they quite reached the ground. The roof was supported by natural pillars, and various arched openings led into similar chambers, some of which were larger and more curious than the outer one.

“Do you know,” said Ned Sinton, as they sat down on a rock in one of the inner chambers to rest, “this place recalls vividly to my remembrance a strange dream which I had just before leaving England.”

“Indeed!” said Tom; “I hope you’re not a believer in dreams. Don’t, I beseech you, take it into your head that it’s going to be realised at this particular moment, whatever it was.”

“It would take a very strong amount of belief indeed to induce me to expect the realisation of that dream. Shall I tell it you?”

“Is it a very ghostly one?” inquired Tom.

“No; not at all.”

“Then out with it.”

Ned immediately began the narration of the remarkable dream with which this story opens, and as he went on to tell of how the stout old gentleman snuffed gold-dust, and ultimately shot up to the roof of the cave, and became a golden stalactite, Tom Collins, whose risible tendencies were easily roused, roared with laughter, until the vaulted caverns echoed again. At the end of one of these explosions, the two friends were struck dumb by certain doleful and mysterious sounds which proceeded from the further end of the inmost chamber. In starting to his feet, Tom Collins let fall his torch, and in the convulsive clutch which he made to catch it, he struck the other torch out of Ned’s hand, so that instantly both were left in the profoundest darkness, with their hearts beating like sledge-hammers against their ribs.

To flee was their first and natural impulse; but to flee in the dark, over rough ground, and with very imperfect ideas as to the position of the cave’s outlet, was dangerous.

“What is to be done?” ejaculated Tom Collins in a tone that indicated the perturbation of his heart too clearly.

At that moment Ned remembered that he had a box of matches in the pocket of his hunting-coat; so, without answering, he drew it forth, struck a light, and re-ignited the torches.

“Now, Tom,” he said, “don’t let us give way to unmanly fears. I have no belief whatever in ghosts or spirits, good or evil, being permitted to come in visible or audible form to frighten poor mortals. Every effect has a cause, and I’m determined to find out the cause of these strange sounds. They certainly proceed from animal lungs, whether from man or beast remains to be seen.”

“Go ahead, then, I’ll follow,” said Tom, whose courage had returned with the light, “I’m game for anything that I can see; but I confess to you that I can not stand howls, and groans and darkness.”

Notwithstanding their utmost efforts they failed to discover the cause of the mysterious sounds, which seemed at times to be voices muttering, while at other times they swelled out into a loud cry. All that could be certainly ascertained was, that they proceeded from the roof of the innermost cavern, and that the centre of that roof was too high to be discerned by torch-light.

“What shall we do now?” inquired Tom.

“We shall go to the summit of the hill above this cave, and see what is to be seen there. Always look at both sides of a mystery if you would fathom it; come along.”

In a few minutes they stood in open air, and once more breathed freely. Mounting their horses, they ascended the steep slope of the hill above the cave, and, after some trouble, reached the summit. Here the first thing that met their gaze was a camp-fire, and near to it several men engaged in harnessing their horses to a large waggon or van. The frantic haste with which they performed the operation convinced Ned that he had discovered the cause of the mysterious voices, and that he and Tom had been the innocent cause of frightening the strangers nearly out of their wits. So engrossed were they with their work, that our travellers advanced within the circle of light of their fire before they were discovered. The man who first saw them uttered a yell, and the whole party turned round, seized their rifles, and, with terror depicted on their countenances, faced the intruders.

“Who comes here?” shouted one.

“Friends,” answered Ned, laying down his rifle and advancing.

Instantly the men threw down their arms and resumed the work of harnessing their horses.

“If ye be friends,” cried the one who spoke first, “give us a hand. I guess all the fiends in the bottomless pit are lo-cated jist below our feet.”

“Listen to me for one moment, gentlemen,” cried Ned Sinton. “I think I can relieve your minds. What have you heard or seen?”

At these words the men stopped, and looked inquiringly at their questioner.

“Seen! stranger, we’ve seed nothin’, but we’ve hear’d a sight, we have, I calc’late. We hear’d the imps o’ darkness talkin’ as plain as I hear you. At first I thought it was somebody at the foot o’ the hill, but all of a suddent the imps took to larfin’ as if they’d split, jist under my feet, so I yelled out to my mate here to come an’ yoke the beasts and git away as slick as we could. We wos jist about ready to slope when you appeared.”

Ned now explained to them the cause of their alarms, and on search being made, a hole was found, as he had anticipated, close at hand among the bushes, which communicated with the cavern below, and formed a channel for the conveyance of the so-called mysterious sounds.

“And now,” said Ned, “may I ask permission to pass the night with you?”

“You’re welcome, stranger,” replied he who seemed to be the chief of the band—a tall, bearded American, named Croft, who seemed more like a bandit than an honest man. His comrades, too, six in number, appeared a wild and reckless set of fellows, with whom one would naturally desire to hold as little intercourse as possible; but most men at the Californian diggings had more or less the aspect of brigands, so Ned Sinton and his companion felt little concern as to their characters, although they did feel a little curious as to what had brought them to such a wild region.

“If it is not taking too great a liberty,” said Ned, after answering the thousand questions put to him in rapid succession by his Yankee host, “may I ask what has brought you to this out-of-the-way valley?”

“Bear-catchin’,” answered the man, shortly, as he addressed himself to a large venison steak, which a comrade had just cooked for him.

“Bear-catching?” ejaculated Ned.

“Ay, an’ screamin’ hard work it is too, I guess; but it pays well.”

“What do you do with them when caught?” inquired Tom Collins, in a somewhat sceptical tone.

“Take ’em down to the cities, an’ sells ’em to fight with wild bulls.”

At this answer our travellers stared at the man incredulously.

“You’re strangers here, I see,” he resumed, “else you’d know that we have bull and bear fights. The grizzlies are chained by one leg and the bulls let loose at ’em. The bulls charge like all possessed, but they find it hard to do much damage to Caleb, whose hide is like a double-extra rhinoceros. The grizzlies ginerally git the best of it; an’ if they was let loose, they’d chaw up the bulls in no time, they would. There’s a great demand for ’em jist now, an’ my trade is catchin’ ’em alive here in the mountains.”

The big Yankee stretched out his long limbs and smoked his pipe with the complacent aspect of a man who felt proud of his profession.

“Do you mean that you seven men catch fall-grown grizzly-bears alive and take them down to the settlements?” inquired Ned in amazement.

“Sartinly I do,” replied the bear-catcher; “an’ why not, stranger?”

“Because I should have thought it impossible.”

“Nothin’’s impossible,” replied the man, quietly.

“But how do you manage it?”

Instead of replying, the Yankee inquired if “the strangers” would stay over next forenoon with them.

“With much pleasure,” answered Ned, not a little amused at the invitation, as well as the man’s brusque manner.

“Well, then,” continued the bear-catcher, shaking the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into his hat, “I’ll let ye see how we do it in the mornin’. Good-night.”

So saying, he drew his blanket over his head and resigned himself to sleep, an example which was speedily followed by the whole party.

Chapter Twenty.

Grizzly-Bear-Catching in the Mountains—Ned and Tom dine in the midst of Romantic Scenery, and hold Sagacious Converse—The Strange Devices of Woodpeckers.

Just as day began to peep on the following morning, the camp was roused by one of the bear-catchers, a Mexican, who had been away to visit the bear-trap during the night, and now came rushing in among the sleepers, shouting—

“Hoor-roo! boy, him cotch, him cotch! big as twinty mans! fact!”

At first Ned thought the camp was attacked by savages, and he and Tom sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles, while they sought to rub their eyes open hastily. A glance at the other members of the camp, however, shewed that they were unnecessarily alarmed. Croft leisurely stretched his limbs, and then gathered himself slowly into a sitting posture, while the others arose with various degrees of reluctance.

“Bin long in?” inquired Croft.

“No, jist cotched,” answered the Mexican, who sat down, lit his pipe, and smoked violently, to relieve his impatient feelings.

“Big ’un?” inquired Croft, again.

To this the Mexican answered by rolling his eyes and exclaiming “Hoh!” with a degree of vigour that left his hearers to imagine anything they pleased, and then settle it in their minds that the thing so imagined was out of all sight short of the mark.

The excitement of the man at last fully roused the sleepy crew, and Croft sprang up with the agility of a cat.

“Ho! boys,” he cried, proceeding to buckle his garments round him, “up with you. Ketch the hosses, an’ put to. Look alive, will you? grease your jints, do. Now, strangers, I’ll shew you how we ketch a bar in this lo-cation; bring yer rules, for sometimes he breaks his trap, an’ isn’t there a spree jist!”

We need scarcely remark, that the latter part of this speech was made to Sinton and his comrade, who were drawing the charges of their revolvers and reloading.

“Is the trap far off?” inquired Ned.

“Quarter of an hour, or so. Look sharp, lads.”

This exhortation was unnecessary, for the men had already caught three stout horses, all of which were attached to an enormous waggon or van, whose broad wheels accounted for the tracks discovered in the valley on the previous evening.

“That’s his cage,” said the bear-catcher, replying to Ned’s look of inquiry. “It’s all lined with sheet-iron, and would hold an ontamed streak o’ lightnin’, it would. Now, then, drive ahead.”

The lumbering machine jolted slowly down the hill as he spoke, and while several of the party remained with the horses, Croft and our travellers, with the remainder, pushed on ahead. In less than twenty minutes, they came to a ravine filled with thick underwood, from the recesses of which came forth sounds of fierce ursine wrath that would have deterred most men from entering; but Croft knew his game was secure, and led the way confidently through the bushes, until he reached a spot on which stood what appeared to be a small log-cabin without door or window. Inside of this cabin an enormous grizzly-bear raged about furiously, thrusting his snout and claws through the interstices of the logs, and causing splinters to fly all round him, while he growled in tones of the deepest indignation.

“Oh! ain’t he a bit o’ thunder?” cried Croft, as he walked round the trap, gazing in with glittering eyes at every opening between the logs.

“How in the world did you get him in there?” asked Ned Sinton, as soon as his astonishment had abated sufficiently to loosen his tongue.

“Easy enough,” replied Croft. “If ye obsarve the top o’ the trap, ye’ll see the rope that suspended it from the limb o’ that oak. Inside there was a bit o’ beef, so fixed up, that when Mister Caleb laid hold of it, he pulled a sort o’ trigger, an’ down came the trap, shuttin’ him in slick, as ye see.”

At this moment the powerful animal struggled so violently that he tilted his prison on one side, and well-nigh overturned it.

“Look out, lads,” shouted Croft, darting towards a tree, and cocking his rifle,—actions in which he was imitated by all the rest of the party, with surprising agility.

“Don’t fire till it turns over,” he cried, sternly, on observing that two of the more timid members of his band were about to fire at the animal’s legs, which appeared below the edge of the trap. Fortunately, the bear ceased its efforts just at that critical moment, and the trap fell heavily back to its original position.

“By good luck!” shouted Croft; “an’ here comes the cage. Range up on the left, boys, and out with the hosses, they won’t stand this.”

The terrified animals were removed from the scene, trembling violently from head to foot, and the whole band, applying their shoulders to the wheels, slowly pushed the vehicle alongside of the trap until the sides of the two met.

There was a strong door in the side of the trap, which was now removed by being pulled inwards, revealing to bruin an aperture which corresponded to another door opening into the iron-lined cage. There were stout iron bars ready to be shot home the instant he condescended to pass through this entrance; but Caleb, as Croft called him, shewed himself sadly destitute of an inquiring disposition. He knew that there was now a hole in his prison-wall, for he looked at it; he knew that a hole either conducted into a place or out of it, for life-long experience had taught him that; yet he refused to avail himself of the opportunity, and continued to rage round the trap, glaring between the logs at his foes outside. It is unreasonable to suppose that he was afraid to go into the hole because it was a dark one, for he was well accustomed to such dark dens; besides, no one who looked at him could for a moment suppose that he was, or could be, afraid of anything at all. We must, therefore, put his conduct down to sheer obstinacy.

The men poked him with sticks; shouted at him; roared in his face; threw water over him; and even tried the effect of a shot of powder at his flank; but all to no purpose, although their efforts were continued vigorously for full two hours. The bear would not enter that hole on any account whatever.

“Try another shot of powder at him,” cried Croft, whose patience was now almost exhausted.

The shot was fired at his flank, and was received with a ferocious growl, while the strong wood-work of the trap trembled under his efforts to escape.

“Ain’t it vexin’?” said Croft, sitting down on the stump of a tree and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Ned Sinton and Tom, who had done their utmost to assist their new acquaintance, sat down beside him and admitted that it was vexing. As if by one impulse, the whole party then sat down to rest, and at that moment, having, as it were, valiantly asserted his right of independent action, the bear turned slowly round and quietly scrambled through the hole. The men sprang up; the massive iron bars were shot into their sockets with a clang; and bruin was a prisoner for life.

As neither Edward Sinton nor Tom Collins had any particular desire to become bear-catchers, they bade their new friends adieu that afternoon, and continued their journey. The road, as they advanced, became more and more steep and rugged, so that they could only proceed at a walk, and in many places experienced considerable difficulty, and ran no little risk, in passing along the faces of cliffs, where the precipices ascended hundreds of feet upwards like walls, on the one hand, and descended sheer down into an unfathomable abyss, on the other. But the exceeding grandeur of the scenery amply repaid their toils, and the deep roar of that mighty cataract ever sounded in their ears. At length they reached the head of the valley, and stood under the spray of the fall, which, expanding far above and around the seething caldron whence it sprang, drenched the surrounding country with perpetual showers.

Here a gap or pass in the mountains was discovered, ascending on the left, and affording, apparently, an exit from the valley. Up this the travellers toiled until they cleared the spray of the falls, and then sat down beside a clump of trees to dry their garments in the sunshine and to cook their mid-day meal.

“What a glorious thing it is, Tom, to wander thus unrestrained amid such scenes!” said Ned Sinton, as he busied himself roasting a piece of venison, which his rifle had procured but half-an-hour before. “How infinitely more delightful than travelling in the civilised world, where one is cheated at every turn, and watched and guarded as if robbery, or murder, or high treason were the only probable objects a traveller could have in view.”

“‘Comparisons,’ my dear fellow—you know the proverb,” replied Tom Collins; “don’t uphold California at the expense of the continent. Besides, there are many in this world who would rather a thousand times wander by the classic lake of Como, with its theatrical villas and its enchanting sunshine and perfume, or paddle up the castellated Rhine, than scramble here among wild rocks, and woods, and cataracts, with the chance of meeting an occasional savage or a grizzly-bear.”

“Go on, my boy,” said Ned, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, “you haven’t read me half a lesson yet. Besides, the ‘many’ you refer to, are there not hundreds, ay, thousands, whose chief enjoyment in travelling is derived from the historical associations called up by the sight of the ruined castles and temples of classic ground—whose delight it is to think that here Napoleon crossed the Alps, as Hannibal did before him, (and many a nobody has done after him), that there, within these mouldering ruins, the oracles of old gave forth their voice—forgetting, perhaps, too easily, while they indulge in these reminiscences of the past, that the warrior’s end was wholesale murder, and that the oracle spoke only to deceive poor ignorant human nature. Ha! I would not give one hearty dash into pure, uncontaminated nature for all the famous ‘tours’ put together.”

Ned looked round him as he spoke, with a glow of enthusiasm that neither badinage nor philosophy could check.

“Just look around thee,” he continued; “open thine ears, Tom, to the music of yon cataract, and expand thy nostrils to the wild perfume of these pines.”

“I wouldn’t, at this moment,” quietly remarked Tom, “exchange for it the perfume of that venison steak, of which I pray thee to be more regardful, else thou’lt upset it into the fire.”

“Oh! Tom—incorrigible!”

“Not at all, Ned. While you flatter yourself that you have all the enthusiastic study of nature to yourself, here have I succeeded, within the last few minutes, in solving a problem in natural history which has puzzled my brains for weeks past.”

“And, pray thee, what may that be, most sapient philosopher?”

“Do you see yonder bird clinging to the stem of that tree, and pitching into it as if it were its most deadly foe?”

“I do—a woodpecker it is.”

“Well,” continued Tom, sitting down before his portion of the venison steak, “that bird has cleared up two points in natural history, which have, up till this time, been a mystery to me. The one was, why woodpeckers should spend their time in pecking the trees so incessantly; the other was, how it happened that several trees I have cut down could have had so many little holes bored in their trunks, and an acorn neatly inserted into each. Now that little bird has settled the question for me. I caught him in the act not ten minutes ago. He flew to that tree with an acorn in his beak, tried to insert it into a hole, which didn’t fit, being too small; so he tried another, which did fit, poked the nut in, small end first, and tapped it scientifically home. Now, why did he do it? That’s the question.”

“Because he wanted to, probably,” remarked Ned; “and very likely he lays up a store of food for winter in this manner.”

“Very possibly. I shall make a note of this, for I’m determined to have it sifted to the bottom. Meanwhile, I’ll trouble you for another junk of venison.”

It was many weeks afterwards ere Tom Collins succeeded in sifting this interesting point to the bottom; but perhaps the reader may not object to have the result of his inquiries noted at this point in our story.

Many of the trees in California, on being stripped of their bark, are found to be perforated all over with holes about the size of a musket-ball. These are pierced by the woodpecker with such precision and regularity that one might believe they had been cut out by a ship-carpenter. The summer is spent by this busy little bird in making these holes and in filling them with acorns. One acorn goes to one hole, and the bird will not try to force the nut into a hole that is too small for it, but flutters round the tree until it finds one which fits it exactly. Thus one by one the holes are filled, and a store of food is laid up for winter use in a larder which secures it from the elements, and places it within reach of the depositor when the winter snows have buried all the acorns that lie upon the ground, and put them beyond the reach of woodpeckers. The birds never encroach on their store until the snow has covered the ground, then they begin to draw upon their bank; and it is a curious fact that the bills of these birds are always honoured, for their instinct enables them to detect the bad nuts with unerring certainty, so that their bank is always filled with good ones. This matter of selecting the good nuts is a mere chance with men, for often those shells which seem the soundest, are found to contain a grub instead of a nut. Even the sagacious Indian is an uncertain judge in this respect, but the woodpecker, provided by an all-wise Creator with an unerring instinct, never makes a mistake in selecting its store of food for winter.

Chapter Twenty One.

Curious Trees, and still more Curious Plains—An Interesting Discovery, followed by a Sad one—Fate of Travellers in the Mountains—A Sudden Illness—Ned proves himself to be a friend in Need and in Deed, as well as an Excellent Doctor, Hunter, Cook, and Nurse—Deer-Shooting by Firelight.

During the course of their wanderings among the mountains our hero and his companion met with many strange adventures and saw many strange sights, which, however, we cannot afford space to dwell upon here. Their knowledge in natural history, too, was wonderfully increased, for they were both observant men, and the school of nature is the best in which any one can study. Audubon, the hunter-naturalist of America, knew this well! and few men have added so much as he to the sum of human knowledge in his peculiar department, while fewer still have so wonderfully enriched the pages of romantic adventure in wild, unknown regions.

In these wanderings, too, Ned and Tom learned to know experimentally that truth is indeed stranger than fiction, and that if the writers of fairy-tales had travelled more they would have saved their imaginations a deal of trouble, and produced more extraordinary works.

The size of the trees they encountered was almost beyond belief, though none of them surpassed the giant of which an account has been already given. Among other curious trees they found sugar-pines growing in abundance in one part of the country. This is, perhaps, the most graceful of all the pines. With a perfectly straight and cylindrical stem and smooth bark, it rears its proud crest high above other trees, and flings its giant limbs abroad, like a sentinel guarding the forest. The stem rises to about four-fifths of its height perfectly free of branches; above this point the branches spread out almost horizontally, drooping a little at the ends from the weight of the huge cones which they bear. These cones are about a foot-and-a-half long, and under each leaf lies a seed the size of a pea, which has an agreeably sweet taste, and is much esteemed by the Indians, who use it as an article of food.

Another remarkable sight they saw was a plain, of some miles in extent, completely covered with shattered pieces of quartz, which shone with specks and veins of pure gold. Of course they had neither time nor inclination to attempt the laborious task of pulverising this quartz in order to obtain the precious metal; but Ned moralised a little as they galloped over the plain, spurning the gold beneath their horses’ hoofs, as if it had been of no value whatever! They both puzzled themselves also to account for so strange an appearance; but the only solution that seemed to them at all admissible was, that a quartz vein had, at some early period of the world’s history, been shattered by a volcanic eruption, and the plain thus strewn with gold.

But from the contemplation of these and many other interesting sights and phenomena we must pass to an event which seriously affected the future plans of the travellers.

One beautiful evening—such an evening as, from its deep quiet and unusual softness, leaves a lasting impression on the memory—the two horsemen found themselves slowly toiling up the steep acclivity of a mountain-ridge. Their advance was toilsome, for the way was rugged, and no track of any kind assisted them in their ascent.

“I fear the poor horses will give in,” said Ned, dismounting and looking back at his companion, who slowly followed him.

“We are near the summit,” answered Tom, “and they shall have a long rest there.”

As he spoke, they both dismounted and advanced on foot, leading their fatigued horses by the bridles.

“Do you know,” said Tom, with a sigh, “I feel more used up to-day than I have been since we started on this journey. I think we had better encamp and have a cup of tea; there is a little left yet, if I mistake not.”

“With all my heart, Tom; I, too, feel inclined to rest, and—”

Ned paused, for at that moment they overtopped the highest edge of the ridge, and the view that burst upon them was well fitted to put to flight every previous train of thought.

The ridge on which they stood rose several hundred feet above the level of the plain beyond, and commanded a view of unknown extent towards the far west.

The richest possible sweep of country was spread out at their feet like a huge map, bathed in a glow of yellow sunshine. Lakes and streams, crags and rocks, sward, and swamp, and plain—undulating and abrupt, barren and verdant—all were there, and could be embraced in a single wide-sweeping glance. It seemed, to the entranced travellers, like the very garden of Eden. Water-fowl flew about in all directions, the whistling of their wings and their wild cries being mellowed by distance into pleasant music; and, far away on the right, where a clear lake mirrored each tree on its banks, as if the image were reality, a herd of deer were seen cooling their sides and limbs in the water, while, on the extreme horizon, a line of light indicated the shores of the vast Pacific Ocean.

Ere the travellers could find words to express their feelings, a rock, with a piece of stick and a small rag attached to it, attracted their attention.

“We are not the first who have set their feet here, it seems,” said Ned, pointing to the signal.

“Strange!” muttered Tom Collins, as they turned towards the rock; “that does not look like an Indian mark; yet I would have thought that white men had never stood here before, for the spot is far removed from any known diggings, and, as we know fail well, is not easily reached.”

On gaining the rock, they found that the rag was a shred of linen, without mark of any kind to tell who had placed it there.

“It must have been the freak of some Indian hunter,” said Ned, examining the rock on which the little flag-staff was raised. “Stay—no—here are some marks cut in the stone! Look here, Tom, can you decipher this? It looks like the letter D—DB.”

“DB?” cried Tom Collins, with a degree of energy that surprised his friend. “Let me see!”

Tom carefully removed the moss, and cleared out the letters, which were unmistakeable.

“Who can DB have been?” said Ned.

Tom looked up with a flushed countenance and a glittering eye, as he exclaimed—

“Who? Who but Daniel Boone, Cooper’s great hero—Hawk-eye, of the ‘Last of the Mohicans’—Deer-slayer—Leather-stocking! He has been here before us—ay, brave spirit! Long before other hunters had dared to venture far into the territory of the scalping, torturing, yelling red-skin, this bold heart had pushed westward, fearless and alone, until his eagle eye rested on the great Pacific. It must have been he. I have followed him, Ned, in spirit, throughout all his wild career, for I knew him to be a real man, and no fiction; but little did I think that I should see a spot where his manly foot had rested, or live to discover his farthest step in the ‘far west!’”

Ned Sinton listened with interest to the words of his friend, but he did not interrupt him, for he respected the deep emotions that swelled his heart and beamed from his flashing eye.

“We spoke, Ned, sometime ago, of historical associations,” continued Tom,—“here are historical associations worth coming all this way to call up. Here are associations that touch my heart more than all the deeds of ancient chivalry. Ah! Daniel Boone, little didst thou think when thy hawk’s eye rested here, that in a few short years the land would be overrun by gold-diggers from all ends of the earth!”

“But this flag,” said Ned; “he could never have placed that here. It would have been swept away by storms years ago.”

“You are right,” said Tom, turning over the stones that supported the staff—“halloo! what have we here?”

He pulled out a roll of oiled cloth as he spoke, and, on opening it, discovered a scrap of paper, on which were written, in pencil, the words, “Help us!—for God’s sake help us! We are perishing at the foot of the hill to the southward of this.”

No name or date was attached to this strange paper, but the purport of it was sufficiently clear so, without wasting time in fruitless conjecture, the young men immediately sprang on their horses, and rode down the hill in the direction indicated.

The route proved more rugged and steep than that by which they had ascended, and, for a considerable distance, they wound their way between the trunks of a closely-planted cypress grove; after passing which they emerged upon a rocky plain of small extent, at the further extremity of which a green oasis indicated the presence of a spring.

Towards this they rode in silence.

“Ah!” exclaimed Ned, in a tone of deep pity, as he reined up at the foot of an oak-tree, “too late!”

They were indeed too late to succour the poor creatures who had placed the scrap of paper on the summit of that mountain-ridge, in the faint hope that friendly hands might discover it in time.

Six dead forms lay at the foot of the oak, side by side, with their pale faces turned upwards, and the expression of extreme suffering still lingering on their shrunken features. It needed no living witness to tell their sad history. The skeletons of oxen, the broken cart, the scattered mining tools, and the empty provision casks, shewed clearly enough that they were emigrants who had left their homesteads in the States, and tried to reach the gold-regions of California by the terrible overland journey. They had lost their way among the dreary fastnesses of the mountains, travelled far from the right road to the mines, and perished at last of exhaustion and hunger on the very borders of the golden land. The grey-haired father of the family lay beside a young girl, with his arm clasped round her neck. Two younger men also lay near them, one lying as if, in dying, he had sought to afford support to the other. The bodies were still fresh, and a glance shewed that nearly all of them were of one family.

“Alas! Ned, had we arrived a few days sooner we might have saved them,” said Tom.

“I think they must have been freed from their pains and sorrows here more than a week since,” replied the other, fastening his horse to a tree, and proceeding to search the clothes of the unfortunates for letters or anything that might afford a clue to their identity. “We must stay here an hour or two, Tom, and bury them.”

No scrap of writing, however, was found—not even a book with a name on it—to tell who the strangers were. With hundreds of others, no doubt, they had left their homes, full of life and hope, to seek their fortunes in the land of gold; but the Director of man’s steps had ordered it otherwise, and their golden dreams had ended with their lives in the unknown wilderness.

The two friends covered the bodies with sand and stones, and, leaving them in their shallow grave, pursued their way; but they had not gone far when a few large drops of rain fell, and the sky became overcast with dark leaden clouds.

“Ned,” said Tom, anxiously, “I fear we shall be caught by the rainy season. It’s awkward being so far from the settlements at such a time.”

“Oh, nonsense! surely you don’t mind a wetting?” cried Ned; “we can push on in spite of rain.”

“Can we?” retorted Tom, with unwonted gravity. “It’s clear that you’ve never seen the rainy season, else you would not speak of it so lightly.”

“Why, man, you seem to have lost pluck all of a sudden; come, cheer up; rain or no rain, I mean to have a good supper, and a good night’s rest; and here is just the spot that will suit us.”

Ned Sinton leaped off his horse as he spoke, and, fastening him to a tree, loosened the saddle-girths, and set about preparing the encampment. Tom Collins assisted him; but neither the rallying of his comrade, nor his own efforts could enable the latter to shake off the depression of spirits with which he was overpowered. That night the rain came down in torrents, and drenched the travellers to the skin, despite their most ingenious contrivances to keep it out. They spent the night in misery, and when morning broke Ned found that his companion was smitten down with ague.

Even Ned’s buoyant spirits were swamped for a time at this unlooked-for catastrophe; for the dangers of their position were not slight. It was clear that Tom would not be able to travel for many days, for his whole frame trembled, when the fits came on, with a violence that seemed to threaten dislocation to all his joints. Ned felt that both their lives, under God, depended on his keeping well, and being able to procure food for, and nurse, his friend. At the same time, he knew that the rainy season, if indeed it had not already begun, would soon set in, and perhaps render the country impassable. There was no use, however, in giving way to morbid fears, so Ned faced his difficulties manfully, and, remembering the promise which he had given his old uncle at parting from him in England, he began by offering up a short but earnest prayer at the side of his friend’s couch.

“Ned,” said Tom, sadly, as his companion ceased, “I fear that you’ll have to return alone.”

“Come, come, don’t speak that way, Tom; it isn’t right. God is able to help us here as well as in cities. I don’t think you are so ill as you fancy—the sight of these poor emigrants has depressed you. Cheer up, my boy, and I’ll let you see that you were right when you said I could turn my hand to anything. I’ll be hunter, woodcutter, cook, and nurse all at once, and see if I don’t make you all right in a day or two. You merely want rest, so keep quiet for a little till I make a sort of sheltered place to put you in.”

The sun broke through the clouds as he spoke and shed a warm beam down on poor Tom, who was more revived by the sight of the cheering orb of day than by the words of his companion.

In half-an-hour Tom was wrapped in the driest portion of the driest blanket; his wet habiliments were hung up before a roaring fire to dry, and a rude bower of willows, covered with turf, was erected over his head to guard him from another attack of rain, should it come; but it didn’t come. The sun shone cheerily all day, and Ned’s preparations were completed before the next deluge came, so that when it descended on the following morning, comparatively little found its way to Tom’s resting-place.

It was scarcely a resting-place, however. Tom turned and groaned on his uneasy couch, and proved to be an uncommonly restive patient. He complained particularly when Ned left him for a few hours each day to procure fresh provisions; but he smiled and confessed himself unreasonable when Ned returned, as he always did, with a dozen wild ducks, or several geese or hares attached to his belt, or a fat deer on his shoulders. Game of all kinds was plentiful, the weather improved, the young hunter’s rifle was good, and his aim was true, so that, but for the sickness of his friend, he would have considered the life he led a remarkably pleasant one.

As day after day passed by, however, and Tom Collins grew no better, but rather worse, he began to be seriously alarmed about him. Tom himself took the gloomiest view of his case, and at last said plainly he believed he was dying. At first Ned sought to effect a cure by the simple force of kind treatment and care; but finding that this would not do, he bethought him of trying some experiments in the medicinal way. He chanced to have a box of pills with him, and tried one, although with much hesitation and fear, for he had got them from a miner who could not tell what they were composed of, but who assured him they were a sovereign remedy for the blues! Ned, it must be confessed, was rather a reckless doctor. He was anxious, at the time he procured the pills, to relieve a poor miner who seemed to be knocked up with hard work, but who insisted that he had a complication of ailments; so Ned bought the pills for twenty times their value, and gave a few to the man, advising him, at the same time, to rest and feed well, which he did, and the result was a complete cure.

Our hero did not feel so certain, however, that they would succeed as well in the present case; but he resolved to try their virtues, for Tom was so prostrate that he could scarcely be induced to whisper a word. When the cold fit seized him he trembled so violently that his teeth rattled in his head; and when that passed off it was followed by a burning fever, which was even worse to bear.

At first he was restive, and inclined to be peevish under his illness, the result, no doubt, of a naturally-robust constitution struggling unsuccessfully against the attacks of disease, but when he was completely overcome, his irascibility passed away, and he became patient, sweet-tempered, and gentle as a child.

“Come, Tom, my boy,” said Ned, one evening, advancing to the side of his companion’s couch and sitting down beside him, while he held up the pill—“Open your mouth, and shut your eyes, as we used to say at school.”

“What is it?” asked the sick man, faintly.

“Never you mind; patients have no business to know what their doctors prescribe. It’s intended to cure ague, and that’s enough for you to know. If it doesn’t cure you it’s not my fault, anyhow—open your mouth, sir!”

Tom smiled sadly and obeyed; the pill was dropt in, a spoonful of water added to float it down, and it disappeared.

But the pill had no effect whatever. Another was tried with like result—or rather with like absence of all result, and at last the box was finished without the sick man being a whit the better or the worse for them. This was disheartening; but Ned, having begun to dabble in medicines, felt an irresistible tendency to go on. Like the tiger who has once tasted blood, he could not now restrain himself.

“I think you’re a little better to-night, Tom,” he said on the third evening after the administration of the first pill; “I’m making you a decoction of bark here that will certainly do you good.”

Tom shook his head, but said nothing. He evidently felt that a negative sign was an appropriate reply to the notion of his being better, or of any decoction whatever doing him good. However, Ned stirred the panful of bark and water vigorously, chatting all the while in a cheering tone, in order to keep up his friend’s spirits, while the blaze of the camp-fire lit up his handsome face and bathed his broad chest and shoulders with a ruddy glow that rendered still more pallid the lustre of the pale stars overhead.

“It’s lucky the rain has kept off so long,” he said, without looking up from the mysterious decoction over which he bent with the earnest gaze of an alchymist. “I do believe that has something to do with your being better, my boy—either that or the pills, or both.”

Ned totally ignored the fact that his friend did not admit that he was better.

“And this stuff,” he continued, “will set you up in a day or two. It’s as good as quinine, any day; and you’ve no notion what wonderful cures that medicine effects. It took me a long time, too, to find the right tree. I wandered over two or three leagues of country before I came upon one. Luckily it was a fine sunny day, and I enjoyed it much. I wish you had been with me, Tom; but you’ll be all right soon. I lay down, too, once or twice in the sunshine, and put my head in the long grass, and tried to fancy myself in a miniature forest. Did you ever try that, Tom!”

Ned looked round as he spoke, but the sick man gave a languid smile, and shut his eyes, so he resumed his stirring of the pot and his rambling talk.

“You’ve no idea, if you never tried it, how one can deceive one’s-self in that way. I often did it at home, when I was a little boy. I used to go away with a companion into a grass-field, and, selecting a spot where the grass was long and tangled, and mixed with various kinds of weeds, we used to lie flat down with our faces as near to the ground as possible, and gaze through the grass-stems until we fancied the blades were trees, and the pebbles were large rocks, and the clods were mountains. Sometimes a huge beetle would crawl past, and we instantly thought of Saint George and the dragon, and, as the unwieldy monster came stumbling on through the forest, we actually became quite excited, and could scarcely believe that what we tried to imagine was not real.

“We seldom spoke on these occasions, my companion and I,” continued Ned, suspending the stirring of the decoction and filling his pipe, as he sat down close to the blazing logs; “speaking, we found, always broke the spell, so we agreed to keep perfect silence for as long a time as possible. You must try it, Tom, some day, for although it may seem to you a childish thing to do, there are many childish things which, when done in a philosophical spirit, are deeply interesting and profitable to men.”

Ned ceased talking for a few minutes while he ignited his pipe; when he spoke again his thoughts had wandered into a new channel.

“I’m sorry we have no fresh meat to-day,” he said, looking earnestly at his friend. “The remainder of that hare is not very savoury, but we must be content; I walked all the country round to-day, without getting within range of any living thing. There were plenty both of deer and birds, but they were so wild I could not get near them. It would matter little if you were well, Tom, but you require good food just now, my poor fellow. Do you feel better to-night?”

Tom groaned, and said that he “felt easier,” in a very uneasy voice, after which they both relapsed into silence, and no sound was heard save the crackling of the logs and the bubbling of the mysterious decoction in the pot. Suddenly Tom uttered a slight hiss,—that peculiar sound so familiar to backwoods ears, by which hunters indicate to each other that something unusual has been observed, and that they had better be on the alert.

Ned Sinton’s nerves were of that firm kind which can never be startled or taken by surprise. He did not spring to his feet, but, quick as thought, he stretched forth his long arm, and, seizing his rifle, cocked it, while he glanced at his friend’s eye to see in what direction he was looking. Tom pointed eagerly with his thin hand straight across the fire. Ned turned in that direction, and at once saw the objects which had attracted his attention. Two bright gleaming balls shone in the dark background of the forest, like two lustrous Irish diamonds in a black field of bog-oak. He knew at once that they were the eyes of a deer, which, with a curiosity well-known as peculiar to many wild animals, had approached the fire to stare at it.

Ned instantly threw forward his rifle; the light of the fire enabled him easily to align the sights on the glittering eyes; the deadly contents belched forth, and a heavy crash told that his aim had been true.

“Bravo!” shouted Tom Collins, forgetting his ailments in the excitement of the moment, while Ned threw down his rifle, drew his hunting-knife, sprang over the fire, and disappeared in the surrounding gloom. In a few minutes he returned with a fine deer on his shoulders.

“So ho! my boy,” he cried, flinging the carcase down; “that was a lucky shot. We shall sup well to-night, thanks to curiosity, which is a most useful quality in beast as well as man. But what’s wrong; you look pale, and, eh? you don’t mean to say you’re—laughing?”

Tom was indeed pale, for the sudden excitement, in his exhausted condition had been too much for him; yet there did seem a peculiar expression about the corners of his mouth that might have been the remains of a laugh.

“Ned,” he said, faintly, “the—the decoction’s all gone.” Ned sprang up and ran to the fire, where, sure enough, he found the pan, over which he had bent so long with necromantic gaze, upset, and most of the precious liquid gone.

“Ha!” he cried, catching up the pot, “not all gone, lad, so your rejoicing was premature. There’s quite enough left yet to physic you well; and it’s in fit state to be taken, so open your mouth at once, and be a good boy.”

A little of the medicine, mixed in water, was administered, and Tom, making a wry face, fell back on his couch with a sigh. Immediately after he was seized with, perhaps, the severest shaking fit he had yet experienced, so that Ned could not help recalling the well-known caution, so frequently met with on medicine vials, “When taken, to be well shaken,” despite the anxiety he felt for his friend. But soon after, the trembling fit passed away, and Tom sank into a quiet slumber,—the first real rest he had enjoyed for several days.

Ned felt his pulse and his brow, looked long and earnestly into his face, nodded approvingly once or twice, and, having tucked the blankets gently in round the sick man, he proceeded to prepare supper. He removed just enough of the deer’s skin to permit of a choice morsel being cut out; this he put into the pot, and made thereof a rich and savoury soup, which he tasted; and, if smacking one’s lips and tasting it again twice, indicated anything, the soup was good. But Ned Sinton did not eat it. That was Tom’s supper, and was put just near enough the fire to keep it warm.

This being done, Ned cut out another choice morsel of deer’s-meat, which he roasted and ate, as only those can eat who are well, and young, and robust, and in the heart of the wilderness. Then he filled his pipe, sat down close to Tom’s couch, placed his back against a tree, crossed his arms on his breast, and smoked and watched the whole night long.

He rose gently several times during the night, however, partly for the purpose of battling off his tendency to sleep, and partly for the purpose of replenishing the fire and keeping the soup warm.

But Tom Collins took no supper that night. Ned longed very much to see him awake, but he didn’t. Towards morning, Ned managed for some time to fight against sleep, by entering into a close and philosophical speculation as to what was the precise hour at which that pot of soup could not properly be called supper, but would merge into breakfast. This question still remained unsettled in his mind when grey dawn lit up the peaks of the eastern hills, and he was still debating it, and nodding like a Chinese mandarin, and staring at intervals like a confused owl, when the sun shot over the tree-tops, and, alighting softly on the sleeper’s face, aroused him.

Tom awoke refreshed, ate his breakfast with relish, took his medicine without grumbling, smiled on his comrade, and squeezed his hand as he went to sleep again with a heavy sigh of comfort. From that hour he mended rapidly, and in a week after he was well enough to resume his journey.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Powerful Effects of Gold on the Aspect of Things in General—The Doings at Little Creek Diggings—Larry becomes Speculative, and digs a Hole which nearly proves the Grave of many Miners—Captain Bunting takes a Fearful Dive—Ah-wow is smitten to the Earth—A Mysterious Letter, and a Splendid Dish.

We must now beg our reader to turn with us to another scene.

The appearance of Little Creek diggings altered considerably, and for the worse, after Ned Sinton and Tom Collins left. A rush of miners had taken place in consequence of the reports of the successful adventurers who returned to Sacramento for supplies, and, in the course of a few weeks, the whole valley was swarming with eager gold-hunters. The consequence of this was that laws of a somewhat stringent nature had to be made. The ground was measured off into lots of about ten feet square, and apportioned to the miners. Of course, in so large and rough a community, there was a good deal of crime, so that Judge Lynch’s services were frequently called in; but upon the whole, considering the circumstances of the colony, there was much less than might have been expected.

At the time of which we write, namely, several weeks after the events narrated in our last chapter, the whole colony was thrown into a state of excitement, in consequence of large quantities of gold having been discovered on the banks of the stream, in the ground on which the log-huts and tents were erected. The result of this discovery was, that the whole place was speedily riddled with pits and their concomitant mud-heaps, and, to walk about after night-fall, was a difficult as well as a dangerous amusement. Many of the miners pulled down their tents, and began to work upon the spots on which they previously stood. Others began to dig all round their wooden huts, until these rude domiciles threatened to become insular, and a few pulled their dwellings down in order to get at the gold beneath them.

One man, as he sat on his door-step smoking his pipe after dinner, amused himself by poking the handle of an axe into the ground, and, unexpectedly, turned up a small nugget of gold worth several dollars. In ten minutes there was a pit before his door big enough to hold a sheep, and, before night, he realised about fifty dollars. Another, in the course of two days, dug out one hundred dollars behind his tent, and all were more or less fortunate.

At this particular time, it happened that Captain Bunting had been seized with one of his irresistible and romantic wandering fits, and had gone off with the blunderbuss, to hunt in the mountains. Maxton, having heard of better diggings elsewhere, and not caring for the society of our adventurers when Ned and Tom were absent, had bid them good-bye, and gone off with his pick and shovel on his shoulder, and his prospecting-pan in his hand, no one knew whither. Bill Jones was down at Sacramento purchasing provisions, as the prices at the diggings were ruinous; and Ko-sing had removed with one of the other Chinamen to another part of the Creek.

Thus it came to pass that Larry O’Neil and Ah-wow, the Chinaman, were left alone to work out the claims of the party.

One fine day, Larry and his comrade were seated in the sunshine, concluding their mid-day meal, when a Yankee passed, and told them of the discoveries that had been made further down the settlement.

“Good luck to ye!” said Larry, nodding facetiously to the man, as he put a tin mug to his lips, and drained its contents to the bottom. “Ha! it’s the potheen I’m fond of; not but that I’ve seen better; faix I’ve seldom tasted worse, but there’s a vartue in goold-diggin’ that would make akifortis go down like milk—it would. Will ye try a drop?”

Larry filled the pannikin as he spoke, and handed it to the Yankee, who, nothing loth, drained it, and returned it empty, with thanks.

“They’re diggin’ goold out o’ the cabin floors, are they?” said Larry, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

“They air,” answered the man. “One feller dug up three hundred dollars yesterday, from the very spot where he’s bin snorin’ on the last six months.”

“Ah! thin that’s a purty little sum,” said Larry, with a leer that shewed he didn’t believe a word of it. “Does he expect more to-morrow, think ye?”

“Don’t know,” said the man, half offended at the doubt thus cast on his veracity; “ye better go an’ ax him. Good day, stranger;” and the Yankee strode away rapidly.

Larry scratched his head; then he rubbed his nose, and then his chin, without, apparently, deriving any particular benefit from these actions. After that, he looked up at Ah-wow, who was seated cross-legged on the ground opposite to him, smoking, and asked him what was his opinion.

“Dun no,” said the Chinaman, without moving a muscle of his stolid countenance.

“Oh! ye’re an entertainin’ cratur, ye are; I’ll just make a hole here where I sit, an’ see what comes of it. Sure it’s better nor doin’ nothin’.”

Saying this, Larry refilled his empty pipe, stretched himself at full length on his side, rested his head on his left hand, and smoked complacently for three minutes; after which he took up the long sheath-knife, with which he had just cut up his supper, and began carelessly to turn over the sod.

“Sure, there is goold,” he said, on observing several specks of the shining metal. As he dug deeper down, he struck upon a hard substance, which, on being turned up, proved to be a piece of quartz, the size of a hen’s egg, in which rich lumps and veins of gold were embedded.

“May I niver!” shouted the Irishman, starting up, and throwing away his pipe in his excitement, “av it isn’t a nugget. Hooray! where’s the pick!”

Larry overturned the Chinaman, who sat in his way, darted into the tent for his pick and shovel, and in five minutes was a foot down into the earth.

He came upon a solid rock, however, much to his chagrin, a few inches further down.

“Faix I’ll tell ye what I’ll do,” he said, as a new idea struck him, “I’ll dig inside o’ the tint. It ’ll kape the sun an’ the rain off.”

This remark was made half to himself and half to Ah-wow, who, having gathered himself up, and resumed his pipe, was regarding him with as much interest as he ever regarded anything. As Ah-wow made no objection, and did not appear inclined to volunteer an opinion, Larry entered the tent, cleared all the things away into one corner, and began to dig in the centre of it.

It was fortunate that he adopted this plan: first, because the rainy season having now set in, the tent afforded him shelter; and secondly, because the soil under the tent turned out to be exceedingly rich—so much so, that in the course of the next few days he and the Chinaman dug out upwards of a thousand dollars.

But the rains, which for some time past had given indubitable hints that they meant to pay a long visit to the settlement, at last came down like a waterspout, and flooded Larry and his comrade out of the hole. They cut a deep trench round the tent, however, to carry off the water, and continued their profitable labour unremittingly.

The inside of the once comfortable tent now presented a very remarkable appearance. All the property of the party was thrust into the smallest possible corner, and Larry’s bed was spread out above it; the remainder of the space was a yawning hole six feet deep, and a mound of earth about four feet high. This earth formed a sort of breast-work, over which Larry had to clamber night and morning in leaving and returning to his couch. The Chinaman slept in his own little tent hard by.

There was another inconvenience attending this style of mining which Larry had not foreseen when he adopted it, and which caused the tent of our adventurers to become a sort of public nuisance. Larry had frequently to go down the stream for provisions, and Ah-wow being given to sleep when no one watched him, took advantage of those opportunities to retire to his own tent; the consequence was, that strangers who chanced to look in, in passing, frequently fell headlong into the hole ere they were aware of its existence, and on more than one occasion Larry returned and found a miner in the bottom of it with his neck well-nigh broken.

To guard against this he hit upon the plan of putting up a cautionary ticket. He purchased a flat board and a pot of black paint with which he wrote the words:

“Mind Yer Feet Thars A Big Hol,”

and fixed it up over the entrance. The device answered very well in as far as those who could read were concerned, but as there were many who could not read at all, and who mistook the ticket for the sign of a shop or store, the accidents became rather more frequent than before.

The Irishman at last grew desperate, and, taking Ah-wow by the pig-tail, vowed that if he deserted his post again, “he’d blow out all the brains he had—if he had any at all—an’ if that wouldn’t do, he’d cut him up into mince-meat, so he would.”

The Chinaman evidently thought him in earnest, for he fell on his knees, and promised, with tears in his eyes, that he would never do it again—or words to that effect.

One day Larry and Ah-wow were down in the hole labouring for gold as if it were life. It was a terribly rainy day—so bad, that it was almost impossible to keep the water out. Larry had clambered out of the hole, and was seated on the top of the mud-heap, resting himself and gazing down upon his companion, who slowly, but with the steady regularity of machinery, dug out the clay, and threw it on the heap, when a voice called from without—

“Is this Mr Edward Sinton’s tent?”

“It is that same,” cried Larry, rising; “don’t come in, or it’ll be worse for ye.”

“Here’s a letter for him, then, and twenty dollars to pay.”

“Musha! but it’s chape postage,” said Larry, lifting the curtain, and stepping out; “couldn’t ye say thirty, now?”

“Come, down with the cash, and none o’ yer jaw,” said the man, who was a surly fellow, and did not seem disposed to stand joking.

“Oh! be all manes, yer honour,” retorted Larry, with mock servility, as he counted out the money. “Av it wouldn’t displase yer lordship, may I take the presumption to ax how the seal come to be broken?”

“I know nothin’ about it,” answered the man, as he pocketed the money; “I found it on the road between this an’ Sacramento, and, as I was passin’ this way anyhow, I brought it on.”

“Ah, thin, it was a great kindness, intirely, to go so far out o’ yer way, an’ that for a stranger, too, an’ for nothin’—or nixt thing to it!” said Larry, looking after the man as he walked away.

“Well, now,” he continued, re-entering the tent, and seating himself again on the top of the mud-heap, while he held the letter in his hand at arm’s length, “this bates all! An’ whot am I to do with it? Sure it’s not right to break the seal o’ another man’s letter; but then it’s broke a’ready, an’ there can be no sin in raidin’ it. Maybe,” he continued, with a look of anxiety, “the poor lad’s ill, or dead, an’ he’s wrote to say so. Sure, I would like to raid it—av I only know’d how; but me edication’s bin forgot, bad luck to the schoolmasters; I can only make out big print—wan letter at a time.”

The poor man looked wistfully at the letter, feeling that it might possibly contain information of importance to all of them, and that delay in taking action might cause irreparable misfortune. While he meditated what had best be done, and scanned the letter in all directions, a footstep was heard outside, and the hearty voice of Captain Bunting shouted:

“Ship ahoy! who’s within, boys!”

“Hooroo! capting,” shouted Larry, jumping up with delight; “mind yer fut, capting, dear; don’t come in.”

“Why not?” inquired the captain, as he lifted the curtain.

“Sure, it’s no use tellin’ ye now!” said Larry, as Captain Bunting fell head-foremost into Ah-wow’s arms, and drove that worthy creature—as he himself would have said—“stern-foremost” into the mud and water at the bottom. The captain happened to have a haunch of venison on his shoulder, and the blunderbuss under his arm, so that the crash and the splash, as they all floundered in the mud, were too much for Larry, who sat down again on the mud-heap and roared with laughter.

It is needless to go further into the details of this misadventure. Captain Bunting and the Chinaman were soon restored to the upper world, happily, unhurt; so, having changed their garments, they went into Ah-wow’s tent to discuss the letter.

“Let me see it, Larry,” said the captain, sitting down on an empty pork cask.

Larry handed him the missive, and he read as follows:—

“San Francisco.

“Edward Sinton, Esquire, Little Creek Diggings.

“My Dear Sir,—I have just time before the post closes, to say that I only learned a few days ago that you were at Little Creek, otherwise I should have written sooner, to say that—”

Here the captain seemed puzzled. “Now, ain’t that aggravatin’?” he said; “the seal has torn away the most important bit o’ the letter. I wish I had the villains by the nose that opened it! Look here, Larry, can you guess what it was?”

Larry took the letter, and, after scrutinising it with intense gravity and earnestness, returned it, with the remark, that it was “beyant him entirely.”

“That—that—” said the captain, again attempting to read, “that—somethin’—great success; so you and Captain Bunting had better come down at once.

“Believe me, my dear Sir, Yours faithfully, John Thomson.”

“Now,” remarked the captain, with a look of chagrin, as he laid down the letter, folded his hands together, and gazed into Larry’s grave visage, “nothin’ half so tantalisin’ as that has happened to me since the time when my good ship, the Roving Bess, was cast ashore at San Francisco.”

“It’s purvokin’,” replied Larry, “an’ preplexin’.”

“It’s most unfortunate, too,” continued the captain, knitting up his visage, “that Sinton should be away just at this time, without rudder, chart, or compass, an’ bound for no port that any one knows of. Why, the fellow may be deep in the heart o’ the Rocky Mountains, for all I can tell. I might start off at once without him, but maybe that would be of no use. What can it be that old Thompson’s so anxious about? Why didn’t the old figur’-head use his pen more freely—his tongue goes fast enough to drive the engines of a seventy-four. What is to be done?”

Although Captain Bunting asked the question with thorough earnestness and much energy, looking first at Larry and then at Ah-wow, he received no reply. The former shook his head, and the latter stared at him with a steady, dead intensity, as if he wished to stare him through.

After a few minutes’ pause, Larry suddenly asked the captain if he was hungry, to which the latter replied that he was; whereupon the former suggested that it was worth while “cookin’ the haunch o’ ven’son,” and offered to do it in a peculiar manner, that had been taught to him not long ago by a hunter, who had passed that way, and fallen into the hole in the tent and sprained his ankle, so that he, (Larry), was obliged to “kape him for a week, an’ trate him to the best all the time.” The proposal was agreed to, and Larry, seizing the haunch, which was still covered with the mud contracted in “the hole,” proceeded to exhibit his powers as a cook.

The rain, which had been coming down as if a second flood were about to deluge the earth, had ceased at this time, and the sun succeeded, for a few hours, in struggling through the murky clouds and pouring a flood of light and heat over hill and plain; the result of which was, that, along the whole length of Little Creek, there was an eruption of blankets, and shirts, and inexpressibles, and other garments, which stood much in need of being dried, and which, as they fluttered and flapped their many-coloured folds in the light breeze, gave the settlement the appearance—as Captain Bunting expressed it—of being “dressed from stem to stern.” The steam that arose from these habiliments, and from the soaking earth, and from the drenched forest, covered the face of nature with a sort of luminous mist that was quite cheering, by contrast with the leaden gloom that had preceded it, and filled with a romantic glow the bosoms of such miners as had any romance left in their natures.

Larry O’Neil was one of these, and he went about his work whistling violently. We will not take upon us to say how much of his romance was due to the haunch of venison. We would not, if called on to do it, undertake to say how much of the romance and enjoyment of a pic-nic party would evaporate, if it were suddenly announced that “the hamper” had been forgotten, or that it had fallen and the contents been smashed and mixed. We turn from such ungenerous and gross contemplations to the cooking of that haunch of venison, which, as it was done after a fashion never known to Soyer, and may be useful in after-years to readers of this chronicle, whose lot it may be, perchance, to stand in need of such knowledge, we shall carefully describe.

It is not necessary to enlarge upon the preliminaries. We need hardly say that Larry washed off the mud, and that he passed flattering remarks upon his own abilities and prowess, and, in very irreverent tones and terms, addressed Ah-wow, who smoked his pipe and looked at him. All that, and a great deal more, we leave to our reader’s well-known and vivid imagination. Suffice it that the venison was duly washed, and a huge fire, with much difficulty, kindled, and a number of large stones put into it to heat. This done, Larry cut off a lump of meat from the haunch—a good deal larger than his own head, which wasn’t small—the skin with the hair on being cut off along with the meat. A considerable margin of flesh was then pared off from the lump, so as to leave an edging of hide all round, which might overlap the remainder, and enclose it, as it were, in a natural bag.

At this stage of the process Larry paused, looked admiringly at his work, winked over the edge of it at Ah-wow, and went hastily into the tent, whence he issued with two little tin canisters,—one containing pepper, the other salt.

“Why, you beat the French all to nothing!” remarked the captain, who sat on an upturned tea-box, smoking and watching the proceedings.

“Ah! thin, don’t spake, capting; it’ll spile yer appetite,” said Larry, sprinkling the seasoning into the bag and closing it up by means of a piece of cord. He then drew the red-hot stones and ashes from the fire, and, making a hot-bed thereof, placed the venison-dumpling—if we may be allowed the term—on the centre of it. Before the green hide was quite burned through, the dish was “cooked,” as Yankees express it, “to a curiosity,” and the tasting thereof would have evoked from an alderman a look, (he would have been past speaking!) of ecstasy, while a lady might have exclaimed, “Delicious!” or a schoolboy have said, “Hlpluhplp,” ( see note 2), or some such term which ought only to be used in reference to intellectual treats, and should never be applied to such low matters as meat and drink.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Rainy Season, and its Effects—Disease and Misery at Little Creek—Reappearance of Old Friends—An Emigrant’s Death—An Unexpected Arrival.

Captain Bunting, after two days’ serious consideration, made up his mind to go down alone to San Francisco, in order to clear up the mystery of the letter, and do all that he could personally in the absence of his friend. To resolve, however, was easy; to carry his resolution into effect was almost impracticable, in consequence of the inundated state of the country.

It was now the middle of November, and the rainy season, which extends over six months of the year, was in full play. Language is scarcely capable of conveying, to those who have not seen it, an adequate idea of how it rained at this period of the year. It did not pour—there were no drops—it roared a cataract of never-ending ramrods, as thick as your finger, straight down from the black sky right through to the very vitals of the earth. It struck the tents like shot, and spirted through the tightest canvas in the form of Scotch-mist. It swept down cabin chimneys, and put out the fires; it roared through every crevice, and rent and seam of the hills in mad cataracts, and swelled up the Little Creek into a mighty surging river.

All work was arrested; men sat in their tents on mud-heaps that melted from below them, or lay on logs that well-nigh floated away with them; but there was not so much grumbling as one might have expected. It was too tremendous to be merely annoying. It was sublimely ridiculous,—so men grinned, and bore it.

But there were many poor miners there, alas! who could not regard that season in a light manner. There were dozens of young and middle-aged men whose constitutions, although good, perhaps, were not robust, and who ought never to have ventured to seek their fortunes in the gold-regions. Men who might have lived their full time, and have served their day and generation usefully in the civilised regions of the world, but who, despite the advice of friends, probably, and certainly despite the warnings of experienced travellers and authors, rushed eagerly to California to find, not a fortune, but a grave. Dysentery, scurvy in its worst and most loathsome type, ague, rheumatism, sciatica, consumption, and other diseases, were now rife at the diggings, cutting down many a youthful plant, and blasting many a golden dream.

Doctors, too, became surprisingly numerous, but these disciples of Esculapius failed to effect cures, and as their diplomas, when sought for, were not forthcoming, they were ultimately banished en masse by the indignant miners. One or two old hunters and trappers turned out in the end to be the most useful doctors, and effected a good many cures with the simple remedies they had become acquainted with among the red-men.

What rendered things worse was that provisions became scarce, and, therefore, enormously dear. No fresh vegetables of any kind were to be had. Salt, greasy and rancid pork, bear’s-meat, and venison, were all the poor people could procure, although many a man there would have given a thousand dollars—ay, all he possessed—for a single meal of fresh potatoes. The men smitten with scurvy had, therefore, no chance of recovering. The valley became a huge hospital, and the banks of the stream a cemetery.

There were occasional lulls, however, in this dismal state of affairs. Sometimes the rain ceased; the sun burst forth in irresistible splendour, and the whole country began to steam like a caldron. A cart, too, succeeded now and then in struggling up with a load of fresh provisions; reviving a few sinking spirits for a time, and almost making the owner’s fortune; but, at the best, it was a drearily calamitous season,—one which caused many a sick heart to hate the sight and name of gold, and many a digger to resolve to quit the land, and all its treasures, at the first opportunity.

Doubtless, too, many deep and earnest thoughts of life, and its aims and ends, filled the minds of some men at that time. It is often in seasons of adversity that God shews to men how mistaken their views of happiness are, and how mad, as well as sinful, it is in them to search for joy and peace apart from, and without the slightest regard for, the Author of all felicity. Yes, there is reason to hope and believe that many seeds of eternal life were sown by the Saviour, and watered by the Holy Spirit, in that disastrous time of disease and death,—seed which, perhaps, is now blessing and fertilising many distant regions of the world.

In one of the smallest and most wretched of the huts, at the entrance of the valley of Little Creek, lay a man, whose days on earth were evidently few. The hut stood apart from the others, in a lonely spot, as if it shrank from observation, and was seldom visited by the miners, who were too much concerned about their own misfortunes to care much for those of others. Here Kate Morgan sat by the couch of her dying brother, endeavouring to soothe his last hours by speaking to him in the most endearing terms, and reading passages from the Word of God, which lay open on her knee. But the dying man seemed to derive little comfort from what she said or read. His restless eye roamed anxiously round the wretched hut, while his breath came short and thick from between his pale lips.

“Shall I read to ye, darlin’?” said the woman, bending over the couch to catch the faint whisper, which was all the poor man had strength to utter.

Just then, ere he could reply, the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a bronzed, stalwart horseman was seen through the doorless entrance of the hut, approaching at a brisk trot. Both horse and man were of immense size, and they came on with that swinging, heavy tread, which gives the impression of irresistible weight and power. The rider drew up suddenly, and, leaping off his horse, cried, “Can I have a draught of water, my good woman?” as he fastened the bridle to a tree, and strode into the hut.

Kate rose hurriedly, and held up her finger to impose silence, as she handed the stranger a can of water. But he had scarcely swallowed a mouthful when his eye fell on the sick man. Going gently forward to the couch, he sat down beside it, and, taking the invalid’s wrist, felt his pulse.

“Is he your husband?” inquired the stranger, in a subdued voice.

“No, sir,—my brother.”

“Does he like to have the Bible read to him?”

“Sometimes; but before his voice failed he was always cryin’ out for the priest. He’s a Catholic, sir, though I’m not wan meself and thinks he can’t be saved unless he sees the priest.”

The stranger took up the Bible, and, turning towards the man, whose bright eyes were fixed earnestly upon him, read, in a low impressive voice, several of those passages in which a free salvation to the chief of sinners is offered through Jesus Christ. He did not utter a word of comment; but he read with deep solemnity, and paused ever and anon to look in the face of the sick man as he read the blessed words of comfort. The man was not in a state either to listen to arguments or to answer questions, so the stranger wisely avoided both, and gently quitted the hut after offering up a brief prayer, and repeating twice the words—

“Jesus says, ‘Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out.’”

Kate followed him out, and thanked him earnestly for his kindness, while tears stood in her eyes.

“Have you no friends or relations here but him!” inquired the stranger.

“Not wan. There was wan man as came to see us often when we stayed in a lonesome glen further up the Creek, but we’ve not seen him since we came here. More be token he didn’t know we were goin’ to leave, and we wint off in a hurry, for my poor brother was impatient, and thought the change would do him good.”

“Take this, you will be the better of it.”

The stranger thrust a quantity of silver into Kate’s hand, and sprang upon his horse.

“I don’t need it, thank ’ee,” said Kate, hurriedly.

“But you may need it; at any rate, he does. Stay, what was the name of the man who used to visit you?”

“O’Neil, sir—Larry O’Neil.”

“Indeed! he is one of my mates. My name is Sinton—Edward Sinton; you shall hear from me again ere long.”

Ned put spurs to his horse as he spoke, and in another moment was out of sight.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Ned decides on visiting San Francisco—Larry pays a Visit, and receives a Severe Disappointment—The Road and the City—Unexpected News.

Few joys in this life are altogether without alloy. The delight experienced by Larry O’Neil and Captain Bunting, when they heard the hearty tones of Ned Sinton’s voice, and the satisfaction with which they beheld his face, when, in their anxiety to prevent his falling headlong into “the hole,” they both sprang out of the tent and rushed into his arms, were somewhat damped on their observing that Tom Collins was not with him. But their anxieties were speedily relieved on learning that Tom was at Sacramento City, and, it was to be hoped, doing well.

As Ned had eaten nothing on the day of his arrival since early morning, the first care of his friends was to cook some food for him; and Larry took special care to brew for him, as soon as possible, a stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, which, as he was wet and weary, was particularly acceptable.

While enjoying this over the fire in front of the tent, Ned related the adventures of himself and Tom Collins circumstantially; in the course of which narration he explained, what the reader does not yet know, how that, after Tom had recovered from his illness sufficiently to ride, he had conducted him by easy stages to the banks of the great San Joaquin river, down which they had proceeded by boat until they reached Sacramento.

Here Ned saw him comfortably settled in the best room of the best hotel in the town, and then, purchasing the largest and strongest horse he could find, he set off, in spite of the rains, to let his comrades know that they were both safe, and, in Ned’s case at least, sound.

“And, now, with reference to that letter.”

“Ay, that letter,” echoed the captain; “that’s what I’ve bin wantin’ you to come to. What can it mean?”

“I am as ignorant of that as yourself,” answered Ned; “if it had only been you who were mentioned in the letter, I could have supposed that your old ship had been relaunched and refitted, and had made a successful voyage to China during your absence; but, as I left no property of any kind in San Francisco, and had no speculations afloat, I cannot conceive what it can be.”

“Maybe,” suggested Larry, “they’ve heard o’ our remarkable talents up here in the diggin’s, and they’ve been successful in gittin’ us app’inted to respansible sitivations in the new government I’ve heared they’re sottin’ up down there. I wouldn’t object to be prime minister meself av they’d only allow me enough clarks to do the work.”

“And did you say you were all ready for a start to-morrow, captain?” inquired Ned.

“Quite. We’ve disposed of the claims and tools for fifteen hundred dollars, an’ we sold Ah-wow along with the lot; that’s to say, he remains a fixture at the same wage; and the little we meant to take with us is stowed away in our saddle-bags. Ye see, I couldn’t foresee that you’d plump down on us in this fashion, and I felt that the letter was urgent, and ought to be acted on at once.”

“You did quite right,” returned Ned. “What a pity I missed seeing Bill Jones at Sacramento; but the city has grown so much, and become so populous, in a few months, that two friends might spend a week in it, unknown to each other, without chancing to meet. And now as to the gold. Have you been successful since I left?”

“Ay,” broke in Larry, “that have we. It’s a great country intirely for men whose bones and muscles are made o’ iron. We’ve dug forty thousand dollars—eight thousand pounds—out o’ that same hole in the tint; forby sprainin’ the ankles, and well-nigh breakin’ the legs, o’ eight or tin miners. It’s sorry I’ll be to lave it. But, afther all, it’s a sickly place, so I’m contint to go.”

“By the way, Larry, that reminds me I met a friend o’ yours at the other end of the settlement.”

“I belave ye,” answered Larry; “ivery man in the Creek’s my fri’nd. They’d die for me, they would, av I only axed them.”

“Ay, but a particular friend, named Kate, who—”

“Och! ye don’t mane it!” cried the Irishman, starting up with an anxious look. “Sure they lived up in the dark glen there; and they wint off wan fine day, an’ I’ve niver been able to hear o’ them since.”

“They are not very far off,” continued Ned, detailing his interview with the brother and sister, and expressing a conviction that the former could not now be in life.

“I’ll go down to-night,” said Larry, drawing on his heavy boots.

“You’d better wait till to-morrow,” suggested the captain. “The poor thing will be in no humour to see any one to-night, and we can make a halt near the hut for an hour or so.”

Larry, with some reluctance, agreed to this delay, and the rest of the evening was spent by the little party in making preparations for a start on the following day; but difficulties arose in the way of settling with the purchasers of their claims, so that another day passed ere they got fairly off on their journey towards Sacramento.

On reaching the mouth of the Little Creek, Larry O’Neil galloped ahead of his companions, and turned aside at the little hut, the locality of which Sinton had described to him minutely. Springing off his horse, he threw the reins over a bush and crossed the threshold. It is easier to conceive than to describe his amazement and consternation on finding the place empty. Dashing out, he vaulted into the saddle, and almost galloped through the doorway of the nearest hut in his anxiety to learn what had become of his friends.

“Halloo! stranger,” shouted a voice from within, “no thoroughfare this way; an’ I wouldn’t advise ye for to go an’ try for to make one.”

“Ho! countryman, where’s the sick Irishman and his sister gone, that lived close to ye here?”

“Wall, I ain’t a countryman o’ yourn, I guess; but I can answer a civil question. They’re gone. The man’s dead, an’ the gal took him away in a cart day b’fore yisterday.”

“Gone! took him away in a cart!” echoed Larry, while he looked aghast at the man. “Are ye sure?”

“Wall, I couldn’t be surer. I made the coffin for ’em, and helped to lift it into the cart.”

“But where have they gone to?”

“To Sacramento, I guess. I advised her not to go, but she mumbled something about not havin’ him buried in sich a wild place, an’ layin’ him in a churchyard; so I gave her the loan o’ fifty dollars—it was all I could spare—for she hadn’t a rap. She borrowed the horse and cart from a countryman, who was goin’ to Sacramento at any rate.”

“You’re a trump, you are!” cried Larry, with energy; “give us your hand, me boy! Ah! thin yer parents were Irish, I’ll be bound; now, here’s your fifty dollars back again, with compound interest to boot—though I don’t know exactly what that is—”

“I didn’t ax ye for the fifty dollars,” said the man, somewhat angrily. “Who are you that offers ’em!”

“I’m her—her—friend,” answered Larry, in some confusion; “her intimate friend; I might almost say a sort o’ distant relation—only not quite that.”

“Wall, if that’s all, I guess I’m as much a friend as you,” said the man, re-entering his cabin, and shutting the door with a bang.

Larry sighed, dropped the fifty dollars into his leather purse, and galloped away.

The journey down to Sacramento, owing to the flooded state of the country, was not an easy one. It took the party several days’ hard riding to accomplish it, and during all that time Larry kept a vigilant look-out for Kate Morgan and the cart, but neither of them did he see. Each day he felt certain he would overtake them, but each evening found him trying to console himself with the reflection that a “stern chase” is proverbially a long one, and that next day would do it. Thus they struggled on, and finally arrived at the city of Sacramento, without having set eyes on the wanderer. Poor Larry little knew that, having gone with a man who knew the road thoroughly, Kate, although she travelled slowly, had arrived there the day before him; while Ned had lengthened the road by unwittingly making a considerable and unnecessary détour. Still less did he know that, at the very hour he arrived in the city, Kate, with her sad charge, embarked on board a small river steamer, and was now on her way to San Francisco.

As it was, Larry proposed to start back again, supposing they must have passed them; but, on second thoughts, he decided to remain where he was and make inquiries. So the three friends pushed forward to the City Hotel to make inquiries after Tom Collins.

“Mr Collins?” said the waiter, bowing to Sinton—“he’s gone, sir, about a week ago.”

“Gone!” exclaimed Ned, turning pale.

“Yes, sir; gone down to San Francisco. He saw some advertisement or other in the newspaper, and started off by the next steamer.”

Ned’s heart beat freely again. “Was he well when he left?”

“Yes, sir, pretty well. He would have been the better of a longer rest, but he was quite fit to travel, sir.”

Captain Bunting, who, during this colloquy, had been standing with his legs apart, and his eyes glaring at the waiter, as if he had been mad, gave a prolonged whistle, but made no further remark. At this moment Larry, who had been conversing with one of the under-waiters, came rushing in with a look of desperation on his countenance.

“Would ye belave it,” he cried, throwing himself down on a splendid crimson sofa, that seemed very much out of keeping with the dress of the rough miners whom it was meant to accommodate—“would ye belave it, they’re gone!”

“Who are gone, and where to!” inquired Ned.

“Kate an’—an’ the caffin. Off to San Francisco, be all that’s onlucky; an’ only wint little more nor an hour ago.”

The three friends looked at each other.

“Waiter,” said Captain Bunting, in a solemn voice, “bear-chops for three, pipes and baccy for six, an’ a brandy-smash for one; an’, d’ye hear, let it be stiff!”

“Yes, sir.”

A loud laugh from Ned and Larry relieved their over-excited and pent-up feelings; and both agreed that, under the circumstances, the captain’s order was the best that could be given at that stage of their perplexities. Having ascertained that there was not another steamer to San Francisco for a week, they resolved to forget their anxieties as much as possible, and enjoy themselves in the great city of Sacramento during the next few days; while they instituted inquiries as to what had become of their comrade, Bill Jones, who, they concluded, must still be in the city, as they had not met him on the way down.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Gold not All-Powerful—Remarkable Growth of Sacramento—New Style of bringing a Hotel into Notice—A Surprising Discovery—Death of A Mexican Horse-Tamer—The Concert, and another Discovery—Mademoiselle Nelina creates a Sensation.

It is said that gold can accomplish anything; and, in some respects, the saying is full of truth; in some points of view, however, the saying is altogether wrong. Gold can, indeed, accomplish almost anything in the material world—it can purchase stone, and metal, and timber; and muscles, bones, thews, and sinews, with life in them, to any extent. It can go a step further—it can purchase brains, intellect, genius; and, throwing the whole together, material and immaterial, it can cut, and carve, and mould the world to such an extent that its occupants of fifty years ago, were they permitted to return to earth, would find it hard to recognise the scene of their brief existence. But there are things and powers which gold cannot purchase. That worn-out old millionnaire would give tons of it for a mere tithe of the health that yonder ploughman enjoys. Youth cannot be bought with gold. Time cannot be purchased with gold. The prompt obedience of thousands of men and women may be bought with that precious metal, but one powerful throb of a loving heart could not be procured by all the yellow gold that ever did or ever will enrich the human family.

But we are verging towards digression. Let us return to the simple idea with which we intended to begin this chapter—the wonder-working power of gold. In no country in the wide world, we venture to affirm, has this power been exemplified so strikingly as in California. The knowledge of the discovery of gold was so suddenly and widely disseminated over the earth, that human beings flowed into the formerly-uninhabited wilderness like a mighty torrent, while thousands of ships flooded the markets with the necessaries of life. Then gold was found to be so abundant, and, at first, so easily procured, that the fever was kept up at white-heat for several years. The result of this was, as we have remarked elsewhere, that changes, worthy of Aladdin’s lamp or Harlequin’s wand, were wrought in the course of a few weeks, sometimes in a few days.

The city of Sacramento was one of the most remarkable of the many strange and sudden growths in the country. The river on which it stands is a beautiful stream, from two to three hundred yards wide, and navigable by large craft to a few miles above the city. The banks, when our friends were there, were fringed with rich foliage, and the wild trees of the forest itself stood growing in the streets. The city was laid out in the form of a square, with streets crossing each other at right angles; a forest of masts along the embarcadero attested the growing importance and wealth of the place; and nearly ten thousand inhabitants swarmed in its streets. Many of those streets were composed of canvas tents, or erections scarcely more durable. Yet here, little more than a year before, there were only four thousand in the place!

Those who chanced to be in possession of the land here were making fortunes. Lots, twenty feet by seventy, in the best situations, brought upwards of 3500 dollars. Rents, too, were enormous. One hotel paid 30,000 dollars (6000 pounds) per annum; another, 35,000 dollars. Small stores fetched ten and twelve thousand dollars a year; while board at the best hotels was five dollars a day. Truly, if gold was plentiful, it was needed; for the common necessaries of life, though plentiful, were bought and sold at fabulous prices. The circulation of gold was enormous, and the growth of the city did not suffer a check even for a day, although the cost of building was unprecedented. And this commercial prosperity continued in spite of the fact that the place was unhealthy—being a furnace in summer, and in winter little better than a swamp.

“It’s a capital hotel,” remarked Captain Bunting to his companions, as they sat round their little table, enjoying their pipes after dinner; “I wonder if they make a good thing out of it?”

“Sure, if they don’t,” said Larry, tilting his chair on its hind legs, and calmly blowing a cloud of smoke towards the roof, “it’s a losin’ game they’re playin’, for they sarve out the grub at a tearin’ pace.”

“They are doing well, I doubt not,” said Ned Sinton; “and they deserve to, for the owner—or owners, I don’t know how many or few there are—made a remarkable and enterprising start.”

“How was that?” asked the captain.

“I heard of it when I was down here with Tom,” continued Sinton. “You must know that this was the first regular hotel opened in the city, and it was considered so great an event that it was celebrated by salvos of artillery, and, on the part of the proprietors, by a great unlimited feast to all who chose to come.”

“What!” cried Larry, “free, gratis, for nothin’?”

“Ay, for nothing. It was done in magnificent style, I assure you. Any one who chose came and called for what he wanted, and got it at once. The attendance was prompt, and as cheerfully given as though it had been paid for. Gin-slings, cocktails, mint-juleps, and brandy-smashes went round like a circular storm, even champagne flowed like water; and venison, wild-fowl, salmon, grizzly-bear-steaks, and pastry—all the delicacies of the season, in short—were literally to be had for the asking. What it cost the spirited proprietors I know not, but certainly it was a daring stroke of genius that deserved patronage.”

“Faix it did,” said Larry, emphatically; “and they shall have it, too;—here, waiter, a brandy-smash and a cheroot, and be aisy as to the cost; I think me bank’ll stand it.”

“What say you to a stroll!” said Ned, rising.

“By all means,” replied Captain Bunting, jumping up, and laying down his pipe. Larry preferred to remain where he was; so the two friends left him to enjoy his cheroot, and wandered away, where fancy led, to see the town. There was much to be seen. It required no theatrical representation of life to amuse one in Sacramento at that time. The whole city was a vast series of plays in earnest.

Every conceivable species of comedy and farce met the eye at every turn. Costumes the most remarkable, men the most varied and peculiar, and things the most incomprehensible and unexpected, presented themselves in endless succession. Here a canvas restaurant stood, or, rather leaned against a log-store. There a tent spread its folds in juxtaposition to a deck-cabin, which seemed to have walked ashore from a neighbouring brig, without leave, and had been let out as a grog-shop by way of punishment. Chinamen in calico jostled sailors in canvas, or diggers in scarlet flannel shirts, or dandies in broad-cloth and patent-leather, or red Indians in nothing! Bustle, and hurry, and uproar, and joviality prevailed. A good deal of drinking, too, unfortunately, went on, and the results were occasional melodramas, and sometimes serious rows.

Tragedies, too, were enacted, but these seldom met the eye; as is usually the case, they were done in the dark.

“What have we here?” cried Captain Bunting, stopping before a large placard, and reading. “‘Grand concert, this evening—wonderful singer—Mademoiselle Nelina, first appearance—Ethiopian serenaders.’ I say, Ned, we must go to this; I’ve not heard a song for ages that was worth listening to.”

“At what hour?” inquired Ned—“oh! seven o’clock; well, we can stroll back to the hotel, have a cup of coffee, and bring Larry O’Neil with us. Come along.”

That evening our three adventurers occupied the back seat of a large concert-room in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the town, patiently awaiting the advent of the performers. The room was filled to overflowing, long before the hour for the commencement of the performances, with every species of mortal, except woman. Women were exceedingly rare creatures at that time—the meetings of all sorts were composed almost entirely of men, in their varied and motley garbs.

Considering the circumstances in which it was got up, the room was a very creditable one, destitute, indeed, of ornament, but well lighted by an enormous wooden chandelier, full of wax candles, which depended from the centre of the ceiling. At the further end of the room was a raised stage, with foot-lights in front, and three chairs in the middle of it. There was a small orchestra in front, consisting of two fiddles, a cornopian, a trombone, a clarionet, and a flute; but at first the owners of these instruments kept out of sight, wisely reserving themselves until that precise moment when the impatient audience would—as all audiences do on similar occasions—threaten to bring down the building with stamping of feet, accompanied with steam-engine-like whistles, and savage cries of “Music!”

While Ned Sinton and his friends were quietly looking round upon the crowd, Larry O’Neil’s attention was arrested by the conversation of two men who sat just in front of him. One was a rough-looking miner, in a wide-awake and red-flannel shirt; the other was a negro, in a shirt of blue-striped calico.

“Who be this Missey Nelina?” inquired the negro, turning to his companion.

“I dun know; but I was here last night, an’ I’d take my davy, I saw the little gal in the ranche of a feller away in the plains, five hundred miles to the east’ard, two months ago. Her father, poor chap, was killed by a wild horse.”

“How was dat?” inquired the negro, with an expression of great interest.

“Well, it was this way it happened,” replied the other, putting a quid of tobacco into his cheek, such as only a sailor would venture to masticate. “I was up at the diggin’s about six months, without gittin’ more gold than jist kep’ me in life—for, ye see, I was always an unlucky dog—when one day I goes down to my claim, and, at the very first lick, dug up two chunks o’ gold as big as yer fists; so I sold my claim and shovel, and came down here for a spree. Well, as I was sayin’, I come to the ranche o’ a feller called Bangi, or Bongi, or Bungi, or some sort o’ bang, with a gi at the end o’ ’t. He was clappin’ his little gal on the head, when I comed up, and said good-bye to her. I didn’t rightly hear what she said; but I was so taken with her pretty face that I couldn’t help axin’ if the little thing was his’n. ‘Yees,’ says he—for he was a Mexican, and couldn’t come round the English lingo—‘she me darter.’ I found the man was goin’ to catch a wild horse, so, says I, ‘I’ll go with ye,’ an’, says he, ‘come ’long,’ so away we went, slappin’ over the plains at a great rate, him and me, and a Yankee, a friend o’ his and three or four servants, after a drove o’ wild horses that had been seen that mornin’ near the house. Well, away we went after the wild horses. Oh! it was grand sport! The man had lent me one of his beasts, an’ it went at such a spankin’ pace, I could scarce keep my seat, and had to hold on by the saddle—not bein’ used to ridin’ much, d’ye see. We soon picked out a horse—a splendid-lookin’ feller, with curved neck, and free gallop, and wide nostrils. My eye! how he did snort and plunge, when the Mexican threw the lasso, it went right over his head the first cast, but the wild horse pulled the rope out o’ his grip. ‘It’s all up,’ thought I; but never a bit. The Mexican put spurs to his horse, an’ while at full gallop, made a dive with his body, and actually caught the end o’ the line, as it trailed over the ground, and recovered his seat again. It was done in a crack; an’, I believe, he held on by means of his spurs, which were big enough, I think, to make wheels for a small carronade. Takin’ a turn o’ the line round the horn of his saddle, he reined in a bit, and then gave the spurs for another spurt, and soon after reined in again—in fact, he jist played the wild horse like a trout, until he well-nigh choked him; an’, in an hour, or less, he was led steamin’, and startin’, and jumpin’, into the corral, where the man kept his other horses.”

At this point in the narrative, the cries for music became so deafening, that the sailor was obliged to pause, to the evident annoyance of the negro, who seemed intensely interested in what he had heard; and, also, to the regret of Larry, who had listened eagerly the whole time. In a few minutes the “music” came in, in the shape of two bald-headed Frenchmen, a wild-looking bearded German, and several lean men, who might, as far as appearance went, have belonged to almost any nation; and who would have, as far as musical ability went, been repudiated by every nation, except, perhaps, the Chinese. During the quarter of an hour in which these performers quieted the impatient audience with sweet sounds, the sailor continued his anecdote.

“Well, you see,” said he to the negro, while Larry bent forward to listen, “the Mexican mounted, and raced and spurred him for about an hour; but, just at the last, the wild horse gave a tremendous leap and a plunge, and we noticed the rider fall forward, as if he’d got a sprain. The Yankee an’ one o’ the servants ran up, and caught the horse by the head, but its rider didn’t move—he was stone dead, and was held in his seat by the spurs sticking in the saddle-cloth. The last bound must have ruptured some blood-vessel inside, for there was no sign of hurt upon him anywhere.”

“You don’ say dat?” said the negro, with a look of horror.

“’Deed do I; an’ we took the poor feller home, where his little daughter cried for him as if she’d break her heart. I asked the Yankee what we should do, but he looked at me somewhat offended like, an’ said he was a relation o’ the dead man’s wife, and could manage the affairs o’ the family without help; so I bid him good mornin’, and went my way. But I believe in my heart he was tellin’ a lie, and that he’s no right to go hawkin’ the poor gal about the country in this fashion.”

Larry was deeply interested in this narrative, and felt so strong a disposition to make further inquiries, that he made up his mind to question the sailor, and was about to address him when a small bell tinkled, the music ceased, and three Ethiopian minstrels, banjo in hand, advanced to the foot-lights, made their bow, and then seated themselves on the three chairs, with that intensity of consummate, impudent, easy familiarity peculiar to the ebony sons of song.

“Go it, darkies!” shouted an enthusiastic individual in the middle of the room.

“Three cheers for the niggers!” roared a sailor, who had just returned from a twelvemonth’s cruise at the mines, and whose delight at the prospect of once more hearing a good song was quite irrepressible.

The audience responded to the call with shouts of laughter, and a cheer that would have done your heart good to listen to, while the niggers shewed their teeth in acknowledgment of the compliment.

The first song was “Lilly Dale,” and the men, who, we need scarcely say, were fictitious negroes, sang it so well that the audience listened with breathless attention and evident delight, and encored it vociferously. The next song was “Oh! Massa, how he wopped me,” a ditty of quite a different stamp, but equally popular. It also was encored, as indeed was every song sting that evening; but the performers had counted on this. After the third song there was a hornpipe, in the performance of which the dancer’s chief aim seemed to be to shew in what a variety of complex ways he could shake himself to pieces if he chose. Then there was another trio, and then a short pause, in order duly to prepare the public mind for the reception of the great cantatrice Mademoiselle Nelina. When she was led to the foot-lights by the tallest of the three negroes, there was a momentary pause, as if men caught their breath; then there was a prolonged cheer of enthusiastic admiration. And little wonder, for the creature that appeared before these rough miners seemed more like an angelic visitant than a mortal.

There was nothing strikingly beautiful about the child, but she possessed that inexpressibly sweet character of face that takes the human heart by storm at first sight; and this, added to the fact that she was almost the only one of her sex who had been seen for many months by any of those present,—that she was fair, blue-eyed, delicate, modestly dressed, and innocent, filled them with an amount of enthusiasm that would have predisposed them to call a scream melodious, had it been uttered by Mademoiselle Nelina.

But the voice which came timidly from her lips was in harmony with her appearance. There was no attempt at execution, and the poor child was too frightened to succeed in imparting much expression to the simple ballad which she warbled; but there was an inherent richness in the tones of her voice that entranced the ear, and dwelt for weeks and months afterwards on the memory of those who heard it that night.

It is needless to add, that all her songs were encored with rapturous applause. The second song she sang was the popular one, “Erin, my country!” and it created quite a furore among the audience, many of whom were natives of the Green Isle.

“Oh! ye purty creature! sing it again, do!” yelled an Irishman in the front seats, while he waved his hat, and cheered in mad enthusiasm. The multitude shouted, “Encore!” and the song was sung for the third time.

While it was singing, Larry O’Neil sat with his hands clasped before him, his bosom heaving, and his eyes riveted on the child’s face.

“Mr Sinton,” he said, in a deep, earnest tone, touching Ned on the shoulder, as the last sweet notes of the air were drowned in the thunder of applause that followed Mademoiselle Nelina off the stage; “Mr Sinton, I’d lay me life that it’s her!”

“Who?” inquired Ned, smiling at the serious expression of his comrade’s face.

“Who but Nelly Morgan, av course. She’s the born image o’ Kate. They’re as like as two paise. Sure av it’s her, I’ll know it, I will; an’ I’ll make that black thief of a Yankee explain how he comed to possess stolen goods.”

Ned and the captain at first expressed doubts as to Larry’s being able to swear to the identity of one whom he had never seen before; but the earnest assurances of the Irishman convinced them that he must be right, and they at once entered into his feelings, and planned, in an eager undertone, how the child was to be communicated with.

“It won’t do,” said Ned, “to tax the man right out with his villainy. The miners would say we wanted to get possession of the child to make money by her.”

“But if the child herself admitted that the man was not her relative!” suggested Captain Bunting.

“Perhaps,” returned Ned, “she might at the same time admit that she didn’t like the appearance of the strangers who made such earnest inquiries about her, and prefer to remain with her present guardian.”

“Niver fear,” said Larry, in a hoarse whisper; “she’ll not say that if I tell her I know her sister Kate, and can take her to her. Besides, hasn’t she got an Irish heart? an’ don’t I know the way to touch it? Jist stay where ye are, both o’ ye, an’ I’ll go behind the scenes. The niggers are comin’ on again, so I’ll try; maybe there’s nobody there but herself.”

Before they could reply, Larry was gone. In a few minutes he reached the front seats, and, leaning his back against the wall, as if he were watching the performers, he gradually edged himself into the dark corner where the side curtain shut off the orchestra from the public. To his great satisfaction he found that this was only secured to the wall by one or two nails, which he easily removed, and then, in the midst of an uproarious laugh, caused by a joke of the serenaders, he pushed the curtain aside, and stood before the astonished gaze of Mademoiselle Nelina, who sat on a chair, with her hands clasped and resting on her knee. Unfortunately for the success of Larry’s enterprise, he also stood before the curtain-raiser—a broad, sturdy man, in rough miner’s costume—whose back was turned towards him, but whose surprised visage instantly faced him on hearing the muffled noise caused by his entry. There was a burly negro also in the place, seated on a small stool, who looked at him with unqualified astonishment.

“Halloo! wot do you want?” exclaimed the curtain-raiser.

“Eh! tare an’ ages!” cried Larry, in amazement. “May I niver! Sure it’s draimin’ I am; an’ the ghost o’ Bill Jones is comed to see me!”

It was, indeed, no other than Bill Jones who stood revealed before him; but no friendly glance of recognition did his old comrade vouchsafe him. He continued, after the first look of surprise, to frown steadily on the intruder.

“You’ve the advantage o’ me, young man,” said Bill, in a stern, though subdued tone, for he feared to disturb the men on the stage; “moreover, you’ve comed in where ye’ve got no right to be. When a man goes where he shouldn’t ought to, an’ things looks as if they wasn’t all square, in them circumstances, blow high or blow low, I always goes straight for’ard an’ shoves him out. If he don’t shove easy, why, put on more steam—that’s wot I say.”

“But sure ye don’t forgit me, Bill!” pleaded Larry, in amazement.

“Well, p’r’aps I don’t, an’ p’r’aps I do. W’en I last enjoyed the dishonour o’ yer acquaintance, ye wos a blackguard. It ain’t likely yer improved, so be good enough to back yer top-sails, and clear out.”

Bill Jones pointed, as he spoke, to the opening through which Larry had entered, but, suddenly changing his mind, he said, “Hold on; there’s a back door, an’ it’ll be easier to kick you through that than through the consart-room.”

So saying, Bill seized Larry O’Neil by the collar, and led that individual, in a state of helpless and wondering consternation, through a back door, where, however, instead of kicking him out, he released him, and suddenly changed his tone to an eager whisper.

“Oh! Larry, lad, I’m glad to see ye. Wherever did ye come from? I’ve no time to speak. Uncle Ned’s jist buried, and Jim Crow comes on in three minutes. I had to pretend, ye know, ’cause it wouldn’t do to let Jim see I know’d ye—that wos him on the stool—I know wot brought ye here—an’ I’ve fund out who she is. Where d’ye stop?”

Larry’s surprise just permitted him to gasp out the words “City Hotel,” when a roar of laughter and applause met their ears, followed by the tinkle of a small bell. Bill sprang through the doorway, and slammed the door in his old comrade’s face.

It would be difficult to say, looking at that face at that particular time, whether the owner thereof was mad or drunk—or both—so strangely did it wrinkle and contort as it gradually dawned upon its owner that Bill Jones, true to his present profession, was acting a part; that he knew about the mystery of Mademoiselle Nelina; was now acquainted with his, (Larry’s), place of abode; and would infallibly find him out after the concert was over. As these things crossed his mind, Larry smote his thigh so often and so vigorously, that he ran the risk of being taken up for unwarrantably discharging his revolver in the streets, and he whistled once or twice so significantly, that at least five stray dogs answered to the call. At last he hitched up the band of his trousers, and, hastening round to the front door, essayed to re-enter the concert-room.

“Pay here, please,” cried the money-taker, in an extremely nasal tone, as he passed the little hole in the wall.

“I’ve paid already,” answered Larry.

“Shew your check, then.”

“Sure I don’t know what that is.”

The doorkeeper smiled contemptuously, and shut down with a bang the bar that kept off the public. Larry doubled his fist, and flushed crimson; then he remembered the importance of the business he had on hand, and quietly drew the requisite sum from his leather purse.

“Come along,” said he to Ned Sinton, on re-entering the room. “I’ve see’d her; an’ Bill Jones, too!”

“Bill Jones!” cried Ned and the captain simultaneously.

“Whist!” said Larry; “don’t be makin’ people obsarve us. Come along home; it’s all right—I’ll tell ye all about it when we’re out.”

In another minute the three friends were in the street, conversing eagerly and earnestly as they hastened to their quarters through the thronged and noisy streets of Sacramento.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Deep Plots and Plans—Bill Jones relates his Misadventures—Mademoiselle Nelina consents to run off with Larry O’Neil—A Yankee Musician outwitted—The Escape.

As Larry had rightly anticipated, Bill Jones made his appearance at the City Hotel the moment the concert was over, and found his old comrades waiting anxiously for him.

It did not take long to tell him how they had discovered the existence of Nelly Morgan, as we shall now call her, but it took much longer to drag from Bill the account of his career since they last met, and the explanation of how he came to be placed in his present circumstances.

“Ye see, friends,” said he, puffing at a pipe, from which, to look at him, one would suppose he derived most of his information, “this is how it happened. When I set sail from the diggin’s to come here for grub, I had a pleasant trip at first. But after a little things began to look bad; the feller that steered us lost his reckoning, an’ so we took two or three wrong turns by way o’ makin’ short cuts. That’s always how it Is. There’s a proverb somewhere—”

“In Milton, maybe, or Napier’s book o’ logarithms,” suggested Captain Bunting.

“P’r’aps it wos, and p’r’aps it wosn’t,” retorted Bill, stuffing the end of his little finger, (if such a diminutive may be used in reference to any of his fingers), into the bowl of his pipe. “I raither think myself it wos in Bell’s Life or the Royal Almanac; hows’ever, that’s wot it is. When ye’ve got a short road to go, don’t try to make it shorter, say I—”

“An’ when ye’ve got a long story to tell, don’t try to make it longer,” interrupted Larry, winking at his comrade through the smoke of his pipe.

“Well, as I wos sayin’,” continued Bill, doggedly, “we didn’t git on so well after a bit; but somehow or other we got here at last, and cast anchor in this very hotel. Off I goes at once an’ buys a cart an’ a mule, an’ then I sets to work to lay in provisions. Now, d’ye see, lads, ’twould ha’ bin better if I had bought the provisions first an’ the mule and the cart after, for I had to pay ever so many dollars a day for their keep. At last I got it all square; packed tight and tied up in the cart—barrels o’ flour, and kegs o’ pork, an’ beans, an’ brandy, an’ what not; an’ away I went alone; for, d’ye see, I carry a compass, an’ when I’ve once made a voyage, I never need to be told how to steer.

“But my troubles began soon. There’s a ford across the river here, which I was told I’d ha’ to cross; and sure enough, so I did—but it’s as bad as Niagara, if not worse—an’ when I gits half way over, we wos capsized, and went down the river keel up. I dun know yet very well how I got ashore, but I did somehow—”

“And did the cart go for it?” inquired Captain Bunting, aghast.

“No, the cart didn’t. She stranded half-a-mile further down, on a rock, where she lies to this hour, with a wheel smashed and the bottom out, and about three thousand tons o’ water swashin’ right through her every hour; but all the provisions and the mule went slap down the Sacramento; an’, if they haven’t bin’ picked up on the way, they’re cruisin’ off the port o’ San Francisco by this time.”

The unfortunate seaman stopped at this point to relight his pipe, while his comrades laughingly commented on his misadventure.

“Ah! ye may laugh; but I can tell ye it warn’t a thing to be laughed at; an’ at this hour I’ve scarce one dollar to rub ’gainst another.”

“Never mind, my boy,” said Ned, as he and the others laughed loud and long at the lugubrious visage of their comrade; “we’ve got well-lined pockets, I assure you; and, of course, we have your share of the profits of our joint concern to hand over whenever you wish it.”

The expression of Bill Jones’s face was visibly improved by this piece of news, and he went on with much greater animation.

“Well, my story’s short now. I comed back here, an’ by chance fell in with this feller—this Yankee-nigger—who offered me five dollars a day to haul up the curtain, an’ do a lot o’ dirty work, sich as bill stickin’, an’ lightin’ the candles, an’ sweepin’ the floor; but it’s hard work, I tell ye, to live on so little in sich a place as this, where everything’s so dear.”

“You’re not good at a bargain, I fear,” remarked Sinton; “but what of the little girl?”

“Well, I wos comin’ to that. Ye see, I felt sure, from some things I overheerd, that she wasn’t the man’s daughter, so one day I axed her who she wos, an’ she said she didn’t know, except that her name was Nelly Morgan; so it comed across me that Morgan wos the name o’ the Irish family you wos so thick with up at the diggin’s, Larry; an’ I wos goin’ to ask if she know’d them, when Jolly—that’s the name o’ the gitter up o’ the concerts—catched me talkin’, an’ he took her away sharp, and said he’d thank me to leave the girl alone. I’ve been watchin’ to have another talk with her, but Jolly’s too sharp for me, an’ I haven’t spoke to her yet.”

Larry manifested much disappointment at this termination, for he had been fully prepared to hear that the girl had made Bill her confidant, and would be ready to run away with him at a moment’s notice. However, he consoled himself by saying that he would do the thing himself; and, after arranging that Bill was to tell Nelly that a friend of his knew where her sister was, and would like to speak with her, they all retired to rest, at least to rest as well as they could in a house which, like all the houses in California, swarmed with rats.

Next night Bill Jones made a bold effort, and succeeded in conveying Larry’s message to Nelly, very adroitly, as he thought, while she was standing close to him waiting for Mr Jolly to lead her to the foot-lights. The consequence was that the poor child trembled like a leaf when she attempted to sing, and, finally, fainted on the stage, to the consternation of a crowded house.

The point was gained, however; Nelly soon found an opportunity of talking in private with Bill Jones, and appointed to meet Larry in the street next morning early, near the City Hotel.

It was with trembling eagerness, mixed with timidity, that she took the Irishman’s arm when they met, and asked if he really knew where her sister was.

“Oh, how I’ve longed for her! But are you sure you know her?”

“Know her!” said Larry, with a smile. “Do I know meself?”

This argument was unanswerable, so Nelly made no reply, and Larry went on. “Yes, avic, I know’d her, an’ faix I hope to know her better. But here’s her picture for ye.”

Larry then gave the earnest listener at his side a graphic description of her sister Kate’s personal appearance, and described her brother also, but he did not, at that time, acquaint her with the death of the latter. He also spoke of Black Jim, and described the circumstances of her being carried off. “So ye see, darlin’,” said he, “I know all about ye; an’ now I want ye to tell me what happened to ye after that.”

“It’s a sad story,” said the child, in a low tone, as if her mind were recalling melancholy incidents in her career. Then she told rapidly, how she had been forsaken by those to whom she had been intrusted, and left to perish in the mountain snow; and how, in her extremity, God had sent help; how another party of emigrants found her and carried her on; how, one by one, they all died, till she was left alone a second time; and how a Mexican horseman found her, and carried her to his home, and kept her there as his adopted daughter, till he was killed while taming a wild horse. After that, Nelly’s story was a repetition of what Larry had already overheard accidentally in the concert-room.

“Now, dear,” said Larry, “we haven’t time to waste, will ye go with me to San Francisco?”

The tones of the rough man’s voice, rather than his words, had completely won the confidence of the poor child, so she said, “Yes,” without hesitation. “But how am I to escape from Mr Jolly?” she added; “he has begun to suspect Mr Jones, I see quite well.”

“Lave that to me, darlin’, an’ do you kape as much as ye can in the house the nixt day or two, an’ be lookin’ out for what may turn up. Good day to ye, mavourneen; we must part here, for fear we’re seen by any lynx-eyed blackguards. Kape up yer heart.”

Nelly walked quickly away, half laughing at, and half perplexed by, the ambiguity of her new friend’s parting advice.

The four friends now set themselves to work to outwit Mr Jolly, and rob him of Mademoiselle Nelina. At last they hit upon a device, which did not, indeed, say much for the ingenuity of the party, but which, like many other bold plans, succeeded admirably.

A steamer was to start in three days for San Francisco—one of those splendid new vessels which, like floating palaces, had suddenly made their appearance on these distant waters—having made the long and dangerous voyage from the United States round the Horn. Before the steamer started, Larry contrived to obtain another interview with Nelly Morgan, and explained their plan, which was as follows:—

On the day of the steamer sailing, a few hours before the time of starting, Mr Jolly was to receive the following letter, dated from a well-known ranche, thirty miles up the river:—

“Sir,—I trust that you will forgive a perfect stranger addressing you, but the urgency of the case must be my excuse. There is a letter lying here for you, which, I have reason to know, contains information of the utmost importance to yourself; but which—owing to circumstances that I dare not explain in a letter that might chance to fall into wrong hands—must be opened here by your own hands. It will explain all when you arrive; meanwhile, as I am a perfect stranger to the state of your finances, I send you a sufficient quantity of gold-dust by the bearer to enable you to hire a horse and come up. Pray excuse the liberty I take, and believe me to be,

“Your obedient servant,

“Edward Sinton.”

At the appointed time Larry delivered this epistle, and the bag of gold into Mr Jolly’s hands, and, saying that no answer was required, hurried away.

If Mr Jolly had been suddenly informed that he had been appointed secretary of state to the king of Ashantee, he could not have looked more astonished than when he perused this letter, and weighed the bag of gold in his hand. The letter itself; had it arrived alone, might, very likely would, have raised his suspicions, but accompanied as it was by a bag of gold of considerable value, it commended itself as a genuine document; and the worthy musician was in the saddle half-an-hour later. Before starting, he cautioned Nelly not to quit the house on any account whatever, a caution which she heard but did not reply to. Three hours later Mr Jolly reached his destination, and had the following letter put into his hands.

“Sir,—By the time you receive this, your late charge, Mademoiselle Nelina, will be on her way to San Francisco, where you are welcome to follow her, and claim her from her sister, if you feel so disposed.

“I am, Sir, etcetera,

“Edward Sinton.”

We need not repeat what Mr Jolly said, or try to imagine what he felt, on receipt of this letter! About the time it was put into his hands the magnificent steamer at the embarcadero gave a shrill whistle, then it panted violently, the paddles revolved,—and our adventurers were soon steaming swiftly down the noble river on their way to San Francisco.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

San Francisco again—A Terrible Misfortune—An Old Friend in surprisingly New Circumstances—Several Remarkable Discoveries and New Lights.

There is no time or place, perhaps, more suitable for indulging in ruminations, cogitations, and reminiscences, than the quiet hours of a calm night out upon the sea, when the watchful stars look down upon the bosom of the deep, and twinkle at their reflections in placid brilliancy.

Late at night, when all the noisy inmates of the steamer had ceased to eat, and drink, and laugh, and had sought repose in their berths, Edward Sinton walked the deck alone, meditating on the past, the present, and the future. When he looked up at the serene heavens, and down at the tranquil sea, whose surface was unruffled, save by the long pure white track of the vessel, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the whirl of incident and adventure in which he had been involved during the last few and short months was real. It seemed like a brilliant dream. As long as he was on shore it all appeared real enough, and the constant pressure of something to be done, either immediately, or in an hour, or to-morrow, kept his mind perpetually chained down to the consideration of visible, and tangible, and passing events; but now the cord of connexion with land had been suddenly and completely severed. The very land itself was out of sight. Nothing around him tended to recall recent events; and, as he had nothing in the world to do but wait until the voyage should come to an end, his mind was left free to bound over the recent-past into the region of the long-past, and revel there at pleasure.

But Ned Sinton was not altogether without anxieties. He felt a little uneasy as to the high-handed manner in which he had carried off Nelly Morgan from her late guardian; and he was a good deal perplexed as to what the important affairs could be for which he had so hastily overturned all the gold-digging plans of his whole party. With these thoughts mingled many philosophic inquiries as to the amount of advantage that lay—if, indeed, there was any advantage at all—in making one’s fortune suddenly and at the imminent hazard of one’s life. Overpowering sleep at last put an end to Ned’s wandering thoughts, and he too bade the stars good-night, and sought his pillow. In due course the vessel cast anchor off the town of San Francisco.

“There is many a slip ’tween the cup and the lip.” It is an old proverb that, but one which is proved, by frequent use, on the part of authors in all ages, to be a salutary reminder to humanity. Its truth was unpleasantly exemplified on the arrival of the steamer. As the tide was out at the time, the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, in order to land the passengers. The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ashore. The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with passengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off.

“Hold on!” shouted a big coarse-looking fellow, in a rough blue jacket and wide-awake, who was evidently drunk; “let me in first.”

“There’s no room!” cried several voices. “Shove off.”

“There’s room enough!” cried the man, with an oath; at the same time seizing the rope.

“If ye do come down,” said a sailor, sternly, “I’ll pitch ye overboard.”

“Will ye!” growled the man; and the next instant he sprang upon the edge of the boat, which upset, and left its freight struggling in the water. The other boats immediately picked them all up; and, beyond a wetting, they were physically none the worse. But, alas! the bags of gold which our adventurers were carrying ashore with them, sank to the bottom of the sea! They were landed on the wharf at San Francisco as penniless as they were on the day of their arrival in California.

This reverse of fortune was too tremendous to be realised in a moment. As they stood on the wharf; dripping wet, and gazing at each other in dismay, they suddenly, as if by one consent, burst into a loud laugh. But the laugh had a strong dash of bitterness in its tone; and when it passed, the expression of their countenances was not cheerful.

Bill Jones was the first to speak, as they wandered, almost helplessly, through the crowded streets, while little Nelly ever and anon looked wistfully up into Larry’s face, as he led her by the hand.

“It’s a stunnin’ smash,” said Bill, fetching a deep sigh. “But w’en a thing’s done, an’ can’t be undone, then it’s unpossible, that’s wot it is; and wot’s unpossible there’s no use o’ tryin’ for to do. ’Cause why? it only wastes yer time an’ frets yer sperrit—that’s my opinion.”

Not one of the party ventured to smile—as was their wont in happier circumstances—at the philosophy of their comrade’s remark. They wandered on in silence till they reached—they scarce knew how or why—the centre plaza of the town.

“It’s of no use giving way to it,” said Ned Sinton, at last, making a mighty effort to recover: “we must face our reverses like men; and, after all, it might have been worse. We might have lost our lives as well as our gold, so we ought to be thankful instead of depressed.”

“What shall we do now?” inquired Captain Bunting, in a tone that proved sufficiently that he at least could not benefit by Ned’s advice.

“Sure we’ll have to go an’ work, capting,” replied Larry, in a tone of facetious desperation; “but first of all we’ll have to go an’ see Mr Thompson, and git dry clo’se for Nelly, poor thing—are ye cowld, darlin’?”

“No, not in the least,” answered the child, sadly. “I think my things will dry soon, if we walk in the sun.”

Nelly’s voice seemed to rouse the energies of the party more effectually than Ned’s moralising.

“Yes,” cried the latter, “let us away to old Thompson’s. His daughter, Lizette, will put you all to rights, dear, in a short time. Come along.”

So saying, Ned led the way, and the whole party speedily stood at the door of Mr Thompson’s cottage.

The door was merely fastened by a latch, and as no notice was taken of their first knock, Ned lifted it and entered the hall, then advancing to the parlour door, he opened it and looked in.

The sight that met his gaze was well calculated to make him open his eyes, and his mouth too, if that would in any way have relieved his feelings.

Seated in old Mr Thompson’s easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable.

Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom’s knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson.

“Tom! Miss Thompson!” cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast.

Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, “No, Ned, not Miss Thompson—Mrs Collins, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you.”

“You are jesting, Tom,” said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady’s hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions.

“Not a bit of it, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “This, I assure you, is my wife. Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won’t believe me. But sit down, sit down, and let’s hear all about you. Go, Lizette, get ’em something to eat. I knew you would make your appearance ere long. Old Thompson’s letter—halloo! why what’s this? You’re wet! and who’s this—a wet little girl?”

“Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom,” said Larry, “for we’re all wet beggars, ivery wan o’ us—without a dollar to bless ourselves with.”

Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other. “Stay,” he shouted; “wife, come here. There’s a mystery going on. Take this moist little one to your room; and there,” he added, throwing open a door, “you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on—though I don’t say to fit. Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself.”

Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends.

“It’s unfortunate,” said Tom, after a pause; “ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself;” cried Ned, “for saying so, considering the wife you have got.”

“True, my boy,” replied the other, “I ought indeed to be ashamed, but I spoke in reference to money matters. What say you to the fact, that I am as much a beggar as yourself?”

“Outward appearances would seem to contradict you.”

“Nevertheless, it is true, I assure you. When you left me, Ned, in the hotel at Sacramento, I became so lonely that I grew desperate; and, feeling much stronger in body, I set off for this town in the new steamer—that in which you arrived. I came straight up here, re-introduced myself to Mr Thompson; and, two days after—for I count it folly to waste time in such matters when one’s mind is made up—I proposed to Lizette, and was accepted conditionally. Of course, the condition was that papa should be willing. But papa was not willing. He said that three thousand dollars, all I possessed, was a capital sum, but not sufficient to marry on, and that he could not risk his daughter’s happiness, etcetera, etcetera—you know the rest. Well, the very next day news came that one of Thompson’s best ships had been wrecked off Cape Horn. This was a terrible blow, for the old man’s affairs were in a rickety condition at any rate, and this sank him altogether. His creditors were willing enough to wait, but one rascal refused to do so, and swore he would sequestrate him. I found that the sum due him was exactly three thousand dollars, so I paid him the amount in full, and handed Thompson the discharged account. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘I’m off to the diggings, so good-bye!’ for, you see, Ned, I felt that I could not urge my suit at that time, as it would be like putting on the screw—taking an unfair advantage of him.

“‘Why, what do you mean, my lad?’ said he.

“‘That I’m off to-morrow,’ replied I.

“‘That you must not do,’ said he.

“‘Why not?’ said I.

“‘Because,’ said he, ‘now that things are going smooth, I must go to England by the first ship that sails, and get my affairs there put on a better footing, so you must stay here to look after my business, and to—to—take care of Lizette.’

“‘Eh! what!’ said I, ‘what do you mean? You know that is impossible.’

“‘Not at all, boy, if you marry her!’

“Of course I could not refuse, and so, to cut it short, we were married right off and here we are, the representatives of the great firm of Thompson and Company, of California.”

“Then, do you mean to say that Thompson is gone?” Inquired Ned, with a look of horror.

“Near the Horn, I should think, by this time; but why so anxious?”

“Because,” sighed Ned, sitting down on the edge of the bed, with a look of despair, “I came here by his invitation; and—”

“Oh! it’s all right,” interrupted Tom; “I know all about it, and am commissioned by him to settle the affair for you.”

“But what is the affair?” inquired Ned, eagerly.

“Ah! my dear boy, do try to exercise patience. If I tell you everything before we go down to our comrades, I fear we shall have to send a message to say that we are not coming till to-morrow morning.”

Tom rose as he spoke, and led the way to the parlour, where bread and cheese were spread out for them.

“The only drawback to my felicity,” whispered Tom to Sinton, as they entered, “is that I find Thompson’s affairs far worse than he himself was aware of; and it’s a fact, that at this moment I can scarcely draw enough out of the business to supply the necessaries of life.”

There was a slight bitterness in Tom’s tone as he said this, but the next moment he was jesting with his old companions as lightheartedly as ever. During the meal he refused, however, to talk business, and, when it was concluded, he proposed that they should go out for a stroll through the town.

“By the way,” remarked Ned, as they walked along, “what of Captain Bunting’s old ship?”

“Ay!” echoed the captain, “that’s the uppermost thing in my mind; but master Tom seems determined to keep us in the dark. I do believe the Roving Bess has been burned, an’ he’s afraid to tell us.”

“You’re a desperately inquisitive set,” cried Tom Collins, laughing. “Could you not suppose that I wanted to give you a surprise, by shewing you how curiously she has been surrounded by houses since you last saw her. You’ll think nothing of it, now that I have told you.”

“Why, where are ye goin’?” cried Larry, as Tom turned up a street that led a little away from the shore, towards which they had been walking!

Tom made no reply, but led on. They were now in that densely-crowded part of the town where shops were less numerous, warehouses more plentiful, and disagreeable odours more abundant, than elsewhere. A dense mass of buildings lay between them and the sea, and in the centre of these was a square or plaza, on one side of which stood a large hotel, out of the roof of which rose a gigantic flag-staff. A broad and magnificent flight of wooden steps led up to the door of this house of entertainment, over which, on a large board, was written its name—“The Roving Bess Tavern.”

“Dear me! that’s a strange coincidence,” exclaimed the captain, as his eye caught the name.

“Tare an’ ages!” yelled Larry, “av it isn’t the owld ship! Don’t I know the mizzen-mast as well as I know me right leg?”

“The Roving Bess Tavern!” muttered Captain Bunting, while his eyes stared incredulously at the remarkable edifice before him.

Bill Jones, who, up to this point, had walked beside his comrades in silent meditation, here lost presence of mind and, putting both hands to his mouth, sang out, in true stentorian boatswain tones, “All hands ahoy! tumble up there—tumble up!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons.

“Major Whitlaw,” said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, “allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting—your tenant, captain. I dare say you have almost forgotten each other.”

The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said—

“Glad to see ye, cap’n, I guess. Wanted to for a long time. Couldn’t come to terms with old Thompson. Won’t you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling? I’d like to have a private talk—this way.”

The landlord of the Roving Bess Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table. He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies.

“Jist sit there a minute,” said the Yankee, “till I see to your friends bein’ fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it.”

When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth. It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat.

“Tom,” said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, “how did they get her up here!”

“She’s never been moved since you left her,” answered Tom, laughing; “the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland.”

The captain’s eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned.

“They’re all square now, gentlemen, so, if you please, we’ll proceed to business. I suppose your friend has told you how the land lies?”

“He certainly has,” replied the captain, who accepted the phrase literally.

“Wall, I reckon your property’s riz since ye wor here; now, if you give me leave to make the alterations I want to, I’ll give you 1000 dollars a month, payable in advance.”

“You’d better tell Captain Bunting what the alterations you refer to are,” suggested Tom Collins, who saw that the captain’s state of mind rendered him totally incapable of transacting business.

“That’s soon done. I’ll give it ye slick off. I want to cut away the companion-hatch and run up a regular stair to the deck; then it’s advisable to cut away at least half o’ the main deck to heighten the gamin’ saloon. But I guess the main point is to knock out half-a-dozen windows in the hold, for gas-light is plaguey dear, when it’s goin’ full blast day and night. Besides, I must cut the entrance-door down to the ground, for this tree-mendous flight o’ stairs’ll be the ruin o’ the business. It’s only a week since a man was shot by a comrade here in the cabin, an’ as they rushed out after him, two customers fell down the stair and broke their arms. And I calc’late the gentlemen that’s overtaken by liquor every night won’t stand it much longer. There isn’t a single man that quits this house after 12 p.m. but goes down that flight head-foremost. If you don’t sanction that change, I guess I’ll have to get ’em padded, and spread feather-beds at the foot. Now, cap’n, if you agrees to this right off, I’ll give the sum named.”

Captain Bunting’s astonishment had now reached that point at which extremes are supposed to meet, and a reaction began to take place.

“How much did you propose?” he inquired, taking out a pencil and an old letter, as if he were about to make notes, at the same time knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look intensely sagacious.

“One thousand dollars a month,” answered the Yankee; “I railly can’t stand more.”

“Let me see,” muttered the captain slowly, in an under tone, while he pressed his forehead with his fore-finger; “one thousand dollars—200 pounds sterling—hum, equal to about 2400 pounds a year. Well,” he added, raising his voice, “I don’t mind if I do. I suppose, Tom, it’s not much below the thing, as rents go!”

“It’s a fair offer,” said Tom, carelessly; “we might, perhaps, get a higher, but Major Whitlaw is in possession, and is, besides, a good tenant.”

“Then I’ll conclude the bargain—pray get pen, ink, and paper.”

While the major turned for a moment to procure writing materials, the captain looked at Tom and winked expressively. Then, a document was drawn up, signed, and witnessed, and then the captain, politely declining a brandy-smash, or any other smash whatever, left the Roving Bess Tavern with his friends, and with 200 pounds—the first month’s rent—in his pocket.

It is needless to remark, that his comrades congratulated him heartily, and that the worthy captain walked along the streets of San Francisco chuckling.

In a few minutes, Tom Collins stopped before a row of immense warehouses. There was one gap in the row, a space of several yards square, that might have held two good-sized houses. Four wooden posts stood at the corners of the plot, and an old boat, turned keel up, lay in the middle of it.

“I know it!” cried Ned Sinton, laughing in gleeful surprise; “it’s my old boat, isn’t it? Well, I can scarcely credit my eyes! I saw it last on the sea-shore, and now it’s a quarter of a mile into the town!”

“More than that, Ned,” said Tom Collins, “the plot of ground is worth ten thousand dollars at this moment. Had it been a little further south, it would have been worth ten times that sum. And more than that still, the Irish family you lent the boat to—you remember them—well, they dug up a bag from under the boat which contained five thousand dollars; the honest people at once gave it up, and Mr Thompson rewarded them well; but they did not live to enjoy it long, they’re all dead now. So you see, Ned, you’re just 3000 pounds richer than you thought you were this morning.”

“It’s a great day!” remarked Larry O’Neil, looking round upon his comrades, who received all this information with an expression of doubting surprise; “a great day intirely! Faix, I’m only hopin’ we won’t waken up an’ find it’s all a dhrame!”

Larry’s companions quite agreed with him. They did not indeed say so, but, as they returned home after that stroll, talking eagerly of future plans and prospects, the ever-recurring sentiment broke from their lips, in every style of phrase, “It’s a great day, intirely!”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

More Unexpected Discoveries—Captain Bunting makes Bill Jones A First Mate—Larry O’Neil Makes himself a First Mate—The Parting—Ned Sinton proves himself, a Second Time, to be a Friend in Need and in Deed.

“It never rains but it pours,” saith the proverb. We are fond of proverbs. We confess to a weakness that way. There is a depth of meaning in them which courts investigation from the strongest intellects. Even when they are nonsensical, which is not unfrequently the case, their nonsense is unfathomable, and, therefore, invested with all the zest which attaches, metaphysically speaking, to the incomprehensible.

Astonishing circumstances had been raining for some time past around our bewildered adventurers, and, latterly, they had begun to pour. On the afternoon of the day, the events of which have been recorded in the last chapter, there was, metaphorically speaking, a regular thunder-plump. No sooner had the party returned to old Mr Thompson’s cottage, than down it came again, heavy as ever.

On entering the porch, Lizette ran up to Tom, in that pretty tripping style peculiar to herself, and whispered in his ear.

“Well, you baggage,” said he, “I’ll go with you; but I don’t like secrets. Walk into the parlour, friends; I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Tom,” said Lizette, pursing up her little mouth and elevating her pert nose; “you can’t guess what an interesting discovery I’ve made.”

“Of course I can’t,” replied Tom, with affected impatience; “now, pray, don’t ask me to try, else I shall leave you instantly.”

“What an impatient creature you are!” said Lizette. “Only think! I have discovered that my maid, whom we hired only two days ago, has—”

“Bolted with the black cook, or somebody else, and married him,” interrupted Tom, with a look of horror, as he threw himself into any easy-chair.

“Not at all,” rejoined Lizette, hurriedly; “nothing of the sort; she has discovered that the little girl Mr Sinton brought with him is her sister.”

“What! Kate Morgan’s sister!” cried Tom, with a look of surprise. “I knew it; I was sure I had heard the name before, but I couldn’t remember when or where; I see it now; she must be the girl Larry O’Neil used to talk about up at the diggin’s; but as I never saw her there, of course I couldn’t know her.”

“Well, I don’t know about that; I suppose you’re right,” replied Lizette; “but isn’t it nice? They’re kissing and hugging each other, and crying, in the kitchen at this moment. Oh! I’m so happy—the dear little thing!”

If Lizette was happy she took a strange way to shew it, for she sat down beside Tom and began to sob.

While the above conversation was going on up-stairs, another conversation—interesting enough to deserve special notice—was going on in the parlour.

“Sure don’t I know me own feelin’s best?” remarked Larry, addressing Ned Sinton. “It’s all very well at the diggin’s; but when it comes to drawin’-rooms and parlours, I feels—an’ so does Bill Jones here—that we’re out ’o place. In the matter o’ diggin’ we’re all equals, no doubt; but we feels that we ain’t gintlemen born, and that it’s a’k’ard to the lady to be havin’ sich rough customers at her table, so Bill an’ me has agreed to make the most o’ ourselves in the kitchen.”

“Larry, you’re talking nonsense. We have messed together on equal terms for many months; and, whatever course we may follow after this, you must sup with us to-night, as usual. I know Tom will be angry if you don’t.”

“Ay, sir, but it ain’t ‘as oosual,’” suggested Bill Jones, turning the quid in his cheek; “it’s quite on-oosual for the likes o’ us to sup with a lady.”

“That’s it,” chimed in Larry; “so, Mister Ned, ye’ll jist plaise to make our excuges to Mrs Tom, and tell her where we’ve gone to lo-cate, as the Yankees say. Come away, Bill.”

Larry took his friend by the arm, and, leading him out of the room, shut the door.

Five seconds after that there came an appalling female shriek, and a dreadful masculine yell, from the region of the kitchen, accompanied by a subdued squeak of such extreme sweetness, that it could have come only from the throat of Mademoiselle Nelina. Ned and the captain sprang to the door, and dashed violently against Tom and his wife, whom they unexpectedly met also rushing towards the kitchen. In another moment a curious and deeply interesting tableau vivant was revealed to their astonished gaze.

In the middle of the room was Larry O’Neil, down on one knee, while with both arms he supported the fainting form of Kate Morgan. By Kate’s side knelt her sister Nelly, who bent over her pale face with anxious, tearful countenance, while, presiding over the group, like an amiable ogre, stood Bill Jones, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, his legs apart, one eye tightly screwed up, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.

“That’s yer sort!” cried Bill, in ecstatic glee. “W’en a thing comes all right, an’ tight, an’ ship-shape, why, wot then? In coorse it’s all square—that’s wot I say.”

“She’s comin’ to,” whispered Larry. “Ah! thin, spake, won’t ye, darlin’? It’ll do ye good, maybe, an’ help to open yer two purty eyes.”

Kate Morgan recovered—we need scarcely tell our reader that—and Nelly dried her eyes, and that evening was spent in a fashion that conduced to the well-being, and comfort, and good humour of all parties concerned. Perhaps it is also needless to inform our reader that Larry O’Neil and Bill Jones carried their point. They supped in the kitchen that night. Our informant does not say whether Kate Morgan and her sister Nelly supped with them—but we rather think they did.

A week afterwards, Captain Bunting had matured his future plans. He resolved to purchase a clipper-brig that was lying at that time useless in the harbour, and embark in the coasting trade of California. He made Bill Jones his first mate, and offered to make Larry O’Neil his second, but Larry wanted a mate himself, and declined the honour; so the captain gave him five hundred pounds to set him up in any line he chose. Ned Sinton sold his property, and also presented his old comrade with a goodly sum of money, saying, that as he, (Ned), had been the means of dragging him away from the diggings, he felt bound to assist him in the hour of need. So Kate Morgan became Mrs O’Neil the week following; and she, with her husband and her little sister, started off for the interior of the country to look after a farm.

About the same time, Captain Bunting having completed the lading of his brig, succeeded in manning her by offering a high wage, and, bidding adieu to Ned and Tom, set sail for the Sacramento.

Two days afterwards, Ned got a letter from old Mr Shirley—the first that he had received since leaving England. It began thus:—

“My Dearest Boy,—What has become of you? I have written six letters, at least, but have never got a single line in reply. You must come home immediately, as affairs here require your assistance, and I’m getting too old to attend to business matters. Do come at once, my dear Ned, unless you wish me to reprove you. Moxton says only a young and vigorous man of business can manage things properly; but when I mentioned you, he shook his head gravely. ‘Too wild and absurd in his notions,’ said he. I stopped him, however, by saying that I was fully aware of your faults—”

The letter then went rambling on in a quaint, prosy, but interesting style; and Ned sat long in his room in old Mr Thompson’s cottage poring over its contents, and gradually maturing his future plans.

“It’s awkward,” soliloquised he, resting his head on both hands. “I shall have to go at once, and so won’t have a chance of seeing Bunting again, to tell him of poor Tom’s circumstances. He would only be too glad to give him a helping hand; but I know Tom will never let him know how hard-up he is. There’s nothing else for it,” he added, determinedly; “my uncle will laugh at my profitless tour—but, n’importe, I have learned much.—Come in!”

This last remark was addressed to some one who had tapped gently at the door.

“It’s only me, Ned; can I come in? I fear I interrupt you,” said Tom, as he entered the room.

“Not at all; sit down, my boy. I have just been perusing a letter from my good old uncle Shirley: he writes so urgently that I fear I must return to England by the first homeward-bound ship.”

“Return to England!” exclaimed Tom, in surprise. “What! leave the gold-fields just as the sun is beginning to shine on you?”

“Even so, Tom.”

“My dear Ned, you are mad! This is a splendid country. Just see what fortunes we should have made, but for the unfortunate accidents that have happened!” Tom sighed as he spoke.

“I know it,” replied his friend, with sadden energy. “This is a splendid country; gold exists all over it—not only in the streams, but on the hill-sides, and even on hill-tops, as you and I know from personal experience—but gold, Tom, is not everything in this world, and the getting of it should not be our chief aim. Moreover, I have come to the conclusion, that digging gold ought to be left entirely to such men as are accustomed to dig ditches and throw up railway embankments. Men whose intelligence is of a higher order ought not to ignore the faculties that have been given to them, and devote their time—too often, alas! their lives—to a species of work that the merest savage is equally capable of performing. Navvies may work at the mines with propriety; but educated men who devote themselves to such work are, I fear, among the number of those to whom Scripture specially speaks, when it says, ‘Make not haste to be rich.’”

“But there are other occupations here besides digging for gold,” said Tom.

“I know it; and I would be happy and proud to rank among the merchants, and engineers, and such men, of California; but duty calls me home, and, to say truth,” added Ned, with a smile, “inclination points the way.”

Tom Collins still for some time attempted to dissuade his friend from quitting the country, and his sweet little wife, Lizette, seconded his efforts with much earnestness; but Ned Sinton was immovable. He took passage in the first ship that sailed for England.

The night before he sailed, Ned, after retiring to his room for the last time in his friend’s house, locked his door, and went through a variety of little pieces of business that would have surprised his hosts had they seen him. He placed a large strong-box on the table, and cautiously drew from under his bed a carpet-bag, which, from the effort made to lift it, seemed to be filled with some weighty substance. Unlocking the bag, he proceeded to lift out handful after handful of shining dollars and gold pieces, interspersed here and there with massive nuggets. These he transferred into the wooden box until it was full. This was nearly the whole of Ned’s fortune. It amounted to a little more than 3000 pounds sterling. Having completed the transfer, Ned counted the surplus left in the bag, and found it to be about 500 pounds. This he secured in a leather purse, and then sat down to write a letter. The letter was short when finished, but it took him long to write, for he meditated much during the writing of it, and several times laid his head on his hands. At last it was completed, put into the box, and the lid screwed down above it. Then Ned read a chapter in the Bible, as was his wont, and retired to rest.

Next day Tom and Lizette stood on the wharf to see him embark for England. Long and earnest was the converse of the two friends, as they were about to part, probably for ever, and then, for the first time, they became aware how deep was the attachment which each had formed for the other. At last the mate of the ship came up, and touched his hat.

“Now, sir, boat’s ready, sir; and we don’t wish to lose the first of the ebb.”

“Good-bye, Lizette—good-bye, Tom! God be with and bless you, my dear fellow! Stay, I had almost forgotten. Tom, you will find a box on the table in my room; you can keep the contents—a letter in it will explain. Farewell!”

Tom’s heart was too full to speak. He squeezed his friend’s hand in silence, and, turning hurriedly round, walked away with Lizette the instant the boat left the shore.

Late in the evening, Tom and his wife remembered the box, and went up-stairs to open it. Their surprise at its rich contents may be imagined. Both at once understood its meaning; and Lizette sat down, and covered her face with her hands, to hide the tears that flowed, while her husband read the letter. It ran thus:—

“MY DEAREST TOM,—You must not be angry with me for leaving this trifle—it is a trifle compared with the amount of gold I would give you if I had it. But I need not apologise; the spirit of love in which it is given demands that it shall be unhesitatingly received in the same spirit. May God, who has blessed us and protected us in all our wanderings together, cause your worldly affairs to prosper, and especially may He bless your soul. Seas and continents may separate us, but I shall never forget you, Tom, or your dear wife. But I must not write as if I were saying farewell. I intend this epistle to be the opening of a correspondence that shall continue as long as we live. You shall hear from me again ere long.

“Your sincerely-attached friend,

“Edward Sinton.”

At the time Tom Collins was reading the above letter to Lizette, in a broken, husky voice, our hero was seated on the taffrail of the ship that bore him swiftly over the sea, gazing wistfully at the receding shore, and bidding a final adieu to California and all his golden dreams.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Our Story comes to an End.

Home! What a host of old and deep and heart-stirring associations arise in every human breast at the sound of that old familiar word! How well we know it—how vividly it recalls certain scenes and faces—how pleasantly it falls on the ear, and slips from the tongue—yet how little do we appreciate home until we have left it, and longed for it, perhaps, for many years.

Our hero, Ned Sinton, is home at last. He sits in his old place beside the fire, with his feet on the fender. Opposite to him sits old Mr Shirley, with a bland smile on his kind, wrinkled visage, and two pair of spectacles on his brow. Mr Shirley, as we formerly stated, regularly loses one pair of spectacles, and always searches for them in vain, in consequence of his having pushed them too far up on his bald head; he, therefore, is frequently compelled to put on his second pair, and hence makes a spectacle, to some extent, of himself. Exactly between the uncle and the nephew, on a low stool, sits the cat—the cat, par excellence—Mr Shirley’s cat, a creature which he has always been passionately fond of since it was a kitten, and to which, after Ned’s departure for California, he had devoted himself so tenderly, that he felt half-ashamed of himself, and would not like to have been asked how much he loved it.

Yes, the cat sits there, looking neither at old Mr Shirley nor at young Mr Sinton, but bestowing its undivided attentions and affections on the fire, which it enjoys extremely, if we may judge from the placid manner in which it winks and purrs.

Ned has been a week at home, and he has just reached that point of experience at which the wild life of the diggings through which he has passed begins to seem like a vivid dream rather than reality.

Breakfast had just been concluded, although the cloth had not yet been removed.

“Do you know, uncle,” remarked Ned, settling his bulky frame more comfortably in the easy-chair, and twirling his watch-key, “I find it more difficult every day to believe that the events of the last few months of my life have actually occurred. When I sit here in my old seat, and look at you and the cat and the furniture—everything, in fact, just the same as when I left—I cannot realise that I have been nearly two years away.”

“I understand your feelings, my dear boy,” replied Mr Shirley, taking off his spectacles, (the lower pair,) wiping them with his handkerchief putting them on again, and looking over them at his nephew, with an expression of unmitigated admiration. “I can sympathise with you, Ned, for I have gone through the same experience more than once in the course of my life. It’s a strange life, boy, a very strange life this, as you’ll come to know, if you’re spared to be as old as I am.”

Ned thought that his knowledge was already pretty extended in reference to life, and even flattered himself that he had had some stranger views of it than his uncle, but he prudently did not give expression to his thoughts; and, after a short pause, Mr Shirley resumed—

“Yes, lad, it’s a very strange life; and the strangest part of it is, that the longer we live the stranger it gets. I travelled once in Switzerland—,” (the old gentleman paused, as if to allow the statement to have its full weight on Ned’s youthful mind,) “and it’s a curious fact, that when I had been some months there, home and all connected with it became like a dream to me, and Switzerland became a reality. But after I came back to England, and had spent some time here, home again became the reality, and Switzerland appeared like a dream, so that I sometimes said to myself, ‘Can it be possible that I have been there!’ Very odd, isn’t it?”

“It is, uncle; and I have very much the same feelings now.”

“Very odd, indeed,” repeated Mr Shirley. “By the way, that reminds me that we have to talk about that farm of which I spoke to you on the day of your arrival.”

We might feel surprised that the above conversation could in any way have the remotest connexion with “that farm” of which Mr Shirley was so suddenly reminded, did we not know that the subject was, in fact, never out of his mind.

“True, uncle, I had almost forgotten about it, but you know I’ve been so much engaged during the last few days in visiting my old friends and college companions, that—”

“I know it, I know it, Ned, and I don’t want to bother you with business matters sooner than I can help, but—”

“My dear uncle, how can you for a moment suppose that I could be ‘bothered’ by—”

“Of course not, boy,” interrupted Mr Shirley. “Well, now, let me ask you, Ned, how much gold have you brought back from the diggings?”

Ned fidgeted uncomfortably on his seat—the subject could no longer be avoided.

“I—I—must confess,” said he, with hesitation, “that I haven’t brought much.”

“Of course, you couldn’t be expected to have done much in so short a time; but how much?”

“Only 500 pounds,” replied Ned, with a sigh, while a slight blush shone through the deep bronze of his countenance.

“Oh!” said Mr Shirley, pursing up his mouth, while an arch twinkle lurked in the corners of each eye.

“Ah! but, uncle, you mustn’t quiz me. I had more, and might have brought it home too, if I had chosen.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Ned replied to this question by detailing how most of his money had been lost, and how, at the last, he gave nearly all that remained to his friend Tom Collins.

“You did quite right, Ned, quite right,” said Mr Shirley, when his nephew had concluded; “and now I’ll tell you what I want you to do. You told me the other day, I think, that you wished to become a farmer.”

“Yes, uncle. I do think that that life would suit me better than any other. I’m fond of the country and a quiet life, and I don’t like cities; but, then, I know nothing about farming, and I doubt whether I should succeed without being educated to it to some extent at least.”

“A very modest and proper feeling to entertain,” said Mr Shirley, with a smile; “particularly when it is considered that farming is an exceedingly difficult profession to acquire a knowledge of. But I have thought of that for you, Ned, and I think I see a way out of the difficulty.”

“What way is that?”

“I won’t tell you just yet, boy. But answer me this. Are you willing to take any farm I suggest to you, and henceforth to give up all notion of wandering over the face of the earth, and devote yourself steadily to your new profession?”

“I am, uncle; if you will point out to me how I am to pay the rent and stock the farm, and how I am to carry it on in the meantime without a knowledge of husbandry.”

“I’ll do that for you, all in good time; meanwhile, will you put on your hat, and run down to Moxton’s office—you remember it?”

“That I do,” replied Ned, with a smile.

“Well, go there, and ask him for the papers I wrote about to him two days ago. Bring them here as quickly as you can. We shall then take the train, and run down to Brixley, and look at the farm.”

“But are you really in earnest!” asked Ned, in some surprise.

“Never more so in my life,” replied the old gentleman, mildly. “Now be off; I want to read the paper.”

Ned rose and left the room, scarcely believing that his uncle did not jest. As he shut the door, old Mr Shirley took up the paper, pulled down the upper pair of spectacles—an act which knocked the lower pair off his nose, whereat he smiled more blandly than ever—and began to read.

Meanwhile, Edward Sinton put on his great-coat—the identical one he used to wear before he went away—and his hat and his gloves, and walked out into the crowded streets of London, with feelings somewhat akin, probably, to those of a somnambulist. Having been so long accustomed to the free-and-easy costume of the mines, Ned felt about as uncomfortable and stiff as a warrior of old must have felt when armed cap-à-pie. His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow that he used to be—dashing by nature, we may remark, not by affectation.

In half-an-hour he stood before Moxton’s door. There it was, as large as life, and as green as ever. Ned really found it impossible to believe that it was so long since he last saw it. He felt as if it had been yesterday. The brass knocker and the brass plate were there too, as dirty as ever—perhaps a thought dirtier—and the dirty house still retreated a little behind its fellows, and was still as much ashamed of itself—seemingly—as ever.

Ned raised the knocker, and smote the brass knob. The result was, as formerly, a disagreeable-looking old woman, who replied to the question, “Is Mr Moxton in?” with a sharp, short, “Yes.” The dingy little office, with its insufficient allowance of daylight, and its compensating mixture of yellow gas, was inhabited by the same identical small dishevelled clerk who, nearly two years before, was busily employed in writing his name interminably on scraps of paper, and who now, as then, answered to the question, “Can I see Mr Moxton?” by pointing to the door which opened into the inner apartment, and resuming his occupation—the same occupation—writing his name on scraps of paper.

Ned tapped—as of yore.

“Come in,” cried a stern voice—as of ditto.

Ned entered; and there, sure enough, was the same tall, gaunt man, with the sour cast of countenance, standing, (as formerly,) with his back to the fire.

“Ah!” exclaimed Moxton, “you’re young Sinton, I suppose?”

Ned almost started at the perfect reproduction of events, and questions, and answers. He felt a species of reckless incredulity in reference to everything steal over him, as he replied—

“Yes; I came, at my uncle’s request, for some papers that—”

“Ah, yes, they’re all ready,” interrupted the lawyer, advancing to the table. “Tell your uncle that I shall be glad to hear from him again in reference to the subject of those papers; and take care of them—they are of value. Good-morning!”

“Good-morning!” replied our hero, retreating.

“Stay!” said Moxton.

Ned stopped, and turned round.

“You’ve been in California, since I last saw you, I understand?”

“I have,” replied Ned.

“Umph! You haven’t made your fortune, I fancy?”

“No, not quite.”

“It’s a wild place, if all reports are true?”

“Rather,” replied Ned, smiling; “there’s a want of law there.”

“Ha! and lawyers,” remarked Moxton, sarcastically.

“Indeed there is,” replied Ned, with some enthusiasm, as he thought of the gold-hunting spirit that prevailed in the cities of California. “There is great need out there of men of learning—men who can resist the temptation to collect gold, and are capable of doing good to the colony in an intellectual and spiritual point of view. Clergymen, doctors, and lawyers are much wanted there. You’d find it worth your while to go, sir.”

Had Edward Sinton advised Mr Moxton to go and rent an office in the moon, he could scarcely have surprised that staid gentleman more than he did by this suggestion. The lawyer gazed at him for one moment in amazement. Then he said—

“These papers are of value, young man: be careful of them. Good-morning—” and sat down at his desk to write. Ned did not venture to reply, but instantly retired, and found himself in the street with—not, as formerly, an indistinct, but—a distinct impression that he had heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office.

That afternoon Ned and old Mr Shirley alighted from the train at a small village not a hundred miles out of London, and wended their way leisurely—for it was a warm sunny day for the season—towards a large, quaint, old farm-house, about two miles distant from the station.

“What a very pleasant-looking house that is on the hill-top!” remarked Ned, as he gave his arm to his uncle.

“D’you think so? Well, I’m glad of it, because that’s the farm I wish you to take.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Ned, in surprise. “Surely the farm connected with such a house must be a large one?”

“So it is,” replied the other.

Ned laughed. “My dear uncle,” said he, “how can I manage such a place, without means or knowledge?”

“I said before, boy, that I would overcome both these difficulties for you.”

“You did, dear uncle; and if you were a rich man, I could understand how you might overcome the first; but you have often told me you had no money in the world except the rent of a small property.”

“Right, Ned; I said so; and I say it again. I shan’t leave you a sixpence when I die, and I can’t afford to give you one while I am alive.”

“Then I must just leave the matter in your own hands,” replied Ned, smiling, “for I cannot comprehend your plans.”

They had now reached the gate of the park that surrounded the fine old building of Brixley Hall.

The house was one of those rambling, picturesque old mansions, which, although not very large in reality, have a certain air of magnitude, and even grandeur, about them. The windows were modern and large, so that the rooms were well lighted, and the view in all directions was magnificent. Wherever the eye turned, it met knolls, and mounds, and fields, and picturesque groves, with here and there a substantial farm-steading, or a little hamlet, with its modest church-spire pointing ever upwards to the bright sky. Cattle and sheep lowed and bleated in the meadows, while gentle murmurs told that a rivulet flowed along its placid course at no great distance.

The spot was simply enchanting—and Ned said so, in the fulness of his heart, emphatically.

“’Tis a sweet spot!” remarked his uncle, in a low, sad tone, as he entered the open door of the dwelling, and walked deliberately into the drawing-room.

“Now, Ned, sit down—here, opposite that window, where you can see the view—and I’ll tell you how we shall manage. You tell me you have 500 pounds?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Well, your dear mother left you her fortune when she died—it amounts to the small sum of 200 pounds. I never told you of it before, my boy, for reasons of my own. That makes 700 pounds.”

“Will that suffice to stock and carry on so large a farm,” inquired Ned?

“Not quite,” replied Mr Shirley, “but the farm is partly stocked already, so it’ll do. Now, I’ve made arrangements with the proprietor to let you have it for the first year or two rent free. His last tenant’s lease happens to have expired six months ago, and he is anxious to have it let immediately.”

Ned opened his eyes very wide at this.

“He says,” continued the old gentleman, “that if you can’t manage to make the two ends meet in the course of a year or two, he will extend the gratis lease.”

Ned began to think his uncle had gone deranged. “Why, what do you mean,” said he, “who is this extraordinary proprietor?”

“He’s an eccentric old fellow, Ned, who lives in London—they call him Shirley, I believe.”

“Yourself, uncle!” cried Ned, starting up.

Dear reader, the conversation that followed was so abrupt, exclamatory, interjectional, and occasionally ungrammatical, as well as absurd, that it could not be reduced to writing. We therefore leave it to your imagination. After a time, the uncle and nephew subsided, and again became sane.

“But,” said Ned, “I shall have to get a steward—is that what you call him? or overseer, to manage affairs until I am able to do it myself.”

“True, Ned; but I have provided one already.”

“Indeed!—but I might have guessed that. What shall I have to pay him? a good round sum, I suppose.”

“No,” replied Mr Shirley; “he is very moderate in his expectations. He only expects his food and lodging, besides a little care, and attention, and love, particularly in his old age.”

“He must be a cautious fellow, to look so far forward,” said Ned, laughing. “What’s his name?”

“His name—is Shirley.”

“What! yourself again?”

“And why not, nephew? I’ve as much right to count myself fit to superintend a farm, as you had, a year ago, to think yourself able to manage a gold mine. Nay, I have a better right—for I was a farmer the greater part of my life before I went to reside in London. Now, boy, as I went to live in the Great City—which I don’t like—in order to give you a good education, I expect that you’ll take me to the country—which I do like—to be your overseer. I was born and bred here, Ned; this was my father’s property, and, when I am gone, it shall be yours. It is not much to boast of. You won’t be able to spend an idle life of it here; for, although a goodly place, it must be carefully tended if you would make it pay.”

“I don’t need to tell you,” replied Ned, “that I have no desire to lead an idle life. But, uncle, I think your terms are very high.”

“How so, boy?”

“Love is a very high price to pay for service,” replied Ned. “Your kindness and your generosity in this matter make me very happy and very grateful, and, perhaps, might make me very obedient and extremely attentive; but I cannot give you love at any price. I must refuse you as an overseer, but if you will come to me as old Uncle Shirley—”

“Well, well, Ned,” interrupted the old gentleman, with a benign smile, “we’ll not dispute about that. Let us now go and take a run round the grounds.”

It is needless, dear reader, to prolong our story. Perchance we have taxed your patience too much already—but we cannot close without a word or two regarding the subsequent life of those whose fortunes we have followed so long.

Ned Sinton and old Mr Shirley applied themselves with diligence and enthusiasm to the cultivation of their farm, and to the cultivation of the friendship and good-will of their neighbours all round. In both efforts they were eminently successful.

Ned made many interesting discoveries during his residence at Brixley Hall, chief among which was a certain Louisa Leslie, with whom he fell desperately in love—so desperately that his case was deemed hopeless. Louisa therefore took pity on him, and became Mrs Sinton, to the unutterable delight of old Mr Shirley—and the cat, both of whom benefited considerably by this addition to the household.

About the time this event occurred, Ned received a letter from Tom Collins, desiring him to purchase a farm for him as near to his own as possible. Tom had been successful as a merchant, and had made a large fortune—as was often the case in those days—in the course of a year or two. At first, indeed, he had had a hard struggle, and was more than once nearly driven, by desperation, to the gaming-table, but Ned’s advice and warnings came back upon him again and again—so he fought against the temptation manfully, and came off victorious. Improved trade soon removed the temptation—perhaps we should say that his heavenly Father took that means to remove it—and at last, as we have said, he made a fortune, as many had done, in like circumstances, before him. Ned bought a farm three miles from his own, and, in the course of a few months, Tom and he were once more walking together, arm in arm, recalling other days, and—arguing.

Lizette and Louisa drew together like two magnets, the instant they met. But the best of it was, Tom had brought home Larry O’Neil as his butler, and Mrs Kate O’Neil as his cook while Nelly became his wife’s maid.

Larry, it seems, had not taken kindly to farming in California, the more so that he pitched unluckily on an unproductive piece of land, which speedily swallowed up his little fortune, and refused to yield any return. Larry, therefore, like some men who thought themselves much wiser fellows, pronounced the country a wretched one, in reference to agriculture, and returned to San Francisco, where he found Tom Collins, prospering and ready to employ himself and his family.

As butler to an English squire, Larry O’Neil was, according to his own statement, “a continted man.” May he long remain so!

Nelly Morgan soon became, out of sight, the sweetest girl in the countryside, and, ere long, one of the best young fellows in the district carried her off triumphantly, and placed her at the head of affairs in his own cottage. We say he was one of the best young fellows—this husband of Nelly’s—but he was by no means the handsomest; many a handsome strapping youth there failed to obtain so good a wife as Nelly. Her husband was a steady, hard working, thriving, good man—and quite good-looking enough for her—so Nelly said.

As for Captain Bunting and Bill Jones, they stuck to each other to the last, like two limpets, and both of them stuck to the sea like fish. No shore-going felicities could tempt these hardy sons of Neptune to forsake their native element again. He had done it once, Bill Jones said, “in one o’ the splendidest countries goin’, where gold was to be had for the pickin’ up, and all sorts o’ agues and rheumatizes for nothin’; but w’en things didn’t somehow go all square, an’ the anchor got foul with a gale o’ adwerse circumstances springin’ up astarn, why, wot then?—go to sea again, of coorse, an’ stick to it; them wos his sentiments.” As these were also Captain Bunting’s sentiments, they naturally took to the same boat for life.

But, although Captain Bunting and Bill did not live on shore, they occasionally, at long intervals, condescended to revisit the terrestrial globe, and, at such seasons of weakness, made a point of running down to Brixley Hall to see Ned and Tom. Then, indeed, “the light of other days” shone again in retrospect on our adventurers with refulgent splendour; then Larry sank the butler, and came out as the miner—as one of the partners of the “R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny”—then Ned and Tom related marvellous adventures, to the admiration of their respective wives, and the captain smote his thigh with frequency and emphasis, to the terror of the cat, and Bill Jones gave utterance to deeply-pregnant sentences, and told how that, on his last voyage to China, he had been up at Pekin, and had heard that Ah-wow had dug up a nugget of gold three times the size of his own head, and had returned to his native land a millionnaire, and been made a mandarin, and after that something else, and at last became prime minister of China—so Bill had been told, but he wouldn’t vouch for it, no how.

All this, and a great deal more, was said and done on these great and rare occasions—and our quondam gold-hunters fought their battles o’er again, to the ineffable delight of old Mr Shirley, who sat in his easy-chair, and gazed, and smiled, and stared, and laughed, and even wept, and chuckled—but never spoke—he was past that.

In the course of time Ned and Tom became extremely intimate with the pastor of their village, and were at last his right and left-hand men. This pastor was a man whose aim was to live as his Master had lived before him—he went about doing good—and, of all the happy years our two friends spent, the happiest were those in which they followed in the footsteps and strengthened the hands of this good man, Lizette and Louisa were helpmates to their husbands in this respect, as in all others, and a blessing to the surrounding country.

Ned Sinton’s golden dream was over now, in one sense, but by no means over in another. His sleeping and his waking dreams were still, as of old, tinged with a golden hue, but they had not a metallic ring. The golden rule was the foundation on which his new visions were reared, and that which we are told is better than gold, “yea, than much fine gold,” was thenceforth eagerly sought for and coveted by him. As for other matters—he delighted chiefly in the sunshine of Louisa’s smile, and in fields of golden grain.

The End.

ENDNOTES

Note1. “Dirt” is the name given among miners to the soil in which gold is found.

Note2. Hlpluhplp. As the reader may have some difficulty in pronouncing the above word, we beg to inform him, (or her), that it is easily done, by simply drawing in the breath, and, at the same time, waggling the tongue between the lips.

Chapter One.

Treats of our Hero and Others.

If the entire circuit of a friend’s conversation were comprised in the words “Don’t” and “Do,”—it might perhaps be taken for granted that his advice was not of much value; nevertheless, it is a fact that Philosopher Jack’s most intimate and valuable—if not valued—friend never said anything to him beyond these two words. Nor did he ever condescend to reason. He listened, however, with unwearied patience to reasoning, but when Jack had finished reasoning and had stated his proposed course of action, he merely said to him, “Don’t,” or “Do.”

“For what end was I created?” said the philosopher, gloomily.

Wise and momentous question when seriously put, but foolish remark, if not worse, when flung out in bitterness of soul!

Jack, whose other name was Edwin, and his age nineteen, was a student. Being of an argumentative turn of mind, his college companions had dubbed him Philosopher. Tall, strong, active, kindly, hilarious, earnest, reckless, and impulsive, he was a strange compound, with a handsome face, a brown fluff on either cheek, and a moustache like a lady’s eyebrow. Moreover, he was a general favourite, yet this favoured youth, sitting at his table in his own room, sternly repeated the question—in varied form and with increased bitterness—“Why was I born at all?”

Deep wrinkles of perplexity sat on his youthful brow. Evidently he could not answer his own question, though in early life his father had carefully taught him the “Shorter Catechism with proofs,” while his good old mother had enforced and exemplified the same. His taciturn friend was equally unable, or unwilling, to give a reply.

After prolonged meditation, Jack relieved his breast of a deep sigh and re-read a letter which lay open on his desk. Having read it a third time with knitted brows, he rose, went to the window, and gazed pathetically on the cat’s parade, as he styled his prospect of slates and chimney cans.

“So,” said he at last, “my dreams are over; prospects gone; hopes collapsed—all vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision.”

He turned from the cat’s parade, on which the shades of evening were descending, to the less romantic contemplation of his empty fire-grate.

“Now,” said he, re-seating himself at his table and stretching his long legs under it, “the question is, What am I to do? shall I kick at fate, throw care, like physic, to the dogs, cut the whole concern, and go to sea?”

“Don’t,” said his taciturn friend, speaking distinctly for the first time.

“Or,” continued Jack, “shall I meekly bow to circumstances, and struggle with my difficulties as best I may?”

“Do,” replied his friend, whose name, by the way, was Conscience.

For a long time the student sat gazing at the open letter in silence. It was from his father, and ran thus:—

“DEAR TEDDIE,—It’s a long time now that I’ve been thinkin’ to write you, and couldn’t a-bear to give you such a heavy disappointment but can’t putt it off no longer, and, as your mother, poor soul, says, it’s the Lord’s will and can’t be helped—which, of course, it shouldn’t be helped if that’s true—but—well, howsomever, it’s of no use beatin’ about the bush no longer. The seasons have been bad for some years past, and it’s all I’ve been able to do to make the two ends meet, with your mother slavin’ like a nigger patchin’ up the child’n’s old rags till they’re like Joseph’s coat after the wild beast had done its worst on it—though we are given to understand that the only wild beasts as had to do with that coat was Joseph’s own brothers. Almost since ever I left the North of England—a small boy—and began to herd cattle on the Border hills, I’ve had a strange wish to be a learned man, and ever since I took to small farmin’, and perceived that such was not to be my lot in life, I’ve had a powerful desire to see my eldest son—that’s you, dear boy—trained in scientific pursoots, all the more that you seemed to have a natural thirst that way yourself. Your mother, good soul, in her own broad tongue—which I’ve picked up somethin’ of myself through livin’ twenty year with her—was used to say she ‘wad raither see her laddie trained in ways o’ wisdom than o’ book-learnin’,’ which I’m agreed to myself, though it seems to me the two are more or less mixed up. Howsomever, it’s all up now, my boy; you’ll have to fight your own battle and pay your own way, for I’ve not got one shillin’ to rub on another, except what’ll pay the rent; and, what with the grey mare breakin’ her leg an’ the turnips failin’, the look-out ahead is darkish at the best.”

The letter finished with some good advice and a blessing.

To be left thus without resources, just when the golden gates of knowledge were opening, and a few dazzling gleams of the glory had pierced his soul, was a crushing blow to the poor student. If he had been a true philosopher, he would have sought counsel on his knees, but his philosophy was limited; he only took counsel with himself and the immediate results were disastrous.

“Yes,” said he, with an impulsive gush, “I’ll go to sea.”

“Don’t,” said his quiet friend.

But, regardless of this advice, Edwin Jack smote the table with his clenched fist so violently that his pen leapt out of its ink-bottle and wrote its own signature on one of his books. He rose in haste and rang the bell.

“Mrs Niven,” he said to his landlady, “let me know how much I owe you. I’m about to leave town—and—and won’t return.”

“Ech! Maister Jack; what for?” exclaimed the astonished landlady.

“Because I’m a beggar,” replied the youth, with a bitter smile, “and I mean to go to sea.”

“Hoots! Maister Jack, ye’re jokin’.”

“Indeed I am very far from joking, Mrs Niven; I have no money, and no source of income. As I don’t suppose you would give me board and lodging for nothing, I mean to leave.”

“Toots! ye’re haverin’,” persisted Mrs Niven, who was wont to treat her “young men” with motherly familiarity. “Tak’ time to think o’t, an’ ye’ll be in anither mind the morn’s mornin’. Nae doot ye’re—”

“Now, my good woman,” interrupted Jack, firmly but kindly, “don’t bother me with objections or advice, but do what I bid you—there’s a good soul; be off.”

Mrs Niven saw that she had no chance of impressing her lodger in his present mood; she therefore retired, while Jack put on a rough pilot-cloth coat and round straw hat in which he was wont at times to go boating. Thus clad, he went off to the docks of the city in which he dwelt; the name of which city it is not important that the reader should know.

In a humble abode near the said docks a bulky sea-captain lay stretched in his hammock, growling. The prevailing odours of the neighbourhood were tar, oil, fish, and marine-stores. The sea-captain’s room partook largely of the same odours, and was crowded with more than an average share of the stores. It was a particularly small room, with charts, telescopes, speaking-trumpets, log-lines, sextants, portraits of ships, sou’-westers, oil-cloth coats and leggings on the walls; model ships suspended from the beams overhead; sea-boots, coils of rope, kegs, and handspikes on the floor; and great shells, earthenware ornaments, pagodas, and Chinese idols on the mantel-piece. In one corner stood a child’s crib. The hammock swung across the room like a heavy cloud about to descend and overwhelm the whole. This simile was further borne out by the dense volumes of tobacco smoke in which the captain enveloped himself, and through which his red visage loomed over the edge of the hammock like a lurid setting sun.

For a few minutes the clouds continued to multiply and thicken. No sound broke the calm that prevailed, save a stertorous breathing, with an occasional hitch in it. Suddenly there was a convulsion in the clouds, and one of the hitches developed into a tremendous cough. There was something almost awe-inspiring in the cough. The captain was a huge and rugged man. His cough was a terrible compound of a choke, a gasp, a rend, and a roar. Only lungs of sole-leather could have weathered it. Each paroxysm suggested the idea that the man’s vitals were being torn asunder; but not content with that, the exasperated mariner made matters worse by keeping up a continual growl of indignant remonstrance in a thunderous undertone.

“Hah! that was a splitter. A few more hug—sh! ha! like that will burst the biler entirety. Polly—hallo!”

The lurid sun appeared to listen for a moment, then opening its mouth it shouted, “Polly—ahoy!” as if it were hailing the maintop of a seventy-four.

Immediately there was a slight movement in one corner of the room, and straightway from out a mass of marine-stores there emerged a fairy! At least, the little girl, of twelve or thereabouts, who suddenly appeared, with rich brown tumbling hair, pretty blue eyes, faultless figure, and ineffable sweetness in every lineament of her little face, might easily have passed for a fairy or an angel.

“What! caught you napping?” growled the captain in the midst of a paroxysm.

“Only a minute, father; I couldn’t help it,” replied Polly, with a little laugh, as she ran to the fireplace and took up a saucepan that simmered there.

“Here, look alive! shove along! hand it up! I’m chokin’!”

The child held the saucepan as high as she could towards the hammock. The captain, reaching down one of his great arms, caught it and took a steaming draught. It seemed to relieve him greatly.

“You’re a trump for gruel, Polly,” he growled, returning the saucepan. “Now then, up with the pyramid, and give us a nor’-wester.”

The child returned the saucepan to the fireplace, and then actively placed a chair nearly underneath the hammock. Upon the chair she set a stool, and on the top she perched herself. Thus she was enabled to grasp the lurid sun by two enormous whiskers, and, putting her lips out, gave it a charming “nor’-wester,” which was returned with hyperborean violence. Immediately after, Polly ducked her head, and thus escaped being blown away, like a Hindoo mutineer from a cannon’s mouth, as the captain went off in another fit.

“Oh! father,” said Polly, quite solemnly, as she descended and looked up from a comparatively safe distance, “isn’t it awful?”

“Yes, Poll, it’s about the wust ’un I’ve had since I came from Barbadoes; but the last panful has mollified it, I think, and your nor’-wester has Pollyfied it, so, turn into your bunk, old girl, an’ take a nap. You’ve much need of it, poor thing.”

“No, father, if I get into my crib I’ll sleep so heavy that you won’t be able to wake me. I’ll just lie down where I was before.”

“Well, well—among the rubbish if ye prefer it; no matter s’long as you have a snooze,” growled the captain as he turned over, while the fairy disappeared into the dark recess from which she had risen.

Just then a tap was heard at the door. “Come in,” roared the captain. A tall, broad-shouldered, nautical-looking man entered, took off his hat, and stood before the hammock, whence the captain gave him a stern, searching glance, and opened fire on him with his pipe.

“Forgive me if I intrude, Captain Samson,” said the stranger; “I know you, although you don’t know me. You start to-morrow or next day, I understand, for Melbourne?”

“Wind and weather permittin’,” growled the captain. “Well, what then?”

“Have you completed your crew?” asked the stranger.

“Nearly. What then?” replied the captain with a touch of ferocity, for he felt sensations of an approaching paroxysm.

“Will you engage me?” asked Philosopher Jack, for it was he.

“In what capacity?” demanded the captain somewhat sarcastically.

“As an ordinary seaman—or a boy if you will,” replied Edwin, with a smile.

“No,” growled Samson, decisively, “I won’t engage you; men with kid gloves and white hands don’t suit me.”

From the mere force of habit the young student had pulled on his gloves on leaving his lodging, and had only removed that of the right hand on entering the captain’s dwelling. He now inserted a finger at the wrist of the left-hand glove, ripped it off, and flung it with its fellow under the grate. Thereafter he gathered some ashes and soot from the fireplace, with which he put his hands on a footing with those of a coal-heaver.

“Will you take me now, captain?” he said, returning to the hammock, and spreading out his hands.

The captain gave vent to a short laugh, which brought on a tremendous fit, at the conclusion of which he gasped, “Yes, my lad, p’r’aps I will; but first I must know something about you.”

“Certainly,” said the philosopher, and at once gave the captain a brief outline of his circumstances.

“Well, you know your own affairs best” said Captain Samson when he had finished; “I’m no judge of such a case, but as you’re willin’ to ship, I’m willin’ to ship you. Come here before ten to-morrow. Good night. There, it’s a-comin’—hash—k—!”

In the midst of another furious paroxysm Edwin Jack retired.

Not long after, the captain raised himself on one elbow, listened intently for a few seconds, and, having satisfied himself that Polly was asleep, slipped from his hammock—as only seamen know how—and proceeded to dress with the utmost caution. He was evidently afraid of the little sleeper among the rubbish. It was quite interesting to observe the quiet speed with which he thrust his great limbs into his ample garments, gazing anxiously all the time at Polly’s corner.

Issuing from his own door with the step of an elephantine mouse, the captain went rapidly through several streets to the house of an intimate friend, whom he found at supper with his wife and family.

“Evenin’, Bailie Trench; how are ’ee, Mrs T? how’s everybody?” said the captain, in a hearty rasping voice, as he shook hands right and left, while one of his huge legs was taken possession of, and embraced, by the bailie’s only daughter, a pretty little girl of six.

“Why, Samson,” exclaimed the bailie, after quiet had been restored, and his friend had been thrust into a chair with little Susan on his knee, “I thought you were laid up with influenza—eh?”

“So I was, bailie, an’ so I am,” replied the captain; “leastwise I’m still on the sick-list, and was in my hammock till about half an hour ago, but I’m gettin’ round fast. The night air seems to do me a world o’ good—contrariwise to doctor’s expectations.”

“Have some supper?” said Mrs Trench, who was a weakish lady with watery eyes.

“No supper, Mrs T, thank ’ee; the fact is, I’ve come on business. I should be on my beam-ends by rights. I’m absent without leave, an’ have only a few minutes to spare. The passenger I spoke of has changed his mind and his berth is free, so I’m glad to be able to take your son Ben after all. But he’ll have to get ready quick, for the Lively Poll sails the day after to-morrow or next day—all bein’ well.”

The eyes of young Benjamin Trench sparkled. He was a tall, thin, rather quiet lad of eighteen.

“I can be ready to-night if you wish it, Captain Samson,” he said, with a flush on his usually pale face.

Beside Mrs Trench there sat a sturdy little boy. He was the bosom friend of Ben—a bright ruddy fellow of fourteen, overflowing with animal spirits, and with energy enough for three lads of his size. This youth’s countenance fell so visibly when Ben spoke of going away, that Mrs Trench could not help noticing it.

“Why, what’s the matter, Wilkins?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing!” returned the boy, “only I don’t like to hear Ben speak of leaving us all and going to Australia. And I would give all the world to go with him. Won’t you take me as a cabin boy, Captain Samson?”

“Sorry I can’t, lad,” said the captain, with a grin, “got a cabin boy already.”

“Besides, your father would not let you,” said Mrs Trench, “and it would never do to go without his leave. Only misfortune could come of that.”

“Humph! it’s very hard,” pouted the boy. “I wanted him to get me into the navy, and he wouldn’t; and now I want him to get me into the merchant service, and he won’t. But I’ll go in spite of him.”

“No, you won’t, Watty,” said Ben, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Yes, Ben, I will,” returned little Wilkins, with such an air of determination that every one except Ben laughed.

“Now, bailie,” said the captain, rising, “I’m off. The truth is, I wouldn’t have come if it had not been important to let you know at once to get your boy ready; but I had no one to send except Polly, and I wouldn’t send her out at night by herself for all the wealth of Indy. Moreover, she wouldn’t have let me out to-night for any consideration whatever. She’s very strict with me, is my little keeper. I wouldn’t for the world she should wake and find me gone. So, good-night all.”

Ten minutes more, and the guilty man entered his dwelling on tiptoe. In order to get into his hammock with extreme caution he forsook his ancient method of a spring, and mounted on an empty cask. The cask was not equal to the emergency. He went through the head of it with a hideous crash! Spurning it from him, he had just time to plunge into his place of repose and haul the clothes over him, when Polly emerged from her lair with wondering eyes.

“What ever was that, father?”

“Nothin’, my dear, nothin’ in partickler—only a cask I kicked over. Now, then, Poll, since you’re keepin’ me awake in this fashion, it’s your dooty to soothe me with an extra panful, and another nor’-wester—so, up wi’ the pyramid; and after you’ve done it you must turn into your crib. I’ll not want you again to-night; the cough’s much better. There—thank ’ee. Pollyfy me now—that’s right. Good-night.”

Oh, base mariner! little did you merit such a pleasant termination to your evening’s work; but you are not the only wicked man in this world who receives more than he deserves.

Two days after the incidents just related a noble ship spread her canvas to a favouring breeze, and bowing farewell to her port of departure, commenced the long long voyage to the Antipodes.

She was not a passenger ship, but a trader; nevertheless there were a few passengers on her quarter-deck, and among these towered the colossal figure of Captain Samson. Beside him, holding his hand, stood a fairy-like little creature with brown curls and pretty blue eyes. Not far from her, leaning over the bulwarks, Benjamin Trench frantically waved a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. The signal was responded to, with equal feeling, by the bailie, his wife, and little Susan. A good number of people, young and old, assembled at the pier-head, among whom many waved handkerchiefs, and hands, and scarfs, and hats to the crew.

Among the sailors who gazed wistfully towards the pier was one who made no farewell signal, and received no parting wave. Philosopher Jack had concealed his intention of going to sea from all his college chums, and a bitter feeling of loneliness oppressed his heart as he thought of his old father and mother, and the lowly cottage on the Border hills. He had not, indeed, acted in direct opposition to the wishes of his parents, but he had disobeyed the well-known Scripture command to do them “honour,” for he had resolved on his course of action without consulting them, or asking their advice. He felt that he had very selfishly forsaken them in their old age; in the hour of their sore distress, and at a time when they stood woefully in need of his strong muscles, buoyant spirit, and energetic brain. In short, Edwin Jack began to feel that he required all his philosophy, and something more, to enable him to face the future with the unflinching courage of a man.

So the ship moved slowly on, revealing on her stern the “Lively Poll” in letters of burnished gold—past the pier-head, down the broad river, out upon the widening firth, beyond lighthouse, buoy, and beacon, until at last the fresh Atlantic breezes filled her snowy sails.

And ever as she rose and sank upon the rolling waves, their swish and thud fell strangely on the ear of one who lay deep down in the recesses of the hull, where—among barrels of pork, and casks of tar, and cans of oil, and coils of rope, and other unsavoury stores—he consorted with rats and mice and an uneasy conscience, in thick darkness. This was a “stowaway.” He was a sturdy, bright, ruddy little fellow of fourteen. Down in that unwholesome place, with a few ship-biscuits and a bottle of water to keep him alive, he would have looked like a doubled-up overgrown hedgehog if there had been light enough to reveal him.

Thus, with its little world of hopes and fears, its cares and pleasures, and its brave, trembling, trusting, sorrowing, joyful, anxious, reckless hearts, the good ship passed from the shores of Britain, until her sails quivered like a petrel’s wings on the horizon, and then vanished into the boundless bosom of the mighty sea.

Chapter Two.

Tells of a Ghost and an Overwhelming Disaster.

It may seem strange, nevertheless it is true, that ignorance is a misfortune which now and then results in good. Of course we do not make this remark in commendation of ignorance, but if Baldwin Burr had not been ignorant and densely stupid, Philosopher Jack would not have had the pleasure of instructing him, and the seaman himself would not have enjoyed that close intimacy which frequently subsists between teacher and pupil. Even Polly Samson derived benefit from Baldwin’s want of knowledge, for, being remarkably intelligent for her years, and having been well taught, she took great pleasure in enlightening his darkness.

“How is it,” she asked one day, while sitting on the cabin skylight and looking up in the man’s rugged countenance, “how is it that you are so stupid?”

Burr, who was steering, gave the wheel a turn, looked up at the mast-head, then round the horizon, then down at his questioner with a bland smile, and said—

“Well now, Miss Polly, d’ee know, that’s wot I can’t exactly tell. P’r’aps it’s ’cause of a nat’ral want of brains, or, maybe, ’cause the brains is too much imbedded in fat—for I’m a fleshy man, as you see—or, p’r’aps it’s ’cause I never went to school, my parients bein’ poor, uncommon poor, though remarkably honest. I’ve sometimes thought, w’en meditatin’ on the subject, that my havin’ bin born of a Friday may have had somethin’ to do with it.”

“Oh, Baldwin,” said Polly with a little laugh, “surely you can’t believe that. Father says it’s all nonsense about Friday being an unlucky day.”

“P’r’aps it is, an’ p’r’aps it ain’t,” returned the cautious seaman. “I regard your father, my dear, as a deeply learned man, and would give in, if I could, to wotever he says, but facts is facts, and opinions is opinions, you can’t change that, nohow you fix it. Wot’s the cap’n’s opinions, now, as to ghosts?”

“He don’t believe in ’em at all,” was Polly’s prompt answer. “No more do I, for father knows everything, and he’s always right.”

“He’s a lucky man to have you, Polly, and there’s a lucky boy knockin’ about the world somewheres lookin’ out for you. A good daughter, it’s said, inwariably makes a good wife; which you don’t understand just now, but you’ll come to in course of time. Hows’ever, as I wos observin’, I’ve been of the same opinion as your father till two nights ago, when I heard a ghost right under the deck, it seemed to me, blow my hammock, where there’s nothin’ but ship’s stores and rats.”

“Heard a ghost!” exclaimed Polly, with opening eyes.

“Ay, an’ seed ’im too,” said Burr. “Night before yesterday I heer’d ’im as plain as I hear myself. He wos groanin’, an’ it’s quite impossible that a tar-barrel, or a cask, or a rat, could groan. The only thing that puzzled me wos that he seemed to snore; more than that he sneezed once or twice. Now, I never heard it said that a ghost could sleep or catch cold. Did you, Polly?”

Polly laughed and said that she never did, and asked eagerly what the ghost was like.

“It was wery much like an or’nary man of small size,” said the seaman, “but it were too dark to make out its face. I know the figure of every soul in the ship by this time, an’ I could swear before a maginstrate, or a bench of bishops, that the ghost is neither one of the crew nor a passenger.”

“Why didn’t you speak to it?” asked Polly.

“So I did speak to it, but it wouldn’t answer; then I made a grab at it, but it was as active as a kitten, dodged round the mainmast, flew for’ed on inwisible wings, and went slap down the fore-scuttle, head first, with a crash that would have broke the neck of anything but a ghost.”

At this interesting point the conversation was interrupted by Edwin Jack, whose turn it was to relieve the man at the wheel. He nodded to Polly as he came up, took his post, and received the ship’s “course” from Burr, who thrust his hands into his pockets, and left the quarter-deck.

Edwin was by this time a considerably changed man, although but a few days at sea. The rough blue trousers, guernsey, and pea-jacket, took as naturally to his strong limbs as if he had been born and bred a sailor; and already some huge blisters, a few scars, and not a little tar, had rendered his hands creditable.

Steering at the time was a mere matter of form, as a dead calm prevailed. Our philosopher therefore amused himself and Polly with commentaries on the ghost-subject which Burr had raised.

Late that night, when the stars were shining in a cloudless sky, and winking at their reflections in the glassy ocean, the ghost appeared to Edwin Jack. It was on this wise:

Jack, being one of the watch on deck, went to the port bulwarks near the foremast shrouds, leant over, and, gazing down into the reflected sky, thought sadly of past, present, and future. Tiring at last of his meditations, he went towards a man who appeared to be skulking under the shadow of the long-boat and remarked that it was a fine night, but the man made no reply.

“A most enjoyable night, shipmate,” he said, going closer.

“I’m glad you think so,” said the ghost, “it’s anything but enjoyable to me. The state of the weather hasn’t much effect, either one way or another, on a fellow who is half-dead with hunger, half-choked with a cold caught among the rats and stores, and half-killed by a tumble down the fore-scuttle, or whatever may be the name of that vile ladder that leads to the regions below.”

“Surely,” exclaimed Jack in surprise, seizing the ghost by the shoulders and looking close into its face, “I have heard your voice before now, and, eh?—no, I don’t know you.”

“Yes, Philosopher Jack, you do know me,” returned the ghost; “I’ve had the honour of playing cricket with you on the green, though you’ve forgotten me, and no wonder, for I’ve suffered much from bad air and sea-sickness of late. My name is Walter, more familiarly Watty Wilkins.”

“Little Wilkins!” exclaimed Jack, in surprise, “well, you are changed; you don’t mean to say that you’ve run away from home?”

“That’s just what I’ve done,” said the poor lad in a tone of despondency; “but you’ve no occasion to shake your head at me so solemnly, for, to all appearance, you have run away too.”

“No, Wilkins, you are wrong, I have walked away, being my own master, and I have done it openly, though I admit somewhat hastily—”

Jack was interrupted at that moment by Ben Trench laying a hand on his shoulder.

“It strikes me,” he said, in some surprise, “that I recognise the voice of a townsman—Mister Jack, if I mistake not?”

“No, sir,” replied the philosopher, “not Mister, only Edwin Jack, seaman aboard the Lively Poll. You are right, however, in styling me townsman. Allow me to introduce you to another townsman, Mr Watty Wilkins, stowaway on board of the same vessel!”

Trench had not, in the darkness, recognised his friend. He now seized him by both shoulders, and peering into his face, said—

“O Watty, Watty, have you really done it? I had thought better of you.”

“I said I would do it, and I’ve done it,” returned the little youth somewhat testily; “and now I want to know what is to be done next.”

“Report yourself and take the consequences,” said Jack, promptly.

This advice being seconded by Ben Trench, Watty Wilkins went aft to the captain, who had just come on deck, touched his cap, and confessed himself.

For some moments the captain spoke not a word, but looked at the young culprit with a portentous frown. Then, uttering something like a deep bass growl, he ordered the lad to follow him into his private cabin. When there, Captain Samson seated himself on a locker, and with a hand on each knee, glared at his prisoner so long and so fiercely from under his shaggy brows, that Watty, in spite of his recklessness, began to feel uneasy.

“So, youngster, you’ve run away?” he said at length, in deep solemnity.

“Yes, sir,” replied Wilkins.

“And you think yourself a fine clever fellow, no doubt?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” said Watty, with much humility.

“I knew your father, boy,” continued the captain, assuming a softer and more serious tone, “and I think he is a good man.”

“He is, sir,” returned the boy promptly.

“Ay, and he is a kind man; he has been kind to you, I think.”

Watty hung his head.

“He has fed you, clothed you, educated you since you was a babby; nursed you, maybe, in sickness, and prayed for you, no doubt that God would make you a good, obedient and loving son.”

The boy’s head drooped still lower.

“And for all this,” continued the captain, “you have repaid him by running away. Now, my lad, as you have made your bed you shall lie on it. I’ll clap your nose to the grindstone, and keep it there. Steward!”

A smart little man answered to the call.

“Take this boy for’ed, and teach him to clean up. Don’t spare him.”

In obedience to this order the steward took little Wilkins forward and introduced him to the cook, who introduced him to the coppers and scrubbing brushes. From that day forward Master Watty became deeply versed in the dirty work and hard work of the ship, so that all the romance of a sea life was driven out of him, and its stern realities were implanted. In less than three weeks there was not a cup, saucer, or plate in the ship that Watty had not washed; not a “brass” that he had not polished and re-polished; not a copper that he had not scraped; not an inch of the deck that he had not swabbed. But it must not be supposed that he groaned under this labour. Although reckless, hasty, and inconsiderate, he was not mean-spirited. Making up his mind to do his best in the circumstances, he went cheerfully to his dirty work, and did it well.

“You see,” said he to Philosopher Jack, as they chanced one dark night to have a few minutes’ talk together near the weather gangway, where Watty paused on his way to the caboose with a soup-tureen, “as the captain says, I’ve made the bed myself, so I must lie on it and I’m resolved to lie straight, and not kick.”

“Right, Watty, right,” said Jack, with a sigh; “we have both been fools, so must grin and bear it.”

Watty greeted this remark, to Jack’s surprise, with a sudden and unexpected yell, as he received a cut from a rope’s-end over the back.

“What, idling, eh?” cried the steward, flourishing the rope’s-end again.

In a burst of rage the poor boy raised the soup-tureen, and would infallibly have shattered it on the man’s head if Jack had not caught his arm.

“Come, Wilkins, mind what you’re about,” he said, pushing him towards the forepart of the ship to prevent a scuffle.

A moment’s reflection sufficed to convince Wilkins of the folly, as well as uselessness, of rebellion. Pocketing his pride and burning with indignation, he walked forward, while the tyrannical steward went grumbling to his own private den.

It chanced that night that the captain, ignorant of what had occurred, sent for the unfortunate stowaway, for the mitigation of whose sorrows his friend Ben Trench had, more than once, pleaded earnestly, but in vain. The captain invariably replied that Watty had acted ungratefully and rebelliously to a kind father, and it was his duty to let him bear the full punishment of his conduct.

Watty was still smarting from the rope’s-end when he entered the cabin.

“Youngster,” said the captain, sternly, “I sent for you to tell you of a fact that came to my knowledge just before we left port. Your father told me that, being unwilling to disappoint you in your desires, he had managed to get a situation of some sort for you on board a well-known line of ocean steamers, and he only waited to get the thing fairly settled before letting you know about it. There, you may go for’ed and think what you have lost by running away.”

Without a word of reply Watty left the cabin. His day’s work had just been completed. He turned into his hammock, and, laying his head on his pillow, quietly wept himself to sleep.

“Ain’t you rather hard on the poor boy, father?” said Polly, who had witnessed the interview.

“Not so hard as you think, little woman,” answered the captain, stroking the child’s head with his great hand; “that little rascal has committed a great sin. He has set out on the tracks of the prodigal son you’ve often read about, an’ he’s not sufficiently impressed with his guilt. When I get him into a proper frame o’ mind I’ll not be so hard on him. Now, Polly, go putt your doll to bed, and don’t criticise your father.”

Polly seized the huge whiskers of her sire, and giving him an unsolicited “nor’-wester,” which was duly returned, went off to her little cot.

We do not mean to trouble the reader with all the incidents of a prolonged voyage to southern latitudes, during which Philosopher Jack formed a strong friendship with Ben Trench and Watty Wilkins; continued his instruction of the amiable and unfathomable Baldwin Burr, and became a general favourite with the crew of the Lively Poll. Suffice it to say that all went well, and the good ship sailed along under favouring breezes without mishap of any kind until she reached that great ocean whose unknown waters circle round the Southern Pole.

Here, however, good fortune forsook them, and contrary-gales baffling the Lively Poll drove her out of her course, while tumbling billows buffeted her severely.

One night a dead calm prevailed. The air became hot, clouds rose rapidly over the sky, and the barometer—that faithful friend of the mariner—fell unusually low.

“How dreadfully dark it is getting,” said Polly, in a low, half-frightened tone to Baldwin Burr, who was at the wheel.

“We’re going to have a night of it, my dear,” replied the seaman.

If he had said that the winds and waves were going to “have a night of it” Baldwin Burr would have been more strictly correct. He had scarcely uttered the words when the captain gave orders to close-reef the top-sails. Our philosopher, springing aloft with his comrades, was out on the top-sail yard in a few seconds. Scarcely had the sails been reefed when the gale burst upon the ship, and almost laid her flat upon the foaming sea. At first the very violence of the wind kept the waves down, but they gradually rose until the ship was tossed on their crests and engulfed in their hollows like a cork. As the force of the gale increased sail was further reduced, until nothing but a mere rag was left and even this at last was split and blown to ribbons. Inky clouds soon obscured the sky, and, as night descended on the wild scene, the darkness became so intense that nothing could be seen except the pale gleam of foaming billows as they flashed past over the bulwarks. In the midst of the turmoil there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a terrible crash of thunder. This was succeeded by a sound of rending which was not the result of elemental strife.

“Foremast gone, sir,” cried one of the men, staggering aft.

Seizing an axe, the captain sprang forward. Edwin Jack followed. They found the ship’s-carpenter already at work cutting the shrouds and other ropes that held the wreck of the mast. As flashes of lightning followed in quick succession they revealed a scene of ruin on the forepart of the vessel, with the tall figure of Edwin as he stood on the bulwarks wielding an axe. At last the wreck was cleared, but the seas were now bursting over the decks and sweeping away everything not made fast. Among other things the long-boat was carried away, and ere long all the other boats were torn from their fastenings or destroyed. It was a fearful night. Even the most reckless among the sailors were overawed by such a display of the terrors of God. At such times scoffers are wont to become tremblers, and those who “trust in God” find Him “a very present help in trouble.”

The gale was as short-lived as it was fierce. By the dawn of the following day it had abated considerably, and it was found that less damage had been done to the ship than might have been expected.

“We’re all right, Polly, thank God!” said the captain, earnestly, when he ventured to open the companion hatch and go below. “You prayed for us, dear, didn’t you?”

“Yes, father, I did; I prayed that our lives might be spared, if He pleased.”

“Well, Polly, our prayers have been answered,” said the captain; “our lives are spared and the ship is safe, though we’ve lost the foremast and the boats. However, that can be putt to rights; we’ll rig up a jury-mast and get on famously, so keep up your heart, old girl, and give us a nor’—. There, you’d better stay below yet awhile; it’s dirty on deck.”

The weather was not long of improving. A profound calm followed the storm. Bright sunshine banished the thunder-clouds. The contrast between the dangers just past and the peaceful condition that prevailed had the effect of raising the spirits of all on board the Lively Poll to an unusual height, so that snatches of song, whistling, and cheery remarks, were heard on all sides among the busy crew as they rigged up a new mast, bent on new sails, and repaired the various damages. When night put a stop to their labours, and every one sought repose, except the watch and the captain and the man at the wheel, the same peaceful calm continued. Only the long undulating swell of ocean remained to tell of the recent storm, while the glassy surface reflected a universe of stars.

It was at this time of profound repose and fancied security that the death-knell of the Lively Poll was sounded. In the southern seas there is a little creature, named the coral insect (of which we shall have more to say hereafter), which is ever at work building walls and ramparts on the bottom of the sea. These rise by degrees to the surface,—rise above it—and finally become some of the fairest isles of the Pacific. Charts tell of the isles, but no charts can tell the locality of coral reefs which have just, or barely, reached the surface. The Lively Poll was forging slowly ahead under a puff of air that only bulged her top-sails as she rose and sank on the majestic swell. Presently she rose high, and was then let down on a coral reef with such violence that the jury-mast with the main-topmast and all the connected rigging, went over the side. Another swell lifted her off, and flung her on the ocean’s breast a total wreck.

The scene that followed may be imagined. Whatever could be done by an able and active seaman in such an emergency was done by Captain Samson. Water was rushing in through the shattered hull. To pass a sail under the ship’s bottom and check this was the first act. Then the pumps were rigged and worked by all on board. Besides Ben Trench there were three gentlemen passengers. These took their turn with the rest, but all was of no avail. The ship was sinking. The utmost efforts of those whose lives seemed dependent on her only delayed the final catastrophe.

“There is no hope,” said the captain in a low tone to his chief mate, to whom he gave some rapid orders, and went below.

It was daybreak, and the first gleam of light that leaped over the glassy sea tinged the golden curls of Polly Samson as she lay sleeping on one of the cabin sofas. She awoke and started up.

“Lie still, darling, and rest as long as you may,” said the captain in a low tender voice, “and pray, Polly, pray for us again. God is able to save to the uttermost, my pet.”

He said this without pausing, as he went to his berth and brought out a sextant, with which he returned on deck.

Standing near the foot of the companion-ladder, Watty Wilkins had heard the words, “There is no hope,” and the few sentences addressed to the child. His impressionable spirit leapt to the conclusion that the fate of all on board was sealed. He knew that the boats had all been swept away, and a feeling of profound despair seized him. This was quickly followed by contrition for his past conduct and pity for his father, under the impulse of which he sat down in a corner of the steward’s pantry and groaned aloud. Then he wrote a few lines in pencil on a piece of paper, bidding farewell to his father. Often had he read of such messages from the sea being wafted ashore in bottles, but little did he expect ever to have occasion to write one. He had just put the paper in a bottle, corked it up, and dropped it out of one of the cabin windows, when he was summoned on deck, and found that a raft was being hastily prepared alongside. Already some casks of biscuits and water had been lowered on it, while the carpenter and several men were busily at work increasing its size and binding it together with iron clamps, hawsers, and chains.

There was urgent need for haste, as the ship was fast settling down.

“Now then, my lads, look alive!” cried the captain, as he lifted his little daughter over the side. “The ship can’t float much longer. Here, Jack, catch hold.”

Edwin sprang to the side of the raft, and, standing up, received Polly in his arms.

“Take care of her! Hold her tight!” cried the anxious father.

“Trust me,” said Philosopher Jack.

The child was placed on the highest part of the raft with the passengers, and partially covered with a shawl. The crew were then ordered to leave the ship. Having seen every one out of it Captain Samson descended and gave the order to shove off. This was quickly done, and the distance was slowly increased by means of two large oars. The huge mass of spars and planks moved gradually away from the doomed vessel, whose deck was by that time little above the level of the sea. They had not got more than a few hundred yards off, when Baldwin Burr, who pulled one of the oars, uttered an exclamation. Edwin Jack and Ben Trench, who knelt close to him fastening a rope, looked up and saw the captain standing on the high part of the raft near Polly and little Wilkins, waving his right hand. He was bidding farewell to the old ship, which suddenly went down with a heavy roll. Another moment, and only a few ripples remained to mark the spot where the Lively Poll had found an ocean tomb.

Chapter Three.

Adrift on the Great Ocean.

Sunshine gladdens the heart of man and causes him more or less to forget his sorrows. The day on which the Lively Poll went down was bright and warm, as well as calm, so that some of those who were cast away on the raft—after the first shock had passed, and while busily employed in binding the spars and making other needful arrangements—began to feel sensations approaching almost to hilarity.

Polly Samson, in particular, being of a romantic turn of mind, soon dried her eyes, and when called on to assist in the construction of a little place of shelter for herself on the centre of the raft, by means of boxes and sails, she began to think that the life of a castaway might not be so disagreeable after all. When this shelter or hut was completed, and she sat in it with her father taking luncheon, she told him in confidence that she thought rafting was “very nice.”

“Glad you find it so, Polly,” replied the captain with a sad smile.

“Of course, you know,” she continued, with great seriousness of look and tone, “I don’t think it’s nice that our ship is lost. I’m very very sorry—oh, you can’t think how sorry!—for that, but this is such a funny little cabin, you know, and so snug, and the weather is so fine; do you think it will last long, father?”

“I hope it may; God grant that it may, darling, but we can’t be sure. If it does last, I daresay we shall manage to reach one of the islands, of which there are plenty in the Southern Seas, but—”

A roar of laughter from the men arrested and surprised the captain. He raised the flap of sail which served as a door to the hut—Polly’s bower, as the men styled it—and saw one of the passengers dragged from a hole or space between the spars of the raft, into which he had slipped up to the waist. Mr Luke, the passenger referred to, was considered a weak man, mind and body,—a sort of human nonentity, a harmless creature, with long legs and narrow shoulders. He took his cold bath with philosophic coolness, and acknowledged the laughter of the men with a bland smile. Regardless of his drenched condition, he sat down on a small keg and joined the crew at the meal of cold provisions which served that day for dinner.

“Lucky for us,” said one of the sailors, making play with his clasp-knife on a junk of salt pork, “that we’ve got such a fine day to begin with.”

“That’s true, Bob,” said another; “a raft ain’t much of a sea-goin’ craft. If it had blowed hard when we shoved off from the ship we might ha’ bin tore to bits before we was well fixed together, but we’ve had time to make all taut now, and can stand a stiffish breeze. Shove along the breadbasket, mate.”

“You’ve had your allowance, Bob; mind, we’re on short commons now,” said Baldwin Burr, who superintended the distribution of provisions, and served out a measured quantity to every man. “There’s your grog for you.”

Bob Corkey growled a little as he wiped his knife on his leg, and accepted the allowance of “grog,” which, however, was only pure water.

“Are you sure the raft can stand a storm?” inquired Watty Wilkins of Philosopher Jack, who sat eating his poor meal beside him.

“Sure?” responded Jack, “we can be sure of nothing in this life.”

“Except trouble,” growled Corkey.

“Oh yes, you can be sure of more than that,” said Baldwin Burr; “you can always be sure of folly coming out of a fool’s mouth.”

“Come, come, Baldwin, be civil,” said Philosopher Jack; “it’s cowardly, you know, to insult a man when you can’t fight him.”

“Can’t fight him?” repeated Burr with a grin; “who said I couldn’t fight him, eh? Why, I’m ready to fight him now, right off.”

“Nevertheless, you can’t,” persisted the philosopher; “how could two men fight on a raft where there’s not room for a fair stand-up scrimmage between two rats? Come now, don’t argue, Burr, but answer little Wilkins’s question if you can.”

“Stowaways don’t desarve to have their questions answered,” said Corkey; “in fact, they don’t desarve to live. If I had my way, I’d kill little Wilkins and salt him down to be ready for us when the pork and biscuit fail.”

“Well, now, as to the safety of this here raft in a gale, small Wilkins,” said Baldwin, regardless of Corkey’s interruption, “that depends summat on the natur’ o’ the gale. If it was only a half-gale we’d weather it all right, I make no doubt; but, if it should come to blow hard, d’ee see, we have no occasion to kill and eat you, as we’d all be killed together and eaten by the sharks.”

“Sharks!” exclaimed Mr Luke, whose damp garments were steaming under the powerful sun like a boiler on washing-day; “are there sharks here?”

“Ay,” said Corkey, pointing to the sea astern, where the glassy surface was broken and rippled by a sharp angular object, “that’s a shark a-follerin’ of us now, leastwise the back fin of one. If you don’t believe it, jump overboard and you’ll soon be convinced.”

This reference to the shark was overheard by Polly, who came out of her bower to see it. The monster of the deep came close up at that moment, as if to gratify the child, and, turning on its back, according to shark habit when about to seize any object, thrust its nose out of the water. For one moment its double row of teeth were exposed to view, then they closed on a lump of pork that had been accidentally knocked overboard by Corkey.

“Is that the way you take care of our provisions?” said the captain, sternly, to Baldwin.

“We’ve got a big hook, sir,” said Edwin Jack, touching his cap; “shall we try to recover the pork?”

“You may try,” returned the captain.

Little Wilkins uttered something like a war-whoop as he leaped up and assisted Jack to get out the shark-hook. It was soon baited with another piece of pork. Ben Trench, who had a strong leaning to natural history, became very eager; and the men generally, being ever ready for sport, looked on with interest and prepared to lend a hand. The shark, however, was cautious. It did indeed rush at the bait, and seemed about to swallow it, but suddenly changed its mind, swam round it once or twice, then fell slowly astern, and finally disappeared.

Although the fish was not caught, this little incident served to raise the spirits of every one, and as the calm sunny weather lasted the whole day, even the most thoughtful of the party found it difficult to realise their forlorn condition; but when evening drew near, the aspect of things quickly changed. The splendid ocean-mirror, which had reflected the golden crags and slopes, the towers and battlements of cloud-land, was shivered by a sudden breeze and became an opaque grey; the fair blue sky deepened to indigo; black and gathering clouds rose out of the horizon, and cold white crests gleamed on the darkening waves. The men gathered in anxious groups, and Polly sat in the entrance of her bower gazing on the gloomy scene, until her young heart sank slowly but steadily. Then, remembering her father’s advice, she betook herself to God in prayer.

Young though she was, Polly was no sentimentalist in religion. She believed with all her heart in Jesus Christ as a living, loving Saviour. Her faith was very simple, and founded on experience. She had prayed, and had been answered. She had sought Jesus in sorrow, and had been comforted. The theologian can give the why and how and wherefore of this happy condition, but in practice he can arrive at it only by the same short road. One result of her prayer was that she went to sleep that night in perfect peace, while most of her companions in misfortune sat anxiously watching what appeared to be a gathering storm.

Before going to rest however, Polly had an earnest little talk with her father.

“Polly,” said Captain Samson, sitting down under the shelter of the tarpaulin, and drawing the child’s fair head on his breast, “I never spoke to you before on a subject that p’r’aps you won’t understand, but I am forced to do it now. It’s about money.”

“About money!” exclaimed Polly in surprise; “oh, father, surely you forget! The very last night we spent on shore, you spoke to me about money; you gave me a half-sovereign, and said you meant to give a blow-out to old Mrs Brown before leaving, and told me to buy—stay, let me see—there was half a pound of tea, and four pounds of sugar, and three penn’orth of snuff, and—”

“Yes, yes, Polly,” interrupted the captain, with a smile, “but I meant about money in a business way, you know, because if you chanced, d’ee see, ever to be in England without me, you know,—it—”

“But I’ll never be there without you, father, will I?” asked the child with an earnest look.

“Of course not—that’s to say, I hope not—but you know, Polly, that God arranges all the affairs of this world, and sometimes in His love and wisdom He sees fit to separate people—for a time, you know, only for a time—so that they don’t always keep together. Now, my darling, if it should please Him to send me cruising to—to—anywhere in a different direction from you, and you chanced ever to be in England alone—in Scotland, that is—at your own home, you must go to Bailie Trench—you know him—our old friend and helper when we were in shoal water, my dear, and say to him that I handed all my savings over to Mr Wilkins—that’s Watty’s father, Poll—to be invested in the way he thought best. When you tell that to Bailie Trench he’ll know what to do; he understands all about it. I might send you to Mr Wilkins direct but he’s a very great man, d’ee see, and doesn’t know you, and might refuse to give you the money.”

“To give me the money, father! But what should I do with the money when I got it?”

“Keep it, my darling.”

“Oh! I see, keep it safe for you till you came back?” said Polly.

“Just so, Poll, you’re a clever girl; keep it for me till I come back, or rather take it to Bailie Trench and he’ll tell you how to keep it. It’s a good pot o’ money, Poll, and has cost me the best part of a lifetime, workin’ hard and spendin’ little, to lay it by. Once I used to think,” continued the captain in a sad soliloquising tone, “that I’d live to cast anchor near the old spot, and spend it with your mother, Polly, and you; but the Lord willed it otherwise, and He does all things well, blessed be His name! Now you understand what you’re to do about the money, don’t you, if you should ever find yourself without me in Scotland, eh?”

Polly did not quite clearly understand, but after a little further explanation she professed herself to be quite prepared for the transaction of that important piece of financial business.

Poor Captain Samson sought thus to secure, to the best of his ability, that the small savings of his life should go to Polly in the event of her being saved and himself lost. Moreover, he revealed the state of his finances to Philosopher Jack, Ben Trench, and Watty Wilkins, whom he found grouped apart at a corner of the raft in earnest conversation, and begged of them, if they or any of them should survive, to see his daughter’s interest attended to.

“You see, my lads, although I would not for the world terrify the dear child uselessly, by telling her that we are in danger, it must be clear to you that if a gale springs up and our raft should be broken up, it’s not likely that all of us would be saved. Yet Polly might escape, and some of you also. We are all in the Lord’s hands, however, and have nothing to fear if we are His followers.”

Ah! that “if” went home. The captain did not lay stress on it; nevertheless stress was laid on it somehow, for the three youths found it recurring again and again to memory that night, though they did not speak of it to each other.

As the night advanced, the threatening gale passed away; the stars came out in all their splendour, and the morning sun found the glassy sea again ready to reflect his image. Thus they floated for several days in comparative peace and comfort. But it came at last.

One evening a squall came rushing down on them, turning up the sea, and converting it to ink and foam as it approached. The rag of sail with which they had previously courted the breeze in vain was hastily taken in; the fastenings of everything were looked to. Polly was placed in her canvas bower, and the whole structure of the raft was strengthened with a network of hawsers and cordage.

When the squall struck them, the raft appeared to tremble. The seas broke clean over them, several articles not properly secured were swept off, and weak points in the main fastenings were made plain, as the spars, beams, and planks writhed and struggled to get free.

But Captain Samson and his men were equal to the occasion; an iron clamp here, and an extra turn of a chain or hawser there, made all fast, so that before the squall had time to raise the sea, the raft held well together, and yielded, without breaking, to the motions of the waves.

Of course every one was drenched, including poor little Polly, for although the tarpaulin turned off the waves and spray above, it could not prevent the water spirting up between the spars from below. But Polly was, according to Baldwin, “a true chip of the old block;” she bore her discomforts with heroism, and quite put to shame poor Mr Luke, whose nervous temperament caused him great suffering.

Thus was spent a night of anxiety. The next day was little better, and the night following was worse. In addition to the violence of the wind and constant breaking over them of heavy seas, the darkness became so intense that it was difficult to see where damage to the fastenings occurred, and repairs became almost impossible.

About midnight there was a terrible rending of wood in that part of the raft lying farthest from Polly’s bower, and a great cry of fear was heard. The more courageous among the men sprang, by a natural impulse, to assist those in distress. It was found that a large portion of the raft had broken adrift, and was only held to it by a single rope. On this portion were two passengers and one of the crew. The former were apparently panic-stricken; the latter made frantic but futile attempts to haul in on the rope.

“Bear a hand, boys!” cried Edwin Jack, as he laid hold of the inner end of the rope.

Strong and willing hands were ready, but before they could lay hold the rope parted, and Jack was dragged violently into the sea. He rose like a cork. Little Wilkins lay down, and stretched out a helping hand. Jack caught it, and would infallibly have dragged the little fellow into the water if Ben Trench had not thrown himself on his legs and held on. Baldwin Burr seized hold of Ben, and the captain coming up at the moment, lent his powerful aid. Jack was saved, but the broken part of the raft, with its hapless occupants, was swept away and lost sight of.

This sad event had naturally a very depressing effect on every one. True, the portion of the raft which had broken away was large enough to sustain the unfortunates who were on it. Moreover, some of the provisions had also gone with them, so that there was hope of their holding out for a time and being picked up by a passing ship, but the hope was slight, and in the event of rougher weather, their fate would be certain.

For six days and nights the raft was tossed about on the open sea. It could scarcely be said that it sailed, although as large a mast and piece of canvas as they could set up urged it slowly though the water when the wind was strong. As to steering, that was next to impossible, and in truth it did not matter much how they steered.

Constant exposure by night and by day now began to tell on the less robust of the crew. Little Polly, however, was not one of these. She possessed a naturally good constitution, and was, besides, specially cared for by her father, who devoted all the powers of an inventive mind to the strengthening and improving of “the bower.” In this he was ably assisted by Philosopher Jack, whose love for the child deepened daily as he watched the sweet contented manner with which she received every drenching—and she got many—and the anxious way in which she inquired for, and sought to help, those of the party whose health began to fail.

Among these latter was Ben Trench.

“Ah! Polly,” said Ben one sultry forenoon when she brought him a glass of sweetened lime-juice and water, “you’re a kind little nurse. I really don’t know how I should get on without you.”

“Upon my word,” said little Wilkins, pouting, “you’re a grateful fellow! Here have I been nursing you all the morning, yet you seem to think nothing of that in comparison with Polly’s glass of lime-juice.”

“Come, Watty, don’t be jealous,” said Ben; “it’s not the glass of lime-juice, but Polly’s sympathetic face beaming behind it, that does me so much good. Besides, you know, Polly’s a girl, and a girl is always a better nurse than a man; you must admit that.”

Watty was not at all prepared to admit that, but his being spoken of as a man did much to mollify his hurt feelings.

“But I do hope you feel better to-day,” said Polly, observing with some anxiety the short, half-breathless manner in which the invalid spoke.

“Oh yes! I feel better—that is to say, I think I do. Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. You know, Polly, I came on this voyage chiefly on account of my health, and of course I must expect to be a little damaged by so much exposure, though your good father has indeed done his best to shelter me. Why, do you know, I sometimes think the berth he has made for me between the logs here is a greater triumph of his inventive genius than your bower. I often think they spoiled a splendid engineer when they made your father a sailor.”

Polly laughed at this, and Watty Wilkins tried to laugh, just by way of keeping up his friend’s spirits and being what Baldwin called good company; but poor Watty could not laugh. He had loved and played with Ben Trench since ever he could remember, and when he looked at his pale face and listened to his weak voice, a dread foreboding came over him, and brought such a rush of feeling to his heart that he was fain to leap up and spring to the farthest end of the raft, where he fell to hauling and tightening one of the rope-fastenings with all the energy of his little body and soul.

“Land ho!” shouted one of the men at that moment from the top of a cask, which formed the outlook, where, every day and all day, a man was stationed to watch for a sail or a sign of land.

An electric shock could not have produced greater excitement than these two words.

“Where away?” exclaimed the captain, leaping up beside the look-out.

“On the port-bow, sir,—there!” pointing eagerly.

“I don’t see it—oh—yes—no. It’s only a cloud. Who ever heard of the port-bow of a raft? Bah! your eyes have been squintin’. Not a bit of it, I see it—low lyin’; why, I see the palms—and I see the nuts—ah, and the monkeys, no doubt a-eatin’ of ’em—hip, hip, hurrah!”

Such were some of the exclamations, ending in a long, deep-toned, British cheer, with which the discovery of land was greeted.

In a short time all uncertainty was removed, and the land was clearly made out to be a small coral island with its narrow outlying reef, and a few cocoa-nut palms waving thereon.

The joy of the shipwrecked crew was excessive—somewhat in proportion to their previous depression. They shook bands, laughed, cheered, and in some cases wept, while a few clasped their hands, looked up, and audibly thanked God.

“You’ll soon get ashore,” said Polly, laying her hand on Ben Trench’s arm.

“Ay, and the cocoa-nut milk will set you up and make you fat in no time,” added Watty Wilkins.

“So it will,” returned Ben, who had not risen like the others; “we’ll have jolly times of it, won’t we? Like Robinson Crusoe. Oh! how I wish that sister Susan was here! She would enjoy it so much. It’s an island, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Edwin Jack, coming forward at the moment, “a coral island, with plenty of vegetation on it. So cheer up, Ben, we shall soon be ashore.”

Not so soon, however, as they expected, for the wind was light, although favourable, the raft was heavy, and the two oars had but little influence on it. The sun sank and rose again before they drew near to the reef. Inside the reef, between it and the island-shore, there was a lake or lagoon of calm water, but outside, on the reef itself, a heavy swell broke with continuous roar. To get involved in those giant breakers would have been destruction to the raft, and probably death to most of those on board. One narrow opening, marked by a few shrubs and palms on either side, formed the only portal to the calm lagoon. The captain himself took the steering oar, and summoned our philosopher to his assistance.

“Give way now, lads, with a will.”

As many men as could grasp the two oars laid hold of them, and bent their backs till the strong wood cracked again. Gradually the raft neared the opening. As it did so the ground-swell began to act on it. By degrees the towering billows—which seemed to rise out of a calm sea and rush to their destruction like walls of liquid glass—caught it, dragged it on a little, and then let it slip. At last one great wave began to curl in hissing foam underneath, caught the raft fairly, carried it forward on its boiling crest, and launched it with lightning speed into the opening. The space was too narrow! One of the projecting spars touched the reef. Instantly the fastenings were rent like pack-thread, and the raft was hurled forward in disconnected fragments. One of these turned completely over with several men on it. Another portion passed through the opening and swung round inside. The steering oar was wrenched from Jack’s hands, and struck the captain into the water. As if by instinct, Jack sprang to the “bower,” caught Polly in his arms, and leaped into the sea. At the same moment Wilkins ran to the rescue of his friend Ben. These two were on the part that had swung round to the calm side of the reef, and Watty waded to it with Ben on his back. The captain and all the rest were washed in a cataract of foam and wreckage through the opening into the lagoon, and pitched by curling eddies on the shore. In a few minutes they all stood in safety, panting, but uninjured, on the white sands of the coral reef.

Chapter Four.

The Coral Island—Proceedings Therein.

The island on which the raft with its occupants had been cast was of small size, not more than six miles in extent, and lay low in the water. Nevertheless it was covered with luxuriant vegetation, among which were several groves of cocoa-nut palms, the long feathery branches of which waved gracefully in a gentle breeze, as if beckoning an invitation to the castaways on the reef to cross the lagoon and find shelter there. But crossing the lagoon was not an easy matter.

“Shure it’s a mile wide if it’s a futt,” said one of the men as they stood in a group on the reef, dripping and gazing at the isle.

“No, Simon O’Rook,” said Bob Corkey, in that flat contradictions way to which some men are prone; “no, it’s only half a mile if it’s an inch.”

“You’re wrong, both of you,” said Baldwin Burr, “it ain’t more than quarter of a mile. Quite an easy swim for any of us.”

“Except my Polly,” observed the captain quietly.

“Ay, and those who are too weak to swim,” said Watty Wilkins, with a glance at his friend Ben, who had lain down on the sand and listened with a calm untroubled look to the conversation.

“You don’t seem at all anxious,” whispered Polly to Ben.

“No, Polly, I’m not. I have lately been taught how to trust in God by your example.”

“By mine!” exclaimed the child in extreme surprise.

Before Ben could reply the captain turned and called to Polly.

“Come here, my duckey; Edwin Jack offers to swim over the lagoon to the island with you on his back. Will you trust yourself to him?”

“Yes, father,” answered the child promptly.

“But maybe there are sharks,” suggested O’Rook.

There was a momentary silence. In the excitement of the occasion every one had forgotten sharks. What was to be done? The raft was utterly destroyed. Only a few of the logs which had formed it lay on the reef; the rest were floating on the lagoon at various distances, none nearer than fifty yards.

“There’s nothing for it, then, but to reconstruct our raft,” said the captain, throwing off his coat and shoes; “so these logs must be secured.”

He had only taken two steps towards the water when Philosopher Jack grasped his arm.

“Stop, sir, it is your duty to look after Polly. Now lads, those who can swim come along!”

Another instant and he was in the sea, regardless of sharks, and striking out for the floating wreckage, closely followed by O’Rook, Corkey, Burr, and Watty Wilkins. Strange to say, eight other men of the crew could not swim, although they had managed somehow to scramble on the reef. Whether it was that the sharks were not there at the time, or that the number and energy of the swimmers frightened them, we cannot tell, but each man reached a log or plank in safety, and began pushing it towards the reef. It was when they drew near to this that the trial of their courage was most severe. The excitement and gush of daring with which they had plunged in was by that time expended, and the slow motion of the logs gave them time for reflection. O’Rook’s lively fancy troubled him much.

“If the baists would only attack a man in front,” he muttered, “it’s little I’d mind ’em, but to come up behind, sneakin’ like—hooroo!”

At that moment a branch of coral, which projected rather far from the bottom, touched O’Rook’s toe and drew from him an uncontrollable yell of alarm. Baldwin Burr, who swam close behind, was humorously inclined as well as cool. He pushed the plank he was guiding close to his comrade’s back, dipped the end of it, and thrust it down on O’Rook’s legs.

The effect was even more powerful than he had hoped for.

“A shark!—a sha-a-a-rk!” howled O’Rook, and dived under the broken main-yard, which he was piloting ashore. Coming up on the other side, he tried to clamber on it, but it rolled round and dropped him. He went down with a gurgling cry. Again he rose, grasped the spar with his left arm, glared wildly round, and clenched his right hand as if ready to hit on the nose any creature—fish, flesh, or fowl—that should assail him.

“Take it easy, messmate,” said Burr in a quiet tone; “sorry I touched you. Hope it didn’t hurt much.”

“Och! it was you, was it? Sure, I thought it was a shark; well, well, it’s plaised I am to be let off so aisy.”

With this philosophic reflection O’Rook landed with his piece of timber. Enough of material was soon collected to form a raft sufficiently large to ferry half of the party across the lagoon, and in two trips the whole were landed in safety on the island.

“You don’t mean to tell me, Jack,” said Baldwin Burr, “that this island was made by coral insects?”

“Yes, I do!” said Jack.

“From the top to the bottom?” asked Burr.

“From the bottom to the top,” said Edwin.

Baldwin asked this question of the philosopher during a pause in their labours. They were, at the time, engaged in constructing a new bower for Polly among the flowering shrubs under the cocoa-nut palms. Polly herself was aiding them, and the rest of the party were scattered among the bushes, variously employed in breaking down branches, tearing up long grass, and otherwise clearing ground for an encampment.

“How could insects make an island?” asked Polly, sitting down on a bank to rest.

“Don’t you know, Poll?” said Edwin; “why, I thought your father taught you about almost everything.”

“Oh no,” replied Polly, with an innocent smile, “not everything yet, you know, but I daresay he will in the course of time. Tell me about the insects.”

“Well, let me see, how shall I begin?” said Jack, leaning against the bank, and crossing his arms on his breast. “The coral insects, Polly, are very small, some of them not larger than a pin’s head. They are great builders. There is lime in sea-water. The insects, which are called corallines, have the power of attracting this lime to them; drawing it away from the water, so to speak, and fixing it round their own bodies, which is called secreting the lime. Thus they form shells, or houses, to themselves, which they fix at the bottom of the sea. Having laid the basements of their houses close together, they proceed to add upper storeys, and thus they add storey to storey, until they reach the surface of the sea. They work in such innumerable millions that, in course of time, they form reefs and islands, as you see.”

“But I don’t see!” said Polly, looking round; “at least, I don’t see corallines working.”

“Ah, good,” said Baldwin, with a nod of approval to the child, as if to say, “You have him there!”

“True,” returned the philosopher, “because the corallines can only work under water. The moment they reach the surface they die; but those that remain continue their labours on the sides of the reef or island, and thus widen it. Then the waves break off masses of coral, and cast them, with drifting sea-weed and other things, up on the reef, which makes it higher; then sea-birds come to rest on it. The winds carry seeds of various plants to it, which take root, grow up, die; and thus thicken the soil by slow degrees, till at last, after a long, long time, the island becomes a pretty large and fertile one like this.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Polly; “what a clever insect!”

“Clever indeed,” returned Edwin; “especially when we consider that it has got no brains.”

“No brains!” echoed Baldwin.

“No, it has little more than a stomach.”

“Oh! come now,” remonstrated Baldwin; “we can’t believe that, can we, Miss Polly? Even a house-builder must think, much more an island-builder; and no fellow can think with his stomach, you know.”

“Nevertheless, it is as I tell you,” continued Jack, “and these little creatures manage to create hundreds of islands in the Southern Seas, by their perseverance, energy, and united action. Quite an example to man—eh, Baldwin?”

“Ha! just so—a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together. I think we’d better act on the principles of these corry-lines, else Miss Polly’s bower won’t be ready afore dark.”

So saying, the seaman and our philosopher resumed their work with such united energy—aided by Polly herself—that a very comfortable habitation of boughs and large leaves was finished before the day closed. It resembled a large beehive, was overshadowed by dense foliage of a tropical kind, and carpeted with a species of fern.

Polly was profuse in her thanks, and when it was finished, called to her father to come and admire it. The stout mariner at once obeyed the summons. He quitted the pile of firewood on which he had been labouring, and with a violently red face and perspiring brow, appeared on the scene, bearing a mighty axe on his shoulder.

“Splendid!” he exclaimed, with beaming admiration. “It’s fit for the queen of the coral isles.”

“For whom it is intended!” said Philosopher Jack, quickly.

Polly laughed, for she understood the compliment, but suddenly became grave, as she remembered Ben Trench, and said, “No, no; it must be used as a shelter for Ben.”

“That’s kind of you, Polly,” said Watty coming up with a huge bundle of grass and foliage for bedding at the moment; “but Ben has got friends to remember him as well as you. Bob Corkey and I have made him a hut on the other side of the bushes—there, you may see the top of it through the leaves.”

“Does any one know where Mr Luke is?” asked the captain.

None of those assembled at the bower had seen him for some hours, and Captain Samson was on the point of organising a party to go in search of him, when one of the crew came in from the bush and said he had gone off with Simon O’Rook to the highest point of the low islet, to ascertain if possible its extent.

“He’s all right if O’Rook is with him,” said the captain to Polly, in confidence, when they went into the bower together; “but he’s not to be trusted away by himself. I never saw a man more unfit to look after himself.”

“And yet he is a good, kind man, father,” said Polly.

“True, quite true, Poll,” replied the captain, musingly. “I wonder why it is that some men seem as if they had been meant for women; maybe it is by way of balancing those women who seem to have been meant for men!”

Polly listened to this with a look of grave consideration, but not having formed an opinion on the subject, wisely held her tongue.

Meanwhile O’Rook led his companion towards the highest part of the islet, which, being clear of trees, seemed likely to afford them a good outlook. The sailor was a man of inquiring disposition, and, being of a free-and-easy nature, did not hesitate to speak out his mind on all occasions. After walking beside his tall companion and eyeing his thin figure and sad countenance in silence for some time, he said—

“You’re a cadaverous sort o’ man, Mr Luke.”

“Think so?” said Mr Luke, gently.

“Of course; I can’t help thinkin’ so, because I see it,” returned O’Rook. “Was it a fall, now, w’en you was a babby, that did it, or measles?”

“Neither, that I am aware of,” replied Mr Luke, with a good-natured smile; “my father before me was cadaverous.”

“Ah!” said O’Rook, with a look of sympathy, as he touched the region of his heart with his left thumb, “p’r’aps it was somethin’ o’ this sort, eh? I’ve bin through that myself in the ould country, where as purty a—well, well, it’s all over now, but I’ve a fellow-feelin’ for—”

“No,” interrupted Mr Luke, with a sigh, “it wasn’t a disappointment, it was—oh! what a splendid view!”

They had reached the top of the ridge at the moment, and the view of the verdant islet that burst upon them might well have called forth admiration from men of coarser mould than they.

O’Rook forgot for a few minutes the subject of his curiosity, and compared the prospect to some of the beautiful scenery of Ireland, though there was no resemblance whatever between the two. He soon returned, however, to the previous subject of conversation, but Mr Luke had ceased to be communicative.

“What is that lying on the beach there?” he said, pointing in the direction referred to.

“It’s more than I can tell,” answered O’Rook; “looks like a boat, don’t it?”

“Very,” said Mr Luke, “and there is something lying beside it like a man. Come, let’s go see.”

The two explorers went rapidly down the gentle slope that led to the beach, and soon found that the object in question was indeed a boat, old, rotten, and blistered with the sun. Beside it lay the skeleton of a man, with a few rags of the garments that had once formed its clothing still clinging to it here and there. It was a pitiful sight. Evidently the unfortunate man had been cast away in an open boat, and had been thrown on that beach when too much exhausted to make a last struggle for life, for there was no sign of his having wandered from the boat or cut down bushes, or attempted to make a fire. His strength had apparently enabled him to get out of the boat, that was all, and there he had lain down to die.

For some time the two wanderers stood contemplating the sight in silence, and when at length they spoke it was in low, sad tones.

“Poor, poor fellow,” said Mr Luke, “he must have been shipwrecked, like ourselves, and cast adrift in the boat. But I wonder that he is alone; one would expect that some of his comrades must have got into the boat along with him.”

“No doubt,” said O’Rook, “they was all starved at sea and throw’d overboard. Come, Mr Luke, let’s bury him; it’s all we can do for him now.”

Saying this, O’Rook threw off his jacket and, with his companion’s assistance, soon scraped a hole in the sand. Into this they were about to lift the skeleton, when they observed that its right hand covered a decayed remnant of rag, under which was seen a glittering substance. It turned out to be the clasp of a notebook, which, however, was so decayed and glued together that it could not be opened. O’Rook therefore wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then they buried the skeleton, and rolled a large mass of coral rock upon the grave to mark the spot.

A careful examination was next made of the old boat and the locality around it, but nothing whatever was found to throw light on the fate of the vessel to which the man had belonged.

Returning to the encampment, O’Rook and his companion found their friends busy preparing supper, which consisted of some provisions saved from the raft, and cocoa-nuts.

In a few seconds the whole party was assembled in front of Polly’s bower, listening attentively, while O’Rook described the discovery of the skeleton to the captain, and produced the old notebook. Deep was the interest of every member of that little community as the captain attempted to open the book, and intense was the expression of disappointment on each countenance—especially on that of Polly—when, after a prolonged trial, he utterly failed.

“Let Philosopher Jack try it,” exclaimed Watty Wilkins eagerly.

The captain at once handed the book to Jack with a smile.

“To be sure,” said he, “a philosopher ought to understand the management of books better than a skipper; but when a book is glued hard and fast like that, it may puzzle even a philosopher to master its contents.”

Jack made the attempt, however. He went to work with the calm deliberation of a thorough workman. By the aid of heat and gentle friction and a little moisture, and the judicious use of a penknife, he succeeded at last in opening the book in one or two places. While he was thus engaged, the rest of the party supped and speculated on the probable contents of the book.

“Here is a legible bit at last,” said Jack, “but the writing is very faint. Let me see. It refers to the state of the weather and the wind. The poor man evidently kept a private journal. Ah! here, in the middle of the book, the damp has not had so much effect.”

As he turned and separated the leaves with great care, Jack’s audience gazed at him intently and forgot supper. At last he began to read:—

“‘Saturday, 4th.—Have been three weeks now on short allowance. We are all getting perceptibly weaker. The captain, who is not a strong man, is sinking. The boat is overcrowded. If a gale should spring up we shall all perish. I don’t like the looks of two of the men. They are powerful fellows, and the captain and I believe them to be quite capable of murdering the most of us, and throwing us overboard to save their own lives.’

“Here there is a blank,” said Jack, “and the next date is the 8th, but there is no month or year given. The writing continues:—

“‘I scarce know what has passed during the last few days. It is like a horrible dream. The two men made the attempt, and killed big George, whom they feared most, because of his courage and known fidelity to the captain; but, before they could do further mischief, the second mate shot them both. The boat floats lighter now, and, through God’s mercy, the weather continues fine. Our last ration was served out this morning—two ounces of biscuit each, and a wine-glass of water. Sunday, 11th.—Two days without food. The captain read to us to-day some chapters out of the Bible, those describing the crucifixion of Jesus. Williams and Ranger were deeply impressed, and for the first time seemed to lament their sins, and to speak of themselves as crucifiers of Jesus. The captain’s voice very weak, but he is cheerful and resigned. It is evident that his trust is in the Lord. He exhorts us frequently. We feel the want of water more than food. Wednesday.—The captain and Williams died yesterday. Ranger drank sea water in desperation. He went mad soon after, and jumped overboard. We tried to save him, but failed. Only three of us are left. If we don’t meet with a ship, or sight an island, it will soon be all over with us. Thursday.—I am alone now. An island is in sight, but I can scarcely raise myself to look at it. I will bind this book to my hand. If any one finds me, let him send it to my beloved wife, Lucy. It will comfort her to know that my last thoughts on earth were of her dear self, and that my soul is resting on my Redeemer. I grow very cold and faint. May God’s best blessing rest—’”

The voice of the reader stopped suddenly, and for some moments there was a solemn silence, broken only by a sob from Polly Samson.

“Why don’t you go on?” asked the captain.

“There is nothing more,” said Jack sadly. “His strength must have failed him suddenly. It is unfortunate, for, as he has neither signed his name nor given the address of his wife, it will not be possible to fulfil his wishes.”

“Maybe,” suggested O’Rook, “if you open some more o’ the pages you’ll find a name somewheres.”

Jack searched as well as the condition of the book would admit of and found at last the name of David Ban—, the latter part of the surname being illegible. He also discovered a lump in one place, which, on being cut into, proved to be a lock of golden hair, in perfect preservation. It was evidently that of a young person.

“That’s Lucy’s hair,” said O’Rook promptly. “Blessin’s on her poor heart! Give it me, Philosopher Jack, as well as the book. They both belong to me by rights, ’cause I found ’em; an’ if ever I set futt in old England again, I’ll hunt her up and give ’em to her.”

As no one disputed O’Rook’s claim, the book and lock of hair were handed to him.

Soon afterwards Polly lay down to rest in her new bower, and her father, with his men, made to themselves comfortable couches around her, under the canopy of the luxuriant shrubs.

A week passed. During that period Captain Samson, with Polly, Jack, and Wilkins, walked over the island in all directions to ascertain its size and productions, while the crew of the Lively Poll found full employment in erecting huts of boughs and broad leaves, and in collecting cocoa-nuts and a few other wild fruits and roots.

Meanwhile the bottle thrown overboard by Watty Wilkins, with its “message from the sea,” began a long and slow but steady voyage.

It may not, perhaps, be known to the reader that there are two mighty currents in the ocean, which never cease to flow. The heated waters of the Equator flow north and south to get cooled at the Poles, and then flow back again from the Poles to get reheated at the Equator.

The form of continents, the effect of winds, the motion of the earth, and other influences, modify the flow of this great oceanic current and produce a variety of streams. One of these streams, a warm one, passing up the coast of Africa, is driven into the Gulf of Mexico, from which it crosses the Atlantic to the west coast of Britain, and is familiarly known as the Gulf Stream. If Watty Wilkins’s bottle had been caught by this stream, it would, perhaps, in the course of many months, have been landed on the west of Ireland. If it had been caught by any of the other streams, it might have ended its career on the coasts of Japan, Australia, or any of the many “ends of the earth.” But the bottle came under a more active influence than that of the ocean streams. It was picked up, one calm day, by a British ship, and carried straight to England, where its contents were immediately put into the newspapers, and circulated throughout the land.

The effect of little Wilkins’s message from the sea on different minds was various. By some it was read with interest and pathos, while others glanced it over with total indifference. But there were a few on whom the message fell like a thunderbolt, as we shall now proceed to show.

Chapter Five.

Tells of Plottings and Trials at Home, with Doings and Dangers Abroad.

In a dingy office, in a back street in one of the darkest quarters of the city, whose name we refrain from mentioning, an elderly man sat down one foggy morning, poked the fire, blew his nose, opened his newspaper, and began to read. This man was a part-owner of the Lively Poll. His name was Black. Black is a good wearing colour, and not a bad name, but it is not so suitable a term when applied to a man’s character and surroundings. We cannot indeed, say positively that Mr Black’s character was as black as his name, but we are safe in asserting that it was very dirty grey in tone. Mr Black was essentially a dirty little man. His hands and face were dirty, so dirty that his only clerk (a dirty little boy) held the firm belief that the famous soap which is said to wash black men white, could not cleanse his master. His office was dirty, so were his garments, and so was his mean little spirit, which occupied itself exclusively in scraping together a paltry little income, by means of little ways known only to its owner. Mr Black had a soul, he admitted that; but he had no regard for it, and paid no attention to it whatever. Into whatever corner of his being it had been thrust, he had so covered it over and buried it under heaps of rubbish that it was quite lost to sight and almost to memory. He had a conscience also, but had managed to sear it to such an extent that although still alive, it had almost ceased to feel.

Turning to the shipping news, Mr Black’s eye was arrested by a message from the sea. He read it, and, as he did so, his hands closed on the newspaper convulsively; his eyes opened, so did his mouth, and his face grew deadly pale—that is to say, it became a light greenish grey.

“Anything wrong, sir?” asked the dirty clerk.

“The Lively Poll,” gasped Mr Black, “is at the bottom of the sea!”

“She’s in a lively position, then,” thought the dirty clerk, who cared no more for the Lively Poll than he did for her part-owner; but he only replied, “O dear!” with a solemn look of hypocritical sympathy.

Mr Black seized his hat, rushed out of his office, and paid a sudden visit to his neighbour, Mr Walter Wilkins, senior. That gentleman was in the act of running his eye over his newspaper. He was a wealthy merchant. Turning on his visitor a bland, kindly countenance, he bade him good-morning.

“I do hope—excuse me, my dear sir,” said Mr Black excitedly, “I do hope you will see your way to grant me the accommodation I ventured to ask for yesterday. My business is in such a state that this disaster to the Lively Poll—”

“The Lively Poll!” exclaimed Mr Wilkins, with a start.

“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Mr Black, with a confused look, for his seared conscience became slightly sensitive at that moment. “I suppose you have not yet seen it (he pointed to the paragraph); but, excuse me, I cannot understand how you came to know that your son was on board—pardon me—”

Mr Wilkins had laid his face in his hands, and groaned aloud, then looking up suddenly, said, “I did not certainly know that my dear boy was on board, but I had too good reason to suspect it, for he had been talking much of the vessel, and disappeared on the day she sailed, and now this message from—”

He rose hastily and put on his greatcoat.

“Excuse me, my dear sir,” urged Mr Black; “at such a time it may seem selfish to press you on business affairs, but this is a matter of life and death to me—”

“It is a matter of death to me,” interrupted the other in a low tone, “but I grant your request. My clerk will arrange it with you.”

He left the office abruptly, with a bowed head, and Mr Black having arranged matters to his satisfaction with the clerk, left it soon after, with a sigh of relief. He cared no more for Mr Wilkins’s grief than did the dirty clerk for his master’s troubles.

Returning to his dirty office, Mr Black then proceeded to do a stroke of very dingy business.

That morning, through some mysterious agency, he had learned that there were rumours of an unfavourable kind in reference to a certain bank in the city, which, for convenience, we shall name the Blankow Bank. Now, it so happened that Mr Black was intimately acquainted with one of the directors of that bank, in whom, as well as in the bank itself, he had the most implicit confidence. Mr Black happened to have a female relative in the city named Mrs Niven—the same Mrs Niven who had been landlady to Philosopher Jack. It was one of the root-principles of Mr Black’s business character that he should make hay while the sun shone. He knew that Mrs Niven owned stock in the Blankow Bank; he knew that the Bank paid its shareholders a very handsome dividend, and he was aware that, owing to the unfavourable rumours then current, the value of the stock would fall very considerably. That, therefore, was the time for knowing men like Mr Black, who believed in the soundness of the bank, to buy. Accordingly he wrote a letter to Mrs Niven, advising her to sell her shares, and offering to transact the business for her, but he omitted to mention that he meant to buy them up himself. He added a postscript on the back, telling of the loss of the Lively Poll.

Mrs Niven was a kind-hearted woman, as the reader knows; moreover, she was a trusting soul.

“Very kind o’ Maister Black,” she observed to Peggy, her maid-of-all-work, on reading the letter. “The Blankow Bank gi’es a high dividend, nae doot, but I’m well enough off, and hae nae need to risk my siller for the sake o’ a pund or twa mair income i’ the year. Fetch me the ink, Peggy.”

A letter was quickly written, in which worthy Mrs Niven agreed to her relative’s proposal, and thanked him for the interest he took in her affairs. Having despatched Peggy with it to the post, she re-read Mr Black’s epistle, and in doing so observed the postscript, which, being on the fourth page, had escaped her on the first perusal.

“Hoots!” said she, “that’s stipid. I didna notice the PS.” Reading in a low tone, and commenting parenthetically, she continued, “‘By the way, did not one of your lodgers, a student, sail in the Lively Poll, (Atweel did he; he telt me, though he telt naebody else, an’ gaed muckle again’ my wull) as a common sailor?’ (Common indeed! na, na, he was an uncommon sailor, if he was onything.) ‘If so, you’ll be sorry to learn that the Lively Poll is lost, and all her crew and passengers have per—’”

Instead of reading “perished” poor Mrs Niven finished the sentence with a shriek, and fell flat on the floor, where she was found soon after, and with difficulty restored to consciousness by the horrified Peggy.

That same morning, in his lowly cottage on the Scottish border, Mr John Jack opened a newspaper at the breakfast-table. Besides Mrs Jack there sat at the table four olive branches—two daughters and two sons—the youngest of whom, named Dobbin, was peculiarly noticeable as being up to the eyes in treacle, Dobbin’s chief earthly joy being “treacle pieces.”

Mr Jack’s eye soon fell on the message from the sea. Of course he knew nothing of the writer, but recognised the name of the vessel as being that in which his son had sailed for the Southern Seas, for our hero had written to tell of his departure, although he had not asked or waited for advice. Mr Jack was a man of strong nerve. Rising quietly from the table, he left the room, but his wife noticed the expression of his face, and followed him into their bedroom.

“What’s wrang, John?”

The poor man turned abruptly, drew his wife to him, and pressed her head on his breast.

“O Maggie!” he said, in a low husky voice, “‘the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,’ can you finish the sentence?”

“Ay, ‘blessed be the name o’ the Lord,’” said Mrs Jack in a tremulous voice; “but what—”

“Listen,” said her husband, and he read out the fatal message.

“It canna be—oh! it canna be—that my Teddie is gone,” said the stricken mother, clasping her hands; “I canna, I winna believe it. Are ye sure that was the ship’s name?”

“Yes, too sure,” answered her husband. “I’ve mislaid the dear boy’s letter, but I’ll go and see Mrs Niven. He mentioned it, I know, to her.”

There was yet another house in Scotland into which the message carried profound grief; namely, that of Bailie Trench. Need we say that the supposed loss of an only son was a crushing blow, rendered all the more terrible by the thought that death had been met so suddenly in a voyage which had been undertaken in search of health?

But we will spare the reader further details, and return once more to the Coral Island, where we left the castaways making themselves as comfortable as the nature of the place would admit of.

And, truth to tell, there are many people in civilised lands much less comfortably situated than were these same castaways.

The weather, as O’Rook said, “was splendacious, almost equal to that of ould Ireland.” Cocoa-nuts and other fruits were abundant. The lagoon swarmed with fish, including sharks, which rendered fishing an excitingly dangerous, as well as enjoyable, pastime. Polly Samson found gardens of coral and seaweed in crystal pools, which she could gaze at and admire for hours, though she could not walk in them. But she could, and did, sympathise with the little fish of varied size and colour which darted about in these water gardens, and Philosopher Jack found in them an inexhaustible theme for discourse to the teachable and inquisitive Baldwin Burr. The captain found enough of employment in directing and planning generally for the whole party. Cutting firewood, gathering nuts and wild fruit, fell to the lot of Bob Corkey; and Simon O’Rook slid naturally into the office of cook. The remainder of the men were employed at various jobs, according to circumstances.

Watty Wilkins was a passionate fisher. He divided his time between the lagoon and the couch of his sick friend Bell Trench, who soon began to improve on rest, sunshine, and cocoa-nut milk. As for Mr Luke, being fit for nothing, he was allowed to do very much what he pleased, except at meal times, when O’Rook made him wash the dishes, many of which were merely flat stones. In short, the place was, according to Polly, a sort of paradise, and would have been almost perfect, but for a tendency in one or two of the men to quarrel, and a powerful disposition in Bob Corkey and Simon O’Rook to argue. Though the arguing never quite degenerated into quarrelling, and the quarrelsome men never absolutely came to blows, their tendencies made this coral paradise imperfect.

Two of the most troublesome men, named respectively Bounce and Badger, were cured by the captain in the following manner:— They had been quarrelling verbally for half an hour one morning, calling each other names, and threatening, as usual, to fight, but not doing so.

“Come, lads, follow me,” said the captain to them sternly, and much to their surprise.

He led the way to a neighbouring grove, where he stopped. “Now,” said he, “this is a cool, shady spot. I want to know which of you two is the best man. Come, go to work and fight it out. I’ll see fair play.”

Bounce and Badger showed much unwillingness, whereupon the captain buttoned his coat, turned up his wristbands, doubled his enormous fists, and declared that they would have to fight with him if they would not fight with each other.

“But we don’t want to fight, sir,” said Bounce, humbly, seeing that the captain was thoroughly in earnest.

“Very well, then, shake hands,” said the captain, in a tone so peremptory that the men were fain to obey.

“Now, go back to camp together,” said the captain, “and let us have no more boasting—d’ee understand?”

They went off at once. After that there was less disagreement and no threatening to fight among the men.

One morning—it was a Sunday—the captain called the whole party together after breakfast, and announced the fact that he was going to preach them a sermon.

“You see, my lads,” said he, “since you have agreed that I shall continue to be your captain on shore as well as at sea—to be the governor, in short, of this little colony—it is right that we should come to a distinct understanding as to our new position, and be guided by fixed laws. In time I will draw you up a code which I hope will be ratified by yourselves, and will work well. To-day I mean to start by preaching a sermon. I pr’pose to do so every Sunday, and to have family prayers every morning. Is that agreed to?”

“Agreed,” said nearly every one. Bounce and Badger laughed, however, supposing that the captain was jesting.

But he was very far from jesting. Taking no notice of the laughter, he continued, in an earnest, impressive manner, which enforced respect while he pointed towards the other side of the island—

“My lads, the skeleton that lies over yonder furnishes me with a text: ‘One is taken, and another left.’ That poor fellow was taken away from this life. You and I have been left behind. Assuredly we have been left for a good purpose, and the merciful God who has spared us means that we should henceforth live for His glory. My lads, you all know what a blessed thing is a state of peace, and you also know what a miserable thing it is to be for ever quarrelling. Since we landed on this island, we’ve had a little of both. I took in hand to stop the quarrelling the other day, in my own way. P’r’aps it wasn’t altogether my own way either, for I’ve read in the Bible of smiting a scorner, that the simple might take warning. However, be that as it may, that system may serve a turn; but it’s not the straight road to come to a state of peace. If we are to live happily here, my lads, to avoid quarrelling, to honour our Maker, and to prove to each other—as well as to angels and devils, who may be lookin’ on for all that I know—that we stand on a higher level than the brutes, we must square our conduct by the rules and laws laid down by the Prince of Peace, whose desire is that on earth men should live together in peace and goodwill. I’ll now read you some of these laws.”

Here the captain drew a small Bible from his pocket, and slowly read the fifth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, pausing at each verse, and commenting thereon, after his own peculiar fashion, to the surprise of all who heard him; for although all knew the captain to be an upright man, they were not prepared, by his usually stern look and brusque off-hand manner, for the tender spirit and depth of feeling which he now displayed.

“Now, my lads,” said he, shutting the book, “that’s all I’ve got to say to you to-day, but before closing, let me ask you to think like men—not like children—about what we have been reading. The service of God is not a mere matter of ceremonies. Jesus Christ came to save you and me, not so much from punishment, as from sin itself. It is a great salvation. Those of you who may have been swimming with the current know and care nothing about the power of sin. If you think you do, my lads, turn up stream. Try to resist sin, and you’ll learn something new. Only those who are made willing and strong by the Spirit of God can do it successfully. No doubt that remark will set adrift a lot o’ thoughts and questions in your minds. To all of them I give you a short text as a good course to steer by: ‘Ask, and ye shall receive.’ Ask light and ask wisdom.

“Now, cook,” continued the captain, turning to O’Rook, “go to work and get your dinner under weigh, for talking makes one hungry. Meanwhile, I intend to go and have a short ramble on the sea-shore, and I want to know if there is any small female on this island who wants to go with me.”

At this Polly jumped up with a laugh, put her little hand in that of her father, and stood on tiptoe, with upturned face. The captain stooped, received a stiff nor’-wester, and the two went off together.

The following night, as the party were seated round the fire finishing supper, Watty Wilkins surprised his friends by rising, clearing his throat, extending his right arm, after the manner of an orator, and delivering himself of the following speech:—

“Lady and gentlemen,—I rise on the present occasion, with or without your leave (‘Order,’ from Ben Trench), to make a few pertinent remarks (‘Impertinent,’ from Philosopher Jack) regarding our present strange and felicitous circumstances. (Hear, hear.) Our community is a republic—a glorious republic! Having constituted Captain Samson our governor, pastor, and lawgiver, it has occurred to me that we might, with great advantage to ourselves, institute a college of learning, and, without delay, elect professors. As a stowaway, I would not have presumed to make such a proposal, but, as a free and independent citizen of this republic, I claim the right to be heard; and I now move that we proceed to elect a professor of natural philosophy, natural history, and any other natural or unnatural science that any of us may happen to remember or invent. (Hear, hear, and laughter.) As a student is naturally allied to a professor, and somewhat resembles him—the only difference being that the one knows mostly everything, and the other next to nothing—I further propose that we appoint to this professorship Philosopher Jack, with a salary of gratitude depending on merit, and the duty of lecturing to us every night after supper for our entertainment.”

Watty Wilkins sat down amid great applause, and Ben Trench seconded the motion, which was of course carried unanimously.

Philosopher Jack at once accepted the professorship, and proceeded then and there to deliver his inaugural address, in which he philosophised of things past, present, and to come, both seriously and humorously, in a way that filled his favourite pupil, Baldwin Burr, with inexpressible delight.

When he had finished, Bob Corkey rose, and with an air of intense solemnity said—

“Messmates, my lady, fathers, and brethren,—I begs to offer a observation or two. It seems to me that a college with only one professor ain’t quite the thing for this great and enlightened republic. Seems to me; therefore, that we should appint a professor who could spin yarns for our amusement, not to say edification. And, for this end, I moves that we appint Simon O’Rook (great applause), whose gifts in the way o’ story-tellin’, or nat’ral lyin’, so to speak, is unequalled by any nat’ral philosopher on the island.” (Hear, hear, and cheers, mingled with laughter.)

This motion was seconded by Bounce, and the appointment was gracefully accepted by O’Rook, who, however, declined taking office till the following night as it was getting late, and he required time to compose his professional lies; but he ventured, as a free citizen of the “noo” republic, to move that the house should adjourn to bed.

The idea thus jestingly introduced was so far carried into effect in earnest, that Philosopher Jack did, on many evenings thereafter, amuse and interest his comrades round the camp-fire, by relating many a tale from history, both ancient and modern, with which his memory was well stored. He also proved to himself, as well as to others, the great value of even a small amount of scientific knowledge, by being able to comment on the objects of surrounding nature in a way that invested them with an interest which, to absolutely ignorant men, they could not have possessed.

O’Rook also fulfilled his engagements to some extent, being not only able, but willing, to spin long-winded yarns, which, when genuine material failed, he could invent with facility.

Thus the time passed pleasantly enough for several weeks, and the shipwrecked crew succeeded in keeping up their spirits, despite the undercurrent of heavy anxiety with which they were oppressed,—as indeed they could scarcely fail to be, when they reflected on the fact that the island, on which they had been cast, lay far out of the ordinary track of ships. This had been ascertained by the captain, who, it may be remembered, had taken his sextant from the ship, and who, the day before the destruction of the raft on the coral reef, had obtained a reliable observation, and fixed their position.

But this anxiety was deepened, and a darker gloom was cast over the party, by an incident which happened soon afterwards.

It has been said that Watty Wilkins was passionately fond of fishing. This business he prosecuted by means of a small raft, made from the remnants of the old one, which he pushed about with a long pole. But the raft was inconvenient; moreover, it had been more than once nearly upset by a shark. Watty therefore resolved to make a small boat out of the remains of the old boat beside which the skeleton had been found. In this he was so ably assisted by his friends Jack and Ben, that the boat—which was a very small one—was launched in the course of two weeks. A pair of light oars was also made, and in this boat the fishing was prosecuted with redoubled vigour. Sometimes the three friends went off in company; more frequently little Wilkins went out alone.

One day he pushed off by himself, and pulled to different parts of the lagoon, casting his line now and then with varying success. The day happened to be unusually calm and bright. When he passed the opening in the reef, the surf appeared less violent than usual, so that he was tempted to pull though it. The breakers were passed in safety, and he soon found himself with a sensation of great delight, floating on the gentle swell of the open sea. He pulled out for a considerable distance, and then cast his lines. So intent was he on these, that he did not observe the approach of a squall till it was almost upon him. Seizing the oars, he pulled towards the island, but he had drifted off shore a considerable distance. The wind, also, was against him. His efforts were vain. In short he was blown out to sea.

The desperate anxiety of the poor boy was changed to despair when the island gradually receded and finally disappeared. At first the little boat was nearly swamped, but by clever management of the oars Watty saved it. The squall was short-lived. Before long it again fell calm, and the sky cleared, but nothing was now to be seen save the unbroken circle of the horizon.

Who can tell the feelings of the poor youth when night descended on the sea? For hours he sat in the stern-sheets quite motionless, as if stunned. (Note: see frontispiece.) Rowing, he knew, would be of no use, as he might be pulling away from the island instead of towards it. Fastening his jacket to an oar, he set it up as a signal, and sat down helpless and inactive, but his mind was busy as he gazed into the depths of the moonlit sky. He thought of home, of the father whom he had so deeply injured, of the prospects that he had unwittingly blighted, of his comrade Ben Trench, and his other friends on the Coral Island. As he continued to think, conscience rose up and condemned him sternly. Wilkins bowed his head to the condemnation, and admitted that it was just.

“Oh!” he cried, in a passion of sudden remorse, “O God! spare me to return home and be a comfort to my father,—my dear, dear father!”

He put his face in his hands and wept bitterly. Sitting thus, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, he gradually sank lower and lower, until he slid to the bottom of the boat, and lay at last with his head on the thwart, in profound slumber. He dreamed of home and forgiveness as he floated there, the one solitary black spot on the dark breast of the solemn sea.

Chapter Six.

Watty Wilkins is Tried, Comforted, Run Down, Rescued, and Restored.

When Watty Wilkins awoke from sleep, the sun was high in the heavens and the sea smooth as a mirror.

The poor boy raised himself on one elbow and looked about him, at first with a confused feeling of uncertainty as to where he was. Then the truth burst upon him with overwhelming force. Not only was he alone in a little, half-decayed boat without sail, rudder, or compass, on the great Pacific Ocean, but, with the exception of a few fish, he was without food, and, worst of all, he had not a drop of fresh water.

What was to be done? An unspoken prayer ascended from his heart to God, as he rose and seized the oars. A belief that it was needful to act vigorously and at once was strong upon him. For several minutes he relieved his feelings by rowing with all his might. Then he stopped abruptly, and his spirit sank almost in despair as he exclaimed aloud—

“What’s the use? I don’t know where the island is. I may only be pulling farther away from it. Oh! what shall I do?”

At that moment of extreme depression, the value of having had a God-fearing father who had taught him the Bible was unexpectedly realised, for there flashed into his mind, as if in reply to his question, the words, “Call upon me in the time of trouble; I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.”

He pulled in the oars at once, fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands, prayed fervently. Watty had been taught a form of prayer in childhood, and had often used it with little or no regard to its meaning. Now, in his distress, he prayed in earnest. He meant what he said. It followed, also, that he said what he meant. The old form, being quite unsuitable to the occasion, was forgotten, and very homely language indeed was used, but it was sufficient for the purpose. The substance of it was a cry for pardon and deliverance. That which winged it to the Throne of Grace was the name of Jesus Christ.

Resuming the oars, he rowed gently; not for the sake of directing the boat, but because a state of inaction was disagreeable, and as he rowed he thought of the promise that had been sent to him. Strange to say, the latter part of it, “Thou shalt glorify me,” seemed to take a stronger hold of his mind than the first. “Yes,” he thought, “the whole promise is true. He will deliver me and make me to glorify Himself in some way or other. Perhaps He will let me live to return home, and be a comfort to my father.”

The thought of the sorrow he had caused his father weighed heavier than ever in the poor boy’s mind, and the desire to express his repentance, and, if possible, make his father glad again, became very intense. It seemed to him that a millstone would be removed from his heart if he could be allowed, even for one minute, to hold his father’s hand and say, “Oh, I am so sorry, sorry, sorry that I ran away!” The millstone was not removed at that time, however; but in answer to prayer it was unquestionably lightened.

The exercise of rowing and the fresh morning air produced their natural effect ere long on the little castaway. He became ravenously hungry, and turned his eyes inquiringly on the few fish which surged about in the pool of dirty water that had gathered in the bottom of the boat. It was not an inviting breakfast. Watty turned his eyes away from it, looked up into the fair blue sky, and tried to think of other things! But the calls of nature were not to be silenced. Instead of thinking of other things, he somehow thought of bread and butter. He even fell into a species of argument with himself as to whether it would not be uncommonly pleasant in various supposable circumstances, to eat bread without butter. Then he found himself meditating on the delights of butter and jam together, which somehow suggested the scriptural figure of a land flowing with milk and honey.

“Oh!” he sighed at this point, “if the sea was only milk and honey—milk even without honey!—what a glorious prospect!”

He looked at it as if he half thought it would be transformed under the power of his intense wish. Then he looked again at the floating fish and shuddered. Well might he shudder, for they were contemptible little fish, most of them, with unnaturally large heads, and great staring eyes, as if they had failed, even in death, to get rid of their surprise at being caught. With their mouths opened to the uttermost, they seemed to wish to shout, but couldn’t.

“I may as well take them out of the dirty water anyhow,” he muttered, suiting the action to the word, and spreading the fish on the thwart in front of him. Liking their appearance still less in that position, he put them on the thwart behind him, and tried to forget them. Impossible! He might as well have tried to forget his own existence. At last, after holding out as long as possible, the poor boy made up his mind to eat a little. Then he thought, “If I could only cook them; oh! for only one small lump of live coal from the camp fire on—”

The thought was checked abruptly, for he suddenly remembered that he had a burning-glass in his trousers pocket. He might perhaps be able to roast them with that—in a somewhat underdone fashion, no doubt—still, any sort of cooking would be better than none!

It need scarcely be said that the attempt failed. The only results were a burnt spot or two and a faint odour that served to intensify his hunger. At last he bit a mouthful out of the back of one of the fish, chewed it viciously, swallowed it in a hurry, and felt very sick. The ice was broken, however, and he got on better than he had expected. But when hunger was appeased, there came gradually upon him the far less endurable condition of thirst. He really felt as if he should choke, and once or twice he dipped his baling-dish over the side, but restrained himself on remembering the journal of the skeleton, wherein it was recorded that one of the men had gone mad after drinking salt water.

Towards the afternoon hope was revived in his breast by the appearance of clouds indicating rain. It came at last, in a soft gentle shower—far too gentle, indeed, for it could not be collected. What dropped upon the wooden baling-dish seemed to sink into or evaporate off it. The few drops that fell upon his patiently protruded tongue served only to tantalise him. But Watty was not prone to give way to despair; at least, not to remain in that condition. He took off his jacket, spread it out so as to form a basin, and eagerly watched the result. Alas! the cloth was too soft. It acted like a sponge, into which the rain-drops disappeared.

When it became evident that the coat was a failure—refusing even to part with a single drop when wrung,—Watty chanced to cast down his eyes, and they naturally fell on his trousers. They were stiff canvas trousers, and very greasy from much service among the dishes. Instantly he had them off, and spread out as the coat had been. Joy inexpressible—they held water! To convert the body of them into a lake and the legs into two water-courses was not difficult for one whose ingenuity was beyond the average. But oh! the lake basin was slow to gather the precious drops! He caused the two legs to debouch into the baling-dish, and watched eagerly for half an hour, at the end of which period about a wineglassful was collected. He sucked it in, to the last drop, and waited for more. It seemed as if the very sky sympathised with the boy’s distress, for soon afterwards the rain increased, then it poured, and finally, Watty Wilkins was more than satisfied, he was drenched. Fortunately the downpour was short-lived. It ceased suddenly; the clouds broke up, and the evening sun came out in full splendour, enabling him to partially dry his garments.

In the Southern Seas at that time, the weather was particularly warm, so that our castaway felt no inconvenience from his ducking, and spent the second night in comparative comfort, his dreams—if he had any—being untroubled with visions of food or drink. Once, indeed, he awoke, and, looking up, recalled so vividly the fate of the man who had been cast alone and dying on the Coral Island, that he became deeply depressed by the thought of meeting a similar fate; but the text of the previous day again recurred to him. Clinging to it, he again fell asleep, and did not wake till morning.

Looking over the side, he saw what sent a gush of hope and joy to his heart. A ship, under full sail, not half a mile off! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Was he dreaming? Could it be?

He sprang up with a cry of delight and gave vent to a long, loud cheer, as much to relieve his feelings as to attract attention. It was almost too good to be true, he thought. Then a voice within whispered, “Did you not ask for deliverance?” and the boy mentally responded, “Yes, thank God, I did.”

While he was thinking, his hands were busy refastening his jacket (which he had taken down to sleep in) by a sleeve to its former place at the end of an oar. But there was no occasion to signal. The vessel, a barque, was running straight towards him before a light breeze under full sail—as Baldwin Burr would have said, with “stuns’ls slow and aloft.” Believing that he had been observed, he ceased waving his flag of distress.

But soon a new idea sent a thrill through his heart. No sign of recognition was made to him as the ship drew near. Evidently the look-out was careless.

Leaping up, Watty seized the oar, waved his flag frantically, and yelled out his alarm. Still the ship bore majestically down on him, her huge bow bulking larger and higher as she drew near. Again Watty yelled, loud and long, and waved his flag furiously. The ship was close upon him—seemed almost towering over him. He saw a sailor appear lazily at the bow with his hands in his pockets. He saw the eyes of that seaman suddenly display their whites, and his hands, with the ten fingers extended, fly upwards. He heard a tremendous “Starboard ha-a-a-rd!” followed by a terrific “Starboard it is!” Then there was a crashing of rotten wood, a fearful rushing of water in his ears, a bursting desire to breathe, and a dreadful thrusting downwards into a dark abyss. Even in that moment of extremity the text of the morning flashed through his whirling brain—then all was still.

When Watty’s mind resumed its office, its owner found himself in a comfortable berth between warm blankets with a hot bottle at his feet, and the taste of hot brandy-and-water in his mouth. A man with a rough hairy visage was gazing earnestly into his face.

“Wall, youngster, I guess,” said the man, “that you’d pretty nigh slipped your cable.”

Watty felt thankful that he had not quite slipped his cable, and said so.

“You went over me, I think,” he added.

“Over you! Yes, I just think we did. You went down at the bows—I see’d you myself—and came up at the starn. The cap’n, he see’d you come up, an’ said you bounced out o’ the water like the cork of a soda-water bottle. But here he comes himself. He told me I wasn’t to speak much to you.”

The captain, who was an American, with a sharp-featured and firm but kindly countenance, entered the berth at the moment.

“Well, my boy, glad to see you revived. You had a narrow escape. Wouldn’t have been so if it hadn’t chanced that one of our worst men was the look-out—or rather wasn’t the look-out. However, you’re all right now. Your ship went down, I expect, not long since?”

“About three or four months ago,” answered Watty.

“Come, boy, your mind hasn’t got quite on the balance yet. It ain’t possible that you could be as fat as a young pig after bein’ three or four months at sea in an open boat. What was the name of your ship?”

“The Lively Poll.”

“What! a Scotch ship?”

“Yes; part owned and commanded by Captain Samson.”

“I know him; met him once in Glasgow. A big, rough-bearded, hearty fellow—six foot two or thereabouts. Didn’t go down with his ship, did he?” asked the captain with a look of anxiety.

“No,” replied Watty with increasing interest in the American; “we escaped on a raft to an island, off which I was blown, while alone in my boat only two days ago.”

“Only two days ago, boy!” echoed the captain, starting up; “d’you happen to know the direction of that island?”

Watty did not know, of course, having had no compass in his boat; but he fortunately remembered what Captain Samson had said when he had ascertained the latitude and longitude of it.

“Mr Barnes,” shouted the captain to the first mate, who stood on deck near the open skylight, “how’s her head?”

“Sou’-sou’-west, sir.”

“Put her about and lay your course west and by north. Now,” said the captain, turning again to Watty, with a look of satisfaction, “we’ll soon rescue Captain Samson and his crew. I’m sorry I won’t be able to take you all back to England, because we are bound for San Francisco, but a trip to California is preferable to life on a coral island. Now, boy, I’ve talked enough to you. The steward will bring you some dinner. If you feel disposed, you may get up after that. Here are dry clothes for you. We ripped up your own to save time after hauling you out of the sea.”

It was not usual for the gentle Polly Samson to alarm the camp with a shriek that would have done credit to a mad cockatoo, nevertheless, she did commit this outrage on the feelings of her companions on the afternoon of the day on which Watty was run down and rescued.

Her father and all the others were seated around the camp fire among the bushes at the time. Polly had left them, intending to pay a visit to one of her beautiful water-gardens on the beach, and had just emerged from the bushes and cast her eyes upon the sea, when she beheld the sight that drew from her the shriek referred to. She gave it forth in an ascending scale.

“Oh! Oh!! Oh!!! father! come here! quick! quick! oh!”

Never since he was a boy had the captain jumped so sharply from a sitting posture to his legs. Every man followed suit like a Jack-in-the-box. There was a rush as if of a tempest through the bushes, and next moment the whole party burst upon the scene, to find Polly—not as they had feared in some deadly peril, but—with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks waving her arms like a windmill, and shrieking with joy at a ship which was making straight for the island under full sail.

The captain greeted the sight with a bass roar, Philosopher Jack with a stentorian shout. Ben Trench did his best to follow Jack’s example. Simon O’Rook uttered an Irish howl, threw his cap into the air, and forthwith began an impromptu hornpipe, in which he was joined by Bob Corkey. Baldwin Burr and his comrades vented their feelings in prolonged British cheers, and Mr Luke, uttering a squeak like a wounded rabbit, went about wanting to embrace everybody, but nobody would let him. In short every one went more or less mad with joy at this sudden realisation of “hope long deferred.” Only then did they become fully aware of the depth of anxiety which had oppressed them at the thought of being left, perhaps for years, it might be to the end of their days, on that unknown island.

As the vessel approached, it became apparent that there was some one on board whose temporary insanity was as demonstrative as their own, so wild were his gesticulations.

“It’s too fur off,” said Baldwin, “to make out the crittur’s phisog; but if it warn’t for his size, I’d say he was a monkey.”

“P’r’aps it’s an ourang-outang,” suggested Corkey.

“Or a gorilla,” said O’Rook.

“Oh!” exclaimed Polly, in a low, eager voice of surprise, “I do believe it is Watty Wilkins!”

“Polly is right,” said Philosopher Jack; “I’d know Watty’s action among a thousand.”

As he spoke, the vessel rounded-to outside the reef, backed her top-sails, and lowered a boat. At the same time the excited figure disappeared from her bow, and reappeared, wilder than ever, in the stern of the boat. As it crossed the lagoon, the voice of Watty became audible, and was responded to by a succession of hearty cheers, in the midst of which the boat was run ashore. The excited lad sprang on the beach, and was almost annihilated by the species of miscellaneous embracing that he immediately underwent.

Need we say that Captain Samson and his men were only too thankful to have such an opportunity of deliverance? They at once accepted the offer of the American captain, embarked in his ship the following morning, passed Cape Horn not long after, sailed up the coast of South America, and, in course of time, cast anchor in the renowned harbour of San Francisco.

At the time of which we write, the excitement about the gold-fields of California was at its highest pitch. Men were flocking to that region from all parts of the earth. Fortunes were being made by some in a few months, and lost by others, at the gaming-tables, in a few days, or even hours. While a few gained a competence, many gained only a bare subsistence; thousands lost their health, and not a few their lives. It was a strange play that men enacted there, embracing all the confusion, glitter, rapid change of scene, burlesque, and comedy of a pantomime, with many a dash of darkest tragedy intermingled. Tents were pitched in all directions, houses were hastily run up, restaurants of all kinds were opened, boats were turned keel up and converted into cottages, while ships were stranded or lying idle at their anchors for want of crews, who had made off to that mighty centre of attraction, the diggings.

Arrived at San Francisco, Captain Samson and his crew were landed one fine morning at an early hour, and went up to a modest-looking hotel, without any definite idea as to what was best to be done in their peculiar circumstances. Feeling a strange sensation of helplessness in the midst of so much turmoil and human energy, after their quiet sojourn on the Coral Island, they kept together like a flock of sheep, and wandered about the town. Then they returned to their hotel and had luncheon, for which so large a sum was demanded, that they resolved to return on board at once, and ask the American captain’s advice.

They found their deliverer pacing his quarterdeck, with his hands in his pockets, and a stern frown on his countenance. He was quite alone, and the vessel wore an unusually quiet air.

“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Captain Samson, as he stepped over the gangway.

“Everything wrong,” replied the American; “crew skedaddled.”

“What! bolted?”

“Ay, every man, to the diggin’s.”

“What will you do?” asked Captain Samson, in a sympathetic tone.

“Sell off the ship and cargo for what they’ll fetch, and go to the diggin’s too,” replied the other. “Moreover, I’d strongly recommend you to do the same.”

“What say you to that advice, Philosopher Jack?” asked Captain Samson, turning to our hero, with a peculiar smile.

“I say,” answered the philosopher, returning the smile, “that the advice requires consideration.”

“Cautiously replied; and what says my Polly?” continued the captain.

“I say whatever you say, father.”

“Ah! Poll, Poll, that sort of answer don’t help one much. However, we’ll call a council of war, and discuss the matter seriously; but, first of all, let’s see how the wind blows. How do you feel inclined, Ben Trench? Bein’ the invalid of our party, so to speak, you’re entitled, I think, to speak first.”

“I say, Go,” replied Ben.

“And I say ditto,” burst from Watty Wilkins with powerful emphasis.

“You wasn’t axed yet,” observed Bob Corkey. “Besides, stowaways have no right to speak at all.”

“What says Mr Luke!” continued the captain.

“Don’t go,” answered Mr Luke feebly.

“Now, lads,” said the captain, after putting the question to the others, “we’ll go in for the pros and cons.”

They went in for the pros and cons accordingly, and after an animated debate, resolved that the path of duty, as well as that of interest and propriety, lay in the direction of the diggings.

Having settled the matter, and gathered together into a common fund the small amount of cash and property which each had saved from the wreck, they went ashore, purchased the articles necessary for their expedition, and followed the great stream of Californian gold-diggers.

We shall join them, but let not the reader suppose that we intend to bore him or her with the statistics and details of Californian gold-digging. It is our purpose only to touch lightly on those salient points in the adventures of our wanderers which had a more or less direct bearing on the great issues of their lives.

Chapter Seven.

Failure.

There are times, probably, in the life of all when everything seems to go against one,—when plans and efforts turn out ill, or go wrong, and prospects look utterly black and hopeless. Such a time fell upon Philosopher Jack and his friends some months after their arrival at the gold-diggings.

At first they were moderately successful, and at that time what amazingly golden visions they did indulge!

“A carriage and pair,” soliloquised Watty Wilkins, one evening at supper, while his eyes rested complacently on the proceeds of the day’s labour—a little heap of nuggets and gold-dust, which lay on a sheet of paper beside him; “a carriage and pair, a town house in London, a country house near Bath or Tunbridge Wells, and a shooting-box in the Scotch Highlands. Such is my reasonable ambition.”

“Not bad,” said Philosopher Jack, “if you throw in a salmon river near the shooting-box, and the right to wear the bonnet, plaid, and kilt at pleasure.”

“Not to mention bare legs an’ rheumatiz,” remarked Simon O’Rook, who was busy with the frying-pan. “Sure, if the good Queen herself was to order me to putt on such things, I’d take off me bonnet an’ plaid in excuse that I’d be kilt entirely if she held me to it. All the same I’d obey her, for I’m a loyal subject.”

“You’re a bad cook, anyhow,” said Baldwin Burr, “to burn the bacon like that.”

“Burn it!” retorted O’Rook with an air of annoyance, “man alive, how can I help it? It hasn’t fat enough to slide in, much less to swim. It’s my belief that the pig as owned it was fed on mahogany-sawdust and steel filin’s. There, ait it, an’ howld yer tongue. It’s good enough for a goold-digger, anyhow.”

“In regard to that little bit of ambition o’ your’n,” said Bob Corkey, as the party continued their meal, “seems to me, Watty, that you might go in for a carriage an’ four, or six, when you’re at it.”

“No, Corkey, no,” returned the other, “that would be imitating the foibles of the great, which I scorn. What is your particular ambition, now, Mr Luke? What will you buy when you’ve dug up your fortune?”

The cadaverous individual addressed, who had become thinner and more cadaverous than ever, looked up from his pewter plate, and, with a sickly smile, replied that he would give all the gold in the mines to purchase peace of mind.

This was received with a look of surprise, which was followed by a burst of laughter.

“Why, you ain’t an escaped convict, are you?” exclaimed Baldwin Burr.

“No, I’m only an escaped man of business, escaped from the toils, and worries, and confinements of city life,” returned Mr Luke, with another sickly smile, as he returned to his tough bacon.

“Well, Mr Luke, if contrast brings any blessing with it,” said Edwin Jack, “you ought to revive here, for you have splendid fresh country air—by night as well as by day—a fine laborious occupation with pick and shovel, a healthy appetite, wet feet continually, mud up to the eyes, and gold to your heart’s content. What more can you desire?”

“Nothing,” replied the cadaverous man with a sigh.

The state of prosperity to which Jack referred did not last. Their first “claim,” though rich, was soon worked out, and they were obliged to seek another. This turned out to be a poor one, yielding barely enough of the precious metal to enable them to pay their way, every article of clothing, tools, and food being excessively dear at the mines. Nevertheless, they worked on in hope, but what was termed their “luck” became worse and worse every day, so that at last they were obliged to run into debt.

This was not difficult to do, for the principal store-keeper, Higgins by name, saw that they were respectable, trustworthy men, and felt pretty safe in giving them supplies on credit. One bad result of the debt thus incurred was that the whole tone and spirit of the party was lowered.

“It’s too bad,” growled Philosopher Jack one evening, as he strode into the tent and flung down his tools; “got barely enough to keep the pot boiling.”

“Better that than nothing,” remarked Watty Wilkins, who was in the act of taking off his wet boots. “I haven’t got as much dust as would gild the end of a bumbee’s nose. Hope some of the others have been more successful. None of them have come in yet except O’Rook, who is as unlucky as myself. He’s off to the store for something for supper.”

Watty sat down before the fire which burned in front of the tent, and sadly toasted his toes.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Jack, sitting down beside him, “I fear we were fools to come here.”

“Not so sure of that” returned Wilkins, with a dubious shake of the head. “Every one, you know, cannot be lucky. Some succeed and some don’t. We are down just now, that’s all. The wheel of fortune is going round, and something will be sure to turn up soon.”

“Nothing will turn up unless we turn it up for ourselves, you may depend upon that” said Philosopher Jack.

“The captain seemed to preach a different doctrine from that last Sunday, didn’t he, when he remarked that God sometimes sends prosperity and riches to those who neither ask, work for, nor deserve them?”

“True, Watty, but these, he told us, were exceptional cases; the rule being, that those who labour with body or mind acquire possessions, while those who don’t labour fall into poverty. The simple truth of that rule is partially veiled by the fact that thousands of laborious men labour unwisely, on the one hand, while, on the other hand, thousands of idle men live on the product of their forefathers’ labours. Besides, didn’t the captain also impress upon us that success is not success when it leads to evil, and failure is not failure when it results in good?”

“From all which,” retorted Watty, “you bring forward strong proof that your present growling at bad luck is most unphilosophic, you cross-grained philosopher.”

“Not at all,” returned Jack. “The captain’s principles may, or may not be correct. The mere statement of them does not prove that my ill luck just now is going to result in good. But the worst of it is, that during the time of our good fortune, I had been hoarding up in order to be able to send money to my poor father, and now it has all melted away.”

“I’m sorry for you, Jack,” said Watty, “but that is not the worst of it to my mind, bad though it be. What grieves me most is, that my dear friend and chum, Ben Trench, is surely losing his health under the strain of anxiety and hard work. You see, he is not gifted with the gutta-percha feelings and cast-iron frame of Philosopher Jack, neither has he the happy-go-lucky spirit and tough little corpus of Watty Wilkins, so that it tells on him heavily—very heavily.”

Poor Watty said this half jestingly, yet with such a look of genuine feeling that Jack forgot his own troubles for the moment.

“Something must be done,” he said, gazing with a concerned look at the fire. “Did you observe that man Conway last night up at the store?”

“Yes; what of him?”

“He staked largely at the gaming-table last night—and won.”

Little Wilkins glanced quickly in his friend’s face. “Jack,” he said, with a look and tone of earnestness quite unusual to him, “we must not think of that. Whatever straits we are reduced to, we must not gamble—I repeat, we must not!”

“Why not, little man?” asked Jack, with an amused smile at what he considered an uncalled-for burst of seriousness.

“Because it is dishonourable,” said Wilkins, promptly.

“I don’t see it to be so,” returned Jack. “If I am willing to stake my money on a chance of black or red turning up, and the banker is willing to take his chance, why should we not do it? the chances are equal; both willing to win or to lose, nothing dishonourable in that! Or, if I bet with you and you bet with me, we both agree to accept the consequences, having a right, of course, to do what we please with our own.”

“Now, Jack,” said Wilkins, “I’m not going to set up for a little preacher, or attempt to argue with a big philosopher, but I’ll tell you what my father has impressed on me about this matter. One day, when we were passing some ragged boys playing pitch-and-toss on the street, he said to me, ‘Watty, my boy, no man should gamble, because it is dishonourable. To want money that does not belong to you is greedy. To try to get it from your neighbour without working for it is mean. To risk your money in the hope of increasing it by trade, or other fair means, and so benefit yourself and others, is right; but to risk it for nothing, with the certainty of impoverishing some one else if you win, or injuring yourself if you lose, is foolish and unfeeling. The fact that some one else is willing to bet with you, only proves that you have met with one as foolish and unfeeling as yourself, and the agreement of two unfeeling fools does not result in wisdom. You will hear it said, my boy, that a man has a right to do what he will with his own. That is not true. As far as the world at large is concerned, it is, indeed, partially true, but a man may only do what God allows with what He has lent him. He is strictly accountable to God for the spending of every penny. He is accountable, also, to his wife and his children, in a certain degree, ay, and to his tradesmen, if he owes them anything. Yes, Watty, gambling for money is dishonourable, believe me!’ Now, Jack, I did, and I do believe him, from the bottom of my heart.”

What Jack would have replied we cannot tell, for the conversation was interrupted at that moment by the abrupt appearance of Captain Samson. He led Polly by the hand. The child had an unwonted expression of sadness on her face.

“Come into the tent. Now then, darling,” said the captain; “sit on my knee, and tell me all about it. Polly has seen something in her rambles that has made her cry,” he explained to Jack, Wilkins, and the rest of the party who chanced to come in while he was speaking. “Let us hear about it.”

“Oh! it is so sad,” said Polly, whimpering. “You know that good kind man Jacob Buckley, who lives up in Redman’s Gap with his sick brother Daniel, who is so fond of me; well, I went up to the Gap this afternoon, when I had done cleaning up, to sit with the sick brother for a little. I found him in great anxiety and very ill. He told me that Jacob, who had always been such a good nurse to him, is much cast down by his bad luck, and has taken to drink, and that he has lost or spent all his money, and can’t get credit at the store. He went out quite drunk last night, and has not returned since. Of course poor Daniel has had nothing to eat, for he can’t leave his bed without help, and even if he could, there isn’t a morsel of food in the house.”

This story created much sympathy in the hearts of Polly’s hearers.

“Well now, messmates, what’s to be done in this case?” asked Captain Samson, looking round.

“Make a c’lection,” said O’Rook.

“Here you are,” said Watty, taking up his cap and dropping several small nuggets into it as he handed it to Jack.

The philosopher contributed a pretty large nugget, which, in his heart, he had intended to stake at the gaming-table. “Well,” said he, “we are reduced to low enough circumstances just now, but we are rich compared with poor Buckley.”

The entire party at that time numbered only nine, including Polly, Bounce, and Badger, the other members of the crew of the Lively Poll having separated soon after leaving San Francisco. But as all of them were men of generous spirit, Watty’s cap soon contained a very creditable “c’lection,” which was made up forthwith into a bag, and carried with some cooked provisions by Polly to Redman’s Gap, under the safe escort of her father and Baldwin Burr.

The following evening, after supper, Philosopher Jack quietly put his last bag of gold into his pocket and went off with it to Higgins’ store. On the way up he entered into a debate with himself as to the rectitude of gambling. He seemed to himself to be composed of two persons, one of whom condemned, while the other defended gambling. But Jack had a strong will of his own. He was not to be lightly turned from a purpose, either by the disputants within him or by the arguments of his friend Wilkins. Being a good reasoner, our philosopher found that the condemner of gambling within him was rapidly getting the best of the argument; he therefore brought the matter to a point by suddenly exclaiming aloud, “Now, the question is, shall I do it?”

“Don’t?” said his old, brusque, but faithful friend Conscience, with a promptitude that made him quite uncomfortable.

“Or,” continued Jack slowly, “shall I go back and wait to see whether things will turn and mend?”

“Do!” answered his friend at once.

If Jack had put more questions, he would have received clear and emphatic replies, but he merely said, “Pooh!” and when a man says “pooh!” to conscience, he is in a very bad way indeed.

At Higgins’ store gold-miners assembled to buy and sell, to talk and drink and gamble. As the necessaries of life were procured there, miners of all sorts, from the steady to the disreputable, were to be found assembled at times, but it was chiefly the latter who “hung about” the place. No notice was taken of Jack as he mingled with the crowd, except by one or two acquaintances, who gave him a passing nod of recognition.

At the bar there was assembled a boisterous group, who were laughing heartily at something. Jack joined it, and found a tall, half-tipsy man offering to bet with another. When men are smitten with the gambling spirit anything that affords a “chance” will serve their turn.

“See here, now,” said the tall man, looking round, “I repeat, that I’ll bet any man ten dollars—all I have in the world—that there’s not any four of the men in this store can prevent my lifting this tumbler of water to my lips.”

He held out a tumbler in his right hand as he spoke, and straightened his long sinewy arm.

Some of those present laughed, but one, a short, thick-set, powerful fellow, said “Done!” at once, and stepped forward.

“Well, stranger,” said the tall man, with a smile, “lay hold. You ought to be strong enough to prevent me by yourself, but come on some more of you.”

Three strong fellows rose and laughingly grasped the man’s arm, while several of the lookers-on began to bet on the event.

“Now, hold fast,” said the tall man, giving his arm a slight but vigorous shake, which had the effect of causing those who held it to tighten their grip powerfully.

“Oh! you’re not strong enough,” he added; “come, another of you!” Hereupon a fifth man rose, and laid hold of the arm amid much laughter.

At that moment a big, rough miner pushed his way through the crowd and demanded to know “what was up.” On being told, he drew a bag from his pocket and exclaimed, “I’ll bet you this bag of dust if you can match it, that these five men will prevent you easily. They are strong enough to hold Goliath himself, if he were here.”

“Sorry that I can’t match your bag, stranger,” replied the tall man; “I’m only game for ten dollars, and that’s already staked.”

“But I can match it,” exclaimed Philosopher Jack, suddenly producing his bag, which was much the same size as that of the big miner.

“Now, then, hold fast, but don’t break the bone if you can help it,” said the tall man, giving his arm another shake.

The laugh with which this was received was changed into a roar of delight, when the tall man passed his left arm over the heads of those who held him, and with his left hand conveyed the tumbler to his lips.

There was a good deal of disputation immediately, as to the justice of paying up bets on what was obviously a “sell,” but it was ruled that in this case they had been fairly lost and won, so that the big miner turned his back on his bag of gold, and, with a deep curse, left the store.

Never before had Edwin Jack felt so thoroughly ashamed of himself as when he went forward and took up the two bags of gold. He did it, how ever, and, hurriedly quitting the store, returned to his tent.

There was a small portion of the tent curtained off at the farther extremity, as a chamber for Polly Samson. Jack was relieved, on arriving, to find that she had retired to it for the night. He was also glad to observe that all his tired companions were asleep, with the exception of O’Rook. That worthy was busy clearing up his pots and pans for the night.

“It’s late you are to-night,” remarked O’Rook with a yawn.

“Yes, I’ve been to the store,” said Jack; “hand me that candle; thanks.”

Turning his back on his comrade, he opened the bag which he had won, and looked in. The first thing that met his astonished gaze was the identical nugget which he had contributed the evening before to the sick miner at Redman’s Gap. There was a name inside the bag. Holding it near the candle, he read— “Buckley!”

“They must have been robbed!” he muttered to himself; then, rising, said to O’Rook, “I’ve taken a fancy to go up to the Gap to see the Buckleys. Don’t mistake me for a thief when I return.”

“No mistake at all if I did,” returned O’Rook, “for you’re stealin’ a march on us all just now, an’ isn’t it robbin’ yourself of your night’s rest you are? ah! then, a wilful man must have his way; good luck go with ye.”

Before the sentence and the yawn that followed it were finished, Jack was on his way to the Gap. He found the elder Buckley seated on a log by his brother’s couch, with his face buried in his hands. A glance showed him that the sick man was dying. Jacob looked up quickly. His face was haggard from the combined effects of dissipation, grief, and watching. He seemed rather annoyed than pleased by Jack’s visit.

“I’m grieved to see Daniel so ill,” said Jack in a low voice, which, however, roused the attention of the invalid.

“Dying,” said Jacob sternly, though in a voice that was scarcely audible. “What have you got there?” he added, almost fiercely, as he observed, and at once recognised, the bag in his visitor’s hand.

“Your property,” answered Jack. “Have you not missed it? I conclude, of course, that it has been stolen from you, because it was gambled away by a big rough fellow at Higgins’ store this evening.”

A peculiar smile flitted for a moment across the rugged face of Jacob Buckley as he said, “No, he didn’t steal it. Not being able to leave my brother myself, I sent him with it to the store, to try his luck. It was my last throw, contained all I had, includin’ the dust and nuggets you and your comrades sent me last night.”

He said this in a hard, reckless, defiant manner, then looked suddenly in Jack’s eyes, and inquired with an expression of curiosity how he came by the bag.

“I won it, God forgive me,” said Jack, a deep flush of shame overspreading his face, “and I now come to return what I had no right to win.”

A sound from the dying man attracted their attention at that moment.

“He wants to speak to you,” said Jacob, who had stooped down to listen.

Jack bent over the sick man, who said in a low whisper, with occasional pauses for breath, for his strength was almost gone.

“God bless you! You’ve saved his life. He said if he lost that gold that he’d blow out his brains—and he’d have done it—he would; I know Jacob—he’d have done it. Read to me—the Word—the only true gold.”

Jack looked round. Jacob had sat down, and again covered his face with his hands.

“I have not my Bible with me,” said Jack, “but I can repeat passages from memory.”

He began with the words, “They that trust in Him shall never be put to confusion,” when the dying man roused himself, and with a strong effort whispered, “O, sir, I do trust in Him! Will you try to save my brother from gambling and drink. Speak!—promise!”

“I will!” whispered Jack in his ear.

The man’s energy left him at once, and he fell back on the pillow, from which he had partially risen, with a deep, prolonged sigh. Jacob heard it. Springing up, he fell on his knees by the bedside and seized his brother’s hand.

“O Dan! dear Dan,” he exclaimed, passionately, “don’t give way like that. You’ll get well soon, an we’ll cut this infernal place altogether; we’ll go home and work with the old folk. Dan, dear Dan! speak to me—”

He stopped abruptly, and rose with a stony stare of hopelessness, for Dan’s spirit had returned to God who gave it.

Without a word Jacob set to work to lay out the body, and Jack quietly assisted him. Having finished, the former put the recovered bag of gold in his pocket, stuck a revolver in his belt, and took up the door key of the hut.

“Come, Jacob,” said Jack, purposely taking no notice of these actions, “you’ll go home and spend the night with me. Dear Dan wants no tending now. We will return together, and see to his remains to-morrow. Come.”

Buckley looked undecided.

“You haven’t your flask, have you?” he asked eagerly.

Jack felt in his pockets, and with something like joy found that his flask was not there. “No,” said he, “I haven’t got it. But come, Jacob, you want rest. I’ll give you something better than spirits to drink when we reach the tent. Come.”

The man submitted. They went out and, locking the door, walked quickly and silently away.

Many and anxious were the thoughts that chased each other through the busy brain of our hero during that dreary midnight walk. Before it was ended, he had almost resolved upon a plan of action, which was further matured while he prepared a can of strong hot coffee for poor Jacob Buckley.

“This is how the matter stands,” he said to Captain Samson next morning, during a private conversation, while Buckley and the others were at breakfast in the tent. “I, who am not a teetotaller, and who last night became a gambler, have pledged myself to do what I can to save Jacob Buckley from drink and gaming. To attempt that here would be useless. Well, we are at our lowest ebb just now. To continue working here is equally useless. I will therefore leave you for a time, take Buckley and Wilkins with me, and go on a prospecting tour into the mountains. There it will be impossible to drink or gamble; time may cure Buckley, and perhaps we may find gold! Of course,” he added, with a sad smile, “if we do, we’ll return and let you know.”

The captain approved of this plan. Jacob Buckley and Watty Wilkins at once agreed to go, and immediately after Daniel’s burial, the prospecters set out. The entire party, including Polly, convoyed them as far as Redman’s Gap, where, wishing them good-speed, they parted company. Then the three adventurers passed through the Gap, and were soon lost in the wild recesses of the mountain range.

Chapter Eight.

Success.

For more than a month did the prospecting party wander among the Californian mountains in quest of gold, but found none—at least not in paying quantities.

At first the trip was to each of them full of romance, interest and hope. Even Buckley began to cheer up after a few days had passed. The craving for drink began to wear off, and grief for his lost brother—whom he had truly loved—began to abate. The wild scenery through which they passed was in itself sufficient to rouse to a high pitch the enthusiasm of such youths as Philosopher Jack and Watty Wilkins, while their comrade, though not so impressionable in regard to the sublime and beautiful, was roused to sympathy by their irresistible ardour. The necessity of hunting, too, in order to obtain food, added excitement of a more stirring kind, and an occasional encounter with a grizzly bear introduced a spice of danger to which none of them objected. Their various washings of the soil and examination of river beds afforded a sufficient quantity of gold to foster hope, though not to pay expenses. Thus they progressed through many a scene of loveliness, where the hand of God had sown broadcast all the forms and hues of grace and beauty which render this world attractive; they also passed through many a savage defile and mountain gorge—dark, gloomy, almost repulsive—which served to enhance their enjoyment of the beautiful by contrast.

But as the time passed by they became accustomed to the life, and therefore less appreciative. They failed, also, to find gold in larger quantities, and as the finding of gold was their highest aim, they were proportionally disappointed and downcast. Watty, indeed, kept up his spirits pretty well. He experienced the benefit of the change that had taken place in his soul that time when he was alone with God in the little boat upon the sea. He prayed in secret for light, and tried to believe that “all things work together for good to them that love God;” but his faith was weak, and the old heart of unbelief was still very strong.

As for Philosopher Jack, his spirit was still engaged in rebellious warfare. He growled a good deal at his “luck,” and was heartily seconded by Buckley. In addition to this, Jack’s spirit was much troubled by his promise to Daniel Buckley on his deathbed. He shrank, with a strength of feeling that surprised himself, from speaking to Jacob about his infirmity, yet he felt the duty lying strong upon him, for he knew well that, if nothing was said, the man would certainly go back to his old habits on returning to the neighbourhood of the store where drink could be obtained.

“Shall I break the ice at once?” thought Jack. “Perhaps it would be well to wait till we know each other better.”

“Don’t,” said the voice of his old laconic friend.

But Jack did wait, and the longer he waited the more disinclined to speak did he become. He held strongly, however, that a right promise once given should never be broken, and, under a feeling of desperation, said to himself one day, “Would it not be much better to end this matter by speaking without further delay?”

“Do,” said conscience, approvingly.

And Jack did, then and there, the result being that Jacob Buckley did not take it well, but told him flatly to mind his own business. Jack flushed crimson and clenched his fist; then the absurdity of attempting to knock sobriety into a man struck him, and he laughed as he said—

“Well, Buckley, that is just what I am doing, for it is my business to remonstrate with a comrade when I see him give way to a habit which will result in his destruction if not abandoned.”

After this Buckley allowed him to talk a little on the subject, but Jack felt the work to be very distasteful. Eventually he gave it up, consoling himself with the reflection that at all events he had brought the man away on an expedition where nothing stronger than cold water and hot tea was to be had for love or money.

At last the tide turned. On the same day a piece of great good and bad fortune befell our explorers. It happened thus:—

Watty Wilkins roused himself from a golden dream one morning, threw off his blanket looked up at the bush which served him and his comrades as a canopy, and yawned. It was grey dawn. There was that clear sweet light in the sky which gives sure promise of a fine day. Seeing that his companions still slept, he drew from his breast a small Testament, read a few verses, and prayed. This had been his custom ever since his deliverance by the American ship.

Soon after, Jack moved his bulky frame, rolled round, threw out his arms, and yawned. The yawn awakened Buckley, who immediately followed suit—such is the force of example!

“I’ll tell you what it is, mates,” said the latter, sitting up, “that twist I gave my leg yesterday troubles me a little. I shall remain in camp to-day and smoke.”

“Very good,” said Jack, rising and putting the kettle on the fire with a view to breakfast. “Watty and I will go up that valley and prospect. We will expect that you’ll eat no more than your share of the provisions during our absence, and that you’ll have supper ready for us when we return.”

The simple breakfast being disposed of and washed down with cans of hot tea, the two friends shouldered their guns and set off up the gorge or narrow mountain valley, near the mouth of which they had bivouacked. There was a belt of wood close to their camp; beyond that a small plain, after crossing which they entered a dense thicket, and began a toilsome march up the bed of a little mountain stream. The channel was nearly dry at the time, but the boulders, which were strewn about everywhere, showed that it was sometimes a formidable torrent.

“A likely place for gold,” said Watty, with a hopeful look and tune.

“We’ve tried many such likely places,” replied Jack, with a look and tone not quite so hopeful.

For several miles they advanced, washing out a panful of dirt here and there, and finding a little gold-dust as usual. Mid-day arrived, and they sat down to a cold dinner, consisting of a few scraps of meat left from breakfast. Little conversation was indulged in. They were too hungry for that—perhaps too much depressed by hope deferred.

“I’ll try the banks higher up,” said Jack, rising.

“And I’ll try the bed of the stream lower down, just by way of opposition,” said Watty.

They separated, and the latter soon found himself among the boulders, where he continued to search—actively at first, but more lazily as time passed by. Presently he came to a wild spot where the stream was overhung by bushes. He turned over a small stone. Beneath it was a hole or “pocket”. He stooped quickly, and pulled out a nugget of gold about the size of a thimble. He stooped again, and, inserting his hand, pulled at something that would not come. His heart gave a jump and appeared to get into his throat, where it apparently remained, while the blood rushed to his forehead. Another pull, and out came a mass of solid gold, about the size of his own fist! A cheer rose to his lips, but he checked it. “P’r’aps there’s more!” he said. Yes, the greedy little wretch said that! But there was no more in that pocket.

Quickly turning over several more stones, he found more pockets, with nuggets of various sizes in each. In a short time his specimen pouch was pretty well lined with the precious metal.

Meanwhile his friend Jack was equally successful, the chief difference between them being that the latter washed out the earth on the banks above, and found his gold in little grains and specks, but in such quantities that he felt as if his fortune were already made. Towards evening Watty hallooed and was replied to. As they walked rapidly towards the pre-arranged rendezvous, each hit on the same idea—that of deception!

“Well, what luck?” asked Watty with a careless air that ill concealed the elation of his heart.

“Only a little dust—nothing to speak of—at least not as compared with what some fellows get,” said Jack, whose laughing eye gave the lie direct to his melancholy tones. “See here, Watty, this is all I’ve got.”

As he spoke, the hypocrite poured the glittering contents of his pouch into his tin wash-pan.

“Well, what a lucky fellow you are!” said Watty, with mouth expanded. “Just look here; this is all that I have got.”

He opened his bag and displayed the nuggets, with the big one in the midst!

Need we say that these youths found it difficult to express their joy and astonishment? The fact was evident that they had at last discovered unusually rich ground, and they travelled back to the camp to tell their lazy comrade the good news.

It was near sunset when they reached the little plain or open space at the mouth of the gorge. Here Jack turned aside to cut a stick of peculiar form, which had caught his eye on the way up, and which he meant to keep as a souvenir of their discovery and the spot. Watty sauntered slowly across the plain.

He had just reached the wood on the other side, and turned to wait for his comrade, when he heard two shots in quick succession. There was nothing unusual in this, but when he heard the Philosopher utter a loud cry, he started, cocked his gun, and ran a few steps back to meet him. Next moment Jack burst from the thicket and ran across the plain at a speed that told of imminent danger. From the same thicket there also rushed a large grizzly bear, whose speed was greater than that of Jack, though it did not appear to be so.

All the blood in Watty Wilkins’s body seemed to fly back to his heart, and immediately after it rushed to his brain and toes. Prompt action! no time to think! Life! death! Watty never afterwards could tell clearly what he felt or did on that tremendous occasion, but Jack could tell what he did, for he saw him do it.

Going down on one knee and resting his left arm on the other, in what is known to volunteers as the Hythe position, the little youth calmly levelled his double-barrelled gun. It was charged only with small shot, and he knew that that was useless at long range, therefore he restrained himself and waited.

Jack and the bear ran straight towards him.

“Up, Watty, up a tree,” gasped Jack; “it’s no use—shot won’t hurt him—quick!”

As he spoke he darted to the nearest tree, seized a large limb, and swung himself up among the branches. The bear passed under him, and, observing the kneeling figure in front, charged at once. When it was within three feet of him the youth let fly the contents of both barrels into the grizzly’s mouth. So true was his aim that about six inches of the barrel followed the shot as the bear rushed upon it. This saved Watty, who was violently hurled aside by the stock of his own gun, while the bear went head-over-heels, vomiting blood and rage amid smoke and dust and scattered nuggets of gold!

“O Watty!” cried Jack, leaping down to the rescue with his drawn hunting-knife.

But before Jack reached him, or the bear had time to recover himself, Watty was on his active legs, and sprang up a tree like a monkey. Jack caught a branch of the same tree, and by sheer strength swung himself up, but on this occasion with so little time to spare, that the bear, standing on its hind legs, touched his heel lovingly with its protruded lips, as he drew himself out of reach.

We need scarcely say it was with beating and thankful hearts that the two friends looked down from their perch of safety on the formidable and bloody foe who kept pawing at the foot of the tree and looking hungrily up at them.

“What a mercy that the grizzly can’t climb!” panted Watty, who had not yet recovered breath.

“But he can watch and keep us here all night,” said Jack, “and we have no means of killing him. I fell and lost my gun in escaping, and yours is doubled up. We’re in for a night of it, my boy. Why didn’t you do what I bade you, get up into the tree with your gun when you saw us coming, and then we could have shot him at our leisure?”

“Why didn’t you lend me your own cool head and clear brain,” retorted the other, “and then we might have done something of the sort? But surely the shot I gave him must tell in the long-run.”

“Pooh!” said Jack, “it’s not much more to him than an over-dose of mustard would be to a cat. However, we’ve nothing for it but to wait. Perhaps Buckley may have heard our shots.”

In this conjecture Jack was right. The gold-miner was enjoying an unsocial cup of tea at the time, and fortunately heard the distant shots and shouting. Buckley was a prompt man. Loading his double barrel with ball as he ran, he suddenly made his appearance on the field, saw at a glance how matters stood, and, being a good shot, put two balls in the bear’s carcass with deadly effect. Grizzly bears are, however, remarkably tenacious of life. This one at once turned on his new foe, who, getting behind a tree, re-loaded as quickly as possible. As the animal passed he put two more balls in its heart and killed it.

“Splendidly done!” cried Jack, leaping to the ground and shaking Buckley by the hand, as he thanked him for his timely aid. Almost in the same breath he told of their unexpected good fortune.

“Now, then,” he added, “we’ll cut off the claws of this fellow as a trophy, and then to camp and supper.”

“Stop a bit, not so fast,” said Wilkins, who had descended the tree and was sitting on the ground with a most lugubrious countenance; “we must gather up my nuggets before going. Besides, it strikes me there’s something wrong with my ankle.”

This was found to be too true. In scrambling into the tree Watty had sprained his ankle badly, and in jumping down had made it so much worse that he could not bear to put even his toe to the ground. He was compelled, therefore, to accept the services of Jacob Buckley, who carried him into camp on his back.

Despite his sufferings poor Wilkins rejoiced that night with his comrades at their good fortune, and it was long before he or they could cease to talk over future plans and take needful rest. At length Buckley rolled himself in his blanket, and lay down.

“Poor fellow,” said Jack, seeing Watty wince a little, “does it hurt much?”

“Yes, rather, but I’ll be all right to-morrow. Now, Jack, I’m going to sleep. Do me a favour before turning in. Just make a pile of my nuggets close to my pillow here, with the big one on the top. There, thanks.”

“What a covetous little wretch you are becoming!” said Jack with a laugh, as he lay down. “Have a care, Watty, that you don’t become a miser.”

Watty made no reply, but in the night, when he thought his comrades were asleep, he was overheard muttering in a low tone: “Yes, my dear old dad, you shall have them every one, big ’un as well; at least I’ll send you every rap that they will fetch. Not that you need it. You’re rich enough as it is, but this will show you, perhaps, that my first thoughts after my first luck were of you.”

A long sigh followed the remark. Looking up soon afterwards, Jack saw that Watty was sound asleep, with the point of his nose reposing on the big nugget.

The poor lad’s idea of a sprain was not quite correct. Instead of being “all right” next day, he found himself to be hopelessly lame, and was unable to move from the camp for a couple of weeks. During that period Jack and Buckley went forth to the new diggings every morning, and returned at night laden with gold, so that in a short time they had gathered as much as they could conveniently carry. Then they resolved to go for their comrades and return with them to continue their labours at what they named Grizzly Bear Gulch. As Watty was still unable to walk without great pain, they made a sort of litter of a blanket between two poles. In this contrivance they carried him, with their gold and their other belongings, back to the old diggings.

But here, on arrival, they found a wonderfully altered state of affairs.

“Immediately after you left,” said Captain Samson, over a cup of tea, while Polly, who presided, listened with sympathetic delight, “we bought a new claim or two, without much hope, however, of bettering our circumstances. One of these claims we bought for you, Jack, with part of the money you left in our charge, one for Buckley, and another for Wilkins. Well, these claims all turned out splendidly, and we’ve been makin’ our fortunes ever since! As you were off prospecting, as much for our benefit as your own, we agreed that it was the least we could do to work a little for you, so we gave your claims a rummage day about, and thus we’ve made your fortunes too, or part of ’em anyhow. We’ve bin sendin’ home bills of exchange too, and knowin’ your wish to help your father, Jack, I took upon me to send a small sum to him with your love. I did right didn’t I?”

“Right!” exclaimed Jack, seizing the captain’s hand and squeezing it; “need you ask? I’m only sorry I didn’t dig the gold out with my own hand, and enclose the bill in my own letter. How much did you send?”

“Only 1000 pounds,” replied the captain.

“Come, don’t joke. I’m anxious to know, because he was very hard up when I left.”

“More shame to you for leaving him, my young Philosopher,” returned the captain, “but I tell you the truth; I sent him 1000 pounds sterling, and I believe there’s as much lyin’ here in gold-dust and nuggets that belongs to you. We’ve all done equally well, I’m thankful to say, and, better than that, good fortune seems to have brought us good health. Even Ben Trench there is able to dig like the rest of us.”

“Not exactly,” said Ben with a pleasant smile at his old friend Wilkins, “but I’m very well, thank God, and able to do a little. I wouldn’t have been what I am now but for the care of this dear little nurse.”

Polly was quite pleased with the compliment, and made a liberal offer to supply more tea to any of the company who might want it.

All this, and a great deal more, was corroborated by every one present; moreover, it was told them that there were many other claims which had suddenly turned out well, and that the whole aspect of these diggings had changed for the better.

“And what of Mr Luke?” asked Jack, glancing round the circle.

“Gone,” said the captain, “nobody knows where. He became gloomier and stranger than ever after you went away, and one morning announced his intention to leave us and return to San Francisco. He left, and has not been heard of since. Bob Corkey, too, is off. He got restless and disappointed at our bad luck, said he’d go away prospectin’ on his own hook, and went.”

“Good luck go with him! He was altogether too fond of argifying,” said Simon O’Rook.

“He’s not the only one,” remarked Baldwin Burr, with a grin.

After much consideration and consultation, it was agreed that, in the meantime, the party should remain where they were, and, when their claims began to fail, go off to Grizzly Bear Gulch.

This being decided, Jacob Buckley rose, saying that he was going to visit his friends at Higgins’ store. Jack followed him. When they were alone he said—

“Now, Jacob, don’t go, there’s a good fellow. You saved my life, I may say, and that gives me a claim on you.” Buckley frowned, but said nothing. “If you get among your old mates,” continued Jack, “and begin to taste, you’re a gone man. God has been very good to us. He has made us rich. We may live to be useful, Jacob. Think of it.”

A half sarcastic smile flitted over Buckley’s face as he said, “You didn’t use to be a preacher, Jack; what makes you now so keen to save me, as you call it?”

“I’m not sure what it is that makes me anxious now,” replied Jack, “but I know what made me anxious at first. It was your poor brother Daniel. That night he died, when he whispered in my ear, it was to make me promise to save you from drink and gambling if I could.”

“Did he?” exclaimed the miner vehemently, as he clenched his hands. “O Dan! dear Dan, did you say that at such an hour? Look you, Jack,” he added, turning sharply round, “I’ll not go near the store, and if I am saved it is Dan who has done it, mind that—not you.”

And Buckley held to his word. For months after that he worked with the Samson party—as it was styled—and never once tasted a drop of anything stronger than tea.

During all that time success continued, but Philosopher Jack felt in his heart that no success in digging up gold was at all comparable to that of working with the Lord in helping a brother-sinner to turn from the error of his ways.

As their wealth accumulated, the different members of the party converted it into cash, sent some of it home to the assistance of friends or relatives, and the rest for safe and remunerative investment. For the latter purpose they committed it to the care of Mr Wilkins senior, who, being a trusty and well-known man of business, was left to his own discretion in the selection of investments. Simon O’Rook, however, did not follow the example of his friends. He preferred to keep his gold in his own hands, and, as its bulk increased, stowed it away in a small chest, which, for further security, he buried in a hole in the tent directly under his own sleeping corner.

In addition to his remittances to Mr Wilkins for investment, Edwin Jack sent large sums regularly to his father, for the purpose not only of getting him out of his difficulties, but of enabling him to extend his farming operations. The wheel of fortune, however, had turned upwards with Jack senior, and he did not require these sums, as we shall see.

While things were going on thus prosperously at the other side of the world, a wonderful change—intimately connected with gold—took place in the “Old Country”, which materially altered the circumstances of some of those personages whose names have figured in our tale.

Chapter Nine.

Treats of a Catastrophe and Ruin.

We return once again to the cottage on the Scottish Border. It is not quite so lowly as it was when first introduced to our readers. Although not extensively changed, there is a certain air of comfort and prosperity about it which gives it much the appearance of a dirty boy who has had his face washed and a suit of new clothes put on. It has been whitewashed and partially re-roofed. A trellis-work porch with creepers has been added. The garden bears marks of improvement, and in one part there are four little plots of flower-beds, so conspicuously different in culture and general treatment as to suggest the idea of four different gardens. Inside of Mr Jack’s abode there are also many changes for the better. The rooms are better furnished than they used to be. Several cheap oleograph copies of beautiful pictures adorn the walls, and the best parlour, which used to be kept in a condition of deadly propriety for state occasions only, is evidently used in the course of daily life. A brand-new piano, with a pretty little girl seated before it, suggests advancing refinement, and the expression of the child’s face, while she attempts the impossible task of stretching an octave, indicates despair. There is another little girl seated at a table darning with all the energy of a Martha-like character. She is engaged upon a pair of juvenile socks, which have apparently been worn last by a cart-horse. Books and drawing materials and mathematical instruments on the table betoken progressive education, and, in short, everything without and within the cottage tells, as we have said, of prosperity.

It must not be supposed, however, that all this is due to Philosopher Jack’s good fortune and liberality. When the first letter came from California, telling of the safety of our hero and his friends, Mr Jack was indeed in great material distress, but there was no money in that letter. It was despatched from San Francisco at the time of the arrival of the party, along with letters from the other members, informing their various relations of their deliverance. But if the letter had contained tons of the finest gold it could not have added a feather’s weight to the joy of the old couple, who, like the widow of Nain or the sisters of Bethany, had received their dear lost one direct from the Lord, and, as it were, back from the dead. Then, after an interval, came Captain Samson’s letter enclosing the bill for 1000 pounds, and explaining why Philosopher Jack himself did not write with it. Mr Jack senior thankfully used two hundred of the amount, which was quite sufficient to extricate him from all his difficulties. The balance he put into the nearest bank, to be kept for “the dear boy” on his return.

From that date God sent prosperity to the cottage on the Border. Flocks increased, seasons were no longer bad, grey mares no longer broke their legs, turnips throve, and, in short, everything went well, so that, instead of using the large sums of money which his son frequently sent him, Mr Jack placed them all to “dear Teddie’s” credit in the bank.

In one of these letters, his son mentioned that he had sent still larger sums to the care of Mr Wilkins senior, to be invested for himself. Mr Jack, having consulted with his faithful spouse, drew his son’s gifts from the local bank, went to the city of Blankow, called on Mr Wilkins, and desired him to invest the money in the same concern with the rest. Mr Wilkins purchased shares with it in the Blankow Bank, telling Mr Jack that he considered it one of the best and safest investments in Scotland, that he had invested in it all the funds sent home by his own son and his comrades, and that he himself was a large shareholder. Thus did Mr Jack senior act with all the gifts that Jack junior sent him, saying to Mr Wilkins on each occasion, that, though the dear boy meant him to use the money, he had no occasion to do so, as the Lord had prospered him of late, and given him enough and to spare.

We re-introduce the Jack family to the reader at breakfast-time, not because that was the only noteworthy period of their day, but because it was the time when the parents of the family were wont to talk over the daily plans.

Mr Jack went to the door and shouted, “Breakfast!” in a sonorous tone. Instantly the octave was abandoned and the socks were dropped. Next moment there was a sound like the charge of a squadron of cavalry. It was the boys coming from the farm-yard. The extreme noise of the family’s entry was rendered fully apparent by the appalling calm which ensued when Mr Jack opened the family Bible, and cleared his throat to begin worship. At breakfast the noise began again, but it was more subdued, appetite being too strong for it. In five minutes Dobbin was up to the eyes in a treacle-piece. This was a good opportunity for conversation.

“Maggie,” said Mr Jack, looking up from his plate, “the last bill sent us from the diggin’s by the dear boy makes the sum in my hands up to two thousand pounds. I’ll go to town to-day and give it to Mr Wilkins to invest as usual.”

“Very weel, John,” replied Mrs Jack, “but it’s been runnin’ in my mind that it’s no that safe to pit a’ yer eggs in the same basket. Maybe ye might invest it in somethin’ else.”

“That’s true, Maggie, we shall see,” said Mr Jack, who was at all times a man of few words. As Dobbin became at the moment clamorous for more food, nothing further was said on the subject.

Arrived in the city, John Jack made his way to the office of Mr Wilkins. He found that gentleman with an expression of unwonted resignation on his countenance.

“I’ve brought you more money to invest, Mr Wilkins,” said John Jack, sitting down after wiping his forehead, and producing a fat pocketbook; “I thought of doin’ it in the old way, but my wife and I have been thinkin’ that perhaps it might be wise to put some of the eggs in another basket.”

A very sad and peculiar smile flitted for a moment across Mr Wilkins’s face. “It is plain that you have not heard of the disastrous failure,” he said. “Only last week the Blankow Bank suspended payment, and if the reports as to its liabilities be true, the result will be widespread ruin throughout the country.”

“Do you mean to say that the Bank has failed?” asked Mr Jack, anxiously.

“Yes, and it is feared that most of the shareholders will be ruined. I am one, you know.”

“Will you be ruined, Mr Wilkins?”

“I fear that the first call will be more than I can meet. I trust that you are not personally involved.”

“No, thank God, I’m not,” said Mr Jack, with an increasingly anxious look. “But tell me, Mr Wilkins—for I don’t understand banking matters very well—is my son’s money all gone?”

“All,” returned Mr Wilkins sadly, “and all that my own son has invested, as well as that of his friends!”

“How was it, sir,” asked Mr Jack, in a reproachful tone, “that you were so confident in recommending the investment?”

“Because I thoroughly believed in the soundness of the bank and in the character of its directors. Investing my own funds so largely in its stock proves how I trusted it. But I was mistaken. It is a mystery which I cannot solve. Perhaps, when the examination of its affairs is completed, light may be thrown on the subject. I hope that no more of your relations or friends have stock in it?”

“None that I know of, except indeed my poor friend Mrs Niven, who was my son’s landlady when he was at college. I’ll go and inquire about her.”

Mr Jack thrust the fat pocket-book into a breast pocket, and buttoned up his coat with the determined air of a man who means to keep hold of what he has got.

Bidding Mr Wilkins good-bye, he walked rapidly to Mrs Niven’s house and pulled the bell rather violently. The summons was promptly answered by Peggy, who ushered him into a little parlour, where he was quickly joined by Mrs Niven.

“I’m very sorry to hear the bad news,” said Mr Jack, pressing the good woman’s hand in sympathy.

“What bad news?” asked Mrs Niven, in alarm.

“The bank, you know,” said Mr Jack. “It’s very hard, and to think that you’re in the same boat with my dear boy, whose fortune is wrecked—”

A little scream stopped him, for the word “wrecked” struck a chill to the poor woman’s heart.

“What! wrecked again?” she cried, “on a bank, in a boat? Oh! don’t tell me, don’t tell me that he’s drownded.”

“No, no,” cried Mr Jack, hastening to relieve her mind, while he supported her to a chair; “no, no; my dear boy’s all right. It’s the Blankow Bank I mean that’s gone to wreck, you know, and all his money with it, and yours too, I suppose, for you told me you had shares in that bank.”

“Oh! as to that,” said Mrs Niven, greatly relieved, “you may mak’ yer mind easy. I’ve got nae shares intilt noo. I selt them through Mr Black lang syne. He’s a douce, clever, honest felly—a relation o’ mine, and a first-rate business man; but for him I’d hae lost my siller, nae doot. He warned me that the bank was nae a right ane, and advised me to sell.”

Mr Jack thought that such a clever, disinterested man-of-business, and a relation of Mrs Niven, might be just the person to give him sound advice at this crisis; he therefore obtained his address, and, after a long chat with the good woman, who would have listened for hours to the adventures of her “bonny lodger,” took his departure, and in due time stood at the door of the dirty little office.

The dirty clerk ushered the visitor into the presence of Mr Black, whose presence was more repulsive than it used to be. He received Mr Jack rather gruffly, and asked his business.

“Oho! an eccentric character, gruff but honest,” thought Mr Jack, who began by saying that he had just come from visiting his friend Mrs Niven.

Mr Black’s face grew almost green at the name, and his brows scowled fiercely.

“Strange look for an honest, kindly man,” thought Mr Jack, “but we must never judge from the outward appearance;” then he said aloud, “I went to see her about that bank failure—”

“Ha!” growled Mr Black, interrupting, “but for that woman, and that—” he checked himself and said, “but you came here on some matter of business, I suppose. Will you state it?”

“A very eccentric man indeed, remarkably so, for a kindly, honest man,” thought Mr Jack; but he only said, “I came here to consult you about the investment of two thousand pounds—”

“Oh! indeed,” said Mr Black, in quite an altered tone, as he rose and politely offered his visitor a chair.

“But,” continued Mr Jack, rebuttoning his greatcoat which he had partly opened, “but, sir, I have changed my mind, and bid you good-day.”

So saying, he went out, leaving Mr Black standing at the door in stupid amazement and his dirty clerk agonising with suppressed laughter behind his desk. Mr Black had been groaning and growling all the day at the thoughts of the ruin which had overtaken him—thoughts which were embittered by the knowledge that he had drawn it on himself through the instrumentality of Mrs Niven. The climax of Mr Jack’s visit did not tend to restore him. Recovering from his amazement, and observing the condition of the clerk, he suddenly hurled the cash-book at him. Cleverly dodging it, the dirty little creature bolted from the office, and banged the door behind him.

Meanwhile Mr Jack cashed his last bill of exchange, returned home, and presented his wife with a bag of gold, which she deposited in the darkest recesses of the great family chest.

“That bank gives no interest,” said John Jack, with a quiet chuckle, as he superintended the deposit, “but we shall always have the interest of knowing that it is there.”

Long afterwards Mr Wilkins sought to combat Mr Jack’s objection to invest in another Scotch bank. “This disaster,” he said, “ought not to be called a bank failure; it is a bank robbery committed by its own directors, as has been clearly proved, and no more touches the credit of Scotch banks in general than the failure of a commercial house, through the dishonesty of its principals, affects the other commercial houses of the kingdom.”

“It may be as you say, sir,” replied John Jack, gravely, “an’ if it was my own money I might act on your advice. But I intend to take care of what’s left of the dear boy’s money myself.”

So saying, the stout farmer threw his shepherd’s plaid over his shoulder, and went off to his cottage on the Border.

But we must pass from this subject. Space forbids our going deeper into it, or touching on the terrible consequences of dishonesty coupled with unlimited liability. Fortunes were wrecked; the rich and the poor, the innocent and guilty, the confiding and the ignorant as well as the knowing and wise, fell in the general crash. Many homes were desolated, and many hearts were broken. May we not believe, also, that many hearts were purified in passing through the furnace of affliction!

“All is not evil that brings sorrow,” may be quite as true as the proverb, “All is not gold that glitters.” Some have been glad to say with the Psalmist, “It was good for me that I was afflicted.” This truth, however, while it might strengthen some hearts to bear, did not lighten the load to be borne. The great Bank failure produced heart-rending and widespread distress. It also called forth deep and general sympathy.

Out among the mountain gorges of California the gold-hunters knew nothing of all this for many a day, and our adventurers continued to dig, and wash, and pile up the superstructure of their fortunes, all ignorant of the event which had crumbled away the entire foundations.

At last there came a day when these fortunate gold-miners cried, “Hold! enough!” an unwonted cry—not often uttered by human beings.

Standing beside the camp fire one evening, while some of the party were cooking and others were arranging things inside the tent Captain Samson looked around him with an unusually heavy sigh.

“It’s a grand country, and I’ll be sorry to leave it,” he said.

“Troth, and so will meself,” responded O’Rook.

It was indeed a grand country. They had lately changed the position of their tent to an elevated plateau near a huge mass of rock where a little mountain stream fell conveniently into a small basin. From this spot they could see the valley where it widened into a plain, and again narrowed as it entered the gloomy defile of the mountains, whose tops mingled magnificently with the clouds.

“You see, my lads,” continued the captain, “it’s of no use goin’ on wastin’ our lives here, diggin’ away like navvies, when we’ve got more gold than we know what to do with. Besides, I’m not sure that we ain’t gettin’ into a covetous frame of mind, and if we go on devotin’ our lives to the gettin’ of gold that we don’t need, it’s not unlikely that it may be taken away from us. Moreover, many a man has dug his grave in California and bin buried, so to speak, in gold-dust, which is a fate that no sensible man ought to court—a fate, let me add, that seems to await Ben Trench if he continues at this sort o’ thing much longer. And, lastly, it’s not fair that my Polly should spend her prime in acting the part of cook and mender of old clothes to a set of rough miners. For all of which reasons I vote that we now break up our partnership, pack up the gold-dust that we’ve got, and return home.”

To this speech Polly Samson replied, promptly, that nothing pleased her more than to be a cook and mender of old clothes to rough miners, and that she was willing to continue in that capacity as long as her father chose. Philosopher Jack also declared himself willing to remain, but added that he was equally willing to leave if the rest of the firm should decide to do so, as he was quite content with the fortune that had been sent him. Simon O’Rook, however, did not at first agree to the proposal.

“It’s rich enough that I am already, no doubt,” he said, “but sure, there’s no harm in bein’ richer. I may be able to kape me carriage an’ pair at present, but why shudn’t I kape me town house an’ country house an’ me carriage an four, if I can?”

“Because we won’t stay to keep you company,” answered Watty Wilkins, “and surely you wouldn’t have the heart to remain here digging holes by yourself? Besides, my friend Ben is bound to go home. The work is evidently too hard for him, and he’s so fond of gold that he won’t give up digging.”

“Ah! Watty,” returned Ben with a sad smile, “you know it is not my fondness for gold that makes me dig. But I can’t bear to be a burden on you, and you know well enough that what I do accomplish does little more than enable me to pay my expenses. Besides, a little digging does me good. It occupies my mind and exercises my muscles, an’ prevents moping. Doesn’t it, Polly?”

In this estimate of his case Ben Trench was wrong. The labour which he undertook and the exposure to damp, despite the remonstrances of his companions, were too much for a constitution already weakened by disease. It was plain to every one—even to himself—that a change was necessary. He therefore gladly agreed to the captain’s proposal.

Baldwin Burr, however, dissented. He did not, indeed, object to the dissolution of the partnership of Samson and Company, but he refused to quit the gold-fields, saying that he had no one in the Old Country whom he cared for, and that he meant to settle in California.

It was finally agreed that the captain, Philosopher Jack, Watty Wilkins, Ben Trench, Simon O’Rook, and Polly should return home, while Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley should enter into a new partnership and remain at the fields.

Although, as we have said, most of our adventurers had sent their gold home in the form of bills of exchange for investment, they all had goodly sums on hand in dust and nuggets—the result of their more recent labours—for which strong boxes were made at Higgins’s store. Simon O’Rook, in particular,—who, as we have said, did not send home any of his gold,—had made such a huge “pile” that several strong boxes were required to hold all his wealth. The packing of these treasure-chests occupied but a short time. Each man cut his name on the lid of his box inside, and printed it outside, and nailed and roped it tight, and took every means to make it secure. Then, mounting their mules and travelling in company with a trader and a considerable party of miners, they returned to San Francisco, having previously secured berths in a ship which was about to sail for England via Cape Horn.

Baldwin Burr and Buckley convoyed them a day’s journey on the way.

“I’m sorry you’re goin’, Miss Polly,” said Baldwin, riding up alongside of our little heroine, who ambled along on a glossy black mule.

“I am not sorry that we’re going,” replied Polly, “but I’m sorry—very sorry—that we are leaving you behind us, Baldwin. You’re such a dear old goose, and I’m so fond of teaching you. I don’t know how I shall be able to get on without you.”

“Yes, that’s it, Miss Polly,” returned the bluff seaman, with a look of perplexity. “You’re so cram full of knowledge, an’ I’m sitch an empty cask, that it’s bin quite a pleasure to let you run over into me, so to speak.”

“Come, Baldwin, don’t joke,” said Polly, with a quick glance.

“I’m far from jokin’, Miss Polly,” returned the seaman; “I’m in downright earnest. An’ then, to lose Philosopher Jack on the selfsame day. It comes hard on an old salt. The way that young man has strove to drive jogriffy, an’ ’rithmetic, an navigation into my head is wonderful; an’ all in vain too! It’s a’most broke his heart—to say nothin’ of my own. It’s quite clear that I’ll never make a good seaman. Howsever, it’s a comfort to know that I’ve got edication enough for a landsman—ain’t it, Miss Polly?”

Polly laughed, and admitted that that was indeed a consoling reflection.

While these two were conversing thus, Jack and Jacob Buckley were riding together in the rear of the party. They had been talking as if under some sort of restraint. At last Jack turned to his companion with a kind, straightforward look.

“It’s of no use, Buckley, my beating about the bush longer. This is likely to be the last time that you and I shall meet on earth, and I can’t part without saying how anxious I am that you should persevere in the course of temperance which you have begun.”

“Thank you, Jack, thank you,” said the miner heartily, “for the interest you take in me. I do intend to persevere.”

“I know that, Jacob, I know it; but I want you to believe that you have no chance of success unless you first become a follower of Jesus Christ. He is the only Saviour from sin. Your resolutions, without Him, cannot succeed. I have found that out, and I want you to believe it, Jacob.”

“I do believe it,” said the miner earnestly. “Dear Dan used to tell me that—often—often. Dear Dan!”

“Now,” added Jack, “we shall have to part soon. There is another thing I want to mention. There is a bag of gold with my name on it, worth some few hundred pounds, more or less. I want you to accept it, for I know that you have not been so successful as we have during our short—”

“But I won’t take it, Jack,” interrupted Buckley.

“Yes you will, Jacob, from an old friend and comrade. It may tide you over a difficulty, who knows? Luck does not always last, as the saying goes.”

Still Buckley shook his head.

“Well, then,” continued Jack, “you can’t help yourself, for I’ve left the bag under your own pillow in the tent!”

Buckley’s reply was checked by a shout from Captain Samson. They had reached the parting point—a clump of trees on an eminence that overlooked a long stretch of undulating park-like region. Here they dismounted to shake hands and say farewell. Little was said at the time, but moistened eyes and the long grasp of hard muscular hands told something of feelings to which the lips could give no utterance.

The party could see that knoll for miles after leaving it, and whenever Polly reined up and looked back, she saw the sturdy forms of Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley waving a kerchief or a hat, standing side by side and gazing after them. At last they appeared like mere specks on the landscape, and the knoll itself finally faded from their view.

At San Francisco they found their vessel, the Rainbow, a large full-rigged ship, ready for sea. Embarking with their boxes of gold-dust they bade farewell to the golden shore, where so many young and vigorous men have landed in hopeful enthusiasm, to meet, too often, with disappointment, if not with death.

Our friends, being among the fortunate few, left it with joy.

The Rainbow shook out her sails to a favouring breeze, and, sweeping out upon the great Pacific, was soon bowling along the western coast of South America, in the direction of Cape Horn.

Chapter Ten.

Change of Scene and Fortune.

The fair wind that swept the good ship Rainbow away from California’s golden shores carried her quickly into a fresh and purer atmosphere, moral as well as physical. It seemed to most, if not all, of the gold-finders as if their brains had been cleared of golden cobwebs. They felt like convalescents from whom a low fever had suddenly departed, leaving them subdued, restful, calm, and happy.

“It’s more like a dream than a reality,” observed Ben Trench one day, as he and Polly sat on the after part of the vessel, gazing out upon the tranquil sea.

“What seems like a dream?” asked Philosopher Jack, coming aft at the moment with Watty Wilkins, and sitting down beside them.

“Our recent life in California,” replied Ben. “There was such constant bustle and toil, and restless, feverish activity, both of mind and body; and now everything is so calm and peaceful, and we are so delightfully idle. I can hardly persuade myself that it is not all a dream.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Philosopher Jack. “There are men, you know, who hold that everything is a dream; that matter is a mere fancy or conception, and that there is nothing real or actually in existence but mind.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Watty with contempt; “what would these philosophers say if matter, in the shape of a fist, were to hit them on their ridiculous noses?”

“They’d say that they only imagined a fist and fancied a blow, I suppose,” returned Jack.

“And would they say that the pain and the blood were imagination also?”

“I suppose they would.”

“But what if I were to come on them slily behind and hit them on their pates before they had a chance to see or to exert their terribly real and powerful minds?” demanded Watty.

“You must ask one of themselves, Watty, for I don’t know much about their views; indeed, I’m not sure that I have represented them correctly, though it’s very likely I have, for there is no species of nonsense under the sun that men have not been found to hold and defend with more or less vigour.”

“Would you not call that a proof of the Creator’s intention that man should exercise the investigative powers of his mind?” asked Ben.

“I would call it a proof of man’s depravity,” said Wilkins.

“What does Polly think?” asked Jack, with an amused look at the child, whose fair brow wore an anxious little frown as she tried to understand.

“I think it’s a proof of both,” replied Polly, with a blush and a laugh; “we have got the power to think and speak and reason, and we are sometimes very naughty.”

“Well said, Polly; we must call you the philosopher in future,” cried Watty. “But Jack,” he added, with a perplexed air, “it seems to me that we live in such a world of confusion, both as to the limited amount of our knowledge, and the extent of our differences of opinion, while presumptuous incapacity attempts to teach us on the one hand, and designing iniquity, or pure prejudice, seeks to mislead us on the other, and misconception of one’s meaning and motives all round makes such a muddle of the whole that—that—it seems to me the search after truth is almost hopeless, at least to ordinary minds.”

“I admit it to be a great difficulty,” replied Jack, “but it is by no means hopeless. We must not forget that the world is well supplied with extraordinary minds to keep the ordinary minds right.”

“True, but when the extraordinary minds differ, what are the poor ordinary ones to do?” asked Watty.

“Use their brains, Watty, use their brains,” said Captain Samson, who had come aft, and been listening to the conversation. “Your brains, whether good or bad, were given to be used, not to be sold. The power to reason is a gift that is not bestowed only on extraordinary minds. The unlearned are sometimes better reasoners than the learned, though, of course, they haven’t got so many tools to work with. Still, they are sufficiently furnished with all that’s needful to run the race that is set before them. God has given to every man—civilised and savage—a brain to think with, a heart to feel with, a frame to work with, a conscience to guide him, and a world, with all its wonderful stores, in which to do what he will. Conscience—which, I think, is well named the voice of God in man—tells him to do right, and forbids him to do wrong; his heart glows with a certain degree of pleasure when he does well, and sinks, more or less, when he does ill; his reason tells him, more or less correctly, what is right, and what is wrong. The Word of God is the great chart given to enlighten our understandings and guide us heavenward. As my reason tells me to go to my charts for safe direction at sea, so every man’s reason will tell him to go to God’s revealed Word, when he believes he has got it. There he will find that Jesus Christ is the centre of the Word, the sum and substance of it, that he cannot believe in or accept the Saviour except by the power of the Holy Spirit. He will also find the blessed truth that God has promised the Spirit to those who simply ‘ask’ for Him. There is no difficulty in all this. The great and numberless difficulties by which we are undoubtedly surrounded are difficulties of detail, which we may be more or less successful in solving, according to our powers of mind, coupled with our submission to the revealed will of God. To some extent we fail and get into trouble because we lazily, or carelessly, let other men think for us, instead of making use of other men’s thoughts to help us to think for ourselves. Depend upon it, Watty, we won’t be able to justify ourselves at the judgment day by saying that things were too deep for us, that things seemed to be in such a muddle that it was of no use trying to clear ’em up. Why, what would you say of the mainspring of a watch if it were suddenly to exclaim, ‘I’ll give up trying! Here am I—so powerful and energetic, and so well able to spin round—checked, and hindered, and harassed by wheels and pinions and levers, some going this way, and some going that way, all at sixes and sevens, and all for no good end that I can see, buried as I am in this dark hole and scarcely allowed to move at all?’ Would it be right or reasonable to charge the watchmaker with having made the watch in vain, or made it wrong? Of this I at least am convinced, that God is perfect, and that all things are working towards a good end, God’s sovereignty, our mysterious free-will and personal responsibility being among these ‘all things.’”

While Captain Samson was discoursing on these important subjects, the look-out on the forecastle reported a sail on the weather-bow.

“She’s a whaler, I do believe, and her boats are after a sperm whale,” said Simon O’Rook, who stood by the mizzen shrouds looking intently at her through his double glass. Simon, being now a rich man, had not only taken a cabin passage, but had bought for himself one of the best binocular telescopes to be had in San Francisco.

It was soon seen that O’Rook was right for the whale rose to blow, and swam towards the Rainbow, while the boats of the whaler immediately followed in pursuit.

Great was the excitement on board the Rainbow as the men clustered on the forecastle, or ran up the rigging, to watch the chase, while the officers and passengers got out their telescopes.

“Come here, Polly,” cried Jack; “look through my glass. It’s a rare chance you’ve got of seeing what men have to go through in order to send oil to market.”

Polly at once accepted the invitation. Jack assisted her to mount on the top of the capstan, and arranged the glass.

“There she blows!” shouted one of the men who had been an old whaler; “there she breaches!”

As he spoke the whale rose about three miles to windward of them, not far from the boat that led the chase. The men in the boat were seen to bend to their oars, as Captain Samson said, “with a will.” Another moment and the harpooneer stood up in the bow. The spectators were too far off to see the weapon used, but they could perceive the man’s action, and there was no possibility of mistake as to the result, when the tail of the enormous creature was suddenly flourished in the air, and came down on the sea like a clap of distant thunder.

“Oh! oh!!” shrieked the horrified Polly, “the boat is gone!”

But the boat was not gone. It had been quickly backed out of danger when the harpoon was thrown, and reappeared when the cataract of spray sent up had dispersed.

“He’s pouring water on the rope now,” said Jack, in a low excited voice, “to prevent its catching fire as it runs out. They’re fast to the fish.”

“Yes, I see,” exclaimed Polly, squeezing her right eye against the glass and shutting the other with her hand.

But in a few minutes there was no need for telescopes, as the whale came straight towards the Rainbow, dragging the boat after it, while the other boats followed as fast as the men could pull. The whale-ship steered in the same direction, but there was scarcely wind enough to fill her top-sails.

Suddenly the leviathan came to the surface for breath, not far off, and sent up a grand spout of water on the Rainbow’s starboard bows. The boat pulled quickly up, and another harpoon was sent deep into the whale’s side. It dived immediately, and, turning at an angle, darted off in an other direction. This time the excited onlookers could hear the cheer given by the whalers as the second “iron” was fixed, and replied to it with enthusiasm. Soon the boat was carried far away, and the telescopes became again necessary, but ere long the fish turned, and once more made for the ship. It could not have been more than five hundred yards distant when it came to the surface for the third time, and the harpooneer was distinctly seen to drive a lance deep into its side, from which fountains of blood flowed. He had struck its “life,” as whalemen express it, and the whale soon went into its dying struggles, in the course of which it hit the boat, stove in its side, and overturned it.

There was a cry of consternation on board the Rainbow at this. Instantly the order was given to lower the boats. Philosopher Jack and O’Rook sprang to obey, by an irresistible impulse, as if they had been part of the ship’s crew. In a few seconds two boats were rowing at full speed to the rescue, while the boats belonging to the whale-ship—still far distant—made for the scene of disaster.

Ere long the rescue party had the great satisfaction of picking up the wrecked whalers, and found that not a man among them had received greater injury than a bruise or two and a ducking. Their boat, however, was completely destroyed. They were therefore taken on board the Rainbow, while the whaler’s boats came up and secured their prize.

That night, while the stars twinkled at their own reflections in the sleeping sea, the crew of the whale-ship had a “gam” on board the Rainbow.

A “gam,” good reader, may be described as a “small tea-party” on the sea. But it differs in many respects from such gatherings on shore, inasmuch as the revellers are not “a few friends”, male and female, but are usually absolute strangers to each other, and of the male sex only. But the circumstances of their meeting—on the lone ocean, far from home and friends—have a marvellous effect in opening up the fountains of the human heart. The men and officers fraternised at once. The whalers were chiefly American, the Rainbowers principally English, with a slight mixture of Irish and Scotch. They all spoke the same language; that was enough. Soon after the arrival of their guests, powerful friendships were formed. While tea, or rather supper, was being discussed, these were cemented; and, when pipes were lit, confidences of the most touching nature were interchanged. Anecdotes and stories naturally followed the confidences, broke up the separate parties, and drew the company more together. The union was finally and effectually concentrated by one of the whalers’ crew making a demand for a song.

“Come, O’Rook,” cried one of the Rainbow men, “let’s have ‘The poor little pig wi’ the purple nose.’”

O’Rook began at once, and sang with such fervour and pathos, that his auditors became quite uproarious in their admiration. But when the Irishman called on the whalers for a ditty, a fine-looking youth sang a song of the “Homeward Bound,” in a voice so sweet and true, that the spirit of the men was changed, and many a moistened eye told that deep chords of sympathy had been touched.

“Can you play the fiddle?” asked one of the men of O’Rook, when the song was finished.

“Sure it’s myself can do that same,” he replied, with a modest air, which drew forth a peal of laughter. When the fiddle was produced and O’Rook struck up reels, and strathspeys, and hornpipes, with a precision of touch and time and perfection of tune that was far above the average of amateurs, the joy of the party could no longer find vent through eye and mouth. They were forced to open the safety-valves of heel and toe. For this purpose the quarter-deck was cleared, and flags were festooned round it; the officers joined, and Polly Samson was placed on the capstan, like the presiding angel of the scene.

Ah! reader, if you have not been for many months on the ocean, or in the lone wilderness, without seeing a new face, or hearing a sweet sound, or feeling the power of female influence, you cannot fully appreciate what we describe. There was no drink save coffee and tea at that feast. The Rainbow was a temperance ship. But the men required no spirits. Each one had more than sufficient within himself. The presence of Polly, too, had a powerful effect. Every man there saw his own particular Polly or Susan or Nancy in her pretty laughing face and sparkling eyes.

“Your men are powerful fellows,” said the captain of the Rainbow to the captain of the whaler; “I’ve no doubt they’ll be quite game for work to-morrow, though they should keep it up all night.”

“They certainly would,” replied the latter, “if called on to do duty; but they won’t be required to work to-morrow, for we keep the Sabbath on board of our ship as a duty we owe to God, and we find that we are great gainers in health and strength, while we are no losers of fish by doing so.”

“Ha! the great Captain Scoresby tried that before you, and said that he found keeping the Sabbath to be good both for body and soul,” said the captain of the Rainbow.

“I know he did,” replied the other, “and I am trying to follow in Scoresby’s wake.”

It was pretty late in the evening before the whalers could tear themselves away, and when at last they did so, they expressed a unanimous opinion that it had been the most successful gam they had ever had in their lives.

Not long after parting company from the whale-ship the Rainbow sailed into the cold and variable regions south of Cape Horn. Here they experienced what the men styled “very dirty weather.” The skies were seldom blue, and the decks were never dry, while it became necessary to keep the stove burning constantly in the cabin, and the berth-ports almost always shut.

The effect of all this on poor Ben Trench was to injure his health severely. His cough increased, and it soon became evident that his complaint, which at first had only threatened to grow worse, had now become chronic and serious.

“Watty,” he said one day, while his friend sat beside his cot reading to him, “it’s of no use shutting one’s eyes to facts. I fear that I am now hopelessly ill, and that I shall never see father or mother or Susan again in this world.”

“O Ben! don’t speak like that,” said Watty, laying down the book, and gently taking his friend’s thin hand in both of his. “You mustn’t do it. It will only make you worse. When we get out of this horrible region into the trade winds and the sunshine near the Line, you’ll be a new man. Come now, cheer up, Ben, and don’t let your good little nurse see you with such a sad face.”

Polly’s step was heard at the moment. She entered with a bowl of soup.

“Here, Ben, this will do you good,” she said, handing him the bowl. “The cook says it’s the stuff to stick to your ribs. There now, I can’t stop to give it you, for father wants me, but you’re all right when Watty’s by. Are you better?”

“Well, not much,” replied Ben with a smile; “but I’m always the better of seeing your little face. Don’t be long of returning, Poll.”

When she had left, Ben drank the soup, and then lay down with a sigh.

“It may be that the warm latitudes will do me good, Watty,” he said, “but I don’t feel as if they would. Still I’m resigned to God’s will, though it seems sad to die so young, and just when I’ve come to know my dear Redeemer, and might, perhaps, have done some little work for Him. It seems so strange to be saved and not allowed time to do anything.”

“You have done something,” returned his friend with an earnest look; “if I have really turned to Jesus at all, it has been through your influence, Ben, and I’m sure that Jack would say the same of himself; and if he and I are spared to do any good work for our Lord, it will be all owing to you.”

“Not to me, Watty, not to me,” rejoined Ben, with a glad look; “but if God’s holy Spirit has used me as an instrument in this, I shall have cause to praise Him for it throughout eternity. Oh! is it not strange that in a region where there is so little godliness, and while we were in the eager pursuit of gold, our eyes should have been opened to see and appreciate the true gold? But now, Watty,” he added in a lower tone, “I want to ask you to do me a favour. I want you to go yourself to our house, without delay, and break it to mother.”

He paused. Watty laid his face in the bedclothes, and wept silently.

“They are very fond of you,” continued Ben, “and I should not like them to hear of it from any one but you. Be very tender to Susan, Watty. Poor Susan, she will need comfort, and you know how to direct her.”

For some time Ben Trench continued talking, and then fell into a quiet slumber, in which his friend left him, while Polly watched by his side.

The warm latitudes did no good to the invalid. On the contrary, he suffered much from the heat, and became visibly weaker.

At last the shores of Old England drew nigh. A few days more and they should sight land. They sought to cheer him with this, but there was no answering sparkle in Ben’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said, faintly, “I shall see them all again, but not here.”

Ben was dying when the Rainbow approached the British Channel. The whole of the previous day a stiff gale had blown, and this had not much abated when night drew on. Liverpool was their port, and the captain carried on full sail—more than the good ship could well bear. It is not known whether he felt so sure of his course that he did not think it necessary to shorten sail on nearing the Land’s End, or that he was anxious, at all hazards, to reach port before Ben Trench should die, but he held on recklessly, and, in the dead of night, ran the Rainbow straight against the high cliffs not far from the Cornish town of Saint Just.

The wreck of the ship was complete in a few seconds. All her masts went over the side, and the waves overwhelmed her. She would have gone down in deep water if she had not been dashed between two rocks and held there. Time was thus given for one of the boats to be got out, but utter confusion reigned, for the captain had disappeared. No wonder that several of the men leaped into her, crying, “Every man for himself,” and endeavoured to cast off.

“Have you got Polly?” cried Jack, as he dimly saw a figure staggering through the turmoil of wind and whirling spray.

“All safe!” gasped Captain Samson.

Jack instantly jumped into the boat and found O’Rook struggling to prevent one of the men from cutting the hawser. Jack knocked the man down, and, hauling the boat close alongside, shouted, “Jump, Captain, jump!” The captain did so at the right moment, and alighted safely, though with great violence. Just then Watty Wilkins was seen striving to lift Ben Trench over the bulwark of the ship. It was impossible to render him assistance, though Jack tried to do so, for at the moment a towering billow fell on the deck and tore the invalid from his grasp. With a shriek of despair Watty fell back into the sea, but was caught by one of the men and hauled into the boat which was then cut adrift. It was not a moment too soon, for the next wave dashed their ship to pieces.

As it was impossible to effect a landing among perpendicular cliffs which were lashed by roaring breakers, they were obliged to push out to sea, where they rowed till daylight, and succeeded in reaching Penzance harbour.

Leaving the others to report the news, Jack and Wilkins started off along the coast to the scene of the wreck. They found the spot, but not a vestige was to be seen of what had so long been their home, save a few broken spars, here and there far down in the clefts of inaccessible rocks. A fisherman, however, told them that several bodies had been thrown into a little bay, and were then lying in a shed near the spot. Hastening thither, they found five lying side by side. Among them were those of poor Ben Trench and the captain of the ship—the one strong, stalwart and still ruddy in the face, the other attenuated and ghastly, as might have been expected of one who had, as it were, died a double death.

We will not dwell on the terrible scene. While Jack and Captain Samson remained to attend to the dead, Wilkins set off, without delay, to be first, if possible, in breaking the sad news to his friend’s family, according to promise.

In regard to the wreck, it is sufficient to say that she, with all her precious freight was scattered on the rugged coasts of Cornwall, and our adventurers stood once more on their native shores without even the means of paying their travelling expenses home. They did not like to speak of their invested wealth, fearing that their statements might be disbelieved. They therefore stood literally in the position of beggars.

In this extremity they found the hospitable men of Cornwall to be friends indeed and full of sympathy.

Chapter Eleven.

Return of the Wanderer.

Great was the anxiety of Edwin Jack as he walked, with light foot and fluttering heart, over the Border hills and drew near to the old home. He had not heard from his father for nearly a year. Were they all well? had they struggled out of their difficulties with the funds he had sent them. Was there no empty chair? Such and similar thoughts hurried through his mind as he went along, until he was forced to run for relief. There was a rocky ridge of land in front of him. From the top of this he knew the cottage could be seen. Panting with exertion when he gained the top, he sat down on a mass of rock and gazed at the old place till tears disturbed his vision. There it stood as of yore—no change in the general aspect of things, though there did seem one or two improvements about the cottage. But he did not gaze long. Starting up again he hurried on.

At last he stood in the midst of the old home-circle—all well, and, thank God, not one absent!

Philosopher though he was, he could not reason down the tears of joy that blinded, and the lump in his throat that well-nigh choked him. After the first wild miscellaneous embrace all round was over, Jack (or Teddie, as the home-circle called him) found relief by catching up Dobbin and burying his face in his neck and curls, regardless of the treacle with which that gentleman was plentifully besmeared.

“I’ve got bad news for you, Teddie, my boy,” said his father, after they had moderated a little.

“Nobody ill or—dead?” asked Jack, with a look of anxiety.

“No, nobody.”

“Then I’m prepared for any other kind of bad news,” said our philosopher with a quiet smile.

“The Blankow Bank,” said his father, laying a hand impressively on his shoulder, “has failed, and every penny of your gold is gone!”

The family had become very grave. Jack looked from one to the other with a bewildered air.

“You are jesting, father.”

“No, my boy; I would that it were not true. The distress that is abroad in the land because of this calamity is very great. Not only is all your fortune gone, Ted, but anything that you may have brought home with you will be taken to pay the creditors of the bank; and they require so much money that it would ruin you, though you had thousands upon thousands of pounds.”

A strange smile flitted across the youth’s face as he replied—

“What I brought home with me won’t benefit them much, for it lies with the wreck of the Rainbow at the bottom of the sea.”

This was indeed a surprise to the old couple, who now learned, for the first time, that the wrecked ship, about which a rumour had just reached them, was that in which their son had come home.

“But, father,” continued Jack, with a look of deepening anxiety, “if this be as you say, then my comrades must also be ruined, for their gold was all invested by Mr Wilkins in the same bank.”

“All ruined,” replied the old man in a sad tone. “Mr Wilkins himself is bankrupt—the first call brought him and many others down.”

“And yourself father; I hope you had no shares in it.”

“None, my boy, thank God. Prosperity has attended me ever since I got the first money you sent home. That saved me, Teddie.”

A gleam of joy overspread Philosopher Jack’s countenance as he started to his feet.

“Then am I well and undeservedly rewarded, daddy,” he exclaimed; “but all this news is pretty tough. I must go out to tackle it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He sprang through the cottage door and sped away over the moor like a greyhound. Reaching the top of a rising ground—from which he could see a boundless stretch of border-land, with the sea in the far distance and the sun setting in a flood of golden light—he drew himself up, and pushing back the hair from his temples with both hands, stood gazing wistfully into the radiant glory.

“So like a dream—so like a dream!” he murmured. “It was God who gave; surely it is He who has taken away. Can there be anything but good in all this?”

His hands dropped to his side as he spoke, and he sauntered slowly down the slope on which he stood. Entering a small plantation of fir-trees at the foot of it, he disappeared.

When he returned to the cottage all trace of strong feeling was gone. “We won’t talk of the bank to-night,” he said, “let’s be jolly,” and jolly he was accordingly. Not only so, but he made Dobbin jolly too, by supplying him with such a number of treacle-pieces that the child could hardly gasp his refusal of the last slice offered, and was made sticky from the ends of his filthy fingers to the crown of his curly head.

It is not necessary, nor would it be pleasant to describe minutely the effect of the “bad news” on the other members of our gold-digging party. Captain Samson and Watty Wilkins took it well, but Polly and Simon O’Rook could not easily reconcile themselves to their fate. The former, it is true, sorrowed not for herself, but for her father. O’Rook, however, was more selfish, and came down very heavily on what he called his “luck.”

“Sure it’s a misfortunate pig I’ve been iver since I left Owld Ireland,” he remarked to his pipe one day after dinner, being alone with that implement at the time; “an no sooner does the first stroke of good luck befall me, an me fortune’s made intirely, than whoop! down goes the whole consarn to the bottom of the say. It’s well, hows’ever, that ye didn’t go down yerself along with it, Simon. Ye’ve raison to be thankful for that, anyhow.”

If O’Rook’s pipe did not offer him a comforting reply it appeared to console him with its fumes, for after a pause, during which the smoke played voluminously about his nose, he wrinkled his visage into a smile of good humour.

“Now, Simon,” he said, rising and putting the black little implement in his pocket, “you’re in a fit state to go an’ comfort the widdy.”

Saying which he went out of the cheap refreshment room in which he had dined, and betook himself to the principal street of the city, whose name we have already declined to mention.

To explain his remark, we may state here that after the most diligent inquiry without success, the Irishman had, by the merest chance, discovered the widow of David Ban— in this very city, to which he had accompanied Philosopher Jack and Captain Samson, after clearly ascertaining that every vestige of the wreck of the Rainbow had disappeared, and that all his gold was irrevocably gone. Walking along the principal street one day, he had been attracted by a temperance eating-house named the “Holly Tree.” Entering it for the purpose of, as he said, “revictualling the ship,” he was rooted to the spot by hearing a customer call out, “Another cup of coffee, please, Mrs Bancroft,” while at the same moment an assistant at the counter addressed the comely woman, who replied, “Yes, sir,” by the name of “Lucy.” Could proof be more conclusive? Upon inquiry “Lucy” turned out in very truth to be the widow of David Bancroft, and the lock of hair corresponded. Of course O’Rook revealed to her the sad circumstances connected with her husband’s end. To say that Mrs Bancroft was overwhelmed with grief would not be true. She had long mourned him as dead, and although the information, corroborated as it afterwards was by Edwin Jack and Captain Samson, did re-open the old wound to some extent, she nevertheless bore it heroically, and took Simon O’Rook’s comforting observations in good part. But we must not anticipate. Let us return to Watty Wilkins.

Having broken the news of Ben Trench’s death to the Bailie and his family—and a terrible duty he found it to be,—Watty went straight to his father’s house. We drop the curtain on the meeting. The joy of the elder Wilkins can only be fully understood by those who can say of an only son, “He was lost and is found.”

“Now, Watty, dear boy,” said Mr Wilkins when they came to talk of ordinary matters, “God has mingled mercy with my sorrows. My business has indeed been ruined, and I have passed through the bankruptcy court; but I am by no means so unfortunate as hundreds of people who have been reduced to absolute poverty by this crash. You remember my brother James—Uncle Jimmy? well, he has got a flourishing business in the West Indies. For some years past he had been meditating the establishment of an agency in connection with it in this city. The moment he heard of my failure he offered to make me his agent here, with a good salary. Of course I was only too glad and thankful to accept the offer, and after my affairs were wound up, entered upon the office. So now, you see, here I am, through God’s goodness, still inhabiting the old house, which I now rent from the person who purchased it. Of course I can no longer keep a carriage, and it will cost me some calculation and economy to make the two ends meet, but these are small matters.”

“Oh, father, I’m so glad and thankful!” said Watty with sparkling eyes.

“But,” continued Mr Wilkins, with a look of profound gravity, “at present I happen to be troubled with a great difficulty.”

“What’s that?” asked his little son, with a ready sympathy that was natural to him, and which his recent experiences had rendered much more powerful.

“I find the nature of my duties too much for me,” replied Mr Wilkins with a peculiar smile, “and it is almost impossible that I can get along without a clever, honest, intelligent clerk, or, shall we say, secretary—a character that is not easily found in these degenerate days. Can you recommend one, Watty?”

“O yes,” cried the youth, springing up and seizing his father’s hand in both of his; “you mean me! Don’t you, now? You can’t get on without me.”

Watty felt inclined to dance a hornpipe, but he sat down instead, and, covering his face with his hands, burst into tears of joy. Being a tender-hearted man, Mr Wilkins could not help joining him, but in a moderate degree. We will leave them thus engaged, merely remarking that if the act was a weakness, it nevertheless seemed to do them a world of good.

After a considerable time had elapsed, Philosopher Jack left the Border cottage one day, went up to town, and presented himself at his old lodgings to Mrs Niven. That lady’s feelings, under the influence of surprise, had a tendency, as we have shown, to lay her flat on the floor. But the faithful Peggy had come to understand her tendencies, and was usually too much for her. When her old lodger made his appearance in her parlour, Mrs Niven exhibited symptoms which caused Peggy to glide swiftly forward and receive her in her arms, whence she was transferred to an easy-chair.

Recovering, she gave Jack what, in the circumstances, was a hearty welcome.

“Losh me, laddie, ye’ll be the death o’ me!”

“I hope not, Mrs Niven,” said Jack, laughing, as he shook her hand heartily and sat down, “for my own sake as well as yours; because I have come to take my old room if it is vacant.”

“Yer auld room, Maister Jack!” exclaimed the bewildered woman.

“Yes, if it is not already occupied.”

“The yin wi’ the reeky lum and the view o’ chimbley-pots frae the wundy?”

“The same. I hope I can have it, for I’m going to college again, and I’ve an affection for the old place, despite the smoky chimney and the cans on the cats’ parade.”

“Yer jokin’, Maister Jack.”

“Indeed I am not, Mrs Niven.”

“They telt me ye was in Callyforny, an had made ’eer fortin there by howkin’ gold.”

“Well, they told the truth, my good woman, but I happened to invest all in Blankow Bank shares, and—”

“Wow! wow!” exclaimed Mrs Niven, whimpering, for she understood full well the meaning of that, “an’ ’ee’ve been ruined! Oh dear! Weel, weel, ay, ay, an it’s come to that. Jist like my kind freen’ Maister Black. Losh me! man,” she added in a sudden burst of indignation, “what for disna the Government order a penny subscription ower the hail kingdom to git the puir guiltless shareholders oot o’ their diffeeculties?”

Philosopher Jack declined to enter upon so subtle a question, but after finding that his old room was vacant, retook it, and then went out to the region of the docks to pay a visit to Captain Samson. He found that old salt in possession of his old lodging, but it was wonderfully changed, and, perhaps, not for the better. Polly was there, however, and her presence would have made any place charming.

“Sit down. There is an empty keg to offer a friend,” said the captain, looking round the almost empty room. “You see they’ve cleared me out. Had to sell everything a’most.”

This was true. The marine stores, coils of rope, kegs, charts, telescopes, log-lines, sextants, foreign shells, model ships, Chinese idols—all were gone, excepting a table, a chair, a child’s crib in a corner, and the hammock, which latter looked more like an overwhelmingly heavy cloud than ever, as it hung over the clean but desolate scene.

“But we’re going to have such a nice tea,” said Polly, “and you shall stay and have some.”

She bustled about the fire, but it had so little heart that even her coaxing nearly failed to make it burn. Jack offered to assist.

“Take care,” said Polly with some anxiety; “if you cough or sneeze you’ll put it out.”

“But I promise neither to cough nor sneeze,” said Jack.

Under their united efforts the fire blazed, and tea with buttered toast ere long smoked on the board.

“Polly’s going to London,” said the captain suddenly—almost fiercely.

“Yes,” said Polly, hastening to explain; “you see, my aunt Maria has been so good as to offer to take me to live with her and put me to school.”

“Ha!” said the captain, almost blowing the buttered toast out of his mouth with contempt, “and Aunt Maria says she’ll make a lady of Polly! Think o’ that, Jack; make a lady out of an angel!”

The captain was so tickled with the idea that he went off into a roar of sarcastic laughter.

“I’ll tell ’ee what it is, Jack,” he continued on recovering, “I shouldn’t wonder it in the course of a few months’ residence with her, Polly was to make a lady out of Aunt Maria—supposin’ that to be possible.”

“Oh! father,” remonstrated Polly.

“Come,” cried the captain savagely, “give us a nor’-wester—that’s it; another—thank ’ee. The fact is, I’m goin’ in for nor’-westers durin’ the next fortnight—goin’ to have it blow a regular hurricane of ’em.”

Philosopher Jack hoped, if at all allowable, that he might be permitted to come under the influence of the gale, and then asked why Polly was leaving her father.

“She’s not leavin’ me, bless you,” said the captain, “it’s me that’s leavin’ her. The fact is, I’ve got a ship. What’s left of me is not over young, but it’s uncommon tough, so I mean to use it up as long as it lasts for Polly. I’m off to the East Indies in two or three weeks. If it hadn’t been for this Aunt Maria I shouldn’t have known what to do for Polly, so I’ve no call to abuse the stupid old thing. A lady, indeed—ha!”

“You might have been quite sure that my father’s house would have been open to Polly,” said Jack quite warmly, “or Mr Wilkins’s, for the matter of that.”

“I know it lad, I know it” returned the captain, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “but after all, this Aunt Maria—this lady-like individual—is the most natural protector. But now, tell me, what of O’Rook?”

“I know nothing of him. Haven’t seen him for several days. When I last met him he seemed to be much depressed, poor fellow. I don’t wonder, considering the fortune he has lost. However, Wilkins’s father is sure to do the best he can for him. He feels so deeply having led him and the rest of us into this—though it was no fault of his, and he went in and suffered along with us. I couldn’t understand, however, what O’Rook meant by some wild remarks he made the other day about taking to the temperance line and going in for coffee and mutton chops up a holly-tree. I hope it hasn’t unseated his reason, poor fellow.”

While the trio were thus discussing O’Rook over a cup of tea, that bold Irishman was busily engaged “comforting the widdy” over a cup of coffee in Mrs Bancroft’s private parlour.

It is only just to O’Rook to say that he originally sought the widow from a simple desire to tell her of her husband’s sad end, which, as we have seen, had made a deep impression on his sympathetic heart. When, however, he found that the widow was young, cheery, and good-looking, his sympathy was naturally increased, and the feeling was not unnaturally intensified when he found her engaged in the management of so excellent an institution as the “Holly Tree Public House without Drink.” At first O’Rook confined his visits to pure sympathy; then, when he had allowed a “raisonable” time to elapse, he made somewhat warmer approaches, and finally laid siege to the widow’s heart. But the widow was obdurate.

“Why won’t ye have me, now?” asked the poor man one evening, with a perplexed look; “sure it’s not bad-lookin’ I am, though I’ve no occasion to boast of gud looks neither.”

“No, it’s not your looks,” said Mrs Bancroft with a laugh, as she raised her eyes from her knitting and looked at her sister Flo, who sat opposite, also knitting, and who took a smiling but comparatively indifferent view of the matter.

“Then it must be because I’m not owld enough. Sure if ye wait a year or two I’ll be as owld as yourself, every bit,” said O’Rook.

“No, it’s not that either,” said the widow.

“Ah, then, it can’t be because I’m poor,” persisted O’Rook, “for with this good business you don’t want money, an’ I’m great at cookin’, besides havin’ the willin’ hands that can turn to a’most anything. If ye’d seen me diggin’ for goold, bad luck to it, ye’d belaive what I tell ye. Ah!” he added with a sigh, “it’s a rich man I’d have been this day if that ship had only kep’ afloat a few hours longer. Well, well, I needn’t grumble, when me own comrades, that thought it so safe in the Blankow Bank, are about as badly off as me. When was it they began to suspec’ the bank was shaky?”

“Oh, long ago,” said Mrs Bancroft, “soon after the disappearance of Mr Luke, the cashier—”

“Mr who?” demanded O’Rook with a start.

“Mr Luke. Did you know him?”

“I’ve heard of such a man,” replied O’Rook with assumed carelessness; “what about him?”

“Well, it was supposed that he was goin’ deranged, poor fellow, and at last he suddenly disappeared, no one could tell why; but it’s clear enough now, for he was made to put the accounts all wrong, and I suppose the struggle in his mind drove him to suicide, for he was a long, thin, weakly sort of man, without much brains except for figures.”

Hereupon O’Rook told the widow all he knew about the strange passenger of that name with whom he had sailed to the Southern Seas and worked at the gold fields. The conclusion which they came to was that the gold-digging passenger was the absconded cashier. Having settled this, O’Rook renewed the siege on the widow’s heart but without success, though she did not cast him off altogether. The poor man, however, lost patience, and, finally, giving it up in despair, went off to sea.

“I’ve been too hard on him,” remarked the widow, sadly, to her sister Flo, after he was gone.

“You have,” was Flo’s comforting reply, as she rose to serve a clamorous customer of the Holly Tree.

Philosopher Jack from that time forth devoted himself heartily to study, and gradually ceased to think of the golden dreams which had for so long a time beset him by night and by day. He had now found the gold which cannot perish, and while he studied medicine and surgery to enable him to cure the bodies of men, he devoted much of his time to the study of the Book which would enable him to cure their souls.

The captain came and went across the seas in the course of his rough calling, and he never came without a heart full of love and hands full of foreign nick-nacks, which he conveyed to Polly in London, and never went away without a rousing nor’-wester.

Watty and his father worked on together in vigorous contentment and many a visit did the former pay to Bailie Trench, attracted by the strong resemblance in Susan to the bosom friend who had reached the “Better Land” before him.

Thus time rolled quietly on, until an event occurred which modified the career of more than one of those whose fortunes we have followed so long.

Chapter Twelve.

Conclusion of the Whole Matter.

If it be true that there is “many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip”—which we have no reason to doubt—it is not less true that many a cup of good fortune is, unexpectedly and unsought, raised to the lips of thankless man.

Captain Samson was seated one fine summer evening in his shore-going cabin, that used to be the abode of fishy smells, marine-stores, Polly, and bliss, but which now presented an unfurnished and desolate aspect. He had just returned from a voyage. Little “kickshaws” for Polly lay on the table before him, and a small fire burned in the grate, with a huge kettle thereon. A stormy sigh escaped the captain as he glanced round the old room.

“Come, come, Samson,” he exclaimed, apostrophising himself, “this will never do. You mustn’t give way to the blues. It’s true you haven’t got as much to leave to Polly when you slip your cable as you once had; but you have scraped together a little these few years past, and there’s lots of work in you yet, old boy. Besides, it’s His way of ordering events, and that way must be right, whatever it appears to me. Why, Samson, for all your preaching to others, your own faith isn’t as big as a grain of mustard seed. Ah! Polly, you’re a woman now a’most—and a beauty, I’ll be bound. I wish you’d come though. You’re not up to time, young ’ooman. It’s as well you’ve got one or two faults, just to keep you in sympathy with other mortals. Ah, here you come.”

He hastened to answer a double knock at the door, and checked himself, not a moment too soon, from giving a warm embrace to the postman. Under a strong impulse to knock the man down he took a letter from him, flung it on the table, and shut the door. After pacing the room for some time impatiently he sat down, opened the letter, and read it aloud. It ran thus:—

“SIR—Having been for some years past engaged in diving operations at the wreck of the Rainbow—lost off the coast of Cornwall in 18 hundred and something, I write to say that I have recovered a large chest of gold with your name on the inside of it, and that of a man named Simon O’Rook. Most of the gold recovered from the Rainbow has been scattered about, but in all cases when ownership could be proved, I have handed over the property. If you can give such an account of the contents of the chest referred to as shall satisfy me that it is yours, the part of its contents which belongs to you shall be restored.

“I would feel obliged if you could give me any clew to the whereabouts of O’Rook.—I am, etcetera.”

“The whereabouts of O’Rook!” cried the captain, starting up and gazing at the letter; “why, he’s my own first mate, an’ close alongside at this good hour!”

“True for ye,” cried a man outside the window, as he flattened his nose against the glass, “an is it polite to kape yer own first mate rappin’ the skin off his knuckles at the door?”

The captain at once let in his follower, and showed him the letter. His surprise may be better imagined than described.

“But d’ee think it’s true, cap’n?”

“I haven’t a doubt of it, but we can settle that to-morrow by a visit to the writer of the letter.”

“That’s true,” said O’Rook; “which o’ the boxes, now, that belonged to us d’ee think it is?”

“It can only be one,” replied the captain, “that box of mine in which you asked me to stuff the remnant of the gold-dust that you hadn’t room for in your own boxes. It was the strongest box o’ the lot, which accounts for its not breakin’ up like the others.”

“It must be that. I rowled it up in an owld leather coat bought from an Injin the day before we left the diggin’s. It’s but a small remainder o’ me fortune—a thousand pounds, more or less,—but sure, it’s found money an comes handy this good day, which reminds me I’ve got some noose for ’ee. What d’ee think, cap’n?” continued O’Rook, with a very conscious look.

“How can I think if ye don’t give me somethin’ to think about?”

“The widdy’s tuk me after all!” said O’Rook.

“What! widow Bancroft?”

O’Rook nodded impressively. “Moreover,” he said, “she’s tuk me as a poor beggar with nothin’ but his pay, for better and for worse, an’, sure now, it’s better I’ll be than she tuk me for.”

The captain was interrupted in his congratulations of the mate by another knock at the door. He opened it, and next moment was seized round the neck by a tall, graceful, beautiful, exquisite—oh! reader, you know who we mean.

“Why didn’t you come up to time, old girl?” demanded the captain, while O’Rook looked on in admiration.

“Oh, father,” gasped Polly, “don’t crush me so and I’ll tell you.”

When she had explained that delay in the train had caused her want of punctuality, she shook hands with O’Rook, with whom she had renewed acquaintance at the time of his being appointed first mate to her father’s ship. Then she was bid stand up in a corner to be “overhauled.” The captain retired to an opposite corner, and gazed at his daughter critically, as though she had been a fine portrait.

“Yes, Polly, you’ll do,” he said, while an approving smile wrinkled his vast countenance. “Fit for a queen any day. A lady—ha! ha! Have you done your duty to Aunt Maria, Polly, eh? Have you made a lady of her, eh? Have you infused into her something allied to the angelic, eh? Come, now, a rousing nor’-wester!”

With a laugh worthy of her girlhood, Polly ran out of her corner and obeyed orders.

“Now, my pet” said the captain, seating her on his knee, “here are some kickshaws from foreign parts for you; but before letting you look at ’em, I must explain why I asked you to meet me here instead of going to see you as usual in London. The fact is, I had bin longing to take you with me my next voyage, and it would have been handier to have you by me here when we’re getting ready for sea, but—but, the fact is, things have taken a sudden turn, and—and—in short, circumstances have come about that I can’t speak of just now; only I’m not quite so sure about going to sea as I was an hour ago. But you don’t seem to jump at the notion, Polly. Surely you’d have liked to go—wouldn’t you?”

“Liked, father, of course. I should have been overjoyed to have gone with you, but—but—the truth is,” she said, with a little laugh and a glance at O’Rook, “circumstances have come about that I can’t speak of just now.”

“Well, my pet,” rejoined the captain, with a puzzled, anxious look, “we’ll not talk about ’em. Now, you must know that I’ve got up a small party to meet you here to-night, and expect you to do me credit. The pastry-cook next door has undertaken to send in cakes, and tea, and hot sausages, and buns, at a moment’s notice. I expect his man here every minute to lay out the spread. Now, who d’ee think are coming? You’ll never guess. There’s Mr and Mrs John Jack, the father and mother of Edwin Jack—you remember him, Polly? Philosopher Jack we used to call him.”

“Yes,” replied Polly, in a low tone.

“Well, they happen to be in town just now with their family, and they’re all coming. Then there’s my first mate, Simon O’Rook; he would be coming, only he’s come already, a full hour before his time! Then there’s a Mr Burr and a Mr Buckley, both returned from California with fortunes—”

“A-rowlin’ in gold,” muttered O’Rook, in a low tone.

“You don’t really mean, father, that—”

“Yes I do, Polly. I mean that Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley are coming. I met ’em only two days ago in the streets, going about in chimney-pot hats and broadcloth like gentlemen—which they are, every inch of ’em, if worth and well-doing and wisdom make the gentleman. So, knowing you were to be here, I made ’em promise to come. Well, then, there’s your old friend Watty Wilkins, who, by the way, is engaged to be married to Susan Trench. I tried to get Susan to come too, but she’s shy, and won’t. Besides these, there’s a doctor of medicine, whom I think you have met before, a very rising young man—quite celebrated, I may say. Got an enormous practice, and—”

The captain was interrupted by the rattle of wheels outside, and the pulling up of a carriage at the door.

Polly rose quickly, with a half-frightened look.

“Don’t be alarmed, Poll, it’s only the doctor,” he said, going out to the passage.

“Pardon my coming so much before the appointed time,” said a familiar voice; “but I have something to communicate before she comes—something very important and—”

Philosopher Jack stopped short, for he had entered the room and saw that Polly had already come. With one spring he was at her side, seized her in his arms, and imprinted on her lips what her father afterwards called the “stiffest nor’wester he’d ever seen.” At the time, however, the captain strode up to our philosopher with a frown.

“Come, come, doctor,” he said, sternly, “there is a limit to familiarity even among—”

“Pardon me,” said our hero, drawing Polly’s unresisting hand through his arm; “I had no intention of doing it until I had your consent; but somehow—I can’t tell how—it came upon me suddenly while I was paying my respects to her in London, not long ago, and before I knew where I was, it all came out, and she accepted me, on the understanding that I should consider it no engagement until I had obtained your consent. So now, I have to ask your forgiveness and your blessing—father.”

Captain Samson stood there, bereft of speech, and O’Rook stood there, the picture of benignity, in a corner. What the former would have said it is impossible to tell, for at that moment there came an impatient rapping at the door.

“Hurrah! captain, I could not help looking in before the time,” cried Watty Wilkins, “to tell you that Susan’s coming after all. The dear girl—”

He stopped suddenly, and stared at Polly, as if he had applied the term of endearment to her.

“The ghost of Polly Samson!” he exclaimed, after a breathless pause.

“Nothing of the sort, my boy,” said the captain, grasping his little friend’s hand, “but an enlarged and improved edition of Polly Samson, not yet full-bound, but goin’ to be, very soon, by Philosopher Jack.”

At that auspicious moment the pastry-cook made his appearance, and compelled the party to quit the premises. They therefore went for a stroll while he put things in order. When they returned, it was found that his wonderful powers had made a change little short of miraculous. The floor was swept. Chairs had been introduced on the scene. The table groaned, being weak in the legs, under a surfeit of viands. The hammock had been removed. The fire leaped high, as if desirous of going up the chimney altogether, and the huge kettle sat thereon, leaning back, with its spout in the air, pouring its very heart out in a joyous domestic song.

Need we say that the united party made the most of their opportunity? They spoke of the golden land, of their toils and joys, their successes and losses, and of their Heavenly Father’s guiding hand. The ex-gold-diggers, Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley, fought their battles over again, and sang the camp-fire songs. Philosopher Jack sat beside his mother, who was a little deaf, to explain the miners’ slang and point the jokes. Watty Wilkins became involved in Susan, and was comparatively useless; but he laughed at the jokes, whether he saw them or not, and joined with telling effect in the choruses. Polly sang, in a voice that corresponded with her sweet face, two or three of the hymns with which they had been wont to make vocal the palm grove on the coral island in the southern seas, and Philosopher Jack related the story of the slaying of the bear at Grizzly Bear Gulch. All this was a rare treat to the family from the lonely cottage on the Border, the younger members of which had by that time ascended, through Christian example and improved education, to a high level in the social scale. Dobbin, in particular, had become a strapping youth of gentlemanly mien, and would as soon have thought of shoe-blacking as of treacle to his bread. He retained a sneaking fondness for it, however, especially when presented in the form of golden syrup.

But we must not prolong the scene. It is sufficient to say that they had a glorious night of it, on strictly temperance principles, which culminated and drew to a close when Captain Samson, opening his Bible, and reading therefrom many precious promises, drew his friends’ minds from things seen and temporal to things unseen and eternal. Thereafter he prayed that neither he nor they should be permitted to forget that a loving Father holds the helm and guides the souls of his people, whether in joy or in sorrow, success or failure, through time into eternity.

And now it is incumbent on us to draw our story to a close.

On the day following the feast Captain Samson called with his chief mate on the writer of the important letter, and found that his principal chest of gold had indeed been fished up from the deep. He and O’Rook were able to give so correct an account of its contents that their claim was at once admitted, and thus the captain became possessor of gold to the value of about four thousand pounds sterling, while O’Rook recovered upwards of one thousand. This was only a fraction of their original fortune, but the interest of it was sufficient to supply their moderate wants.

Going straight off to the Holly Tree, of which a healthy shoot had been planted in the suburbs, O’Rook proceeded, according to use and wont, to “comfort the widdy.”

“It’s a rich man I am, darlin’, after all,” he said, on sitting down beside her.

“How so, Simon?”

Simon explained.

“An’ would you consider yourself a poor man if you had only me?” asked the widow, with a hurt air.

“Ah! then, it’s the women can twist their tongues, anyhow,” cried O’Rook. “Sure it’s about dirty goold I’m spakin’, isn’t it? I made no reference to the love of purty woman—did I, now? In regard of that I wouldn’t change places with the Shah of Pershy.”

“Well now, Simon, if it’s the women that can twist their tongues, it’s the Irishmen that can twist their consciences, so you an’ I will be well matched.”

“That’s well said, anyhow,” rejoined O’Rook. “An’ now, darlin’, will ye name the day?”

“No, Simon, I won’t; but I’ll think about it. There, now. Go home, it’s gettin’ late, and if ye happen to be passing this way to-morrow you may give us a call.”

Thus Simon O’Rook prosecuted his courtship. In process of time he married the widow, and was finally installed as master of the juvenile Holly Tree in the suburbs, while his wife conducted the parent stem in town. Vegetables and other country produce had to be conveyed to the town Tree regularly. For this purpose a pony-cart was set up, which travelled daily between it and the country branch. Thus it came to pass that O’Rook’s Californian dreams were realised, for “sure,” he was wont to say, “haven’t I got a house in the country an’ a mansion in the town, an’ if I don’t drive my carriage and four, I can always drive me cart an’ wan, anyhow, with a swate little widdy into the bargain.”

It is, we suppose, almost superfluous to say that Doctor Jack and Polly Samson were united in due course, but it is necessary to record that, by special arrangement, Walter Wilkins, Esquire, and Susan Trench were married on the same day. More than that, the Doctor and Watty so contrived matters that they rented a double villa in the suburbs of the nameless city, one-half of which was occupied by Dr Jack’s family, the other by that of Wilkins. Still further, it was so contrived by Philosopher Jack that a small cottage was built on an eminence in his garden, in which there was a room, precisely similar in all respects to that in which he had first met his father-in-law. There was a hammock in this room, slung as the original hammock had been, and although the old telescopes and sou’-westers and marine stores and charts had been sold and lost past redemption, a good many new things, bearing a strong resemblance to such articles, were purchased and placed on the walls and in the corners, so that almost the only difference between it and the old room was the absence of fishy smells. There was an improvement, also, in the view; for whereas, in the old room, the window commanded a prospect of about ten yards in extent, comprising a brick wall, a lamp-post, and a broken pump, the windows of the new room overlooked miles and miles of landscape, embracing villages, hamlets, fields, and forests, away to the horizon.

In this cottage Captain Samson took up his abode, rent free, and the money which he was thus enabled to save, or which Jack insisted on his saving, was spent in helping the poor all round his dwelling. Here the captain spent many happy hours in converse with Polly and her husband. To this room, as time rolled on, he brought a small child, to which, although not its nurse, he devoted much of his spare time, and called it “Polly.”

And oh! it was a wonderful sight to see Polly the second, with her heart in her mouth and her hair flying in the air, riding the captain’s foot “in a storm!”

Here, too, as time continued to roll on, he fabricated innumerable boats and ships for little boys, whose names were Teddie, Watty, Ben, Baldwin, and such like. In this room, also, every Sunday morning early, the captain was to be found with a large, eager, attentive class of little boys and girls, to whom he expounded the Word of God, with many an illustrative anecdote, while he sought to lead them to that dear Lord who had saved his soul, and whose Holy Spirit had enabled him to face the battles of life, in prosperity and adversity, and had made him “more than conqueror.” Here, also, in the evenings of the same holy day, he was wont to gather a meeting of old people, to whom he discanted on the same “old, old story.” In all which works he was aided and abetted by the families of the double house close by.

Besides his constant visitors among the young, the aged, and the poor, the captain had a few occasional visitors at his residence, which, by the way, was named Harmony Hall.

Among these were Bailie Trench and his wife, who were naturally attracted to that region by the presence there of a slender, loving, sprightly boy, whose name was Benjamin Walter Wilkins, and who bore—at least they thought he bore—a striking resemblance to their loved and lost son Ben. The family from the cottage on the Border also paid annual visits to Number 1 of the double house (which was the Doctor’s), and the various members of that family, being very fond of a chat with the old sailor, often found themselves of an evening in “the old store-room” (as the boys styled it) of Harmony Hall.

These visits were regularly returned, chiefly in the summer-time, by the captain and the families of the double house, on which occasions the cottage on the Border was taxed to such an extent that Philosopher Jack was obliged to purchase a neighbouring barn, which he had fitted up as a dormitory that could accommodate almost a battalion of infantry. During these visits the trouting streams of the neighbourhood were so severely whipped that the fish knew the difference between a real and an artificial fly as well as their tormentors, but they were captured for all that.

Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley were also among the occasional visitors at the Hall; but their visits were few and far between, because of their having taken up their permanent abode in California. Only when they came home on business, once in the two years, had they an opportunity of seeing their old comrade, but they never failed to take advantage of such opportunities. These men were not prone to speak about themselves, but from various remarks they made, and from their general appearance, it was easy to see that they were substantial and influential members of society in foreign parts.

From Baldwin the captain heard that Bob Corkey had, during his wanderings, fallen in with Bounce and Badger, and that these three had formed a partnership, in which they tried their luck at gold-digging, farming, fur-trading, and many other sources of livelihood, but, up to the last news of them, without success. There was hope of them yet, however, so thought Baldwin Burr, because of the latest remarks made by them in the hearing of credible witnesses. Bob Corkey, having attained to the lowest depths of destitution and despair, had, it was said, made to his comrades the following observation: “Mates, it strikes me that we are three great fools;” whereupon Bounce had replied, “We’re more than that Bob, we’re three great sinners;” to which Badger had added, with considerable emphasis, “That’s a fact,” and when men come to this, there is hope for them.

The only personage of our tale who now remains to be mentioned is Mrs Niven.

That steady-going female continued her vocation of ministering to the wants of young students, some of whom treated her well, while others—to their shame, be it said—took advantage of her amiability. In regard to this latter fact, however, it may be recorded that Peggy proved a sharp-witted, tight-handed, and zealous defender of her mistress. Among Mrs Niven’s other boarders there was one who was neither young nor a student. He came to reside with her in the following manner:—

One evening Peggy was heard in altercation with a man in the passage who seemed bent on forcing his way into the house. The students who chanced to be in their rooms at the time cocked their ears, like war-steeds snuffing the battle from afar, and hoped for a row. Mrs Niven, after opening the parlour door softly, and listening, called out, “Let the gentleman come up, Peggy.”

“Gentleman indeed!” cried the irate Peggy, who had the intruder by the throat, “he’s only a dirty auld blagyird.”

“Niver ye mind, Peggy,” returned Mrs Niven peremptorily; “I ken him. Let him up.”

Immediately after, there walked into the parlour a bowed, mean-looking, dirty little old man, who, as he sat down on a chair, paid some doubtful compliments to Peggy.

“Oh, Maister Black, is it you!” said Mrs Niven, sitting down beside him.

Besides being all that we have said, Mr Black was ragged, dishevelled, haggard, and in every way disreputable.

“Yes, it’s me, Mrs Niven,” he replied harshly, “and you see I’m in a sorry plight.”

“I see, I see,” said the good woman, taking his hand and shedding tears. “I kent ye had lost a’ by that fearfu’ bank failure, but I didna ken ye had come doon sae low. And oh! to think that it was a’ through me, an your kindness in offerin’ to tak the shares aff my hands. Oh! Maister Black, my heart is wae when I look at ye. Is there onything I can dae for ye?”

Now, it was quite a new light to Mr Black that his relative had not found him out. He had called in a fit of desperation, for the purpose of extorting money from her by any means. He now changed his tactics, and resolved to board and lodge with her gratuitously. The proposition rather startled the poor woman, for she found it difficult to make the two ends meet, even when her house was full of lodgers. She had not the heart to refuse him, however, and thus Mr Black was fairly installed in the old room whose window opened on the cats’ parade.

In her difficulty Mrs Niven went, as she was in the habit of doing, to Philosopher Jack, to whom she represented Mr Black as such a suffering and self-sacrificing man, that his heart was quite melted.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mrs Niven,” he said. “There is a sum of money in my father’s possession, the interest of which enabled me to pay my way when I came back from the gold-fields. My father won’t use that money himself and I won’t accept it from him. We have therefore resolved to devote it to charitable purposes. Now, we will give Mr Black a small annuity out of it, for your sake, Mrs Niven.”

Philosopher Jack was not, however, so easily deceived as Mrs Niven. He afterwards “found out” Mr Black, and told him so in very stern language. Nevertheless, he did not stop his allowance. Neither did he enlighten Mrs Niven as to the man’s true character, though he kept a sharp eye on him.

Thus did Mr Black become a pensioner and a free boarder. There is no sinner on this side (of) the grave who is beyond redemption. That which prosperity and adversity had equally failed to accomplish, was finally brought about by unmerited kindness,—Mr Black’s spirit was quietly and gradually, but surely, broken. The generous forbearance of Edwin Jack, and the loving Christian sympathy of his intended victim, proved too much for him. He confessed his sin to Jack, and offered to resign his pension; but Jack would not hear of it, as the pensioner was by that time too old and feeble to work. He also confessed to Mrs Niven, but that unsuspecting woman refused to believe that he ever did or could harbour so vile a design towards her, and she continued in that mind to her dying day.

Peggy, however, was made of sterner stuff. She not only believed his confession, but she refused to believe in his repentance, and continued to treat him with marked disrespect until her mistress died. After that however, she relented, and retired with him to a poorer residence, in the capacity of his servant. Peggy was eccentric in her behaviour. While she nursed him with the assiduous care and kindness of a rough but honest nature, she continued to call him a “dirty auld blagyird” to the last. The expression of this sentiment did not, however, prevent her from holding more polite intercourse. When his eyes grew dim, she read to him not only from the Bible, but from the Pilgrim’s Progress and Robinson Crusoe, which were their favourites among the books of the little library furnished to them by Christian friends. And many sage and original remarks did Peggy make on those celebrated books. The topics of conversation which she broached with Mr Black from time to time were numerous, as a matter of course, for Peggy was loquacious; but that to which she most frequently recurred was the wonderful career of Philosopher Jack, for Peggy liked to sing his praises, and never tired of treating the old man to long-winded accounts of that hero’s ever memorable voyage to the Southern Seas.

The End.

List of Illustrations

The two went over together

Immediately a shower of arrows fell around him

The savages at the moment were whirling around him

The ruddy glare of the fire fell warmly on the rocky walls

Chapter One.

In which the Reader is introduced to a Mad Hero, a Reckless Lover, and a Runaway Husband—Backwoods Juvenile Training described—The Principles of Fighting fully discussed, and some valuable Hints thrown out.

March Marston was mad! The exact state of madness to which March had attained at the age when we take up his personal history—namely, sixteen—is uncertain, for the people of the backwoods settlement in which he dwelt differed in their opinions on that point.

The clergyman, who was a Wesleyan, said he was as wild as a young buffalo bull; but the manner in which he said so led his hearers to conclude that he did not think such a state of ungovernable madness to be a hopeless condition, by any means. The doctor said he was as mad as a hatter; but this was an indefinite remark, worthy of a doctor who had never obtained a diploma, and required explanation, inasmuch as it was impossible to know how mad he considered a hatter to be. Some of the trappers who came to the settlement for powder and lead, said he was as mad as a grisly bear with a whooping-cough—a remark which, if true, might tend to throw light on the diseases to which the grisly bear is liable, but which failed to indicate to any one, except perhaps trappers, the extent of young Marston’s madness. The carpenter and the blacksmith of the place—who were fast friends and had a pitched battle only once a month, or twice at most—agreed in saying that he was as mad as a wild-cat. In short, every one asserted stoutly that the boy was mad, with the exception of the women of the settlement, who thought him a fine, bold, handsome fellow; and his own mother, who thought him a paragon of perfection, and who held the opinion (privately) that, in the wide range of the habitable globe there was not another like him—and she was not far wrong!

Now, the whole and sole reason why March Marston was thus deemed a madman, was that he displayed an insane tendency, at all times and in all manners, to break his own neck, or to make away with himself in some similarly violent and uncomfortable manner.

There was not a fence in the whole countryside that March had not bolted over at full gallop, or ridden crash through if he could not go over it. There was not a tree within a circuit of four miles from the top of which he had not fallen. There was not a pond or pool in the neighbourhood into which he had not soused at some period of his stormy juvenile career, and there was not a big boy whom he had not fought and thrashed—or been thrashed by—scores of times.

But for all this March had not a single enemy. He did his companions many a kind turn; never an unkind one. He fought for love, not for hatred. He loved a dog—if any one kicked it, he fought him. He loved a little boy—if any one was cruel to that little boy, he fought him. He loved fair play—if any one was guilty of foul play, he fought him. When he was guilty of foul play himself (as was sometimes the case, for who is perfect?) he felt inclined to jump out of his own body and turn about and thrash himself! And he would have done so often, had it been practicable. Yes, there is no doubt whatever about it March Marston was mad—as mad, after a fashion, as any creature, human or otherwise, you choose to name.

Young Marston’s mother was a handsome, stout, blue-eyed, flaxen-haired woman, of a little over thirty-five summers. She was an English emigrant, and had, seventeen years before the time we write of settled at Pine Point, on the banks of the Yellowstone River, along with her brother, the blacksmith above referred to. At that time she was the sweetest maiden in all the village, and now she was the handsomest matron. Indeed, the bloom of her youth remained on her cheeks so little impaired that she was often mistaken by strangers for March Marston’s elder sister. The men of the place called her pretty widow Marston; but she was not a widow—at least, they had as little ground for saying that she was as they had for asserting that her son was mad. Mrs Marston was peculiarly circumstanced, but she was not a widow.

The peculiar circumstances connected with her history are soon told. Immediately after the arrival of the blacksmith and his pretty sister at Pine Point settlement, a tall stout young stripling—a trapper—about a year older than herself, fell deeply in love with Mary West—that being Mrs Marston’s maiden name. The young trapper’s case was desperate. He sank at once so deep into the profundities of love, that no deep-sea lead, however ingeniously contrived, could reach him.

Although just emerging from boyhood, Louis the trapper was already a tall, strong, handsome man, and Mary felt flattered by his attentions. But when, a month afterwards, he boldly offered her his hand and fortune (which latter consisted of a trapper’s costume and a western rifle), she was taken aback and flatly refused him. Louis was hare-brained and passionate. He told her he would give her one day and a night to think of it. At the end of that time he came back and was again refused, for Mary West had no notion of being taken by storm in that fashion. But she trembled and grew pale on observing the storm of angry passion that gleamed from the young trapper’s eyes and caused his broad chest to heave violently. He did not speak. He did not even look at Mary—had he done so, years of sorrow and suffering might have been spared them both. He stood for one moment with his eyes fixed upon the ground—then he turned, sprang through the doorway, vaulted on his horse, and went off from her cottage door as an arrow leaps from a bow. The fences and ditches that lay in his way were no impediment. His powerful steed carried him over all and into the forest beyond, where he was quickly lost to view. Mary tried to resume her household occupations with a sigh. She did not believe he was gone. But he was!

At first Mary was nettled; then she grew sad; as weeks passed away she became nettled again, and at this juncture another suitor appeared in the shape of a young immigrant farmer, whose good looks and insinuating address soothed her irritation at the strange abrupt conduct of her lover. She began to think that she must have been mistaken in supposing that she cared for the wild trapper—and, in order to prove the correctness of her supposition, she married Obadiah Marston, the farmer.

Alas! poor Mary discovered her error too late. Marston turned out a profligate drunkard. At first he did not come out in his true colours. A son was born, and he insisted on calling him March, for no other reason than that he was born in the month so named. Mary was obliged to consent, and at last came to congratulate herself that the child had been born in March, and not in April or October, or any other month equally unsuitable for a Christian name. After the first year, Obadiah Marston treated his wife badly, then brutally, and at last he received a sound drubbing from his brother-in-law, the blacksmith, for having beaten poor Mary with a stick. This brought things to a climax. Marston vowed he would forsake his wife, and never set eyes on her again; and he kept his vow. He embarked one day in a boat that was going down to the Missouri with a cargo of furs, and his poor wife never saw him again. Thus was Mary West forsaken, first by her lover and then by her husband.

It was long before she recovered from the blow; but time gradually reconciled her to her lot, and she devoted herself thenceforth to the training of her little boy. As years rolled on, Mrs Marston recovered her spirits and her looks; but, although many a fine young fellow sought her heart and hand, assuring her that she was a widow—that she must be a widow, that no man in his senses could remain so long away from such a wife unless he were dead—she turned a deaf ear to them all.

March Marston’s infancy was spent in yelling and kicking, with the exception of those preternaturally calm periods when he was employed in eating and sleeping. As he grew older the kicking and yelling decreased, the eating increased, and the sleeping continued pretty much the same. Then came a period when he began to learn his A, B, C. Mrs Marston had been well educated for her station in life. She had read much, and had brought a number of books to the backwoods settlement; so she gave her boy a pretty good education—as education went in those days—and certainly a much better one than was given to boys in such out-of-the-way regions. She taught him to read and write, and carried him on in arithmetic as far as compound division, where she stuck, having reached the extreme limits of her own tether.

Contemporaneously with the cessation of squalling and kicking, and the acquirement of the A, B, C, there arose in little March’s bosom unutterable love for his mother; or, rather, the love that had always dwelt there began to well up powerfully, and to overflow in copious streams of obedience and considerate attention. About the same time the roving, reckless “madness,” as it was styled, began to develop itself. And, strange to say, Mrs Marston did not check that! She was a large-minded, a liberal-minded woman, that semi-widow. She watched her son closely, but very few of his deeds were regarded by her in the light of faults. Tumbling off trees was not. Falling into ditches and horse ponds was not. Fighting was, to some extent; and on this point alone did mother and son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if we may style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent and extreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion on the subject.

“Why, mother,” said March in surprise (having attained the mature age of eight when he said it), “if a grisly bear was to ’tack me, you’d let me defend myself, wouldn’t you?”

Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed, putting such a question, and replied—

“Certainly, my boy.”

“And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn’t I right to fight him for that?”

“Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and helpless.”

The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to say—

“Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin’, then, if it’s right?”

“Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight with Bill Summers, hadn’t you, yesterday?”

“Yes, mother.”

Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its ordinary proportions as it continued—

“But I didn’t lick him, mother, he licked me. But I’ll try again, mother—indeed I will, and I’ll be sure to lick him next time.”

“I don’t want you to try again,” rejoined Mrs Marston; “and you must not try again without a good reason. Why did you fight him yesterday?”

“Because he told a lie,” said the object promptly, swelling out again, and looking big under the impression that the goodness of its reason could not be questioned. It was, therefore, with a look of baffled surprise that it collapsed again on being told that that was not a sufficient reason for engaging in warfare, and that it was wrong to take the law into its own hands, or to put in its word or its little fist, where it had no right to interfere—and a great deal more to that effect.

“But, March, my boy,” said Mrs Marston, drawing the object towards her and patting its round little fair head, “what makes you so fond of fighting?”

“I ain’t fond o’ fighting, mother, but I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help it! Do you ever try?”

“I—I—no, I don’t think that I do. But I feel so funny when I see Bill Summers cheatin’ at play. I feel all over red-hot—like—oh! you’ve seen the big pot boilin’ over? Well, I just feel like that. An’ w’en it boils over, you know, mother, it must be took off the fire, else it kicks up sich a row! But there’s nobody to take me off the fire when I’m boilin’ over, an’ there’s no fire to take me off—so you see I can’t help it. Can I?”

As the object concluded these precociously philosophical remarks, it looked up in its mother’s face with an earnest inquiring gaze. The mother looked down at it with an equally earnest look—though there was a twinkle in each eye and a small dimple in each cheek that indicated a struggle with gravity—and said—

“I could stop the big pot from boiling-over without taking it off the fire.”

“How?” inquired Two-feet-ten eagerly.

“By letting it boil over till it put the fire out.”

The object opened its eyes very wide, and pursed its mouth very tight; then it relaxed, grinned a little with an air of uncertainty, and was about to laugh, but checked itself, and, with a look of perplexity, said—

“Eh?”

“Ay, my boy,” resumed the mother, “just you try the boiling-over plan next time. When you feel inclined to fight, and know, or think, that you shouldn’t, just stand quite still, and look hard at the ground—mind, don’t look at the boy you want to fight with, but at the ground—and begin to count one, two, three, four, and so on, and I’m quite sure that when you’ve counted fifty the fire will be out. Now, will you try, my son?”

“Mother,” replied Two-feet-ten earnestly (and becoming at least two feet eleven while he spoke), “I’ll try!”

This ended the conversation at that time, and we beg leave to apologise to our reader for having given it in such full detail, but we think it necessary to the forming of a just appreciation of our hero and his mother, as it shows one phase of their characters better than could have been accomplished by a laboured description.

Before March Marston had attained to the age of sixteen he had read aloud to his mother—not once, but several times—the “Vicar of Wakefield,” “Robinson Crusoe,” the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and “Tales of a Grandfather,” “Aesop’s Fables,” and a variety of tales and stories and histories of lesser note—all of which he stored up in a good memory, and gave forth in piecemeal to his unlettered companions as opportunity offered. Better than all this, he had many and many a time read his Bible through, and was familiar with all its leading heroes and histories and anecdotes.

Thus, it will be seen that March Marston was quite a learned youth for a backwoodsman, besides being a hero and a “madman.”

Chapter Two.

The Great Prairie—A Wild Chase—A Remarkable Accident and an Extraordinary Charger, all of which terminate in a Crash—Bounce talks Philosophy and tells of terrible Things—Our Hero determines to beard the Wild Man of the West in his own Den.

The rising sun lifted his head above the horizon of the great western prairie, gilding the upper edges of those swelling undulations that bear so strong a resemblance to solidified billows as to have acquired the name of prairie waves.

On the sunny side of these waves the flowerets of the plains were already basking in full enjoyment of the new day; on the summits only the tips of their petals were turned to gold. On the other side of those waves, and down in the hollows, everything was clothed in deep shadow, as if the still undissipated shades of night were lingering there, unwilling or unable to depart from so beautiful a scene. This mingling of strong lights and deep shadows had the effect of rendering more apparent the tremendous magnitude of those vast solitudes.

There were no trees within the circuit of vision, but there were a few scattered bushes, so low and insignificant in appearance as to be quite unobvious to the eye, except when close to the feet of the spectator. Near to a clump of these bushes there stood two horses motionless, as if chiselled in stone, and with their heads drooping low, as if sound asleep. Directly under the noses of these horses lay two men, each wrapped in a blanket, with his head pillowed on his saddle, and his rifle close at his side. Both were also sound asleep.

About a mile distant from the spot on which those sleepers rested, there grew another small bush, and under its sheltering boughs, in the snuggest conceivable hole, nestled a grouse, or prairie hen, also sound asleep, with its head lost in feathers, and its whole rotund aspect conveying the idea of extreme comfort and good living. Now, we do not draw the reader’s attention to that bird because of its rarity, but because of the fact that it was unwittingly instrumental in influencing the fortunes of the two sleepers above referred to.

The sun in his upward march overtopped a prairie wave, and his rays, darting onward, struck the bosom of the prairie hen, and awoke it. Looking up quickly with one eye, it seemed to find the glare too strong, winked at the sun, and turned the other eye. With this it winked also, then got up, flapped its wings, ruffled its feathers, and, after a pause, sprang into the air with that violent whirr–r which is so gladdening, yet so startling, to the ear of a sportsman. It was instantly joined by the other members of the covey to which it belonged, and the united flock went sweeping past the sleeping hunters, causing their horses to awake with a snort, and themselves to spring to their feet with the alacrity of men who were accustomed to repose in the midst of alarms, and with a grunt of surprise.

“Prairie-hens,” muttered the elder of the two—a big, burly backwoodsman—as he turned towards his companion with a quiet smile. “It was very thoughtful on ’em to rouse us, lad, considerin’ the work that lies before us.”

“I wish, with all my heart, they didn’t rise quite so early,” replied the younger man, also a stout backwoodsman, who was none other than our hero March Marston himself; “I don’t approve of risin’ until one wakes in the course of nature; d’ye see, Bounce?”

“I hear; but we can’t always git things to go ’xactly as we approves of,” replied Bounce, stooping down to arrange the embers of the previous night’s fire.

Bounce’s proper name was Bob Ounce. He styled himself, and wrote himself (for he could write to the extent of scrawling his own name in angularly irregular large text), “B. Ounce.” His comrades called him “Bounce.”

“You see, March,” continued Bounce in a quiet way, thrusting his rugged countenance close to the embers occasionally, and blowing up the spark which he had kindled by means of flint, steel, and tinder—“you see, this is a cur’ous wurld; it takes a feelosopher to onderstand it c’rectly, and even he don’t make much o’t at the best. But I’ve always noticed that w’en the time for wakin’ up’s come, we’ve got to wake up whether we like it or no; d’ye see, lad?”

“I’d see better if you didn’t blow the ashes into my eyes in that way,” answered March, laughing at the depth of his companion’s philosophical remark. “But I say, old chap,” (March had no occasion to call him “old chap,” for Bounce was barely forty), “what if we don’t fall in with a herd?”

“Then we shall have to go home without meat that’s all,” replied Bounce, filling and lighting his pipe.

“But I promised my mother a buffalo-hump in less than three days, and the first day and night are gone.”

“You’d no right to promise your mother a hump,” returned the plain-spoken and matter-of-fact hunter. “Nobody shud never go to promise wot they can’t perform. I’ve lived, off an’ on, nigh forty years now, and I’ve obsarved them wot promises most always does least; so if you’ll take the advice of an oldish hunter, you’ll give it up, lad, at once.”

“Humph!” ejaculated March, “I suppose you began your obsarvations before you were a year old—eh, Bounce?”

“I began ’em afore I was a day old. The first thing I did in this life was to utter an ’orrible roar, and I obsarved that immediately I got a drink; so I roared agin, an’ got another. Leastwise I’ve bin told that I did, an’ if it wasn’t obsarvation as caused me for to roar w’en I wanted a drink, wot wos it?”

Instead of replying, March started up, and shading his eyes with his right hand, gazed intently towards the horizon.

“Wot now, lad?” said Bounce, rising quickly. “Ha! buffaloes!”

In half a minute the cords by which the two horses were fastened to pegs driven into the plain, were coiled up; in another half-minute the saddle-girths were buckled; in half a second more the men were mounted and tearing over the prairie like the wind.

“Ha, lad,” remarked Bounce with one of his quiet smiles—for he was a pre-eminently quiet man—“but for them there prairie-hens we’d ha’ slept this chance away.”

The buffaloes, or, more correctly speaking, the bisons which young Marston’s sharp eye had discovered, were still so far-distant that they appeared like crows or little black specks against the sky. In order to approach them as near as possible without attracting their attention, it was necessary that the two horsemen should make a wide circuit, so as to get well to leeward, lest the wind should carry the scent of them to the herd. Their horses, being fleet, strong, and fresh, soon carried them to the proper direction, when they wheeled to the right, and galloped straight down upon their quarry, without any further attempt at concealment. The formation of the ground favoured their approach, so that they were within a mile of the herd before being discovered.

At first the huge, hairy creatures gazed at the hunters in stupid surprise; then they turned and fled. They appeared, at the outset, to run slowly and with difficulty, and the plain seemed to thunder with their heavy tread, for there could not have been fewer than a thousand animals in the herd. But as the horsemen drew near they increased their speed and put the steeds, fleet and strong though they were, to their mettle.

On approaching the buffaloes the horsemen separated, each fixing his attention on a particularly fat young cow and pressing towards it. Bounce was successful in coming up with the one he had selected, and put a ball through its heart at the first shot. Not so Marston. Misfortune awaited him. Having come close up with the animal he meant to shoot, he cocked his rifle and held it in readiness across the pommel of his saddle, at the same time urging his horse nearer, in order to make a sure shot. When the horse had run up so close that its head was in line with the buffalo’s flank, he pointed his rifle at its shoulder. At that precise moment the horse, whose attention was entirely engrossed with the buffalo, put its left forefoot into a badger’s hole. The consequence of such an accident is, usually, a tremendous flight through the air on the part of the rider, while his steed rolls upon the plain; but on the present occasion a still more surprising result followed. March Marston not only performed the aerial flight, but he alighted with considerable violence on the back of the affrighted buffalo. Falling on his face in a sprawling manner, he chanced to grasp the hairy mane of the creature with both hands, and, with a violent half-involuntary effort, succeeded in seating himself astride its back.

The whole thing was done so instantaneously that he had scarce time to realise what had happened to him ere he felt himself sweeping comfortably over the prairie on this novel and hitherto unridden steed! A spirit of wild, ungovernable glee instantly arose within him. Seizing the handle of the heavy hunting-whip, which still hung from his right wrist by a leather thong, he flourished it in the air, and brought it down on his charger’s flank with a crack like a pistol-shot, causing the animal to wriggle its tail, toss its ponderous head, and kick up its heels, in a way that wellnigh unseated him.

The moment Bounce beheld this curious apparition, he uttered a short laugh, or grunt, and, turning his horse abruptly, soon ranged up alongside.

“Hallo, March!” he exclaimed, “are you mad, boy?”

“Just about it,” cried Marston, giving the buffalo another cut with the whip, as he looked round with sparkling eyes and a broad grin at the hunter.

“Come, now, that won’t do,” said Bounce gravely. “I’m ’sponsible to your mother for you. Git off now, or I’ll poke ye over.”

“Git off!” shouted the youth, “how can I?”

“Well, keep your right leg a bit to one side, an’ I’ll stop yer horse for ye,” said Bounce, coolly cocking his rifle.

“Hold hard, old fellow!” cried Marston, in some alarm; “you’ll smash my thigh-bone if you try. Stay, I’ll do the thing myself.”

Saying this, Marston drew his long hunting-knife, and plunged it into the buffalo’s side.

“Lower down, lad—lower down. Ye can’t reach the life there.”

March bent forward, and plunged his knife into the animal’s side again—up to the hilt; but it still kept on its headlong course, although the blood flowed in streams upon the plain. The remainder of the buffaloes had diverged right and left, leaving this singular group alone.

“Mind your eye,” said Bounce quickly, “she’s a-goin’ to fall.”

Unfortunately Marston had not time given him to mind either his eye or his neck. The wounded buffalo stumbled, and fell to the ground with a sudden and heavy plunge, sending its wild rider once again on an aerial journey, which terminated in his coming down on the plain so violently that he was rendered insensible.

On recovering consciousness, he found himself lying on his back, in what seemed to be a beautiful forest, through which a stream flowed with a gentle, silvery sound. The bank opposite rose considerably higher than the spot on which he lay, and he could observe, through his half-closed eyelids, that its green slope was gemmed with beautiful flowers, and gilded with patches of sunlight that struggled through the branches overhead.

Young Marston’s first impression was that he must be dreaming, and that he had got into one of the fairytale regions about which he had so often read to his mother. A shadow seemed to pass over his eyes as he thought this, and, looking up, he beheld the rugged face of Bounce gazing at him with an expression of considerable interest and anxiety.

“I say, Bounce, this is jolly!”

“Is it?” replied the hunter with a “humph!”

“If ye try to lift yer head, I guess you’ll change yer opinion.”

Marston did try to raise his head, and did change his opinion. His neck felt as if it were a complication of iron hinges, which had become exceedingly rusty, and stood much in need of oil.

“Oh dear!” groaned Marston, letting his head fall back on the saddle from which he had raised it.

“Ah, I thought so!” remarked Bounce.

“And is that all the sympathy you have got to give me, you old savage?” said the youth testily.

“By no means,” replied the other, patting his head; “here’s a drop o’ water as’ll do ye good, lad, and after you’ve drunk it, I’ll rub ye down.”

“Thank’ee for the water,” said Marston with a deep sigh, as he lay back, after drinking with difficulty; “as to the rubbin’ down, I’ll ask for that when I want it. But tell me, Bounce, what has happened to me?—oh! I remember now—the buffalo cow and that famous gallop. Ha! ha! ha!—ho—o!”

Marston’s laugh terminated in an abrupt groan as the rusty hinges again clamoured for oil.

“You’ll have to keep quiet, boy, for a few hours, and take a sleep if you can. I’ll roast a bit o’ meat and rub ye down with fat after you’ve eat as much of it as ye can. There’s nothing like beef for a sick man’s inside, an’ fat for his outside—that’s the feelosophy o’ the whole matter. You’ve a’most bin bu’sted wi’ that there fall; but you’ll be alright to-morrow. An’ you’ve killed yer buffalo, lad, so yer mother ’ll get the hump after all. Only keep yer mind easy, an’ I guess human nature ’ll do the rest.”

Having delivered himself of these sentiments in a quietly oracular manner, Bounce again patted March on the head, as if he had been a large baby or a favourite dog, and, rising up, proceeded to kindle a small fire, and to light his pipe.

Bounce smoked a tomahawk, which is a small iron hatchet used by most of the Indians of North America as a battle-axe. There is an iron pipe bowl on the top of the weapon, and the handle, which is hollow, answers the purpose of a pipe stem.

The hunter continued to smoke, and Marston continued to gaze at him till he fell asleep. When he awoke, Bounce was still smoking his tomahawk in the self-same attitude. The youth might have concluded that he had been asleep only a few minutes and that his friend had never moved; but he was of an observant nature, and noticed that there was a savoury, well-cooked buffalo-steak near the fire, and that a strong odour of marrow-bones tickled his nostrils—also, that the sun no longer rested on the green bank opposite. Hence, he concluded that he must have slept a considerable time, and that the tomahawk had been filled and emptied more than once.

“Well, lad,” said Bounce, looking round, “had a comf’rable nap?”

“How did you know I was awake?” said March. “You weren’t looking at me, and I didn’t move.”

“P’r’aps not, lad; but you winked.”

“And, pray, how did you know that?”

“’Cause ye couldn’t wink if ye wos asleep, an’ I heerd ye breathe diff’rent from afore, so I know’d ye wos awake; an’ I knows that a man always winks w’en he comes awake, d’ye see? That’s wot I calls the feelosophy of obsarvation.”

“Very good,” replied Marston, “and, that bein’ the case, I should like much to try a little of the ‘feelosophy’ of supper.”

“Right, lad, here you are; there’s nothin’ like it,” rejoined Bounce, handing a pewter plate of juicy steak and marrow-bones to his young companion.

Marston attained a sitting posture with much difficulty and pain; but when he had eaten the steak and the marrow-bones he felt much better; and when he had swallowed a cup of hot tea (for they carried a small quantity of tea and sugar with them, by way of luxury), he felt immensely better; and when he finally lay down for the night he felt perfectly well—always excepting a sensation of general batteredness about the back, and a feeling of rusty-hinges-wanting-oiliness in the region of the neck.

“Now, Bounce,” said he, as he lay down and pulled his blanket over his shoulder, “are the horses hobbled and the rifles loaded, and my mother’s hump out o’ the way of wolves?”

“All right, lad.”

“Then, Bounce, you go ahead and tell me a story till I’m off asleep. Don’t stop tellin’ till I’m safe off. Pull my nose to make sure; and if I don’t say ‘hallo!’ to that, I’m all right—in the land of Nod.”

March Marston smiled as he said this, and Bounce grinned by way of reply.

“Wot’ll I tell ye about, boy?”

“I don’t mind what—Indians, grislies, buffaloes, trappers—it’s all one to me; only begin quick and go ahead strong.”

“Well, I ain’t great at story-tellin’! P’r’aps it would be more to the p’int if I was to tell ye about what I heer’d tell of on my last trip to the Mountains. Did I ever tell ye about the feller as the trappers that goes to the far North calls the ‘Wild Man o’ the West’?”

“No; what was he?” said Marston, yawning and closing his eyes.

“I dun know ’xactly wot he was. I’m not overly sure that I even know wot he is, but I know wot the trappers says of him; an’ if only the half o’t’s true, he’s a shiner, he is.”

Having said this much, Bounce filled his tomahawk, lighted it, puffed a large cloud from it, and looked through the smoke at his companion.

March, whose curiosity was aroused, partly by the novelty of the “Wild Man’s” title, and partly by the lugubrious solemnity of Bounce, said—

“Go on, old boy.”

“Ha! it’s easy to say, ‘go on;’ but if you know’d the ’orrible things as is said about the Wild Man o’ the Mountains, p’r’aps you’d say, ‘Go off.’ It ’ll make yer blood froze.”

“Never mind.”

“An’ yer hair git up on end.”

“Don’t care.”

“An’ yer two eyes start out o’ yer head.”

“All right.”

Bounce, who was deeply superstitious, looked at his young friend with severe gravity for at least two minutes. Marston, who was not quite so superstitious, looked at his comrade for exactly the same length of time, and winked with one eye at the end of it.

“They says,” resumed Bounce in a deep tone, “the Wild Man o’ the West eats men!”

“Don’t he eat women?” inquired March sleepily.

“Yes, an’ childers too. An’ wot’s wuss, he eats ’em raw, an’ they say he once swallered one—a little one—alive, without chewin’ or chokin’!” (“Horrible!” murmured March.) “He’s a dead shot, too; he carries a double-barrelled rifle twenty foot long that takes a small cannon-ball. I forgot to tell ye he’s a giant—some o’ the trappers calls him the ‘giant o’ the hills,’ and they say he’s ’bout thirty feet high—some says forty. But there’s no gittin’ at the truth in this here wurld.”

Bounce paused here, but, as his companion made no observation, he went on in a half-soliloquising fashion, looking earnestly all the time into the heart of the fire, as if he were addressing his remarks to a salamander.

“Ay, he’s a crack shot, as I wos sayin’. One day he fell in with a grisly bar, an’ the brute rushed at him; so he up rifle an’ puts a ball up each nose,”—(“I didn’t know a grisly had two noses,” murmured March,)—“an’ loaded agin’, an’ afore it comed up he put a ball in each eye; then he drew his knife an’ split it right down the middle from nose to tail at one stroke, an’ cut it across with another stroke; an’, puttin’ one quarter on his head, he took another quarter under each arm, an’ the fourth quarter in his mouth, and so walked home to his cave in the mountains—’bout one hundred and fifty miles off, where he roasted an’ ate the whole bar at one sittin’—bones, hair, an’ all!”

This flight was too strong for March. He burst into a fit of laughter, which called the rusty hinges into violent action and produced a groan. The laugh and the groan together banished drowsiness, so he turned on his back, and said—

“Bounce, do you really believe all that?”

Thus pointedly questioned on what he felt to be a delicate point, Bounce drew a great number of whiffs from the tomahawk ere he ventured to reply. At length he said—

“Well, to say truth, an’ takin’ a feelosophical view o’ the p’int—I don’t. But I b’lieve some of it. I do b’lieve there’s some ’xtraord’nary critter in them there mountains—for I’ve lived nigh forty years, off and on, in these parts, an’ I’ve always obsarved that in this wurld w’enever ye find anythin’ ye’ve always got somethin’. Nobody never got hold o’ somethin’ an’ found afterwards that it wos nothin’. So I b’lieve there’s somethin’ in this wild man—how much I dun know.”

Bounce followed up this remark with a minute account of the reputed deeds of this mysterious creature, all of which were more or less marvellous; and at length succeeded in interesting his young companion so deeply, as to fill him with a good deal of his own belief in at least a wild something that dwelt in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.

After a great deal of talk, and prolonged discussion, Bounce concluded with the assertion that “he’d give his best rifle, an’ that was his only one, to see this wild man.”

To which Marston replied—

“I’ll tell you what it is, Bounce, I will see this wild man, if it’s in the power of bones and muscles to carry me within eyeshot of him. Now, see if I don’t.”

Bounce nodded his head and looked sagacious, as he said—

“D’ye know, lad, I don’t mind if I go along with ye. It’s true, I’m not tired of them parts hereabouts—and if I wos to live till I couldn’t see, I don’t think as ever I’d git tired o’ the spot where my father larned me to shoot an’ my mother dandled me on her knee; but I’ve got a fancy to see a little more o’ the wurld—’specially the far-off parts o’ the Rocky Mountains, w’ere I’ve never bin yit; so I do b’lieve if ye wos to try an’ persuade me very hard I’d consent to go along with ye.”

“Will you, though?” cried March eagerly (again, to his cost, forgetting the rusty hinges).

“Ay, that will I, boy,” replied the hunter; “an’ now I think on it, there’s four as jolly trappers in Pine Point settlement at this here moment as ever floored a grisly or fought an Injun. They’re the real sort of metal. None o’ yer tearin’, swearin’, murderin’ chaps, as thinks the more they curse the bolder they are, an’ the more Injuns they kill the cliverer they are; but steady quiet fellers, as don’t speak much, but does a powerful quantity; boys that know a deer from a Blackfoot Injun, I guess; that goes to the mountains to trap and comes back to sell their skins, an’ w’en they’ve sold ’em, goes right off agin, an’ niver drinks.”

“I know who you mean, I think; at least I know one of them,” observed March.

“No ye don’t, do ye? Who?”

“Waller, the Yankee.”

“That’s one,” said Bounce, nodding; “Big Waller, we calls him.”

“I’m not sure that I can guess the others. Surely Tim Slater isn’t one?”

“No!” said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a character the reverse of noble. “Try agin.”

“I can’t guess.”

“One’s a French Canadian,” said Bounce; “a little chap, with a red nose an’ a pair o’ coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion.”

“I know him,” interrupted March; “Gibault Noir—Black Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?”

“Right, lad; that’s two. Then there’s Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his people after that an’ tuck to trappin’ with the whites; that’s three. An’ there’s Redhand, the old trapper that’s bin off and on between this place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe.”

“Oh, I know him well. He must be made of iron, I think, to go through what he does at his time of life. I wonder what his right name is?”

“Nobody knows that, lad. You know, as well as I do, that he wos called Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o’ the lot o’ grislies he’s killed in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name. P’r’aps it’s not worth gittin’ at. Now, them four ’ll be startin’ in a week or two for the mountains, an’ wot’s to hinder us a-jinin’ of them?”

To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate emphasis, “Nothin’ wotsomdiver;” and his young companion heartily echoed the sentiment.

Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his mother’s cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the title of madman. Flinging the bloody mass of meat on the floor he sat down on a chair, and said—

“There, mother!”

“Well, you are a clever fellow,” said Mrs Marston, drying her hands (for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on the forehead.

“Clever or not clever, mother, I’m off to the Rocky Mountains in two days.”

Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that sort of thing, and didn’t mind it.

“What to do there, my boy?”

“To see the Wild Man o’ the West.”

“The what?”

“The Wild Man o’ the West, mother.”

It is needless to try our reader’s patience with the long conversation that followed. March had resolved to preach a discourse with the “Wild Man o’ the West” for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to let him go, but commended him for his resolution. The only restraint she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild Man, if he should happen to meet with him.

“You may look at him, March (Mrs Marston spoke of him as if he were a caged wild beast!) and you may speak to him, but you must not fight with him, except in self-defence. If he lets you alone, you must let him alone. Promise me that, boy.”

“I promise, mother.”

Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce, and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers. A cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail craft shot out into the stream. The wild woods echoed back the cheer, which mingled with the lusty answering shout of the trappers as they waved their caps to the friends they left behind them. Then, dipping their paddles with strong rapid strokes, they headed the canoe towards the Rocky Mountains, and soon disappeared up one of those numerous tributary streams that constitute the head waters of the Missouri river.

Chapter Three.

The Beauties of the Wilderness—Portages—Philosophy of Settling Down—An Enormous Footprint—Supper procured, and a Bear-hunt in prospect.

After paddling, and hauling, and lifting, and tearing, and wading, and toiling, and struggling, for three weeks, our hero and his friends found themselves deep in the heart of the unknown wilderness—unknown, at least, to the civilised world, though not altogether unknown to the trappers and the Red Indians of the Far West.

There is something inexpressibly romantic and captivating in the idea of traversing those wild regions of this beautiful world of ours which have never been visited by human beings, with the exception of a few wandering savages who dwell therein.

So thought and felt young Marston one splendid afternoon, as he toiled up to the summit of a grassy mound with a heavy pack on his shoulders. Throwing down the pack, he seated himself upon it, wiped his heated brow with the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and gazed with delight upon the noble landscape that lay spread out before him.

“Ha! that’s the sort o’ thing—that’s it!”—he exclaimed, nodding his head, as if the rich and picturesque arrangement of wood and water had been got up expressly for his benefit, and he were pleased to signify his entire approval of it.

“That’s just it,” he continued after a short contemplative pause, “just what I expected to find. Ain’t I glad? eh?”

March certainly looked as if he was; but, being at that moment alone, no one replied to his question or shared his enjoyment. After another pause he resumed his audible meditations.

“Now, did ever any one see sich a place as this in all the wide ’arth? That’s what I want to know. Never! Just look at it now. There’s miles an’ miles o’ woods an’ plains, an’ lakes, an’ rivers, wherever I choose to look—all round me. And there are deer, too, lots of ’em, lookin’ quite tame, and no wonder, for I suppose the fut of man never rested here before, except, maybe, the fut of a redskin now an’ again. And there’s poplars, an’ oaks, an’ willows, as thick as they can grow.”

March might have added that there were also elm, and sycamore, and ash, and hickory, and walnut, and cotton-wood trees in abundance, with numerous aspen groves, in the midst of which were lakelets margined with reeds and harebells, and red willows, and wild roses, and chokeberries, and prickly pears, and red and white currants. He might, we say, have added all this, and a great deal more, with perfect truth; but he didn’t, for his knowledge of the names of such things was limited, so he confined himself, like a wise youth, to the enumeration of those things that he happened to be acquainted with.

“And,” continued March, starting up and addressing his remark to a hollow in the ground a few yards off, “there’s grisly bars here, too, for there’s the futmark of one, as sure as I’m a white man!”

Most people would have been inclined to differ with March in regard to his being a white man, for he was as brown as constant exposure in hot weather could make him; but he referred to his blood rather than to his skin, which was that of white parents.

The footprint which he had discovered was, indeed, that of a grisly bear, and he examined it with more than usual interest, for, although many of those ferocious denizens of the western woods had been already seen, and a few shot by the trappers on their voyage to this point, none had been seen so large as the monster whose footprint now attracted Marston’s attention. The print was eleven inches long, exclusive of the claws, and seven inches broad.

While March was busily engaged in examining it, Black Gibault came panting up the hill with a huge pack on his back.

“Ho! March, me garçon, vat you be find là?” cried the Canadian, throwing down his pack and advancing. “A bar, Gibault; Caleb himself. A regular big un, too. Just look here.”

“Ah! oui, vraiment; dat am be one extinishin’ vopper, sure ’nuff. Mais, him’s gone pass long ago, so you better come avay an’ finish de portage.”

“Not I, lad,” cried March gaily, as he flung himself upon the grassy mound; “I’m goin’ to admire this splendid country till I’m tired of it, and leave you and the other fellows to do the work.”

“Oh! ver’ goot,” cried Gibault, sitting down beside our hero, and proceeding to fill his pipe, “I will ’mire de countray, too. Ha! it be unmarkibly beautiful—specially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca smoke.”

“Alas! Gibault, we’ll have to move off sooner than we expected, for there it comes.”

The two friends leaped up simultaneously, and, seizing their packs, hurried down the mound, entered the thick bushes, and vanished.

The object whose sudden appearance had occasioned this abrupt departure would, in truth, have been somewhat singular, not to say alarming, in aspect, to those who did not know its nature. At a distance it looked like one of those horrible antediluvian monsters one reads of, with a lank body, about thirty feet long. It was reddish-yellow in colour, and came on at a slow, crawling pace, its back appearing occasionally above the underwood. Presently its outline became more defined, and it turned out to be a canoe instead of an antediluvian monster, with Big Waller and Bounce acting the part of legs to it. Old Redhand the trapper and Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades when they should grow tired—for a large canoe is a heavy load for two men—or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble.

“Have a care now, lad, at the last step,” said Redhand, who walked a little in advance.

“Yer help would be better than yer advice, old feller,” replied Bounce, as he stepped upon the ridge or mound which Marston and his companion had just quitted. “Lend a hand; we’ll take a spell here. I do believe my shoulder’s out o’ joint. There, gently—that’s it.”

“Wall, I guess this is Eden,” cried Big Waller, gazing around him with unfeigned delight. “Leastwise, if it ain’t, it must be the very nixt location to them there diggins of old Father Adam. Ain’t it splendiferous?”

Big Waller was an out-and-out Yankee trapper. It is a mistake to suppose that all Yankees “guess” and “calculate,” and talk through their nose. There are many who don’t, as well as many who do; but certain it is that Big Waller possessed all of these peculiarities in an alarming degree. Moreover, he was characteristically thin and tall and sallow. Nevertheless, he was a hearty, good-natured fellow, not given to boasting so much as most of his class, but much more given to the performance of daring deeds. In addition to his other qualities, the stout Yankee had a loud, thundering, melodious voice, which he was fond of using, and tremendous activity of body, which he was fond of exhibiting.

He was quite a contrast, in all respects, to his Indian companion, Hawkswing, who, although about as tall, was not nearly so massive or powerful. Like most North American Indians, he was grave and taciturn in disposition; in other respects there was nothing striking about him. He was clad, like his comrades, in a trapper’s hunting-shirt and leggings; but he scorned to use a cap of any kind, conceiving that his thick, straight, black hair was a sufficient covering, as undoubtedly it was. He was as courageous as most men; a fair average shot, and, when occasion required, as lithe and agile as a panther; but he was not a hero—few savages are. He possessed one good quality, however, beyond his kinsmen—he preferred mercy to revenge, and did not gloat over the idea of tearing the scalps off his enemies, and fringing his coat and leggings therewith.

“’Tis a sweet spot,” said Redhand to his comrades, who stood or reclined in various attitudes around him. “Such a place as I’ve often thought of casting anchor in for life.”

“An’ why don’t ye, then?” inquired Waller. “If I was thinkin’ o’ locating down anywhar’, I guess I’d jine ye, old man. But I’m too fond o’ rovin’ for that yet. I calc’late it’ll be some years afore I come to that pint. Why don’t ye build a log hut, and enjoy yerself?”

“’Cause I’ve not just come to that point either,” replied the old man with a smile.

Redhand had passed his best days many years before. His form was spare, and his silvery locks were thin; but his figure was still tall and straight as a poplar, and the fire of youth still lingered in his dark-blue eye. The most striking and attractive point about Redhand was the extreme kindliness that beamed in his countenance. A long life in the wilderness had wrinkled it; but every wrinkle tended, somehow, to bring out the great characteristic of the man. Even his frown had something kindly in it. The prevailing aspect was that of calm serenity. Redhand spoke little, but he was an attentive listener, and, although he never laughed loudly, he laughed often and heartily, in his own way, at the sallies of his younger comrades. In youth he must have been a strikingly handsome man. Even in old age he was a strong one.

“I’ll tell ye what’s my opinion now, boys, in regard to settlin’ down,” said Bounce, who, having filled and lighted his pipe, now found himself in a position to state his views comfortably. “Ye see, settlin’ down may, in a gin’ral way, be said to be nonsense. In pint o’ fact, there ain’t no sich a thing as settlin’ down. When a feller sits down, why, in a short bit, he’s bound to rise up agin, and when he goes to bed, he means for to get up next mornin’.” (Here Bounce paused, drew several whiffs, and rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger.) “Then, when a feller locates in a place, he’s sure for to be movin’ about, more or less, as long as he’s got a leg to stand on. Now, what I say is, that when a man comes to talk o’ settlin’ down, he’s losin’ heart for a wanderin’ life among all the beautiful things o’ creation; an’ when a man loses heart for the beautiful things o’ creation, he’ll soon settle down for good and all. He’s in a bad way, he is, and oughtn’t to encourage hisself in sich feelin’s. I b’lieve that to be the feelosophy o’ the whole affair, and I don’t b’lieve that nobody o’ common edication—I don’t mean school edication, but backwoods edication—would go for to think otherwise. Wot say you, Waller?”

“Sartinly not,” replied the individual thus appealed to.

Big Waller had a deep reverence for the supposed wisdom of his friend Bounce. He listened to his lucubrations with earnest attention at all times, and, when he understood them, usually assented to all his friend said. When Bounce became too profound for him, as was not infrequently the case, he contented himself with nodding his head, as though to say, “I’m with you in heart, lad, though not quite clear in my mind; but it’s all right, I’m quite sartin.”

“Well, then,” resumed Bounce, turning to Redhand, “what do you think o’ them sentiments, old man?”

Redhand, who had been paying no attention whatever to these sentiments, but, during the delivery of them, had been gazing wistfully out upon the wide expanse of country before him, laid his hand on Bounce’s shoulder, and said in a low, earnest tone—

“It’s a grand country! D’ye see the little clear spot yonder, on the river bank, with the aspen grove behind it, an’ the run of prairie on the right, an’ the little lake not a gun-shot off on the left? That’s the spot I’ve sometimes thought of locatin’ on when my gun begins to feel too heavy. There’ll be cities there some day. Bricks and mortar and stone ’ll change its face—an’ cornfields, an’— but not in our day, lad, not in our day. The redskins and the bears ’ll hold it as long as we’re above ground. Yes, I’d like to settle down there.”

“Come, come, Redhand,” said Bounce, “this sort o’ thing ’ll never do. Why, you’re as hale and hearty as the best on us. Wot on ’arth makes you talk of settlin’ down in that there fashion?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Waller energetically, “I guess if ye goes on in that style ye’ll turn into a riglar hiplecondrik—ain’t that the word, Bounce? I heer’d the minister say as it was the wust kind o’ the blues. What’s your opinion o’ settlin’ down, Hawkswing?”

To this question the Indian gravely replied in his own language (with which the trappers were well acquainted), that, not having the remotest idea of what they were talking about, he entertained no opinion in regard to it whatever.

“Well, wotiver others may hold,” remarked Bounce emphatically, “I’m strong agin’ settlin’ down nowhar’.”

“So am I, out an’ out,” said Waller.

“Dat be plain to the naked eye,” observed Gibault, coming up at the moment. “Surement you have settle down here for ever. Do you s’pose, mes garçons, dat de canoe will carry hisself over de portage? Voilà! vat is dat?”

Gibault pointed to the footprint of the grisly bear, as he spoke.

“It’s a bar,” remarked Bounce quietly.

“Caleb,” added Waller, giving the name frequently applied to the grisly bear by western hunters. “I calc’late it’s nothin’ new to see Caleb’s fut in the mud.”

“Mais, it be new to see hims fut so big, you oogly Yankee,” cried Gibault, putting Waller’s cap over his eyes, and running into the bush to avoid the consequences.

At that moment a deer emerged from the bushes, about fifty yards from the spot on which the trappers rested, and, plunging into the river, made for the opposite bank.

“There’s our supper,” said Bounce, quietly lifting his rifle in a leisurely way, and taking aim without rising from the spot on which he sat or removing the pipe from his lips.

The sharp crack was followed by a convulsive heave on the part of the deer, which fell over on its side and floated downstream.

Big Waller gave utterance to a roar of satisfaction, and, flinging his pipe from him, bounded down the bank towards a point of rock, where he knew, from the set of the current, the deer would be certain to be stranded. Gibault, forgetting his recent piece of impertinence, darted towards the same place, and both men reached it at the same instant. Big Waller immediately lifted his little friend in his huge arms, and tossed him into the centre of a thick soft bush, out of which he scrambled in time to see his comrade catch the deer by the horns, as it floated past, and drag it on shore.

“Hoh! I vill pay you off von time,” cried Gibault, laughing, and shaking his fist at Waller. Then, seizing the last bale of goods that had not been carried across the portage, he ran away with it nimbly up the bank of the stream.

Big Waller placed the deer on his shoulders with some difficulty, and followed in the same direction.

On reaching the other end of the portage, they found the canoe reloaded and in the water, and their comrades evincing symptoms of impatience.

“Come on, lads, come on,” cried March, who seemed to be the most impatient of them all. “We’ve seen Caleb! He’s up the river, on this side. Get in! He’s sich a banger, oh!”

Before the sentence was well finished, all the men were in their places except Black Gibault, who remained on the bank to shove off the canoe.

“Now, lad, get in,” said Redhand, whose usually quiet eye appeared to gleam at the near prospect of a combat with the fierce and much-dreaded monster of the Far West.

“All right, mes garçons,” replied Gibault; “hand me mine gun; I vill valk on the bank, an’ see vich vay hims go—so, adieu!”

With a powerful push, he sent the light craft into the stream, and, turning on his heel, entered the woods.

The others at once commenced paddling up the river with energetic strokes.

“He’s a wild feller that,” remarked Bounce, after they had proceeded some distance and reached a part of the stream where the current was less powerful. “I’d bet my rifle he’s git the first shot at Caleb; I only hope he’ll not fall in with him till we git ashore, else it may go hard with him.”

“So it may,” said Waller; “if it goes as hard wi’ Gibault as it did wi’ my old comrade, Bob Swan, it’ll be no fun, I guess.”

“What happened to him?” asked March, who was ever open-eared for stories.

“Oh, it was nothing very curious, but I guess it was ‘onconvanient,’ as them coons from Ireland says. Bob Swan went—he did—away right off alone, all by hisself, to shoot a grisly with a old musket as wasn’t fit to fire powder, not to speak o’ ball. He was sich a desprit feller, Bob Swan was, that he cut after it without takin’ time to see wot wos in the gun. I follered him as fast as I could, hollerin’ for him to stop and see if he wos loaded; but I calc’late he was past stoppin’. Wall, he comes up wi’ the bar suddently, and the bar looks at him, and he looks at it. Then he runs up, claps the gun to his shoulder, and pulls the trigger; but it wos a rusty old lock, an’ no fire came. There was fire come from the bar’s eyes, though, I do guess! It ran at him, an’ he ran away. Of course Caleb soon came up, an’ Bob primed as he ran an’ wheeled about, stuck the muzzle of the old musket right into Caleb’s mouth, and fired. He swallered the whole charge, that bar did, as if it had been a glass o’ grog, and didn’t he cough some? Oh no! an’ he roared, too, jist like this—”

Big Waller, in the excitement of his narrative, was about to give a vocal illustration, when Bounce suddenly extinguished him by clapping his hand on his mouth.

“Hist! you wild buffalo,” he said, “you’ll frighten off all the bars within ten miles of us, if you raise your horrable trumpet!”

“I do believe, I forgot,” said the Yankee with a low chuckle, when his mouth was released.

“Well, but what happened to Bob Swan?” inquired March eagerly.

“Wot happened? I guess the bar cotched him by the leg, an’ smashed it in three places, before you could wink, but, by good luck, I come up at that moment, an’ put a ball right through Caleb’s brains. Bob got better, but he never got the right use o’ his leg after that. An’ we found that he’d fired a charge o’ small shot down that bar’s throat—he had!”

“Hallo! look! is yon Caleb?” inquired March in a hoarse whisper, as he pointed with his paddle to a distant point up the river, where a dark object was seen moving on the bank.

“That’s him,” said Bounce. “Now then, do your best, an’ we’ll land on the point just below him.”

“That’s sooner said than done,” remarked Redhand quietly, “for there’s another portage between us and Caleb.”

As the old man spoke, the canoe passed round a low point which had hitherto shut out the view of the bed of the river from the travellers, and the vision of a white, though not a high, waterfall burst upon their sight, at the same moment that the gushing sound of water broke upon their ears. At any other time the beauty of the scene would have drawn forth warm, though perhaps quaint and pithy, remarks of admiration. Wood and water were seen picturesquely mingled and diversified in endless variety. Little islands studded the surface of the river, which was so broad and calm at that place as to wear the appearance of a small lake. At the upper end of this lake it narrowed abruptly, and here occurred the fall, which glittered in the sun’s bright rays like a cascade of molten silver. The divers trees and shrubs, both on the islets and on the mainland, presented in some places the rich cultivated appearance of the plantations on a well-tended domain; but, in other places, the fallen timber, the rank tangled vegetation, and the beautiful wild flowers showed that man’s hand had not yet destroyed the wild beauty of the virgin wilderness. The sky above was bright and blue, with a few thin feathery clouds resting motionless upon its vast concave, and the air was so still that even the tremulous aspen leaves were but slightly agitated, while the rest of the forest’s drapery hung perfectly motionless.

Complete silence would have reigned but for the mellow sound of the distant fall and the sweet, plaintive cries of innumerable wildfowl that flew hither and thither, or revelled in the security of their sedgy homes. Flocks of wild geese passed in constant succession overhead, in the form of acute angles, giving a few trumpet notes now and then, as if to advertise their passage to the far north to the dwellers in the world below. Bustling teal rose in groups of dozens or half-dozens as the red canoe broke upon their astonished gaze, and sent them, with whistling wings, up or down the river. A solitary northern diver put up his long neck here and there to gaze for an instant inquisitively, and then sank, as if for ever, into the calm water, to reappear long after in some totally new and unexpected quarter. A napping duck or two, being wellnigh run over by the canoe, took wing with a tremendous splutter and a perfectly idiotical compound of a quack and a roar, while numerous flocks of plover, which had evidently meant to lie still among the sedges and hide while the canoe passed, sprang into the air at the unwonted hullabaloo, and made off, with diverse shriek and whistle, as fast as their wings could carry them. Besides these noisy denizens of the wilderness, there were seen, in various places, cranes, and crows, and magpies, and black terns, and turkey-buzzards, all of which were more or less garrulous in expressing surprise at the unexpected appearance of the trappers in their wild domain. And, just as the canoe drew near to the place at the foot of the fall where they meant to land and make the portage, a little cabri, or prong-horned antelope, leaped out of the woods, intending, doubtless, to drink, caught sight of the intruders, gave one short glance of unutterable amazement, and then rebounded into the bush like an electrified indiarubber ball.

“Now, then,” said Bounce as he leaped ashore, and held the canoe steady while his comrades landed, “jist be cool, an’ no hurry; make the portage, launch the canoe atop o’ the fall, sot off agin, an’ then—hurrah for that there grisly bar!”

Chapter Four.

Gibault has an Adventure, and discovers a very strange Creature in the Woods—A most tremendous Bear-Hunt particularly described.

Meanwhile Black Gibault, having followed the course of the river for some distance on foot, struck into the woods, sought for and found the track of the bear, and, looking carefully to the priming of his gun, and knocking the edge of the flint to sharpen it, pushed forward in pursuit with the ardour of a reckless man.

Gibault Noir was a goose! But he was an amiable goose; therefore men forgave his follies. Had Gibault not been a goose he never would have set off alone in pursuit of a grisly bear when he had comrades who might have accompanied him. Every one knows—at least, if every one does not know, every one who reads these pages may know henceforth—that the grisly bear of the western prairies and Rocky Mountains is one of the most desperate and most dreaded animals on the face of the earth; not dreaded merely by the weak and the timorous, but dreaded also by the bravest Indians and the boldest trappers. Of course we do not mean to say that by these latter the grisly bear is dreaded with anything like cowardly terror; but it is regarded with that degree of wholesome anxiety and extreme caution with which men usually regard an excessively dangerous and powerful enemy.

Unlike other bears, the grisly bear scorns to fly from before the face of man. His ferocity, when wounded, is terrible, and his tenacity of life is such that, however many mortal wounds one may give him, he will retain life and strength long enough to kill his assailant before he himself dies, unless he is shot dead at once by a ball being planted in his heart or brain, both of which are difficult to reach.

He has a grumpy sort of magnanimity of his own, however, and will usually let men alone if men will let him alone. But men are not prone to let anything alone; hence encounters are frequent; wounds, on both sides, are numerous; and death, on one or other side, is almost certain.

Old trappers are not fond of attacking Caleb single-handed, but young hot-blooded fellows, who have got their names to make, are less cautious, and sometimes even court the combat, as was the case in the present instance with reckless Gibault Noir.

For half an hour, Gibault went over the ground at a sort of half-walk, half-trot, stopping occasionally to examine the prints of the bear more narrowly when they passed across hard ground that did not take a good impression. At length he came to a deep gully or creek, where the bushes were so dense that he could not see far through them in any direction. Here he halted, re-examined his priming, and, peering cautiously through the underwood, advanced with much greater deliberation and care than heretofore.

In descending the gully, Gibault stumbled once or twice, and made one or two crashing bursts through bushes that would have proved quite impervious to most men. After much toil he reached the bottom, and, standing there, up to the ankles in a small rivulet, gazed upward at the bank he had now to ascend.

“Vraiment, it be uncommonly difficile,” said he, addressing himself to the task, while the perspiration began to roll down his forehead.

At last he reached the top of the bank on the other side, and, after panting for some time, began to look for the bear’s footprints; but these could not now be found. In his scramble through the gully he had lost them, and the ground on the side he had just reached was so hard and rocky that it seemed to him doubtful whether it was capable of receiving any visible impression from a bear’s paw. It was just possible, too, that the animal had found the descent of the gully as difficult as he himself had; in which case it was highly probable that it had used the course of the rivulet as a pathway.

For a moment, the little Canadian meditated a second descent into the gully for the purpose of settling this point, but, having not yet quite ceased to pant from his recent exertions, he thought better of it, and determined to make a further examination of the ground where he was. After doing so for a quarter of an hour, his exertions were rewarded by the discovery of what appeared to be a track. It was not very distinct, but it was sufficiently so to induce him to follow it up with renewed ardour.

Presently he came upon a spot where the ground was not so thickly covered with underwood, and where, in some places, it was so soft as to show an exact print of the foot of the animal he was following up. Here he received a great disappointment, and an equally great surprise—a disappointment on finding that the track he followed was not that of a bear, and a surprise on discovering that it was that of a man!

On first making this discovery, Gibault stopped short, laid his gun on the ground, stooped down, planted a hand on each knee, opened his eyes to their utmost, pursed his lips to the tightest, and stared at the footprint, the very embodiment of astonishment. After a few seconds he gave vent to a low whistle, and said “Ho!” Exactly ten seconds after that, he said “Ha!” and, raising his right hand, scratched the point of his nose, which, being too red naturally, was not improved by the operation.

None of these acts and exclamations, either collectively or singly, seemed to afford him any enlightenment, for he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, as if he had come to the conclusion that the whole affair was utterly beyond his limited comprehension; then he started up, shouldered his gun, and followed the track of the man with as much ardour as he had formerly pursued that of the bear.

Perseverance is almost invariably rewarded. This would seem to be one of those laws of nature which fail to operate only on very rare and peculiar occasions. Gibault had not advanced more than a hundred yards when he came suddenly upon the man whose feet had made the tracks he had been following.

“The Vild-Man-of-de-Vest! certainement!” muttered Black Gibault slowly, as he gazed at the creature before him, and quietly cocked his rifle to be ready for any emergency.

Certainly the man upon whom our trapper had stumbled thus suddenly might have been styled the wild man of any region—west, north, east, or south,—with perfect propriety. On his legs were a pair of dark grey fustian trousers, which had seen so much service that, from the knee downwards, they were torn into shreds. His feet were covered by a pair of moccasins. Instead of the usual hunting-shirt he wore one of the yellow deerskin coats of a Blackfoot chief, which was richly embroidered with beads and quilt work, and fringed with scalp-locks. On his head he wore a felt hat, with a broad rim and a tall conical crown, somewhat resembling a Spanish sombrero, and beside him, on the bough of a tree, hung a long blue Spanish cloak. The countenance of this extraordinary man was handsome and youthful, but wild and somewhat haggard, as if from much recent suffering. His eye was black and piercing, his nose aquiline, and his forehead broad, but his mouth was effeminate, his chin small and beardless, his neck long, his shoulders narrow and sloping, and his black hair hung in long straight locks over his shoulders. A short sword, somewhat resembling that of the ancient Roman, lay on the sward beside him, and near to it a huge cavalry pistol of the olden time, with a brass barrel and a bell mouth—a species of miniature blunderbuss. Its fellow was stuck in his belt, beneath the chief’s coat, as could be observed from the appearance of the butt protruding from the opening in the breast thereof.

This personage was seated on a grassy knoll so absorbed in some curious kind of occupation that he was totally unobservant of the presence of Gibault until he had approached to within thirty yards of him. Although his occupation was a mystery to the trapper, to one a little more conversant with the usages of civilised life, the open book on the knee, the easy flow of the pencil, and the occasional use of a piece of indiarubber, would have been sufficient evidence that the young man was sketching the view before him.

“Ahem!” coughed Gibault.

The stranger scattered book, pencil, and indiarubber to the winds (or to the atmosphere, for there happened to be no wind at the time), and started up. In doing so, he showed that he was at least a tall, if not a stout fellow. Seizing a pistol with one hand and his sword with the other, he presented both at Gibault, and yelled, rather than shouted, “Stay! halt! stop now, my man; drop the butt of your gun, else I’ll—I’ll blow out your brains.”

Although somewhat startled by this unusual mode of salutation, the trapper had sense and quickness enough to perceive that the artist was in anything but a warlike state of mind, and that his violent demonstration was the result of having been startled; so, pulling off his cap with that native politeness which is one of the characteristics of the French Canadian, he advanced, and said—

“Bon jour, monsieur. I ver’ moch sorray dat I be give you von fright. Pardon, sair; how you do?”

“Thank you—thank you, good fellow,” replied the artist, laying down his weapons and grasping Gibault’s proffered hand with a sigh of evident relief, “I am well, excellently well. You did, indeed, startle me by your sudden appearance; but no harm is done, and where none was intended no apology is necessary. You are a Frenchman, I think?”

“Non, sair; not ’xactly. I be French Canadian. Mine fadder was be von Canadian; mine moder was a Frenchvoman; I be leetle of both.”

“And you have cause to be proud of your country, my man,” returned the artist, collecting his scattered drawing materials and quietly sitting down to continue his sketch, “a splendid country and a noble people. Sit down, my good friend, if you can spare time, while I put a few finishing touches to this sketch.”

“Mais,” said Gibault, rubbing his nose in great perplexity at the coolness of this eccentric wanderer; “mais, monsieur, I hab not time; I be follerin’ de tracks of von monstracious grisly bar—”

“What! a grisly bear?” cried the artist, looking up with sudden animation.

“Oui, monsieur. We have see him not long ’go, an’ hopes to kill him soon.”

The artist’s dark eye sparkled with animation as he hastily shut up his sketch-book and thrust it, with his drawing materials, into a small pocket inside the breast of his coat.

“A grisly bear!” he repeated. “Ha! lead on, good fellow, I will follow.”

Thus urged, Gibault, without further loss of time, led the way to the banks of the river, followed closely by his new friend, who stalked behind him with long ostrich-like strides. The semi-theatrical air of the artist made a deep impression on the trapper. Had Gibault known what a theatrical air was, he might have been immensely tickled; but, being what he was—an unsophisticated son of the wilderness—he knew nothing about such airs, and therefore regarded his companion in the light of a superior order of being, or a madman; he was not quite sure which.

In a few minutes they emerged from the bushes and came out upon the bank of the river, which at that part was high and precipitous, with few trees, but a considerable quantity of underwood on the slopes.

“Are you sure, friend, that a bear has been seen by you?” inquired the artist.

“Oui; most positavly sure, sair. Ha! an’ here be him’s fut encore. I have lose him in de vood. Now, monsieur, have your pistol ready.”

“Lead on,” returned the artist. “I have longed much for this day. To shoot an individual of this ferocious class has been my ambition— Ho! friend, look here. Yonder object seems like a canoe. Whence comes it, think you? This region, I know, is not very safe. There are Indians who do not love the whites in—”

“No fear, monsieur,” interrupted Gibault, “dat be mine comerades—Good mans an’ true every von. Dey come to land here, I see.”

A low growl in the bushes a little distance ahead of them put an abrupt termination to the conversation. Gibault threw forward the muzzle of his gun, and glanced at his comrade. The glance did not tend to comfort him. The artist was pale as death. This, and an occasional twitch of the lip, were clear and unmistakable signs to the backwoodsman that fear had taken possession of his friend, and that he was not to be counted on in the moment of danger. Yet there was a stern knitting of the eyebrows, and a firm pressure of the lips, that seemed to indicate better qualities, and perplexed him not a little.

“P’r’aps, monsieur,” suggested Gibault hesitatingly, “you had better vait for de canoe.”

“Lead on!” said the artist, cocking both pistols, and pointing with one of them to the place whence the growl had issued.

Gibault elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders characteristically, and, uttering the single word “bien!” walked quickly forward.

A few steps brought him to an open space, in the midst of which the grisly bear was discovered. It was seated on its haunches, looking sulkily about, as if it had a suspicion that enemies were tracking it. Creeping with the utmost caution on his hands and knees, Gibault got to within forty yards of the monster, whose aspect at that moment was enough to try the courage of most men. There was a wicked glare in his little eye, as he swayed his huge body from side to side, that indicated but too clearly the savage nature of his disposition. Even Gibault felt a little uneasy, and began to think himself a fool for having ventured on such an expedition alone. His state of mind was not improved by the sound of the artist’s teeth chattering in his head like castanets.

Taking a very long and deliberate aim at the bear’s heart, he pulled the trigger, but the faithless lock of his old flint-gun missed fire. Without a sign of annoyance or agitation, the trapper recocked the gun, again pulled the trigger, and with the same result. Three times this occurred, and at each click of the lock the bear cocked his ears inquiringly. The third time, he rose and sauntered slowly towards the spot where the men lay concealed.

“Stay,” whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail; “stay, I will fire.”

So saying, he suddenly pointed a pistol straight at the advancing monster and fired. A tremendous roar followed the report. Gibault leaped up, exclaiming angrily, “Vat foolishness! a pistol! hah! ve must run.” He turned at once to do so.

“Stay!” cried the artist, who no longer trembled, though his countenance was still ashy pale, “I have another pistol.”

“Does you vish to die?” yelled the trapper, seizing his comrade by the collar.

Whether it was the yell of the man, or the reiterated roar of the advancing bear, or both combined, that had an effect on the artist, we cannot tell, but certain it is that he sprang up and darted after Gibault with astonishing rapidity. Being long-legged and uncommonly supple he soon passed him; but, fast though they both ran, the bear ran faster, and, having been badly cut up about the face by the slugs with which the pistol had been charged, his spirit was roused to the utmost pitch of ferocity.

Now, while this was going on in the bush, the other trappers were quietly fastening the line of their canoe to a shrub that held it floating in a pool of still water near the shore. No sooner did the pistol-shot ring upon their ears than every man seized his gun, hastily examined the priming, and scrambled up the bank, which at that spot was very steep.

Having gained the top, they paused for an instant to gaze intently at the bank of the river above them, in order to ascertain the exact spot to which they ought to hurry.

“I see no smoke,” said March Marston in a tone of deep anxiety.

“Gibault’s gun didn’t use for to bark in that sort o’ voice,” observed Bounce.

“I do b’lieve that bar’s got ’im,” cried Big Waller, bounding forward.

He had not taken a second bound when the artist, flying at full speed about three hundred yards up the river, burst upon the astonished vision of the party. His sombrero had blown off, his long hair streamed straight behind him, so did the scalp-locks on his coat, and so did his long cloak which was fastened to his neck by a clasp, and which, in his present panting and rushing condition, wellnigh strangled him.

Before the wonder-stricken trappers had time to remark on this singular apparition, or to form any opinion in regard to it, poor Gibault came tearing round the point like a maniac, with the bear close upon his heels. This was enough. The backwoodsmen no longer showed any signs of surprise or hesitancy. A grisly bear was a familiar object—a comrade in imminent danger was equally so. They sprang forward to meet the fugitives.

By this time the cloak had so retarded and strangled the poor artist that he had fallen a pace or two behind Gibault, and it seemed almost certain that he would fall a victim to the furious bear before the trappers could kill it, for they could not venture to fire at it while the fugitives almost screened it from their view. As they drew near to each other the trappers almost instinctively divided into two parties. Redhand and Hawkswing went a little to the right; Bounce, Waller, and our hero, diverged to the left, so as to let the flying men pass between them, and thus attack the bear on both sides at once.

Gibault attempted to cheer as he darted through the friendly line, but he could only give forth a gasp. At that moment an unexpected incident contributed to the deliverance of the artist. The bear was within a yard of him as he came up; just then the clasp of his cloak gave way, and the huge garment instantly enveloped the head of the bear and a considerable portion of its body. It tripped, rolled over, and, in attempting to free itself, tore the cloak to shreds.

At the same instant a volley was fired by the trappers, and three balls pierced its body. None of them, however, seemed to have hit a mortal part, for the infuriated animal instantly rose and glared from side to side in disappointed malice, while the trappers who had fired were reloading, each behind a bush, with perfect coolness, but with the utmost celerity.

While the bear was on the ground, the fugitives had each sprung into the bush, and found a place of concealment. Redhand on the one side, and Bounce on the other, had reserved their fire; the wisdom of this was now shown. The bear made a rush at the bushes on one side, and instantly received a shot from the other. It turned at once to rush on the concealed enemy there, but, before it had made a stride in that direction, another ball was lodged in it from the opposite side. The vacillations thus produced gave the other trappers time to reload, and, before it had made up its mind which to attack, another volley was fired, and three balls took effect, Redhand and Bounce still reserving their fire as at the first.

The impotent fury of the creature was now awful to behold. It was mortally wounded; there could be no doubt as to that, for the trappers were all pretty good shots and knew where to fire, but they had not succeeded yet in reaching the seat of life. One ball had broken the bear’s shoulder, and the blood flowed from its wounds, while churned blood and foam dropped from its jaws.

Before another volley could be fired it made a furious rush at the three men who had kept away to the left, namely, Big Waller, Bounce, and March. There was no help for it; not having completed their loading, they had to drop their guns and run. We have already said that these three had diverged towards the river. It now proved to be unfortunate that they had done so, for the bank at that place jutted out into the stream in such a way that it was impossible for them to avoid leaping into the river. The bank overhung the stream and was fully twenty feet high. Big Waller, who reached it first, hesitated to take the leap. Bounce, who came next, rushed violently against him, and the two went over together, fell into the water with a tremendous splash, and sank. March come up the instant after, and sprang far out at once with a bold, unhesitating spring. The bear was so close upon the youth that for one moment they were both in the air at the same time, but the former had not gone off with a spring, he merely tumbled over, half involuntarily, so that when they struck the water there was at least a yard between them. But this was not a long space. The superior swimming powers of the bear over the man would have diminished the distance to nothing in a minute or so. Even as it was, the bear was within six inches of March’s heels when Hawkswing and Redhand gained the edge of the bank.

Redhand was armed with a rifle—an old and trusty weapon that had been the means of saving his own life and the lives of comrades in many a doubtful encounter with beast and with man. Kneeling down, he took a rapid aim and fired. The bullet sped true. It entered the back of the bear’s head, and the lifeless carcass floated down the stream. The three men, instantly observing the effect of the shot, turned round, and, swimming towards their late enemy, laid hold of him, and dragged and pushed him with some difficulty towards the shore.

Meanwhile Black Gibault, who had issued from his hiding-place and had witnessed Redhand’s successful shot, began to caper and dance and shout in the exuberance of his glee. Most men are apt to suffer when they give way to extravagant action of any kind. Gibault forgot that he was on the edge of an overhanging bank. The concussion with which he came to the ground after the performance of a peculiarly complicated pirouette broke off the edge of the bank, and he was precipitated headlong into the river, just a yard or so from the spot where his comrades were engaged in landing the bear.

A loud laugh greeted his sudden and unexpected descent. Scrambling on shore, and laying hold of the bear’s tail, he exclaimed—

“Hah! mes garçons, heave avay. I have come down for to give you leetle help. Splenderous hear! Pull avay!”

The bear was then dragged out of the water and stretched upon the green sward, where for some time the trappers stood round it in a picturesque group, commenting upon its size and appearance, and remarking upon the various incidents of the chase.

As the exact dimensions of this particular bear were taken and noted down on the spot, we will give them here for the benefit of inquiring minds. It weighed, as nearly as could be guessed by men who were practised in estimating weights, 600 pounds. On its hind legs it stood 8 feet 7 inches. Round the chest it measured 5 feet 10 inches; round the neck 3 feet 11 inches. The circumference of the thickest part of the fore leg was 2 feet, and the length of each of its claws was 4 and a quarter inches. It was whitey-brown in colour, and a shaggier, fiercer, uglier monster could not well be imagined.

“But, I say,” cried Bounce, looking round suddenly, “wot’s come o’ yon ’xtraor’nary feller as—”

Bounce paused abruptly, for at that moment his eye fell on the “’xtraor’nary feller” in question. He was seated quietly on a large stone, not many yards distant, with book on knee and pencil in hand, making a rapid sketch of the party and the surrounding scene!

“Wot is he?” inquired Bounce of Gibault in a whisper.

“I calc’late,” observed Waller in a low voice, at the same time touching his forehead and looking mysterious; “I calc’late, he’s noncombobble-fusticated.”

“Perhaps,” said Redhand with a quiet laugh.

“Whatever he is, it’s bad manners to stand starin’ at him,” said Redhand, “so you’d better go and pick up yer guns and things, while Bounce and I skin this feller and cut off his claws.”

The party separated at once, and the artist, who seemed a little disappointed at being thus checked in his work, no sooner observed the flaying process begin than he turned over the leaf of his book, and began a new sketch.

Not many minutes were required for the skinning of the bear. When it was done, it, along with all the scattered things, was placed in the canoe, and then Redhand, approaching the artist, touched his cap and said—

“You have shared our hunt to-day, sir; mayhap you’ll not object to share our camp and our supper.”

“Most willingly, my good friend,” replied the artist, rising and holding out his hand, which the trapper shook heartily. “You seem to be trappers.”

“We are, sir, at your service. It’s gettin’ late and we’ve a good bit to go yet, before we come to the place where we mean to camp, so you’d better come at once.”

“Certainly; by all means; let us embark without delay,” replied the artist, pocketing his sketch-book.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Redhand, with some hesitation, “are you alone?”

“I am,” replied the other sadly; then, as if a sudden thought had struck him—“I had two pistols and a cloak once.”

“We’ve picked ’em up, sir. They’re in the canoe now. At least the pistols are, an’ what’s left o’ the cloak.”

“Ha! ’twas an old and cherished friend! Are you ready?”

“All ready, sir.”

So saying, the old man led the way to the canoe and embarked with his strange companion. Then, pushing out into the stream just as the shades of night began to descend upon the wilderness, the trappers paddled swiftly away, wondering in their hearts who and what the stranger could be, and talking occasionally in subdued tones of the chief incidents of the exciting combat through which they had so recently passed.

Chapter Five.

Fiery Remarks and Cogitations—Round the Camp Fire—The Artist gives an Account of Himself—Value of a Sketch-Book—Discoveries and Dark Threats—The Bear’s-Claw Collar.

There is no doubt whatever that a western trapper knows how to make a fire. That is an axiomatic certainty. He also knows how to enjoy it. He is thoroughly conversant with it in all its phases, and with all the phenomena connected with it, from the bright little spark that flies from his flint and steel, and nestles on his piece of tinder, to the great rolling flame that leaps up among the branches of the forest trees, roaring lustily as it goes out upon the night air, like a mighty spirit set free from some diminutive prison house, rejoicing in being once more permitted to reassume its original grand dimensions.

Yes, a western trapper has a grand, massive notion of a fire, and his actions are all in keeping with that notion. Almost everything is small at the fountain. A mighty river usually begins in a bubbling spring or a tiny rivulet. So the trapper’s initial acts are delicate. He handles the tinder gently, and guards it from damp. He fosters the spark, when caught, and blows upon it softly, and wraps it up in dry grass, and watches it intently as a mother might watch the life-spark of her new-born babe. But when once the flame has caught, and the bundle of little dry twigs has been placed above it, and the pile of broken sticks has been superadded, the trapper’s character is changed. He grasps the ponderous hatchet, and, Homerically speaking—

“Now toils the hero: trees on trees o’erthrown,

Fall crackling round him, and the forests groan.”

These, “lopp’d and lighten’d of their branchy load,” he assaults singly. Heaving the huge axe with lusty sweeping blows, he brings it down. Great wedgy splinters fly and strew the plain like autumn leaves. Then, with massive logs, full six feet long, he feeds the hungry fire until it leaps and roars in might, and glows full red and hot and huge enough to roast him a bison bull for supper, an he should feel so disposed.

Descending now from the abstract to the concrete, we would remark that, whether the reader does or does not admit the general proposition, that western trappers are pre-eminently up to fire (not to mention smoke or snuff), he cannot deny the fact that Big Waller, the Yankee trapper, was peculiarly gifted in that way. On the evening of the day on which occurred the memorable encounter with the grisly bear, as related in the last chapter, that stalwart individual heaved his ponderous axe and felled the trees around him in a way that would have paled the ineffectual fires of Ulysses himself, and would probably have induced that hero not only to cease cutting trees, but to commence cutting his stick thenceforth from the field of competition! March Marston meanwhile kindled the spark and nursed the infant flame. The others busied themselves in the various occupations of the camp. Some cut down pine-branches, and strewed them a foot deep in front of the fire, and trod them down until a soft elastic couch was formed on which to spread their blankets. Others cut steaks of venison and portions of the grisly bear, and set them up on the end of sticks before the fire to roast, and others made fast and secured the canoe and her lading.

The artist, seating himself beside the fire, just near enough to profit by the light, but far enough away to obtain a general view of everything and everybody, proceeded with enthusiasm to sketch the whole affair, collectively and in detail. He devoted his chief attention, however, to Big Waller. He “caught” that gigantic Yankee in every conceivable action and attitude. He photographed him, we might almost say, with his legs apart, the hatchet high above his head, and every muscle tense and rigid, preliminary to a sweeping blow. He “took” him with a monstrous pile of logs on his brawny shoulder; he portrayed him resting for a moment in the midst of his toil; he even attempted to delineate him tumbling over one of the logs, and hurling a shoulder-load upon the ground; but he failed utterly in the last attempt, being quite destitute of comical perception, and he did not finally conclude until Gibault went forward and informed him that supper was ready. Then he shut up his book, and, taking his place beside the trappers, began supper.

“This is comfortable—this is pleasant!” remarked the artist, as he sat down before the warm blaze, and applied himself with infinite relish to the venison steak placed before him by Bounce. “You live well here, it would seem.”

This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him; but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely.

“He don’t understand ye,” interposed Bounce, “knows, nothin’ but his own mother tongue. We do live pretty middlin’ so so hereabouts when we ain’t starvin’, w’ich it isn’t for me to deny is sometimes the case, d’ye see.”

Bounce stopped his own talk at this point by stuffing his mouth so full of meat that no word, not even a word of one syllable, could have forced itself out, had it tried ever so much. A long silence now ensued, during which the clack of seven pairs of active jaws was the only sound that broke upon the ear. It might have been observed, however, that all eyes were fixed more or less wonderingly on the stranger. Big Waller in particular looked him, figuratively speaking, through and through. He did not remove his eyes off him for an instant, but devoured his food with somewhat the expression of a dog that expects his bone to be snatched from him.

“Try a duck,” said March Marston to the artist, observing that he had finished his steak.

“Thank you,” answered the artist, accepting the proffered bird, which happened to be a teal, and beginning to carve it with a pen-knife. He had no fork, but used the fingers of his left hand instead.

Silence again ensued.

“Try another,” said March again.

The artist hesitated.

“You’d better; it’s a fat un.”

“N–no. No!” said the artist, shutting up his knife with an air of decision. “No, thank you, I always advocate moderation, and it would ill become me to set an example of glut—ah, of the reverse.”

“Wal, stranger,” said Waller, who, having finished eating, wiped his mouth with a tuft of grass, and began to fill his pipe. “You do come out in the way o’ moderation rather powerful. Why a teal duck an’ a ven’son steak is barely enough to stop a feller dyin’ right off. I guess a down-east baby o’ six months old ’ud swab up that an’ axe for more.”

“Nevertheless it is quite enough for me,” replied the artist, leaning down on his elbow. “I could, indeed, eat more; but I hold that man should always rise from table capable of eating more, if required.”

Here was a proposition that it had not entered into the minds of the trappers, even in their most transcendental efforts of abstruse meditation, to think of! They gazed at each other in amazement.

“Wot! not eat yer fill w’en ye git the chance,” exclaimed Bounce.

“No, certainly not.”

“I say, stranger, when did you feed last?” inquired Big Waller.

“Why do you ask?” said the artist, looking quickly up.

“’Cause I wants to know.”

The artist smiled. “My last meal was eaten yesterday morning.”

“Ha! I was sure ob dat,” cried Gibault; “your face look like as if you be full ob starvation.”

“An’ wot did ye eat last?” inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.

“I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen’s egg. I know not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured. I relished it much.”

On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that region.

“I say, stranger,” broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and would stand it no longer—“wot’s your name?”

“Theodore Bertram,” replied the artist without hesitation.

“Where do you come from?”

“From England.”

“Where air you a-goin’ to?”

“To the Rocky Mountains.”

“Wot for to do there?”

“You are inquisitive, friend,” said Bertram, smiling; “but I have no reason for concealing my object in travelling here—it is to sketch, and shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the wilderness. I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in nature’s wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can.”

“No one can do more than that,” said Redhand, regarding the young enthusiast with interest. “But surely you have not travelled to this out-o’-the-way place without a guide?”

Bertram pointed to the stars.

“These are my guides,” said he; “the man who can read the heavens needs no guide.”

“But that book ain’t always readable,” said Redhand; “when clouds are flying what do you do then?”

“Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always points the way.” So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner pocket and held it up.

“Good,” rejoined Redhand; “but a compass is not food, neither will it kill game. Have you nought but them pistols?”

“I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword. They will serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope with him alone. I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the Wild Man of the West himself.”

“The Wild Man o’ the West!” echoed March Marston eagerly; “have you seen him?”

“Nay, verily; but I have heard of him,” replied the artist, smiling, “and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that’s said of him be correct. But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him are idle tales. Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!”

March Marston’s countenance fell. No Wild Man of the West at all! The bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and dreams caused his heart to sink. Bertram observed the change in his countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, “But I am of a sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see. There is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his existence.”

“What’s that?” inquired March, brightening up. “That the nearer one comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and more natural proportions. I first heard of him in the Red River Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as brutes. As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against him. The last white man I met—about two weeks ago—told me he had been with a tribe of Indians, some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully wild, but that he was not cruel—on the contrary, he had been known to have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his power.”

“Most extonishin’!” exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.

For some time the party round the camp fire sat smoking in silence, ruminating on what had been said. Then Big Waller broke the silence with one of his abrupt questions—

“But, I say, stranger, how did you come here?”

Bertram looked up without speaking. Then, settling himself comfortably in a reclining position, with his back against a tree, he said—

“I will relieve your curiosity. Listen: I am, as I have said, an Englishman. My father and mother are dead. I have no brothers or sisters, and but few relations. Possessing, as I do, a small independence, I am not obliged to work for my living. I have therefore come to the conclusion that it is my duty to work for my fellow-men. Of course, I do not mean to deny that every man who works for his living, works also for his fellow-men. What I mean is, that I hold myself bound to apply myself to such works as other men have not leisure to undertake, and the profit of which will go direct to mankind without constituting my livelihood on its passage. To open up the unknown wilderness has ever been my ambition. For that purpose I have come to these wild regions. My enthusiasm on quitting my native land was unbounded. But—”

Here Bertram paused and gazed dreamily at the glowing embers of the camp fire with an expression that led the trappers to infer that experience had somewhat moderated his enthusiasm. After a few minutes he resumed:—

“I have done wrong to make this venture alone. On reaching Canada I succeeded, through the kindness of the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in obtaining a passage in one of the company’s canoes through that series of rivers and lakes by which the fur-traders penetrate into the regions of the far north. Arrived at Red River Settlement, I pushed forward on horseback over the plains with a small party of horsemen to the head waters of the Saskatchewan. Here I succeeded in engaging a party of twelve men, composed of half-breeds and Indians, and set out on a journey of exploration over the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains. Circumstances led me to modify my plans. We diverged towards the south, and finally came to within a few days’ journey of the region in which we now are. We were suddenly surprised one night by a war-party of Blackfoot Indians. My men had grown careless. They neglected to keep strict watch, and before we were aware that danger threatened us, all our horses were carried off.

“This was a terrible calamity. My men declared that it was impossible to advance without horses, and refused to accompany me any farther. I remonstrated in vain; then, filled with indignation at their cowardice, I left them and pursued my journey alone. Since then I have seen only one man, a trapper, who was travelling south to the settlements. He offered to take me with him, but I declined. I felt that no great or good work could ever be accomplished by the man who turns back at the first disaster; so he left me. I have suffered somewhat. I am, unfortunately, a bad shot, and, although game is everywhere abundant, I cannot kill it. I have subsisted hitherto on small birds; but my powder and lead are almost expended. Had I not fallen in with you, I know not what I should have done.”

To this narrative the trappers listened with respectful attention, for, despite the feelings of pity, almost bordering on contempt, with which they regarded the stranger’s weapons and his knowledge, or rather ignorance, of woodcraft, they could not help reverencing the simple-minded enthusiasm in a good cause that had conducted the artist so deep into a savage land in which he was evidently unfitted, either by nature or training, to travel.

“But I say, stranger,” said Big Waller, “wot do ye mean by openin’ up the country? It ain’t a oyster, that ye can open it up with a big knife I guess.”

“There, friend, you are wrong. This country does, indeed, resemble an oyster; and I hope, by the aid of the mighty levers of knowledge and enterprise, to open it up. I mean to take notes and sketches, and, if spared, return to my native land, and publish the result of my observations. I do not, indeed, expect that the public will buy my work; but I shall publish a large edition at my own cost, and present copies to all the influential men in the kingdom.”

The trappers opened their eyes wider than ever at this.

“What! Make a book?” cried Redhand.

“Even so.”

“Will it have pictures?” eagerly asked March, who regarded the artist with rapidly increasing veneration.

“Ay, it will be profusely illustrated.”

“Wot! pictures o’ grisly bears?” inquired Bounce.

“Of course.”

“An’ men?” cried Big Waller.

“And men also, if I fall in with them.”

“Then here’s one, I guess,” cried the bold Yankee, combing out his matted locks hastily with his fingers, and sitting up in what he conceived to be a proper position. “Here you are, sir. I’m your man; fix me off slick. Only think! Big Waller in a book—a raal book!”

He chuckled immensely at the bright prospect of immortality that had suddenly opened up to him.

“I have drawn you already, friend,” said Bertram.

“Draw’d me already?”

“Ay, there you are,” he replied, handing his sketch-book to the trapper, who gazed at his own portrait with unmitigated satisfaction. Turning over the leaf, he came unexpectedly on the likeness of Gibault, which, being a truthful representation, was almost a caricature. Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at this. He rolled over on his back and yelled with delight. His yell being quite in keeping with his body, the din was so tremendous that Bounce roared—

“Stop yer noise, ye buffalo!”

But Waller didn’t hear him; so March Marston effected the desired object by stuffing the corner of a blanket into his mouth and smothering his face in its folds.

Bertram’s sketch-book was now examined, and for nearly an hour proved a source of the most intense interest and amusement to these unsophisticated trappers. In those days few, very few men of education had succeeded in penetrating far into the western wilderness; and although the trappers there knew what books and pictures meant, they had seen but few of them in the course of their lives, and none of those few had any reference to the wild country in which their lives were spent.

It may be imagined, then, with what delight and excitement they now, for the first time, beheld scenes of their own beloved woods and prairies, as well as their own rough forms, vividly sketched by a master-hand. One of the most interesting points in the inspection of the sketch-book was, that old Redhand recognised almost every one of the landscapes as spots with which he was well acquainted; and as Bertram had sketched most diligently as he travelled along, Redhand told him that by the aid of that book, without compass or anything else, he could trace his route backward, step by step, to the Saskatchewan river. Moreover, he described to the artist accurately many scenes which were near to those he had sketched, and gradually fell to talking about adventures and rencontres he had had in many of them, so that at last it became evident there would be no proposal to go to rest that night at all unless some wise one of the party should remind the others that another day’s toil lay before them in the course of a few hours.

At length they took up their pipes, which had been forgotten in the excitement, and refilled them with the intention of having a last quiet whiff before lying down.

“Ho!” exclaimed Redhand, who still continued to turn over the pages of the book, “here’s a face I know. Where saw ye that Indian?”

“I cannot easily tell where it was we met him; but I remember well that it was just a day’s ride from the spot where our horses were stolen.”

“Were there others with him?”

“No, he was alone.”

“Ha! at least he said so, I fancy.”

“Yes, he did; and I had no reason to doubt him.”

“You’re not used to the ways o’ the redskin, sir,” replied Redhand, looking meditatively at the fire. “Did he chance to mention his name?”

“Oh yes, he called himself Big Snake, at least one of my men translated it so.”

A significant smile overspread the old trapper’s face as he replied—

“I thought as much. A greater thief and villain does not disgrace the prairies. He’s the man that took yer horses; sich a fellow as that never goes about alone; he’s always got a tail following him as black as himself. But I’ll see if we can’t pay the rascal off in his own coin.”

“How so?” inquired Bertram. “He must be far from this spot.”

“Not so far as you think. I know his haunts, and could take you to them in a few days overland; but it’ll take longer by the river, and we can’t quit our canoe just now.”

“But, good friend,” said Bertram quietly, “I cannot presume on your hospitality so far as to expect you to carry me along with you for the purpose of redressing my wrongs.”

“Make your mind easy on that pint,” returned Redhand; “we’ll talk of it in the mornin’.”

While the old trapper and the artist were conversing, Bounce had busied himself in stringing the claws of the grisly bear on a strip of deerskin, for the purpose of making a collar. A necklace of this description is very highly prized among Indians, especially when the claws are large.

While it was being made, Gibault sighed so deeply once or twice, that March suggested he must be in love.

“So I is,” sighed Gibault.

“That’s interesting,” remarked March; “who with?”

“Ay, that’s it,” said Bounce; “out with her name, lad. No one ought never to be ashamed o’ bein’ in love. It’s a glorious state o’ mind an’ body as a feller should gratilate hisself on havin’. Who be ye in love wi’, lad?”

“Vid dat necklace,” replied Gibault, sighing again heavily.

“Oh! if that’s all, ye don’t need to look so blue, for it’s yer own by rights,” said Bounce. “I’m jist doin’ it up for ye.”

“Non; it cannot be mine,” returned Gibault.

“How so?” inquired Waller, “ye ’arned it, didn’t ye? Drew first blood I calc’late.”

“Non, I not draw de fuss blood. Mais, I vill hab chance again no doubt. Monsieur Bertram he drew fuss blood.”

“Ho, he!” cried Waller in surprise. “You didn’t tell us that before. Come, I’m glad on’t.”

“What!” exclaimed Bertram, “the necklace mine? there must be some mistake. I certainly fired my pistol at the bear, but it seemed to have had no effect whatever.”

“Gibault,” said Bounce emphatically, “did you fire at all?”

“Non, pour certain, cause de gun he not go off.”

“Then,” continued Bounce, handing the much-coveted necklace to Bertram, “the thing b’longs to you, sir, for that bar comed up wounded, an’ as he couldn’t ha’ wounded hisself, you must ha’ done it—there.”

The young man positively refused for some time to accept of the necklace, saying, that as Gibault had tracked and discovered the bear, it certainly belonged to him; but Gibault as positively affirmed that he would not disgrace himself by wearing what belonged rightfully to another man; and as the other trappers confirmed what their comrade said, Bertram was at last fain to accept of a trophy which, to say truth, he was in his heart most anxious to possess.

At the close of this amicable dispute, each man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep with his feet to the fire. Being in a part of the country where there were very few Indians, and these few on pretty good terms with the white trappers, no watch was set. Bertram lay down with his tattered cloak around him, and, taking a little book from his pocket, read it, or appeared to read it, till he fell asleep—on observing which, March Marston crept noiselessly to his side, and, lying gently down beside him, covered him with a portion of his own blanket. Ere long the camp was buried in repose.

Chapter Six.

The Dangers of the Wilderness—An Unexpected Catastrophe, which necessitates a Change of Plans—A Descent upon Robbers proposed and agreed to.

There are few passages in Holy Writ more frequently brought to remembrance by the incidents of everyday life than this—“Ye know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.” The uncertainty of sublunary things is proverbial, whether in the city or in the wilderness, whether among the luxuriously nurtured sons and daughters of civilisation, or among the toil-worn wanderers in the midst of savage life. To each and all there is, or may be, sunshine to-day and cloud to-morrow; gladness to-day sadness to-morrow. There is no such thing as perpetual felicity in the world of matter. A nearer approach to it may perhaps be made in the world of mind; but, like perpetual motion, it is not to be absolutely attained to in this world of ours. Those who fancy that it is to be found in the wilderness are hereby warned, by one who has dwelt in savage lands, that its habitation is not there.

March Marston thought it was. On the morning after the night whose close we have described, he awoke refreshed, invigorated, and buoyant with a feeling of youthful strength and health. Starting up, he met the glorious sun face to face, as it rose above the edge of a distant blue hill, and the meeting almost blinded him. There was a saffron hue over the eastern landscape that caused it to appear like the plains of Paradise. Lakelets in the prairies glittered in the midst of verdant foliage; ponds in the hollows lay, as yet unillumined, like blots of ink; streams and rivulets gleamed as they flowed round wooded knolls, or sparkled silvery white as they leaped over rocky obstructions. The noble river, on the banks of which the camp had been made, flowed with a calm sweep through the richly varied country—refreshing to look upon and pleasant to hear, as it murmured on its way to join the “Father of waters.” The soft roar of a far-distant cataract was heard mingling with the cries of innumerable water fowl that had risen an hour before to enjoy the first breathings of the young day. To March Marston’s ear it seemed as though all Nature, animate and inanimate, were rejoicing in the beneficence of its Creator.

The youth’s reverie was suddenly broken by the approach of Theodore Bertram.

“Good morrow, friend,” said the latter, grasping March’s hand and shaking it heartily. “You are early astir. Oh, what a scene! What heavenly colours! What a glorious expanse of beauty!”

The artist’s hand moved involuntarily to the pouch in which he was won’t to carry his sketch-book, but he did not draw it forth; his soul was too deeply absorbed in admiration to permit of his doing aught but gaze in silence.

“This repays my toils,” he resumed, soliloquising rather than speaking to March. “’Twere worth a journey such as I have taken, twice repeated, to witness such a scene as this.”

“Ay, ain’t it grand?” said March, delighted to find such congenial enthusiasm in the young painter.

Bertram turned his eyes on his companion, and, in doing so, observed the wild rose at his side.

“Ah! sweet rose,” he said, stooping eagerly down to smell it.

“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

“He was no poet who wrote that, anyhow,” observed March with a look of disdain.

“You are wrong, friend. He was a good poet and true.”

“Do you mean to tell me that the sweetness o’ that rose is wasted here?”

“Nay, I do not say that. The poet did not mean to imply that its sweetness is utterly wasted, but to assert the fact that, as far as civilised man is concerned, it is so.”

“‘Civilised man,’” echoed March, turning up his nose (a difficult feat, by the way, for his nose by nature turned down). “An’ pray what’s ‘civilised man’ that he should think everything’s wasted that don’t go in at his own eyes, or up his own nose, or down his own throat? eh?”

Bertram laughed slightly (he never laughed heartily). “You are a severe critic, friend.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care, what sort o’ cricket I am; but this I do know, that roses are as little wasted here as in your country—mayhap not so much. Why, I tell ye I’ve seen the bars smell ’em.”

“Indeed.”

“Ay, an’ eat ’em too!”

“That was not taking a poetical view of them,” suggested Bertram.

“Perhaps not, but it was uncommonly practical,” returned March, laughing.

The conversation was abruptly terminated at this point by a flock of wild ducks, which, ignorant of the presence of the two youths, swept close past their heads with a startling whirr. The artist leaped backwards, and March, partly in the exuberant glee of his heart and partly to relieve his own startled feelings, gave utterance to a hideous yell.

“Hi! hallo!” roared Big Waller, starting up and replying to the yell with compound interest. “Wot’s to do? Bars or savages—which? Oh! savages I see,” he added, rubbing his eyes, as he observed March laughing at him. “Ha! lad, d’ye know there’s a sort o’ critter in other diggins o’ this here world as they calls a hi-eeno, or somethin’ o’ that sort, as can laugh, it can; so you’re not the only beast as can do it, d’ye see!”

The camp was now thoroughly roused, and the trappers set about making preparations for a start; but little was said. It is generally the case at early morning—at least among healthy men who have work to do before breakfast in the wilderness—that tongues are disinclined to move. After the first somewhat outrageous and rather unusual burst, no one spoke again, while they carried their goods down to the water’s edge, except in a short grumpy way when an order or a remark was needful. In about ten minutes after the utterance of Big Waller’s roar, they were in their places in the little red canoe, paddling blithely up the river.

Bertram’s place in the canoe was the centre. He was placed there as a passenger, but, not being by any means of a lazy disposition, he relieved all the men by turns, and thus did a good share of the work during the day.

Towards evening the travellers came to a cataract, which effectually barred their further progress, and rendered a portage necessary. Just above the cataract there was a short stretch of comparatively smooth water, in which, however, the current was very strong. Immediately above that there was a rapid of considerable length and strength, which boiled furiously among the rocks, and seemed to be impassable to a canoe. After close inspection of it, however, Redhand and Bounce, who were tacitly recognised as joint leaders of the party, agreed that the canoe could easily enough be hauled up by means of a line. To make a long portage, and so avoid the whole obstruction, was desirable; but the precipitous nature of the banks at that place rendered the carrying of the canoe and goods a work not only of severe labour, but of considerable danger.

The mode of proceeding having been settled, all hands went to work without delay. The goods were carried to the top of the fall, which was about fifteen feet high, then the canoe was shouldered by Waller and Bounce, and soon it floated in a calm eddy near the head of the cataract. Having replaced the cargo, a strong line or rope was fastened to the bows, and Redhand and Bounce proceeded to take their places in the canoe, in order to guide it through the rapid, while the others were engaged in hauling on the track-line.

“Stay,” cried March Marston as Bounce was stepping in, “let me go in the canoe, Bounce. You know well enough that I can manage it; besides, you’re a heavy buffalo, and more able to track than I.”

“Nay, lad,” replied Bounce, shaking his head, “you’ll only run the risk o’ gettin’ a wet skin—mayhap somethin’ worse.”

“Now, that’s too bad. D’ye think nobody can manage a canoe but yourself? Come, Redhand, do let me go.”

“It’s not safe, boy. The rapid looks bad, and you’re not much used to the bow-paddle.”

“Tut, nonsense,” exclaimed March, pushing Bounce aside and stepping into the canoe. “Now hold on.”

Before the men on the bank of the river were well aware of what the reckless youth was about, he shoved the bow of the canoe off. The instant it passed the still water of the eddy and caught the powerful stream, the light bark darted like an arrow from the bank, and Redhand was obliged to use his paddle with the utmost dexterity, while the men on shore had to haul on the line with all their might, to prevent it being swept over the brink of the fall. In a second, however, the danger was past, and, putting their strength to the track-line, they dragged the canoe slowly but steadily upstream, while Redhand and March guided it past rocks and dangerous eddies. Seeing that the youth used his paddle dexterously, Bounce, after a little thought, resolved to let him encounter the more dangerous rapid above. Redhand silently came to the same conclusion, though he felt uneasy and blamed himself for allowing the ardour of the boy to get the better of him.

“March is a bold fellow,” observed Bertram, who walked immediately behind Bounce, hauling on the line like the rest.

“Bold he is, sir,” replied Bounce; “an’ if ye’d seed him, as I did not many weeks agone, a-ridin’ on the back of a buffalo bull, ye’d mayhap say he was more nor that.”

“Hah! he is mad!” cried Gibault, who, although the last in the line of tracksmen, was sharp-eared, and overheard the conversation.

“Don’t talk, Gibault,” interposed Big Waller, “you need all the wind in your little carcass, I guess, to enable ye to steam ahead.”

“Oui, mon dear ami, you is right—I do ver’ much require all mine steam—mine spirits—for to push such a heavy, useless hulk as you before me.”

“Here’s a steep bit, lads; mind your eye, Hawkswing,” said Bounce, as the Indian who led the party began to ascend a steep part of the bank, where the footing was not secure, owing to the loose gravelly nature of the soil.

As they advanced, the path along the bank became narrower, and the cliff itself so precipitous that it seemed as if a jerk on the line would drag the men off and send them rolling down into the flood below, in the midst of which the canoe was buffeting its way through the hissing foam.

Bertram, who was unused to such a position of comparative danger, and whose head was not capable of standing the sight of a precipice descending from his very feet into a roaring stream, began to feel giddy, and would have given the world to return; but he felt ashamed to confess his weakness, and endeavoured, by gazing earnestly into the bank at his side, to steady himself, hoping that the nature of the track would improve as they advanced. Instead of this being the case, it became worse at every step, and the trackers were at length obliged to proceed cautiously along a ledge of rock that barely afforded them foothold. Bertram now felt an almost irresistible desire to turn his head to the left and glance at the river below; yet he knew that if he should do so, he would become utterly unable to advance another yard. While engaged in this struggle it suddenly occurred to him that it was impossible now to turn, no matter how nervous he should become, as the path was too narrow to permit one of the party to pass another! He became deadly pale, and his heart sank at the thought. Little did the hardy trappers think, as they plodded silently along, that such an agonising conflict was going on in the breast of one of their number! A slight groan escaped him in spite of his utmost efforts to restrain himself. Bounce looked back in surprise.

“Hey! wot’s to do, sir?”

“No matter; lead on—I will follow,” said Bertram sternly between his clenched teeth.

“Hallo! up there,” shouted Redhand, who was at that moment, along with March, exerting his utmost strength in order to keep the canoe off a rock over which the water was bursting in volumes of thick foam; “haul away! haul away! we’re just about up.”

The shout attracted Bertram’s attention; he turned his eyes involuntarily towards the river. Instantly his brain swam round; he staggered, and would have fallen over the bank, had not Big Waller, who was close behind, observed his situation and caught him by the collar. In doing so he was compelled to let go his hold of the line. The additional strain thus suddenly cast upon Gibault wrenched the line from his grasp with a degree of violence that wellnigh hurled him into the river. Bounce and Hawkswing held on for one moment, but the canoe, having been eased off a little, caught a sweep of the rapid, and went out with a dart that the united strength of the whole party could not have checked. The two men had to let go to save themselves, and in a shorter time than it takes to relate, the canoe went down the river towards the fall, dancing like a cork on the heaving spray, while the old man and the youth stood up in the bow and stern wielding their paddles, now on one side, now on the other, with ceaseless rapidity in their efforts to avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks.

The sight of this catastrophe, superadded to his already agonised feelings, caused the unhappy artist to swoon. Gibault, on seeing the line let go, turned instantly, and sprang like a deer along the track they had been following; intending to render what assistance he could to his comrades at the foot of the rapid. The others could not follow, because of Big Waller and the artist, who obstructed the path. Seeing this, the powerful Yankee seized Bertram round the waist, and, heaving him on his shoulder as one would swing a child, followed in Gibault’s footsteps as fast as he could run.

The distance to the spot whence they had commenced to track the canoe was not great, but before they reached it the frail craft had been shattered against a rock, and was now hurrying, along with the scattered cargo and the two men, towards the fall, to pass over which involved certain destruction.

There is nothing more uncertain, however, than the action of the whirling eddies of a great rapid. True, the general flow of its body of water is almost always the same, but its superficial billows are more variable—now tossing a drifting log to the right, anon to the left, and casting it ashore, or dragging it with fearful violence into the raging current. Although there was only the canoe’s length between the old trapper and the youth when they were left struggling in the water, they were swept in totally different directions. Redhand was hurled violently into the eddy where the canoe had lain before the ascent was commenced, and was dragged safe to land by his comrades. March Marston, on the other hand, was swept out near to the main current, and would, in a few seconds more, have been carried over the fall, had he not, with wonderful presence of mind and an almost superhuman exertion of muscle, dashed into an eddy which was formed by a rock about fifty yards from the top of the fall. The rock was completely covered with the bursting spray, so that it formed no resting-place, and it, with the partial eddy that tailed away from it, was about twenty yards from the shore, where the trappers stood gazing in horror at their companion as he struggled bravely to maintain his position by swimming; but to cross those twenty yards of gushing water, so as to afford him aid, seemed beyond the power of man.

Men bred in the wilderness are not usually slow to act in cases of danger where action is possible. Each man was revolving in fervid haste every plan that seemed likely to afford succour. Redhand’s quick eye observed that the rocks at the edge of the fall, on the side of the river on which they stood, projected out so far that a straight line drawn from the eddy to the fall would pass within a yard of them, and that, consequently, if March would push straight across the stream and make vigorously for the bank, he might hit the point of rocks referred to before being carried over.

“Down, some of you,” he cried, “to the point, an’ be ready to catch him; I’ll shout to him what to do.”

Big Waller and Gibault darted away. Poor Bertram, having recovered, remained gazing in speechless agony at March, who, having made several fruitless efforts to seize hold of the sunken rock, was evidently growing weaker. Bounce also remained to gaze, as if he had lost all his wonted self-command.

“Ho! March!” shouted Redhand. “Dash into the stream—straight for me—with all yer might; don’t be afraid, lad! do it boldly!” But March heard not. The rush of water about him deadened all other sounds.

In an instant Bounce started at full speed up the river, plunged into it, and, descending with fearful rapidity, swung round into the eddy behind the stone almost before his companions could divine what he meant to do.

Even in that moment of terrible suspense March Marston looked with an expression of surprise at his friend as he swam up beside him. Bounce did not waste time or words; he merely raised one hand for a second, and, pointing to the bank of the river, cried, “Push for it—’tis your only chance!”

March Marston made no reply, but at once obeyed; yet so exhausted was he, that, in the effort, he lost strength and sank. Bounce was prepared for this. He seized him by the hair and struck out with the energy of despair. A moment more and he was within a foot of the brink of the fall—but, also, within a foot of the point of rock on which Big Waller was lying at full length, part of his body overhanging the cataract, his arms extended, and Gibault and Hawkswing holding him firmly by the legs. Bounce caught his comrade’s hand, and swung close in to the bank, while with the other hand he continued to grasp March by the hair of the head. The force of the current was so great, however, that not one of the party dared move, and it seemed for a moment as if all of them would be lost, when Bertram rushed forward, and, seizing Bounce by the arm, dragged him still nearer the bank, and relieved the strain upon the others. Just then, Redhand came to the rescue, and in another moment the two men were safe upon the land.

Poor Bertram fell upon his knees, and while he thanked God for the deliverance of his companions, sobbed liked a little child.

For some time the trappers spoke little. Accustomed though they were to danger, they were solemnised by the recent narrow escape from sudden death. Perhaps, too, their minds were more deeply affected than usual with a sense of their dependence upon the living God, by the example and the heartfelt, unrestrained thanksgiving of Bertram. But men whose lives are spent in the midst of alarms are not long seriously affected, even by the most solemn events. The trappers quickly recurred to their present circumstances, which were, in truth, of a nature calculated to fill them with anxiety, and cause them to bend the powers of their quick wits and iron energies to the simple consideration of how they were to subsist and how proceed on their journey.

“First of all,” said Redhand quickly, “we must try what we can recover of our odds and ends.”

“Right,” cried Bounce, who was none the worse for his late gallant exertions; “the current won’t stop for no man; an’ the bales ain’t likely to stem it o’ their own accord till we’re ready to look for ’em.”

Saying this, he set off down the river at a run, followed by all the others, including March, who, after wringing the water from his garments, and resting a few minutes, felt as well and strong as ever. But, alas! their losses were grievous and irreparable. Their little bundles of spare clothing and trinkets for trading with, or conciliating, the Indians, were indeed saved, but their guns and all their ammunition were gone. All that remained to them of the latter were the few charges of powder in the horns suspended round their necks, and a few slugs and bullets in their pouches. The only firearms left were Bertram’s cavalry pistols.

As for the canoe, it was smashed so thoroughly, that only a very few shreds of bark were cast up on the shore; but entangled with these shreds they were happy to find several of their steel traps—a most fortunate circumstance, as it held out hopes that they might still be enabled to prosecute to some extent the main object of their expedition.

As each man had been in the habit of carrying his axe and knife in his belt, those indispensable implements of the backwoodsman were saved; but the loss of guns and ammunition was a very severe misfortune, and one which, for at least half an hour after every attempt to recover them had failed, cast a damp over the spirits of the whole party. But these men had neither time nor inclination to hang down their heads and sigh. Big Waller, being a careless individual by nature, was the first to regain somewhat of his wonted tone and manner. Sitting on a grassy knoll, on which all the party had been resting for some time after their fruitless exertions, in moody silence, Waller looked up suddenly and said, “Who’s afraid?”

As no one happened at that moment to be exhibiting symptoms of terror, and there was no apparent cause for fear, the question seemed irrelevant. We therefore conclude that the bold Yankee meant by it to imply that he, at least, was not afraid of circumstances, no matter how disastrous or heartrending they might be. Having said this, he looked at the faces of his companions one by one. The last face he looked at was that of Gibault Noir, and it wore such a lugubrious aspect of hopeless melancholy that Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Bounce, without knowing why, joined him.

“Well, it’s of no use looking blue about it,” said March Marston, making an effort to cheer up; “the question to be settled now is, What’s to be done?”

“Ay, that is the question,” observed Bertram gravely.

“Wall now, that bein’ the kee-westion,” said Waller, “whose a-goin’ to answer it? There’s a chance now, lads; but don’t all speak at once.”

“Right; that’s wot it is,” observed Bounce, nodding; “that’s the feelosophy on it. When a feller’s turned upside down, wot’s he a-goin’ to do nixt? You can’t put no other construction on it in this here wurld.”

Redhand, who had been ruminating abstractedly for some minutes, now looked round on his comrades and said—

“Here’s a plan for you, lads. That outrageous villain the Big Snake lives, for the most part, in a pretty little spot just three days’ march from this place. He stole, as ye all know, the horses belongin’ to Mr Bertram’s party. Well, I propose that we shud go an’ call on him, an’ make him stand an’ re-deliver. What say you?”

“Agreed,” cried Waller, tossing his cap into the air. “Hurrah!” shouted March Marston. In one way or another, each gave his consent to the plan of making a descent upon the robbers and causing them to make restitution.

The plans of backwoodsmen, once formed, are always quickly put in execution. They had no arrangements to make, no portmanteaus to pack, no difficulties in the way to overcome. Each man strapped a portion of the remaining property on his broad shoulders, and, pushing into the forest with vigorous strides, they were soon far from the spot where their late disaster had occurred, and gradually drew near to the wild glens and gorges of the Rocky Mountains.

Chapter Seven.

A wolfish Way of killing Buffaloes described—Bounce becomes metaphysical on the Fine Arts—Butchering enlarged on—A glorious Feast, and Sketching under Difficulties.

One of the ancient poets has said that wandering through the wild woods is a pleasant thing. At least, if one of them has not said that, he ought to have said it, and, certainly, many of them must have thought it, whether they said it or not. Undoubtedly, if future historians record faithfully all that has been said and written from the commencement of time to the period in which they flourish, they will embalm the fact that at least one prose writer of the present day has enunciated that incontrovertible proposition.

But we go a step further. We assert positively that wandering through the wild woods is a healthy as well as a pleasant sort of thing. The free air of the mountains and prairies is renovating, the perfumes of the forests are salubrious; while the constantly recurring necessity for leaping and scrambling is good for the muscles, and the occasional tripping over roots, tumbling into holes, scratching one’s face and banging one’s shins and toes against stumps, are good for—though somewhat trying to—the temper.

Further still—we affirm that wandering through the wild woods is a funny thing. Any one who had observed our friends March Marston, and Redhand, and Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, the trappers, and Bertram the artist, and Hawkswing the Indian, one beautiful afternoon, not long after the day on which they lost their canoe, would have admitted, without hesitation, that wandering through the wild woods was, among other things, a funny thing.

On the beautiful afternoon referred to, the first six individuals above named were huddled together in a promiscuous heap, behind a small bush, in such a confused way that an ignorant spectator might have supposed that Bounce’s head belonged to Big Waller’s body, and the artist’s shoulders to Redhand’s head, and their respective legs and arms to no one individually, but to all collectively, in a miscellaneous sort of way. The fact was that the bush behind which they were huddled was almost too small to conceal them all, and, being a solitary bush in the midst of a little plain of about a half a mile in extent, they had to make the most of it and the least of themselves. It would have been a refreshing sight for a moralist to have witnessed this instance of man—whose natural tendency is to try to look big—thus voluntarily endeavouring to look as small as possible!

This bundle of humanity was staring through the bush, with, as the saying is, all its eyes, that is, with six pairs of—or twelve individual—eyes; and they were staring at a wolf—an enormous wolf—that was slowly walking away from the bush behind which they were ensconced! It was a very singular wolf indeed—one that was well calculated to excite surprise in the breast even of trappers. There was something radically wrong with that wolf, especially about the legs. Its ears and head were all right, and it had a tail, a very good tail for a wolf; but there was a strange unaccountable lump under its neck, and its fore legs bent the wrong way at the knees, and it seemed to have long feet trailing behind its hind legs, besides being otherwise misshapen. The mystery is explained when we state that this wolf was none other than Hawkswing, down on his hands and knees, with a wolf-skin over his back, and Bertram’s blunderbuss-pistol in his hand. He was creeping cautiously towards a herd of six or seven buffaloes that chanced to be feeding quietly there, quite unconscious of the near proximity of so dangerous an enemy.

“I hope the old pistol won’t miss fire,” whispered Redhand, as he observed that the wolf paused, evidently for the purpose of examining the priming.

“I hope,” added Bounce, “that the Injun won’t miss his aim. He be’n’t used to pistols.”

“Never fear,” said March with a quiet grin. “If he aims within a yard o’ the brute he’s sure to hit, for I loaded the old blunderbuss myself, an’ it’s crammed nigh to the muzzle with all sorts o’ things, includin’ stones.”

At this Big Waller stared, and said emphatically, “It’ll bust!” Bertram felt and looked uneasy, but Bounce shook his head.

“Them old things,” said he, “never bust. I’ve been forty years, off an’ on, in these parts, an’ I’ve always obsarved that old irons o’ that sort don’t bust; cause why? they’d ha’ busted w’en they wos new, if they’d bin goin’ to bust at all. The fact is, they can’t bust. They’re too useless even for that.”

“How comes it,” inquired Bertram, “that the buffaloes are not afraid of a wolf? I have been led to understand that wolves are the inveterate enemies of buffaloes, and that they often attack them.”

To this question March, whose head was in close proximity to that of the artist, replied—

“Ay, the sneakin’ brutes will attack a single wounded or worn-out old buffalo, when it falls behind the herd, and when there are lots o’ their low-minded comrades along with ’em; but the buffaloes don’t care a straw for a single wolf, as ye may see now if ye pay attention to what Hawkswing’s doin’.”

Bertram became silent on observing that the Indian had approached to within about pistol range of the buffalo without attracting particular attention, and that he was in the act of taking aim at its shoulder. Immediately a sharp click caused the buffalo to look up, and apprised the onlookers that the faithless weapon had missed fire; again Hawkswing pulled the trigger and with a like result. By this time the buffalo, having become alarmed, started off at a run. Once more the click was heard; then the wolf, rising on its hind legs, coolly walked backed to its comrades behind the bush, while the herd of buffaloes galloped furiously away.

The Indian solemnly stalked up to Bertram and presented the pistol to him with such an expression of grave contempt on his countenance that March Marston burst into an irresistible fit of laughter, thereby relieving his own feelings and giving, as it were, direction to those of the others, most of whom were in the unpleasant condition of being undecided whether to laugh or cry.

To miss a buffalo was not indeed a new, or, in ordinary circumstances, a severe misfortune; but to miss one after having been three days without food, with the exception of a little unpalatable wolf’s flesh, was not an agreeable, much less an amusing, incident.

“I’ll tell ye wot it is,” said Bounce, slapping his thigh violently and emphasising his words as if to imply that nobody had ever told anybody “wot” anything “wos” since the world began up to that time, “I’ll tell ye wot it is, I won’t stand this sort o’ thing no longer.”

“It is most unfortunate,” sighed poor Bertram, who thoroughly identified himself with his pistol, and felt as much ashamed of it as if the fault had been his own.

“Wall, lads,” observed Big Waller, drawing forth his pipe as the only source of comfort in these trying circumstances, and filling it with scrupulous care, “it ain’t of no use gettin’ growowly about it, I guess. There air more buffaloes than them wot’s gone; mayhap we’ll splinicate one before we gits more waspisher.”

It may, perhaps, be necessary to explain that Waller’s last word referred to the unusually small waists of the party, the result of a pretty long fast.

“I’ll tell ye what it is,” said March, advancing towards Bounce with a swagger and drawing his hunting-knife, “I quite agree with Waller’s sentiments. I don’t mean to allow myself to get any more waspisher, so I vote that we cut Bounce up and have a feed. What say you, comrades?”

“All right,” replied Bounce, laying bare his broad chest as if to receive the knife, “only, p’r’aps, ye’ll allow me to eat the first slice off myself afore ye begin, ’cause I couldn’t well have my share afterwards, d’ye see? But, now I think on’t, I’d be rather a tough morsel. Young meat’s gin’rally thought the tenderest. Wot say ye to cuttin’ up March first, an’ tryin’ me nixt?”

“If you’ll only wait, lads,” said Redhand, “till Mr Bertram gits a new flint into his pistol, we’ll shoot the victim instead o’ cutting him up. It’ll be quicker, you know.”

“Hah! non,” cried Gibault, leaping a few inches off the ground, under the impulse of a new idea, “I vill show to you vat ve vill do. Ve vill each cot hoff von finger. Redhand, he vill begin vid de thomb, et so on till it come to me, and I vill cot hoff mine leetle finger. Each vill devour the finger of de oder, an’ so’ve shall have von dinner vidout committing mordor—ha! vat say you?”

As Bertram had by this time arranged the lock of his pistol and reprimed it, the hungry travellers resumed their weary march without coming to a decision upon this delicate point.

It had happened that, during the last few days, the land over which they travelled being somewhat barren, small game had become scarce, and the large game could not be approached near enough to be shot with such weapons as the artist’s antiquated pistols; and as the party possessed nothing better in the shape of a projectile, they had failed to procure supplies. They had now, however, again reached a rich country, and had succeeded in trapping a large wolf, under the skin of which Hawkswing had made, as we have seen, an unsuccessful effort to shoot a buffalo. Soon after this failure the party came to a ridge of gravelly soil that stretched across the plain like a wave.

The plain, or small prairie, to which we refer was in the midst of a most lovely scene. The earth was carpeted with rich green grass, in which the wild flowers nestled like gems. The ground was undulating, yet so varied in its formations that the waves and mounds did not prevent the eyes of the travellers ranging over a vast tract of country, even when they were down among the hollows; and, when they had ascended the backs of the ridges, they could cast a wide glance over a scene of mingled plain and wood, lake and river, such as is never seen except in earth’s remotest wilds, where man has not attempted to adorn the face of nature with the exuberances of his own wonderful invention.

Far away on the horizon the jagged forms and snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose clear and sharp against the sky. For some days past the trappers had sighted this stupendous “backbone” of the far west, yet so slowly did they draw near that March Marston and Bertram, in their impatience, almost believed they were a range of phantom hills, which ever receded from them as they advanced.

On reaching the summit of the gravelly ridge, Redhand looked along it with an earnest, searching gaze.

“Wot’s ado now?” inquired Bounce.

“There ought to be prairie-hens here,” replied the other.

“Oh! do stand still, just as you are, men!” cried Bertram enthusiastically, flopping down on a stone and drawing forth his sketch-book, “you’ll make such a capital foreground.”

The trappers smiled and took out their pipes, having now learned from experience that smoking was not detrimental to a sketch—rather the reverse.

“Cut away, Gibault,” said Bounce, “an’ take a look at the edge o’ yon bluff o’ poplars and willows. I’ve obsarved that prairie-hens is fond o’ sich places. You’ll not be missed out o’ the pictur’, bein’ only a small objict, d’ye see, besides an ogly one.”

The jovial Canadian acknowledged the compliment with a smile and obeyed the command, leaving his companions to smoke their pipes and gaze with quiet complacency upon the magnificent scene. Doubtless, much of their satisfaction resulted from the soothing influence of tobacco on their empty stomachs.

“I say,” whispered Waller, removing his pipe and puffing from his lips a large cloud of smoke, which rolled upwards in the form of a white ring, “I say, Bounce, I guess it’s past my comprehension what he means by a foreground. How does we make a capital foreground?”

Bounce looked at his companion in silence for a few seconds; then he removed his pipe, pursed his lips, frowned heavily, looked at the ground, and repeated slowly, “How does we make a capital foreground?”

Waller nodded.

“Ay, that’s it.” Bounce resumed his pipe for a few seconds, and then said with an air of the utmost profundity—

“Don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Wot? Nothin’ about it wotiver?”

“Nothin’ wotsomdiver.”

“H’m, that’s okard,” said Bounce, once more applying to his pipe; “’cause, d’ye see, it’s most ’orrible difficult to explain a thing to a feller as don’t know nothin’ wotiver about it. If ye only had the smallest guess o—”

“Wall, come, I does know somethin’ about it,” interrupted Waller.

“Wot’s that?” inquired Bounce, brightening up.

“I calc’late that I knows for certain it ain’t got no place wotiver in my onderstandin’.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Bounce. “Come, then, I’ll do my best for to explain it t’ye. Here’s wot it is. D’ye see Mr Bertram, there?”

“Yes, I does.”

“An’ d’ye see yerself?”

“Wall, I does,” replied Waller, looking complacently down at his huge limbs.

“Good; then d’ye see the ground over there?” continued Bounce, pointing with his pipe to the Rocky Mountains.

Waller nodded.

“Now then,” said Bounce, in those deep earnest tones with which men usually attempt to probe the marrow of some desperately knotty question; “now, then, when Mr Bertram’s a drawin’ of, an’ tries to look at the ground over there, you an’ me comes before the ground, d’ye see; an’ so we’re, as ye may say, before-grounds. But men wot studies human natur’ an’ langwidges, d’ye see, comes for to know that words is always gittin’ onnecessary bits chopped off ’em—sometimes at one end, sometimes at t’other. So they tuck off the B, d’ye see, an’ made it foreground, and that’s how we come to be foregrounds.”

“Oh!” said Waller, with the vacant air of a man who feels himself as wise at the termination as he was at the beginning of an explanation.

“Yes,” resumed Bounce, “that’s how it is. I must confess, for my part, that I don’t ’xactly see the advantage o’ us in that light. I should ha’ thought it would ha’ bin better to make us stand to one side, d’ye see, and let him see how the land lies. But there’s no accountin’ for taste in this wurld—I’ve obsarved that, iver since I was three fut two.”

Having delivered himself of this graphic exposition of an abstruse subject, Bounce relapsed into silence, and the whole party continued for some minutes in a profound reverie. From this felicitous condition they were awakened by the sudden appearance of Black Gibault, who darted out of the poplar bluff and made towards them at the top of his speed. He uttered no cry, but, on coming near enough to permit of his features being clearly seen, it was observed that his eyes were eagerly wide open, and that his mouth was engaged in the formation of words. A second or two more, and he was near enough to be heard uttering the word “buffaloes” in a hoarse whisper.

“Ho! boy, wot is’t?” cried Bounce in an equally hoarse whisper.

“Ba—buffaloes, hah! buffaloes,” cried Gibault, panting violently as he came up; “Where be de leetle gun? He! Monsieur Bertram, out vid it.”

“Where saw ye them?” asked Redhand, seizing the two pistols, and examining the priming.

“Jist oder side of de bluff. Ver’ close to de bushes. Queek! queek! vite! mon garçon, you is so drefful slow.”

The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was quietly putting on his wolf-skin. Although too slow for the hasty spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes. In three minutes he was in the clump of poplar trees behind which the buffaloes were reported to be feeding, and in another minute he was out upon the plain creeping towards his victims, while the rest of the party were again huddled together behind a bush, looking on with deep interest and breathless attention.

Gradually and slowly the Indian crept towards the buffaloes, pausing and snuffing about from time to time as if he were a veritable wolf in search of something to eat. At last he had approached near enough to the herd to attract their attention, but scarcely near enough to make sure of bringing one down. The huge unwieldy creatures looked up inquiringly for a moment, but, seeing only a solitary enemy, they scorned to take further notice of him, and went on feeding.

Hawkswing paused within a few yards of the side of a fat sleek animal, and slowly raised his pistol. The trappers held their breath, and Bertram uttered a low groan of anxiety. One moment more and a white puff was followed by a loud crack, and a bellow, as the horror-stricken buffaloes tossed up their heels and fled wildly from the spot, leaving one of their number in the agonies of death upon the plain.

The knife of the Indian hastened its end, and with a rush and a yell of delight the whole party fell upon the luckless animal.

It was a wonderful sight to see, the way in which these experienced men flayed and cut up that buffalo! Hawkswing, without taking time to remove his wolf-skin covering, commenced upon the head and speedily cut out the tongue—a more difficult operation than inexperienced persons would suppose. Redhand and Bounce began at the shoulders, and Big Waller and Gibault fell to work upon the flanks. March Marston seized his axe, and hastening into the bluff felled a dead pine and kindled a fire. As for Bertram, he sat down to sketch the whole with a degree of prompt facility and gusto, that showed the habit had become second nature to him.

The way in which these men wielded their bloody knives, flayed and sliced, dismembered and divided that buffalo, is past belief—almost beyond description. Each man threw off his capote and tucked up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows, and very soon each had on a pair of bright red gauntlets. And the bloody appearance of Hawkswing’s mouth proved that he had been anticipating the feast with a few tit-bits raw. The others were more patient.

In very nearly as short a time as it takes to tell, the buffalo was converted into a mass of fragments that were powerfully suggestive of a butcher’s shop, and the trappers adjourned to a neighbouring rivulet to wash their hands and arms.

“Now, I’ll tell ye wot it is,” observed Bounce while thus engaged, “I means for to have a most awful blow out, and then go to sleep for four-and-twenty hours on end.”

“Ditto,” remarked Big Waller with a nod; to which old Redhand replied with a chuckle.

“An’ who be go to vatch, tink you?” inquired Gibault, as they all returned to the camp. “Perhaps de Injuns look out for us—vat den?”

“Ah ye may well ask that, Gibault,” said Redhand; “the fact is I’ve been thinkin’ that now we’re drawin’ near to enemies we must begin to keep better watch at night, and to burn small fires o’ dry wood, lest the smoke should tell a tale upon us.”

“Oh, don’t talk bam, old feller,” said Waller; “I guess we’ll have watchin’ enough w’en we gits into the mountains. Let’s take it easy here.”

“We’ll have one good blow out to-night, anyhow,” cried March Marston, heaving a fresh pile of logs on the already roaring fire. “Now, Mr Bertram, do give up your scratchin’ to-night, and let’s see what you can do in the eatin’ way. I’m sure you’ve fasted long enough, at least for the good o’ your health.”

The poor artist had indeed fasted long enough to give to his naturally thin and lank figure a thread-papery appearance that might have suggested the idea that he was evaporating. He smiled good-humouredly when March Marston, who had now become rather familiar with him, shut up his sketch-book and set him forcibly down before the fire, all round which steaks and hunks of meat were roasting and grilling, and sending forth an odour that would have rendered less hungry men impatient of delay. But they had not to wait long. Each man sat before his respective steak or hunk, gazing eagerly, as, skewered on the end of a splinter of wood, his supper roasted hissingly. When the side next the fire was partially cooked, he turned it round and fell to work upon that while the other side was roasting—thus the cooking and the eating went on together.

After a considerable time symptoms of satiety began to appear, in the shape of an occasional remark. Soon Bounce uttered a deep sigh, and announced his belief that, having taken the edge off his appetite, it was time to begin with the marrow-bones. Thereupon, with the marrow-bones he began, and his example was quickly followed by his companions. There was a business-like steadiness of purpose in the way in which that meal was eaten, and in the whole of the procedure connected with it, that would have been highly diverting to a disinterested spectator.

When the feast was concluded, the pipes made their appearance as a matter of course; and when these were lighted, and in full blast, the trappers found leisure to look round upon each other’s faces with expressions of benignity.

“Dat be a monstrobolly goot supper,” remarked Gibault Noir. Gibault spoke with an effort. It was quite plain that moderation was a virtue that he did not possess in a high degree—at least, not on the present occasion.

“You’ll need a ‘monstrobolly’ good sleep arter it,” observed Bounce quietly.

“You will, jist,” said Waller; “an’ so will this coon, I cal—”

Big Waller was going to have “calculated,” according to custom; but sleepiness overpowered him at the moment, and he terminated the word with a yawn of such ferocity that it drew from Redhand a remark of doubt as to whether his jaws could stand such treatment long.

Every member of that party seemed to be quite contented and amiable, but no one showed much inclination to talk, and ere many minutes had passed, half their number were under their blankets, their heads pillowed on their bundles and their eyes sealed in sleep. A few minutes later, and Big Waller, sinking into a very sprawling and reckless posture, with his back against the stem of a large cotton-tree, dropped into a state of slumber with his pipe hanging gracefully from his lips.

This seemed so picturesque to Theodore Bertram, who sat immediately opposite to the Yankee, on the other side of the fire, that he pulled out his sketch-book and began enthusiastically to sketch by the flickering light. While he was thus occupied, the others lay down, one by one, and he was left, at last, the only waking member of the camp.

But Theodore Bertram was human, and this is tantamount to saying that he was not capable of ignoring the somnolent influences of human nature. To his own extreme surprise his head fell forward with an abrupt nod while he was engaged in the act of depicting Big Waller’s nose, and he found, on resuming work, with an imbecile smile at what he deemed his weakness, that that member of the Yankee’s face was at least two feet long, and was formed after the pattern of a somewhat irregular Bologna sausage. Indiarubber quickly put this to rights, however, and he set to again with renewed zeal. Throwing back his head, and looking up as if for inspiration, his wide-awake fell off, and it required a sudden and powerful effort to prevent his head and shoulders falling in the same direction.

Having replaced his hat and shaken himself a little, the persevering man once more applied himself to his task of finishing the Yankee’s portrait, which, to say truth, now presented a variety of jagged and picturesque outlines, that savoured more of caricature than anything Bertram had ever yet accomplished. For some time the pencil moved upon the paper pretty steadily, and the artist was beginning to congratulate himself on his success, when, to his horror, he observed that the tree against which the Yankee leaned was in the act of falling over to the right. The same instant he received a shock upon the left side, and awoke to find that he had fallen heavily upon poor Gibault’s breast, and that Waller and his tree were in statu quo. But Gibault cared not; he was too deeply intent upon sleeping to mind such trifles.

Bertram smiled meekly as he resumed his sitting posture; but the smile faded and was replaced by a gaze of mute astonishment as he observed that he had depicted Waller’s right eye upon his chin, close beneath his nose! There seemed to be some sort of magic here, and he felt disposed to regard the thing in the light of some serious optical illusion, when, on closer inspection, he discovered Waller’s mouth drawn altogether beyond the circle of his countenance, a foot or so above his head, on the stem of the tree against which he leaned. This changed the current of his thoughts and led him to believe that he must be dreaming, under which impression he fell back and went to sleep.

Of course, Bertram recollected nothing after that; but when Gibault awoke next morning, he found him lying on his back, with his feet in the ashes of the extinct fire, his tall brigandish wide-awake perfectly flat beneath his shoulders, and his sketch-book lying open across his face.

Chapter Eight.

A Cache discovered—Bertram becomes valorous—Failure follows, and a brief Skirmish, Flight, and Separation are the Results.

The sun was high, scattering the golden clouds in the bright sky, gilding the hilltops, flooding the plains, vivifying vegetable life, and gladdening the whole animal creation, when, on the following morning, our wearied trappers raised their heads and began to think of breakfast.

To do these trappers justice, however, we must add that their looks, when they became wide enough awake to take full cognisance of the scenery, indicated the presence of thoughts and emotions of a more elevated character, though, from the nature of their training from infancy, they wanted words to express their feelings.

It was otherwise with Bertram and March Marston. Their exclamations, the instant they arose, showed that both their hearts were keenly alive to the good and the beautiful which surrounded them—and their tongues were not altogether incapable of uttering the praise of Him who clothes so gorgeously the lovely earth and peoples it with millions of happy creatures—yes, happy creatures, for, despite the existence of death and sin and sorrow everywhere, and the croaking of misanthropes, there is much, very much, of pure, overflowing happiness here below.

“Come, March—Mr Bertram, time presses,” said Redhand, interrupting the two friends in the midst of earnest conversation; “we’ve got a long day before us, and, mayhap, a fight with redskins at the end o’t, so it behoves us to make a good breakfast and set off as soon as we can. We’re late enough already.”

“Ah, Redhand!” exclaimed March, “you’re a terrible fellow for duty an’ business, an’ all that sort o’ thing. It’s always ‘time to be off,’ or ‘time to think o’ this or that,’ or ‘we mustn’t put off,’ with you. Why won’t ye let us take a breathin’ spell once in a way to enjoy ourselves, eh?”

The old man pointed to the sun. “You’ve enjoyed yourself late enough to-day, han’t ye?”

“Come, March, you’re in a fault-finding humour this morning,” said Bertram as they walked towards the camp. “Let’s enjoy ourselves in spite of circumstances. Do you know, I hold it to be exceedingly wise as well as philosophical, to make the best of things at all times.”

“Do you?” exclaimed March in a tone of affected surprise; “now that’s odd. You must be a real clever fellow to have made up your mind on that point. But somehow or other I’m inclined to think that most o’ the trappers hereabouts are as wise as yourself on it, though, mayhap, they don’t say it just in the same words. There’s Waller, now, as ’ll tell ye that when he ‘can’t help it he guesses he’ll jist grin an’ bear it.’ And there’s an old Irish trapper that’s bin in the mountains nigh forty years now, and who’s alive at this day—if he bean’t dead—that used to say to himself when ill luck came upon him, ‘Now, Terence, be aisy, boy; an’ av ye can’t be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.’ So you see, Mr Bertram, we have got a few sparks of wisdom in these diggins.”

“Now, then, stop yer feelosophy,” cried Bounce, hitching his shoulders so as to induce his light load to take up a more accommodating position. “Ye didn’t use to be a slow feller, March; wot’s to do? Ye ain’t a-goin’ to cave in ’cause we’re gettin’ nigh the redskins, are ye?”

To this March deigned no reply, but, swinging his bundle over his shoulder, set off at a pace that speedily left his laughing comrades far behind. When, in the course of an hour after, they overtook him, he was discovered lying flat on his back, with his head resting on his bundle, and smoking his pipe with an air of perfect satisfaction.

During the course of that day the trappers walked about thirty miles. Towards the afternoon they came to a large river, along the banks of which they pursued their way, led by Redhand, who seemed as familiar with the country as if he had dwelt there from infancy. The old trapper’s kindly visage was lighted up with a smile of recognition, ever and anon, when some new and striking feature of the landscape opened up to view, as if he had met with and were greeting some personal friend. He spoke occasionally in a low tone to March, who usually kept close to his side, and pointed to spots which were associated in his memory with adventures of various kinds. But Redhand’s observations were few. He preferred to listen to the conversations of his comrades, as they plodded steadily along, enlivening their march with many an anecdote and legend.

At last Redhand called a halt, and gazed inquiringly around him, as if in search of some object.

“Wot’s up?” inquired Bounce earnestly.

“It was hereabouts, somewhere,” muttered Redhand, to himself rather than to his friend; then added quickly, as he threw down his pack, “Ay, there it is—never touched. Now that’s what I call luck.”

“Wot’s luck?” inquired Waller.

“Ah, dat is de keevestion,” added Gibault with a look of surprise.

“You must know, lads,” said Redhand, turning to his comrades, who observed his movements with considerable astonishment; “you must know, lads, there was an old chap who once trapped beavers up in them parts—”

“Oh! it’s a hanikdot,” interrupted Big Waller; “then I guess we’d as well sot down.” So saying, he seated himself on his bundle and, as a matter of course, proceeded to fill his pipe. The others followed his example, with the exception of Redhand, who remained standing, and of Bertram, who quickly opened his sketch-book, that being the first opportunity he had enjoyed during the day of making an entry therein.

“Right,” exclaimed Bounce. “It’s allers more feelosophical to sot than to stand—also more ekornomical, ’cause it saves yer moccasins. Go on with yer story, old man.”

“It ain’t a story,” said Redhand; “nor I don’t think it can even be called an anecdote. Well, this old chap that once trapped beaver in them parts came down to Pine Point settlement one year with a load o’ furs, sold ’em all off, took a ragin’ fever, and died.” Redhand paused, and gazed dreamily at the ground.

“I say,” observed Bounce seriously, “ain’t that wot ye may call raither a short hanikdot—not much in it, eh?”

“But before he died,” resumed Redhand without noticing the interruption, “he sent for me an’ said: ‘Redhand, I’m goin’ onder, an’ I’ve got some property as I don’t want lost. Ye know Beaver Creek?’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘every fut of it.’ ‘Well, then,’ says he, ‘there’s a spot there with three mounds on the right side o’ the Creek and a tall poplar in front of ’em.’ ‘I know it,’ says I. ‘Well, w’en I last come from that part,’ says he, ‘I made a cache at the foot o’ that poplar, an’ put one or two things in, which it ’ud be a pity to lose—so I give ’em to you, Redhand. I was chased by Injuns at the place, so I couldn’t stop to bring ’em away, d’ye see?’ ‘An’ what were the things ye put there?’ said I. But he gave me no answer; his mind began to wander, and he never spoke sense again. Now, lads, this is Beaver Creek, and there stands the poplar in front o’ the three mounds.”

Redhand pointed to the tree as he spoke, and the others started up with alacrity, for the little touch of romance connected with the incident, combined with their comparatively destitute condition, and their ignorance of what the concealed treasure might be, powerfully stirred their curiosity.

Arming themselves with strong staves, they began to dig away the earth at the roots of the poplar.

After a few minutes’ hard work, Bounce rose to wipe the perspiration from his brow, and said—

“Wot for didn’t ye tell us o’ this before, Redhand?”

“Because I wasn’t sure the cache might not have bin discovered long ago, and I didn’t want to risk disappointin’ ye.”

“Hallo! here’s somethin’,” exclaimed Big Waller, as the point of the stake with which he tore up the earth struck against some hard substance.

“Have a care, boy,” cried Bounce, stooping down and clearing away the earth with his hands. “P’r’aps it’s easy broken. No—why—it’s a keg!”

“So it am,” cried Gibault; “p’r’aps it am poudre.”

At this moment Big Waller and Bounce gave the keg a violent tug and disentombed it, an operation which proved Gibault’s surmise to be wrong, for the shake showed that the contents were liquid. In a moment the plug was driven in, and Bounce, putting his nose to the hole, inhaled the result. He drew back with a look of surprise, and said—

“Brandy!”

“Ha! here is one oder ting,” cried Gibault, laying hold of a bundle and dragging it to light. “Vat can dis be?”

The question was soon answered; the string was cut, the leathern cover unrolled, and a considerable quantity of tobacco was disclosed to the view of the trappers, whose looks showed pretty clearly that this latter discovery was much more agreeable than the former.

After digging deep all round the tree, they came to the conclusion that this was all that the cache contained.

“Now,” said Bounce, after some talk in reference to their newly-found treasure, “wot’s to be done with dis here keg o’ brandy? As for the baccy, we’ll carry that along with us, of course, an’ if Master Redhand’s a liberal feller, we’ll help him to smoke it. But the brandy keg’s heavy, an’ to say truth, I’m not much inclined for it. I never wos fond o’ fire-water.”

“If you’d allow me, friends, to suggest,” said Bertram, whose experience among trappers in other regions had convinced him that spirits was a most undesirable commodity, “I would recommend that you should throw this brandy away. I never saw good come of it. We do not require it for health, neither do we for sickness. Let us throw it away, my friends; it is a dangerous and deceitful foe.”

“Mais, monsieur,” interposed Gibault with a rueful countenance; “you speak de trooth; but though hims be dangereux an’ ver’ bad for drink oftin, yet ven it be cold vedder, it doo varm de cokils of de hart!”

Big Waller laughed vociferously at this. “I guess Gibault’s right,” said he, “it ’ud be a powerful shame to fling it away.”

“Well, lads,” said Redhand, “it’s evident that we can’t drink it just now, for it would unsteady our hands for the work we have to do this night. It’s also clear we can’t carry it with us on a war expedition; so I propose that we should put it where we found it an’ come back for it when we’ve done wi’ the redskins.”

This plan was finally agreed to; the keg was reburied at the foot of the poplar, and the party continued their journey, carrying the much-prized tobacco along with them.

The sun was still blazing above the mountains in the west, tingeing their snowy spires with rosy red, when the trappers came upon the first indication of the neighbourhood of Indians in the shape of recent footprints and cuttings in the woods. A large canoe was also found lying bottom up on the bank of the creek. This Redhand examined, and found it to be in good condition, although, from the marks in the vicinity, it was evident that it had not been recently used.

Men who spend their lives in the backwoods of America are celebrated for the closeness with which they observe every object and circumstance which happens to pass within the range of their perceptions. This habit and acuteness of observation is the result of necessity. The trapper and the Red Indian are alike dependent very much on this faculty for their sustenance and for their safety. Surrounded as they are by perils of every kind, their eyes and ears are constantly on the alert, as they pass through the pathless wilderness on the hunt or on the war trail. No object within the range of vision is passed with indifference. Everything is carefully yet quickly noted—the breaking of a twig, the crushing of a blade of grass, or the footprint of man or beast. Hence the backwoodsman acquires the habit of turning all things in his path to account, or notes them in case they should, by any possibility, be required by him at a future time.

Redhand had no definite object in view when, with the assistance of March Marston, he lifted the canoe and placed it in the stream to ascertain that it was water-tight, and then replaced it on the bank with the paddles close beside it. But he had a general idea, founded on experience, that a good canoe was a useful thing in many supposable circumstances, and that it was as well to know where such an article was to be found.

“We shall have to go cautiously now,” said he before resuming the march. “The Injuns are not far off, as ye may see by yonder thin line o’ smoke that rises above the trees on the mountain side. If they are the men we seek, they’re sharp as foxes, so we’ll have to step like the painter.”

Bertram looked up quickly at the last word; then he smiled the next moment, as he remembered that the panther was thus styled by trappers.

Proceeding cautiously forward in single file, they at length gained a spot beyond which they could not advance without running the risk of being discovered. Here another halt was made, and here it was agreed that Redhand should advance alone, near enough to ascertain whether the Indians, whose camp they were approaching, were actually the scamps who had robbed Bertram of his horses. The old trapper was about to set forward when Bertram stopped him.

“Methinks, old man,” said he, “it were well that I should accompany you on this expedition, which I foresee is one of no little danger; and as the danger is encountered chiefly on my account, it seems to me right and fitting that I should share it along with you. Besides, two are better than one in a struggle, whether mental or physical.”

Redhand looked a little perplexed. He did not like to tell the poor artist that he was totally unfit to make a stealthy approach to an Indian camp, yet he felt that the danger of failure would be increased tenfold if he allowed him to make the attempt; but Bertram pleaded so earnestly, and withal so resolutely, that he at length consented, on condition of his doing nothing but what he was desired to do, and keeping as quiet as a mouse. This the artist promised to do, and the two accordingly set forth, armed with their knives and the two pistols. Bertram also carried his sword. The rest of the party were to remain in ambush until the return of the others.

During the first part of their advance through the wood Bertram trod as softly and carefully as an Indian, and watched every motion of his companion, who led him down into a ravine which conducted them to within a few hundred yards of the camp. From the absence of such noises as the barking of dogs and shouts of children, the old trapper conjectured that this must be either a party of trappers or a war-party of Indians. A few minutes’ creeping on hands and knees through the underwood brought them to a spot whence the camp could be seen, and showed that in the latter conjecture he was right. The red warriors, forty in number, were seated in a circle round their watch-fire smoking their tomahawks in moody silence.

To the eye of Bertram they all seemed to be lost in dreamy reverie, but Redhand observed, with a feeling of anxiety, that he who seemed to be their chief sat in that peculiar attitude which indicates intense attention. Laying his hand on Bertram’s shoulder, the old man said in the faintest possible whisper—

“Yonder sits the thief, an’t he?”

Bertram at once recognised in the chief of the band before him Big Snake, the Indian who had stolen his horses and property; so he nodded his head violently, and looked excited, but wisely refrained from speech, lest his voice should be overheard.

Redhand shook his head. “The thief,” said he in a tone that was scarcely audible, “has heard us; I see by his face that he suspects he has heard something, and he knows that it was not the falling of a leaf. If we break a twig now we’re done for.”

Redhand meant this to be a salutary caution to his companion, which would ensure a noiseless retreat. To men of his own stamp it would have been useful, but he little knew the peculiar temperament of his friend; the mere idea of the success of the whole expedition depending upon his extreme care unhinged the nerves of the poor artist, who, although absolutely a brave man, in the true sense of the term, could no more control his nervous system than he could perform an Indian war-dance. He could have rushed single-handed on the whole body of warriors with ease, but he could not creep among the dry twigs that strewed the ground without trembling like an aspen leaf lest he should break one.

It is wonderful, however, what necessity will enable men to do. Bertram did creep after his friend, back towards the spot where the rest of his party lay, as softly and noiselessly as if he had been bred to the work from infancy. On regaining the edge of the ravine, they rose and advanced in a crouching posture. Then Bertram sighed and felt that imminent danger was over. Alas! that feeling of partial security cost him dear. The step that succeeded the sigh was a careless one. His foot caught in a projecting root, and next moment he went headforemost into the centre of a decayed bush with a crackling crash that was absolutely appalling in the circumstances.

Redhand cast upon the luckless man one glance of horror, and, uttering the words, “Run for your life!” dashed down the bank, and coursed along the bottom like a hare. At the same moment that terrific yell, which has so often chilled the heart’s blood of men and women in those western wilds, rang through the forest, telling that they were discovered, and that the Indians were in pursuit.

Bertram kept close to the heels of the old trapper at first, but before he had run fifty yards he tripped and fell again. On attempting to rise he was seized and thrown violently to the ground by an Indian warrior. Looking back and observing this, Redhand turned at once, like a hare doubling on its course, and rushed to the rescue; but before he reached his friend he was surrounded by a dozen yelling Indians. At the foremost of these he levelled his pistol, but the faithless weapon missed fire, and he was in the act of hurling it at his adversary, when a blow from behind felled him to the ground.

While this was going on, the trappers were bounding to the succour of their comrades. When they came to the field of action and saw neither of their friends (for they had been borne swiftly away), and beheld an overwhelming band of armed savages rushing towards them, they at once perceived that strength or courage could avail them nothing in such an unequal conflict; so they turned and fled, scattering themselves among the bushes so as to divert pursuit as much as possible.

Bounce and Gibault were the only two who kept together. These made for the spot where the canoe had been left, but the latter outran the former so quickly that he was soon lost to view ahead of him. In a few minutes Bounce gained the bank of the stream, and seized the end of the canoe. To his amazement Gibault was nowhere to be seen. But he had no time for thought, for at that moment he was discovered by two Indians who ran towards him. The canoe was launched, and a paddle seized in an instant, but the trusty trapper was loath, even in his extremity, to push off while his comrade might be in danger.

“Ho! Gibault! Gibault Noir!” he shouted. “Quick, lad; yer too late a’most, ho!”

Grinding his teeth in an agony of anxiety, he made a sudden dart at the foremost Indian, who little dreamed of such an attack, and hit him with the paddle with all his force. The savage dropped like a stone, and the paddle flew into a dozen splinters. This was a foolish act on the part of Bounce, for the second Indian was now close upon him, and, seeing the fate of his companion, he stopped short, and hastily fitted an arrow to his bow. Just then several of the savages burst from the wood with fierce cries. There was no time to lose. Bounce turned, pushed off the canoe, and leaped in as an arrow grazed his neck.

The bold trapper’s condition seemed hopeless; for, having broken the paddle to pieces, he could not propel his little bark out of danger. The stream was broad and rapid at that place, and swept him away swiftly. Immediately a shower of arrows fell around him, some grazing his person and piercing his clothes and the canoe, but fortunately not wounding him.

Meanwhile three of the Indians darted downstream, and, throwing themselves into the current, swam out so as to intercept the canoe as it passed. Bounce, having lain down at full length in the bottom of his tiny bark to avoid the arrows which were discharged at him, did not observe these men, and the first intimation he had of what was taking place was the canoe being nearly upset, as a powerful savage laid hold of the side of it.

To draw his knife and pass it round the wrist of the Indian, so as to sever the tendons, was the work of a moment. The savage fell back with a yell of mingled rage and pain. The others seeing what had occurred, wisely turned and made for the shore. This incident was the means of saving the trapper, for the Indians, fearful of wounding their comrade, had ceased to discharge their arrows, and when they again ventured to do so, a tumultuous rapid had caught the canoe, and whirled it nearly over to the opposite shore.

Bounce watched his opportunity. As he swept near to a rocky point, he sprang towards it with all his might. He fell short, but happily the water did not reach above his knees. Next moment he sprang up the bank and stood on the edge of the underwood, where he paused, and, turning round, shook his clenched fist at his enemies, and uttered a shout of defiance.

The disappointed Indians gave vent to a fiendish howl, and discharged a cloud of arrows, most of which fell short of their mark. Ere the last shaft had fallen harmless to the ground, Bounce had entered the forest and was gone.

Chapter Nine.

Bounce cogitates upon the embarrassing Circumstances of his Condition—Discovery of Black Gibault—Terrible Fate in Store for their Comrades—A Mode of Rescue planned—Dreadful Effects of Fire-Water—The Rescue.

About ten minutes after making his escape from his Indian foes, Bounce seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree and began to think upon “Number One.”

A little red squirrel had been seated on the trunk of that tree just two minutes before his arrival. It was now seated on the topmost branch of a neighbouring pine, looking with a pair of brilliant black eyes indignantly at the unceremonious intruder.

Possibly the reader may think that it was selfish of Bounce, at such a time, to devote much attention to Number One. He had just escaped; he was in comparative safety; he was free; while there could be little or no doubt that his late companions were prisoners, if not killed, and that, in the ordinary course of things, they would eventually suffer death by torture. At such a time and in such circumstances it would be more natural, even in a selfish man, to think of any or of all the other numerals than number one.

But, reader, I need scarcely tell you that things are not always what they seem. Men are frequently not so bad as, at a first glance, they would appear to be.

Bounce always reasoned philosophically, and he often thought aloud. He did so on this occasion, to the immense edification of the little red squirrel, no doubt. At least, if we may judge from the way in which it glared and stared at the trapper—peeped at him round the trunk of the tree, and over the branches and under the twigs and through the leaves, jerking its body and quirking its head and whisking its tail—we have every reason to conclude that it experienced very deep interest and intense excitement. Pleasure and excitement being, with many people, convertible terms, we have no reason for supposing that it is otherwise with squirrels, and therefore every reason for concluding that the squirrel in question enjoyed Bounce’s visit greatly.

“Now this is wot it comes to,” said Bounce, calmly filling his pipe, from the mere force of habit, for he had not at that time the most distant idea of enjoying a smoke. “This is wot it comes to. Savages is savages all the wurld over, and they always wos savages, an’ they always will be savages, an’ they can’t be nothin’ else.”

At this point Bounce recollected having seen an Indian missionary, who had been taken when a boy from his father’s wigwam and educated, and who had turned out as good and respectable a Christian gentleman as most white men, and better than many, so he checked himself and said—

“Leastwise they can’t be nothin’ but savages so—so long as they is savages.”

This argument, although exceedingly obvious, seemed even to his own mind to possess so little power, that he endeavoured to enforce it by slapping his thigh with such energy that the body of the red squirrel nearly jumped out at its own eyes. It clasped the tree stem to its beating heart bravely, however, and, judging from its subsequent conduct, speedily recovered its self-possession.

“That’s how it is,” continued Bounce; “an’ that bein’ the case, savages always invariably thinks o’ number one before they thinks on anythin’ else. Now, as men judges theirselves so they judges of others—that’s a fact, as all feelosophy has preclaimed, an’ all experience has pruven. Wot then? Why, them savages ’ll think I’ve cleared off—made tracks—thankful to git away with my own skin whole, and carin’ no more for my comrades than if they wos so many stumps. Thinkin’ that, of coorse they’ll think it’s o’ no use to try to cross the river and give chase, ’cause I’ve got a long start o’ ’em, an’ so, d’ye see, they’ll give me up an’ think no more about me. Good! very good! But p’r’aps it’s jest poss’ble that feller whose paw I tickled may sometimes recall me to mind.”

This last idea tickled the trapper so powerfully that he chuckled in a quiet way, and in doing so exposed such a double row of white teeth that the squirrel, which had remained for some time in an attitude of deep attention, began to show symptoms of uneasiness.

“Now I’ll tell you wot I’ll do,” continued Bounce, resuming his look of grave anxiety as the thought of his comrades recurred to him; “I’ll go up the river till I comes to opposite the place where I shoved the canoe into the water. By the time I git there it’ll be dark; then I’ll swum across an’ foller the redskins an’ save my comrades if I can. If I can’t, wot then? why, I’ll leave the scalp of Bob Ounce to dangle in the smoke of a redskin’s wigwam.”

We have elsewhere hinted that when a Rocky Mountain trapper makes up his mind to do a certain thing he usually does it at once. Having settled the plan of his future proceedings, Bounce did not waste more time in thought or speech. He thrust his unsmoked pipe into his bosom, leaped up from the trunk of the fallen tree, and darted from the spot with such sudden promptitude, that the horrified squirrel sprang wildly into empty space and vanished from the scene for ever!

For a quarter of an hour Bounce glided noiselessly through the forest, keeping a course parallel with the river. In the deepening gloom of evening, he appeared more like a spectre than a human being—so quick and agile were his motions as he flitted past the tree stems, yet so noiseless the tread of his moccasined feet. The bushes were thick and in places tangled, compelling him to stoop and twist and diverge right and left as he sped along, but, being unencumbered with weapons or weight of any kind, he advanced so rapidly that in the short space of time we have mentioned he stood opposite to that part of the bank where the attack had been made, and below which he had been swept for a great distance in the canoe by the rapid stream.

Here he spent some time in reconnoitring the opposite bank, but without gathering much information from his observations. No symptom of the presence of human beings could be discovered. No column of smoke rising above the trees to tell of the watch-fire of white man or red. The trapper listened intently, then he bethought him, for the first time, of giving the signal which, at setting out on their journey, they had agreed to use in all circumstances of danger. It was the low howl of a wolf followed immediately by the hoot of an owl. The reply to it was to be the hoot of the owl without the cry of the wolf when danger should be imminent and extreme caution necessary, or the howl of the wolf alone if danger should have passed away.

To the first utterance of the signal no reply was made. After waiting a few seconds, Bounce gave it forth again. Immediately after, the low howl of a wolf was heard on the opposite bank, and a figure appeared at the edge of the river. Darkness prevented the trapper ascertaining who it was, but a repetition of the cry convinced him that it could be none other than Black Gibault.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Bounce at once proceeded to make preparations for crossing the river. Cutting a large piece of bark from a neighbouring tree, he hastily formed it into a species of dish or flat boat; then, stripping off all his garments, he tied them up in a tight bundle, and placed them in this miniature canoe; after which he plunged boldly into the stream and made for the opposite shore, pushing his little ark before him. In five minutes he had crossed, and entered into a hasty conversation with Gibault in low, eager tones, while pulling on his clothes.

“First of all, lad,” said Bounce, laying his hand impressively on the other’s shoulder, “are they all safe?—none killed?”

“Non; dey be all alive, for certain.”

“I’m thankful for that—very thankful. Now go ahead, lad, and tell me what ye know, while I pull on my leggins.”

“Vell, dey be alive, as I have say. Mais dey not live long.”

Gibault said this with such a look of woebegone despair that Bounce paused in the midst of his dressing and said with much anxiety—“Wot’s wrong?—why not, lad?”

“’Cause dey vill be tortured to death demain, or de day après de morrow. Stay, I vill tell to you all I knows. You mus’ know, ven I run avay from you, I do so ’cause I know dat canoe ver’ probabilie git opturnéd, so I come to river bank before every von. Dere is von big tree dere, so op I go like von skvirrel. You know vat come to pass après dat. You smash de head of de Injun, aussi you smash de paddil. Den you escape, an’ de Injuns howl vid passion!

“Ver’ soon after dat, dey all come to de bank of river—forty of ’em, I tink—draggin’ our comerades vid dem, all tied by de wrist—Redhand, an’ Big Valler, an’ March, an’ Hawksving, an’ poor Monsieur Bertram. Mais, dat Monsieur Bertram, be most ’straordinary man! He terriblement frightened for every leetle ting, but him not fright von bit for big ting! Hims look at de sauvage dat hold him as if him be a lion. I do tink Monsieur Bertram vould fight vell if hims obleeged.

“After good deal of consultoration an’ disputerin’, dey vas about for go avay; so I sit ver’ still, but I move my foot von leetle morsil, an’ von small leaf fall to de ground. It vas ver’ small leaf, but Hawksving him see it. Ah! he be von cliver Injun. Ver’ sharp in sight too! I tink him should be named Hawkseye. No von else notice it, but I see Hawksving visper to Big Valler. Dat man be sharp feller too. He turns hims back to de tree, nevair vonce looked up, but him burst into loud laugh, like von tondre-clap, an’ cry out, ‘Vell done, Gibault! Keep close, old feller; their village is one day off towards the sun!’ An’ den he laugh again. Ah! ho! how my heart him jump ven he speak my name! But de Injuns tink hims yell out to some von cross de river, for him looks dat vay. Vell, off dey go, and I begin to breathe more easy; but ven dey git far-off, I hear the voice of Big Valler come back like far-avay tondre, cryin’, ‘Dey’re goin’ to roast us alive to-morrow; look sharp!’ Dat vas de last I hear. Den de darkness come, an’ den you come, an’, now, vat is to come nixt?”

Poor Gibault spoke fast, and perspired very much, and looked wild and haggard, for his nature was sensitive and sympathetic, and the idea of his comrades meeting with such a horrible fate was almost too much for him.

Bounce’s honest face assumed an expression of deep anxiety, for, fertile though his resources usually were, he could not at that moment conceive how it was possible for two unarmed men, either by force or by stratagem, to rescue five comrades who were securely bound, and guarded by forty armed warriors, all of whom were trained from infancy in the midst of alarms that made caution and intense watchfulness second nature to them.

“It looks bad,” said Bounce, sitting down on a stone, clasping his hard hands together, and resting an elbow on each knee. “Sit ye down, Gibault. We’ll think a bit, an’ then go to work. That’s wot we’ll do—d’ye see?”

“Non, I don’t see,” groaned Gibault. “Vat can ve do? Two to forty! If it was only swords ve had to fight vid—Hah! But, alas! we have noting—dey have everyting.”

“True, lad, force won’t do,” returned Bounce; “an’ yit,” he added, knitting his brows, “if nothin’ else ’ll do, we’ll try at least how much force ’ll do.”

After a short pause Bounce resumed, “Wos they tied very tight, Gibault?”

“Oui. I see de cords deep in de wrists, an’ poor Redhand seem to be ver’ moch stunned; he valk as if hims be dronk.”

“Drunk!” exclaimed Bounce, suddenly springing up as if he had received an electric shock, and seizing his companion by both shoulders, while, for a moment, he gazed eagerly into his eyes; then, pushing him violently away, he turned round and darted along the bank of the river, crying, as he went, “Come along, Gibault; I’ll tell ye wot’s up as we go!”

The astonished Canadian followed as fast as he could, and, in an exclamatory interjectional sort of way, his friend explained the plan of rescue which he had suddenly conceived, and which was as follows:—

First, he proposed to go back to the cache at the foot of the tall tree, and dig up the keg of brandy, with which he resolved to proceed to the camp of the Indians, and, by some means or other, get the whole clan to drink until they should become intoxicated. Once in this condition, he felt assured they could be easily circumvented.

Gibault grasped at this wild plan as a drowning man is said to grasp at a straw, and lent his aid right willingly to disentomb and carry the brandy keg. Neither he nor Bounce knew whether there was enough brandy to intoxicate the whole tribe, but they had no time to inquire minutely into probabilities.

Vigorously, perseveringly, without rest or halt, did these two trappers pursue their way that night, with the keg slung on a pole between them. The stars glimmered down through the trees upon their path, as if they wished them success in their enterprise. It was all-important that they should reach the Indian camp before daybreak; so, although footsore and weary from their late exertions after a long day’s march, they nevertheless ran steadily on at a long swinging trot, which brought them, to their inexpressible joy, much sooner than they had anticipated, to their journey’s end.

It was two hours before dawn when they came suddenly upon the camp—so suddenly that they had to crouch the instant they saw the watch-fires, in order to avoid being discovered.

“Now, Gibault,” whispered Bounce, “you’ll have to remain here. Get into a hiding-place as fast as you can, and keep close. You’re clever enough to know what to do, and when to do it. Only, lad, come near and have your knife handy when the row is at the loudest, and see that ye don’t let the squaws cut out our livers when we’re tied up.”

Gibault nodded significantly.

“It’s a curious fact,” continued Bounce in a somewhat sad tone, “that I’m more afraid o’ the squaws than o’ the men. Howsomdiver, it’s got to be done!”

So saying, Bounce shouldered the keg, and shaking his comrade by the hand, as if he felt that he might be parting with him for ever, he glided into the darkness of the forest, leaving Gibault to secrete himself on the side of a mound, from which he could witness all that went on in the camp.

From this point of observation the poor Canadian beheld what was not calculated to allay his fears. The camp lay in a hollow, surrounded by trees. On an open space were erected several leathern huts or tents, in the midst of which blazed a large camp fire. Round this the forty warriors were seated, eating their supper, while a number of squaws were sitting in the entrances to their tents variously engaged. Horses hobbled—that is, with the fore-feet tied together to prevent their running away—were cropping the grass close to the tents. Not far from them, and within the circle of light cast around by the fire, stood a group of small trees. To each of these was tied a man, and Gibault had no difficulty in making them out to be his unfortunate comrades.

Occasionally, as he gazed, one or two of the old Indian women went up to these helpless men, with a yell of execration, and, brandishing scalping-knives before their faces, appeared as if about to plunge them into their hearts; but their time had not yet come; the hags were only anticipating the feast of butchery that awaited them on the morrow.

While Gibault was gazing at this scene with mingled feelings of anxiety, rage, and horror, the whole band of Indians suddenly sprang to their feet and seized their weapons. Almost at the same moment Bounce strode into the circle of light and deposited his cask on the ground. Then, making signs of peace, he advanced towards one of the Indians, who, from his dress and appearance, seemed to be the chief, and presented him with a piece of tobacco. The chief accepted the gift in silence.

Bounce, who was well acquainted with many of the dialects of that region, had no difficulty in making himself understood. He stated that he was a trapper, that he had come to that country to trade, and asked whether his Indian friends had furs to dispose of. As he had anticipated, the savages were in no mood to treat with a solitary man who was entirely in their power. The chief, who evidently suspected that he was a friend of the prisoners, instead of replying, asked him sarcastically what he had in the keg.

“Fire-water,” replied Bounce unhesitatingly.

At this the eyes of the savages sparkled with delight. Not deigning to waste more time with him, they seized the unfortunate trapper and confronted him with his companions, gazing earnestly in their faces the while to observe whether they betrayed any sign of recognition.

It said much for the self-control of these hardy men, that, although their comrade was thus suddenly and unexpectedly placed before them, they did not permit a muscle of their countenances to change, but gazed on him and on his captors with that expression of defiant contempt with which Indians usually meet their fate, and in which they are equalled, sometimes even outdone, by the unfortunate white trappers who chance to fall into their cruel hands.

And well was it, for the success of the scheme, that Theodore Bertram’s nerves had received such repeated and awful shocks that day, that they were now incapable of feeling. He had been so terribly and repeatedly struck with amazement that his features had assumed a settled expression of surprise that could not be increased, so that when he beheld Bounce a prisoner before him, although he certainly felt astonishment, he could by no means increase the expression of that sensation. The Indians, therefore, passed away from him with a howl of derision, and tied Bounce to a tree beside his comrades, concluding that, instead of a plotter, they had, in him, made another lucky capture. Anxiety to taste their beloved beverage had something to do with their haste in this matter, no doubt.

No one who has not seen it can conceive of the intense passion the North American Indian has for ardent spirits. He seems to have no power of restraint whatever when the opportunity of indulging that passion presents itself.

The head of the keg was quickly knocked in, and the eyes of the savages seemed positively to flash as they gazed upon the precious fluid. The chief advanced first with a little tin mug, such as was sold to them by traders, and drank a deep draught; he then handed the cup to another, but the impatience of the others could not be restrained—they crowded round with their mugs, and dipping them into the keg drank eagerly, while the squaws, who loved the fire-water as much as did their masters, formed an outer circle, and, as patiently as they could, awaited their turn. They knew full well that it would soon come.

The Indians, being unaccustomed to frequent potations, were quickly maddened by the spirit, which mounted to their brains and rushed through their veins like wildfire, causing every nerve in their strong frames to tingle. Their characteristic gravity and decorum vanished. They laughed, they danced, they sang, they yelled like a troop of incarnate fiends! Then they rushed in a body towards their prisoners, and began a species of war-dance round them, flourishing their tomahawks and knives close to their faces as if they were about to slay them; shrieking and howling in the most unearthly manner, and using all those cruel devices that are practised by Red Indians to terrify those unfortunates whom they intend ultimately to kill.

Suddenly one of the warriors observed that the squaws were stealthily approaching the spirit keg, and rushed towards them with a howl of fury, followed by his comrades, who drove the women away and recommenced drinking. And now a fiercer spirit seemed to seize upon the savages; old feuds and jealousies, that had long been cherished in silence, broke irresistibly forth. Angry words and fierce looks were followed by the drawing of knives. Suddenly a young man rushed upon a comrade and buried his knife in his heart. The piercing death-cry was followed by the vengeful yell of the relatives of the murdered man, as they sprang upon the murderer. Others flew to the rescue, and the drunken mêlée became general. Blood began to flow freely, and there is no doubt that many lives would have been sacrificed had not the combatants been too much intoxicated to fight with vigour. Many of them fell prostrate and helpless on attempting to rise. Others dealt their blows at random, staggering and falling one upon another, until they lay in a heap, shrieking, biting, tearing, and stabbing—a bloody struggling mass, which told more eloquently than tongue can tell, that, deep and low though savage human nature has fallen in sin and misery, there is a depth profounder still, to which even those who seem to be the lowest may be precipitated by the fatal power of strong drink.

And now Gibault Noir felt that it was time for him to draw near to the horrible scene, in order to be ready, when the moment should arrive, to release the prisoners, or to protect them in the event of any of the drunken crew being tempted to a premature slaughter.

The women were now actively interfering to prevent further bloodshed. Most of the Indians were already dead drunk. Only a few, whose powers of endurance were greater than those of their comrades, continued to shout their war-songs. When these were down, the women rushed at the spirits like wolves. Even the little children came out from the tents and got their share. It was a terrible scene, such as has, alas! been often enacted before in the wilds of the Far West, and, doubtless, shall be enacted again, unless (so-called) Christian traders give up fire-water as an article of traffic.

In a very short space of time the women were as helpless as their masters. Then Gibault cut the thongs that bound his comrades, and set them free!

“Thanks, thanks to the Almighty,” said Bertram earnestly, when his bonds were cut. “I had thought that my days were numbered; that it was to be my sad fate to fill a grave here in the wilderness. But His hand is indeed mighty to save. And thanks be to you, good Gibault. Under God, we owe our lives to you.”

Bertram attempted to seize Gibault’s hand as he spoke, but his own hands refused obedience to his will. They had been so long and so tightly bound that they were utterly powerless.

“Rub ’em, rub ’em well,” said Gibault, seizing the artist’s hands and enforcing his own recommendation vigorously.

“Ay, that’s it,” said Redhand, who, with his companions, had, the instant he was loose, commenced to rub and chafe his own benumbed limbs into vitality, as if his life and theirs depended on their exertions—as indeed they did to no small extent, for, had they been called upon to fight or fly at that moment, they could have done neither.

“Now, lads,” said Bounce, who, having been a prisoner for but a short time, was unhurt by his bonds, “while ye rub the life into yer limbs I’ll tell ye wot we must do. Them scamps (pointing to the prostrate Indians) won’t lie there long. Of course, bein’ white men an’ Christians, we don’t mean to kill them or to lift their scalps—”

“I’ve know’d white men,” interrupted Redhand, “who called themselves Christians, and didn’t object to take scalps when they got the chance.”

“So have I,” returned Bounce, “an’ more’s the pity. It’s sichlike blackguards as these that keeps honest trappers and fur-traders for iver in hot water here. Howsomdiver, we’re not a-goin’ to turn ourselves into brute beasts ’cause they’ve turned theirselves into sich.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” broke in Big Waller, casting a scowling glance on the savages as he surveyed a wound in his left arm, which, although not serious, was, from want of dressing, sufficiently painful; “I calc’late it would serve them reptiles right if we was to whangskiver the whole on ’em as they lie.”

“I don’t b’lieve,” retorted Bounce, “that ‘whangskiver’ is either English, Injun, French, or Yankee; but if it means killin’, you’ll do nothing o’ the sort. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll ketch as many horses as wos took from Mr Bertram’s fellers, an’ as many guns too (the same ones if we can lay hands on ’em), an’ as much powder an’ shot an’ other things as that keg o’ brandy is worth, an’ then we’ll bid the redskins good-bye without wakenin’ of ’em up.”

“Goot,” ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist, “now you can do!”

“Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again.”

“I say, Gibault,” observed March ruefully, “they’ve almost sawed through the skin o’ my ankle. I’ve no left foot at all, as far as feelin’ goes.”

“Hah! me boy, ’tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left foot! Let me see.”

“That’s it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your surgery you’d be too good, a long way, for the backwoods.”

By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set about active preparations for departure.

First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that had been taken from Bertram’s party. These they tied up in a bundle, after each had secured one for his own use. Among them the artist found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of which he had mourned most sincerely.

Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said elsewhere, were easily caught. Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of Bertram’s party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung across their shoulders forthwith. Among other things belonging to the same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried at their saddle-bows. The supply of everything was so ample that it was not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.

This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.

“Hullo! wot have we here?” cried Big Waller, who was poking inquisitively about among the tents, to the consternation of the poor Indian children who lay huddled up in their rabbit-skin blankets, trembling from head to foot, and expecting to be scalped forthwith—such of them, at least, as were old enough to expect anything. “Here’s your blunderbusses, I guess, mister.”

“What! my pistols,” cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much delight as if they had been really serviceable.

“Hah! ver’ goot for play vid,” observed Gibault contemptuously.

“I say, here’s something else,” said Bounce, picking up a rifle.

“Wah!” exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and turning his eyes on Redhand.

“Wot! d’ye know who it b’long’d to?” inquired Bounce.

An expression of deep sorrow overspread Redhand’s countenance. “Ay,” said he mournfully, “I know it well. It belonged to young Blake.” Glancing quickly up at a place where several scalps were hanging to a pole, he took one down, and, after gazing at it sadly for a few seconds, he added in a tone of deep melancholy: “Poor, poor Blake! ye had a hearty spirit an’ a kindly heart. Your huntin’ days were soon over!”

“Was he a friend of yours?” inquired Bertram, affected by the old trapper’s look and tone.

“Ay, ay, he was, he was,” said Redhand quickly, and with a sternness of manner that surprised his companions; “come, lads, mount! mount! The redskins won’t part with plunder without making an effort to get it back.”

“But, stop a bit, Redhand,” cried Bounce, detaining the old man, “ye didn’t use for to be so hot an’ hasty. Where are we to go to? That’s wot I want to know.”

“True,” observed Redhand in his old gentle tones, “we’ve more horses than we need, and some furs to dispose of. There’s a tradin’ fort in the mountains, but it’s a good bit from this.”

“What o’ that?” said March Marston somewhat impetuously. “Are we not armed and well mounted and strong, and have we not lots o’ time before us?”

“Well said,” cried Bounce.

“Ditto,” echoed Waller.

“Then we’ll do it!” cried Redhand, vaulting into the saddle with a spring that a young man might have envied.

The others followed his example, and in a few seconds they were picking their way carefully down the ravine in which the Indian camp was situated. Leaving this quickly behind, they trotted briskly along the more open banks of the river until they gained a level sweep of land which terminated in a belt of low bushes. Beyond this lay the great plains. Breaking into a gallop, they speedily cleared the underwood, and just as the rosy smile of morning beamed in the eastern sky, they dashed away, with light hearts and loose reins, out upon the springy turf of the open prairie.

Chapter Ten.

Short Treatise on Horseflesh—Remarks on Slang—Doings and Sights on the Prairie—The Mountain Fort.

A horse is a wonderful thing—if we may presume to style so noble a creature “a thing!” And the associations connected in some minds with a horse are wonderful associations. No doubt a horse, to many people, is a commonplace enough sort of thing; and the associations connected with horseflesh in general, in some minds, are decidedly low—having relation to tugging a cart, or tumbling along with a plough, or rattling with a cab, or prancing in a carriage, or being cut up into butcher’s meat for cats and dogs. Nevertheless, a horse is a wonderful creature; and man’s associations in connection with him are, not infrequently, of the most wonderful and romantic kind. Talk to the warrior of his steed, and he will speak of him as of his dearest friend. Talk to the Arab of his horse, and he will talk of his pet, his spoiled child! As it is with these, so is it with the trapper of the western prairies.

After a few weeks’ acquaintance, the trapper and his horse become one—part and parcel of each other, at least as far as it is possible for man and horse to amalgamate. On the one hand, the horse is tended, hobbled, patted, saddled, spoken to, watched over, and tenderly cared for by the man; on the other hand, the man is carried, respected, sometimes bitten (playfully), depended on, and loved by the horse. Day after day, and week after week, the limbs of the one and the ribs of the other are pressed against each other, until they become all but united, and the various play of muscles on the part of both becomes so delicately significant that the bridle, to a great extent, becomes unnecessary, and the rider feels when the horse is about to shy, just as quickly as the horse feels, by a gentle pressure on either side, how much the rider wishes him to diverge to the right or left.

Sometimes the horse breaks his hobbles and runs away, thus aggravating the spirits of, and causing infinite annoyance to, the man. Frequently the man, out of revenge for such or similar freaks, larrups and pains and worries the horse. But these little asperities are the occasional landmarks that give point and piquancy to the even tenor of their loving career. Neither would, for a moment, think of allowing such incidents to rankle in his bosom. Both would repudiate with scorn the idea that they were a whit less useful, or in any degree less attached, to each other on account of such trifling tiffs!

Day after day our trappers mounted their steeds and traversed the great prairie—now at a rattling trot, now at a tearing gallop; frequently at a quiet foot-pace, when the nature of the ground rendered a more rapid progress dangerous, or when the exhaustion of horses and men rendered rest necessary, or when the beautiful nature of the scenery and the warm sunny condition of the atmosphere induced a contemplative frame of mind and a placid state of body.

Night after night the horses—having stuffed themselves, like greedy things as they were, with the greenest and tenderest herbage on the rich plains—returned to the camp fire round which the trappers were lying in deep slumber, and each selecting his own master, would stand over him with drooping head and go to sleep, until dawn called them again to united action.

Thus day and night passed for the space of three weeks after the night of the surprise of the Indian camp, without anything particular occurring; and thus quadrupeds and bipeds came to be familiar and well acquainted with each other—so thoroughly united in sympathetic action—as almost to become hexapeds, if we may be permitted the expression.

March Marston’s quadruped was a beautiful little bay, whose tendency to bound over every little stick and stone, as if it were a five-barred gate, and to run away upon all and every occasion, admirably suited the tastes and inclinations of its mercurial rider.

There was one among the quadrupeds which was striking in appearance—not to say stunning. No; we won’t say stunning, because that is a slang expression, and many persons object to slang expressions; therefore we will avoid that word; although we confess to being unable to see why, if it is allowable (as every one will admit it is) to assert that men may be mentally “struck,” it is not equally proper to say that they may be stunned. But we bow to prejudice. We won’t say that that horse was “stunning.” While on this subject, we think it right to guard ourself, parenthetically, from the charge of being favourable to all kinds of slang. We are in favour of speech—yes, we assert that broadly and fearlessly, without reservation—but we are not in favour of all speech. Coarse speech, for instance, we decidedly object to. So, we are in favour of slang, but not of all slang. There are some slang words which are used instead of oaths, and these, besides being wicked, are exceedingly contemptible. Tempting, however, they are—too apt to slip from the tongue and from the pen, and to cause regret afterwards.

But to return. Although we won’t say that the quadruped in question was stunning, we will say again that it was striking—so powerfully striking that the force of the stroke was calculated almost to stun. It was uncommonly tall, remarkably short in the body, and had a piebald coat. Moreover, it had no tail—to speak of—as that member had, in some unguarded moment, got into the blaze of the camp fire and been burnt off close to the stump. The stump, however, was pretty long, and, at the time when the trappers became possessed of the animal, that appendage was covered with a new growth of sparsely scattered and very stiff hair, about three inches long, so that it resembled a gigantic bottle-brush. Being a spirited animal, the horse had a lively bottle-brush, which was grotesque, if it was nothing else.

This quadruped’s own particular biped was Theodore Bertram. He had a peculiar liking for it (as he had for everything picturesque), not only on account of its good qualities—which were, an easy gait and a tender mouth—but also because it was his own original animal, that of which he had been deprived by the Indians, and which he had recaptured with feelings akin to those of a mother who recovers a long-lost child.

We have said that the space of three weeks passed without anything particular occurring to our trappers. This remark, however, must be taken in a limited sense. Nothing particularly connected with the thread of this story occurred; though very many and particularly interesting things of a minor nature did occur during the course of that period.

It would require a work equal in size to the “Encyclopaedia Britannica” to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time. A conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire. He would have recorded that March Marston’s little bay ran away with him—not, in a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times, specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the results of each particular race. He would have noted, with painful accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes. He would have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact amount of damage done to the bruised nose. He would have told not only the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs, and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear’s known tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through the brain.

And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the rich, exuberant, and varied flora of the region—from the largest plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the prairie’s breast. In regard to the fauna of those regions, he would have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits, peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo (which he would have carefully explained was not the buffalo, but the bison) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog (which he would have also carefully noted was not the prairie dog, but the marmot).

Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to wander from anecdote to description, and vice versa, he would perhaps have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to gaze at it—the compound—in grave astonishment.

All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove deeply interesting. But, as no man can do everything, so no man can record everything; therefore we won’t attempt it, but shall at once, and without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.

“It’s a strong place,” said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them—“a very strong place—such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if defended by men of ordinary pluck.”

“Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though,” said March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; “I’ve heard o’ such forts bein’ taken by redskins before now.”

“So have I, lad, so have I,” returned Redhand; “I’ve heard o’ a fort bein’ attacked by Injuns when the men were away huntin’, an’ bein’ burnt down. But it ginerally turns out that the whites have had themselves to thank for’t.”

“Ay, that’s true,” observed Bounce; “some o’ the whites in them parts is no better nor they should be. They treats the poor Injuns as if they wos dogs or varmints, an’ then they’re astonished if the redskins murder them out o’ revenge. I know’d one feller as told me that when he lived on the west side o’ the mountains, where some of the Injuns are a murderin’ set o’ thieves, he niver lost a chance o’ killin’ a redskin. Of course the redskins niver lost a chance o’ killin’ the whites; an’ so they come to sich a state o’ war, that they had to make peace by givin’ them no end o’ presents o’ guns an’ cloth an’ beads—enough to buy up the furs o’ a whole tribe.”

“I guess they was powerful green to do anything o’ the sort,” said Big Waller. “I knowed a feller as was in command of a party o’ whites, who got into much the same sort of fix with the Injuns—always fightin’ and murderin’; so what does he do, think ye?”

“Shooted de chief and all hims peepil,” suggested Gibault.

“Nothin’ o’ the sort,” replied Waller. “He sends for the chief, an’ gives him a grand present, an’ says he wants to marry his darter. An’ so he did marry his darter, right off, an’ the whites an’ redskins was friends ever after that. The man what did that was a gentleman too—so they said; tho’ for my part I don’t know wot a gentleman is—no more do I b’lieve there ain’t sich a thing; but if there be, an’ it means anything good, I calc’late that that man wos a gentleman, for w’en he grew old he took his old squaw to Canada with him, ’spite the larfin’ o’ his comrades, who said he’d have to sot up a wigwam for her in his garden. But he says, ‘No,’ says he, ‘I married the old ooman for better an’ for worse, an’ I’ll stick by her to the last. There’s too many o’ you chaps as leaves yer wives behind ye when ye go home—I’m detarmined to sot ye a better example.’ An’ so he did. He tuk her home an’ put her in a grand house in some town in Canada—I don’t well mind which—but when he wasn’t watchin’ of her, the old ooman would squat down on the carpet in the drawin’-room, for, d’ye see, she hadn’t bin used to chairs. His frinds used to advise him to put her away, an’ the kindlier sort said he should give her a room to herself, and not bring her into company where she warn’t at ease; but no, the old man said always, ‘She’s my lawful wedded wife, an’ if she was a buffalo cow I’d stick by her to the last’—an’ so he did.”

“Vraiment he was von cur’ous creetur,” observed Gibault.

“See, they have descried us!” exclaimed Bertram, pointing to the fort, which they were now approaching, and where a bustle among the inhabitants showed that their visitors were not always peacefully disposed, and that it behoved them to regard strangers with suspicion.

“Would it not be well to send one of our party on in advance with a white flag?” observed Bertram.

“No need for that,” replied Redhand, “they’re used to all kinds o’ visitors—friends as well as foes. I fear, however, from the haste they show in closing their gate, that they ain’t on good terms with the Injuns.”

“The red-men and the pale-faces are at war,” said Hawkswing.

“Ay, you’re used to the signs, no doubt,” returned Redhand, “for you’ve lived here once upon a time, I b’lieve.”

The Indian made no reply, but a dark frown overspread his countenance for a few minutes. When it passed, his features settled down into their usual state of quiet gravity.

“Have ye ever seed that fort before?” inquired Bounce in the Indian tongue.

“I have,” answered Hawkswing. “Many moons have passed since I was in this spot. My nation was strong then. It is weak now. Few braves are left. We sometimes carried our furs to that fort to trade with the pale-faces. It is called the Mountain Fort. The chief of the pale-faces was a bad man then. He loved fire-water too much. If he is there still, I do not wonder that there is war between him and the red-men.”

“That’s bad,” said Bounce, shaking his head slowly—“very bad; for the redskins ’ll kill us if they can on account o’ them rascally fur-traders. Howsomdiver we can’t mend it, so we must bear it.”

As Bounce uttered this consolatory remark, the party cantered up to the open space in front of the gate of the fort, just above which a man was seen leaning quietly over the wooden walls of the place with a gun resting on his arm.

“Hallo!” shouted this individual when they came within hail.

“Hallo!” responded Bounce.

“Friends or foes, and where from?” inquired the laconic guardian of the fort.

“Friends,” replied Redhand riding forward, “we come from the Yellowstone. Have lost some of our property, but got some of it back, and want to trade furs with you.”

To this the sentinel made no reply, but, looking straight at Big Waller, inquired abruptly, “Are you the Wild Man?”

“Wot wild man?” said Waller gruffly.

“Why, the Wild Man o’ the West?”

“No, I hain’t,” said Waller still more gruffly, for he did not feel flattered by the question.

“Have you seen him?”

“No I hain’t, an’ guess I shouldn’t know him if I had.”

“Why do you ask?” inquired March Marston, whose curiosity had been roused by these unexpected questions.

“’Cause I want to know,” replied the man quitting his post and disappearing. In a few minutes he opened the gate, and the trappers trotted into the square of the fort.

The Mountain Fort, in which they now dismounted, was one of those little wooden erections in which the hardy pioneers of the fur trade were wont in days of old to establish themselves in the very heart of the Indian country. Such forts may still be seen in precisely similar circumstances, and built in the same manner, at the present day, in the Hudson’s Bay territories; with this difference that the Indians, having had long experience of the good intentions and the kindness of the pale-faces, no longer regard them with suspicion. The walls were made of strong tall palisades, with bastions built of logs at the corners, and a gallery running all round inside close to the top of the walls, so that the defenders of the place could fire over the palisades, if need be, at their assailants. There was a small iron cannon in each bastion. One large gate formed the entrance, but this was only opened to admit horsemen or carts; a small wicket in one leaf of the gate formed the usual entrance.

The buildings within the fort consisted of three little houses, one being a store, the others dwelling-houses, about which several men and women and Indian children, besides a number of dogs, were grouped. These immediately surrounded the trappers as they dismounted. “Who commands here?” inquired Redhand.

“I do,” said the sentinel before referred to, pushing aside the others and stepping forward, “at least I do at present. My name’s McLeod. He who ought to command is drunk. He’s always drunk.”

There was a savage gruffness in the way in which McLeod said this that surprised the visitors, for his sturdy-looking and honest countenance seemed to accord ill with such tones.

“An’ may I ask who he is?” said Redhand.

“Oh yes, his name’s Macgregor—you can’t see him to-night, though. There’ll be bloody work here before long if he don’t turn over a new leaf—”

McLeod checked himself as if he felt that he had gone too far. Then he added, in a tone that seemed much more natural to him, “Now, sirs, come this way. Here,” (turning to the men who stood by), “look to these horses and see them fed. Come into the hall, friends, an’ the squaws will prepare something for you to eat while we have a smoke and a talk together.”

So saying, this changeable man, who was a strange compound of a trapper and a gentleman, led the way to the principal dwelling-house, and, throwing open the door, ushered his guests into the reception hall of the Mountain Fort.

Chapter Eleven.

Original Efforts in the Art of Painting—Fur-Trading Hospitality—Wonderful Accounts of the Wild Man of the West, from an Eye-witness—Buffalo Hunting, Scalping, Murdering, and a Summary Method of inflicting Punishment.

The reception hall of the Mountain Fort, into which, as we have stated, the trappers were ushered by McLeod, was one of those curious apartments which were in those days (and in a few cases still are) created for the express purpose of “astonishing the natives!”

It was a square room, occupying the centre of the house, and having doors all round, which opened into the sleeping or other apartments of the dwelling. In the front wall of this room were the door which led direct into the open air, and the two windows. There were no passages in the house—it was all rooms and doors. One of these doors, towards the back, opened into a species of scullery—but it was not exactly a scullery, neither was it a kitchen, neither was it a pantry. The squaws lived there—especially the cooking squaws—and a few favoured dogs. A large number of pots and pans and kettles, besides a good deal of lumber and provisions in daily use, also dwelt there. A door led from this room out to the back of the house, and into a small offshoot, which was the kitchen proper. Here a spirited French Canadian reigned supreme in the midst of food, fire, and steam, smoke, smells, and fat.

But to return to the reception hall. There were no pictures on its walls, no draperies about its windows, no carpets on its floors, no cloths on its tables, and no ornaments on its mantelshelf. Indeed, there was no mantelshelf to put ornaments upon. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the chairs, the tables; all were composed of the same material—wood. The splendour of the apartment was entirely due to paint. Everything was painted—and that with a view solely to startling effect. Blue, red, and yellow, in their most brilliant purity, were laid on in a variety of original devices, and with a boldness of contrast that threw Moorish effort in that line quite into the shade. The Alhambra was nothing to it! The floor was yellow ochre; the ceiling was sky-blue; the cornices were scarlet, with flutings of blue and yellow, and, underneath, a broad belt of fruit and foliage, executed in an extremely arabesque style. The walls were light green, with narrow bands of red down the sides of each plank. The table was yellow, the chairs blue, and their bottoms red, by way of harmonious variety. But the grand point—the great masterpiece in the ornamentation of this apartment—was the centre-piece in the ceiling, in the execution of which there was an extraordinary display of what can be accomplished by the daring flight of an original genius revelling in the conscious possession of illimitable power, without the paralysing influence of conventional education.

The device itself was indescribable. It was a sun or a star, or rather a union and commingling of suns and stars in violent contrast, wreathed with fanciful fruits and foliage, and Cupids, and creatures of a now extinct species. The rainbow had been the painter’s palette; genius his brush; fancy-gone-mad his attendant; the total temporary stagnation of redskin faculties his object, and ecstasy his general state of mind, when he executed this magnificent chef d’oeuvre in the centre of the ceiling of the reception hall at the Mountain Fort.

The fireplace was a capacious cavern in the wall opposite the entrance door, in which, during winter, there usually burned a roaring bonfire of huge logs of wood, but where, at the time of which we write, there was just enough fire to enable visitors to light their pipe’s. When that fire blazed up in the dark winter nights, the effect of that gorgeous apartment was dazzling—absolutely bewildering.

The effect upon our trappers when they entered was sufficiently strong. They gazed round in amazement, each giving vent to his feelings in his own peculiar exclamatory grunt, or gasp, or cough. In addition to this, Bounce smote his thigh with unwonted vigour. Gibault, after gazing for a few minutes, sighed out something that sounded like magnifique! and Bertram grinned from ear to ear. He went further: he laughed aloud—an impolite thing to do, in the circumstances, and, for a grave man like him, an unusual ebullition of feeling. But it was observed and noted that on this occasion the artist did not draw forth his sketch-book.

McLeod, who, from his speech and bearing, was evidently a man of some education, placed chairs for his visitors, took the lid off a large canister of tobacco, and, pushing it into the middle of the yellow table, said—

“Sit ye down, friends, and help yourselves.”

He set them the example by taking down his own pipe from a nail in the wall, and proceeding to fill it. Having done so, he took a piece of glowing charcoal from the fire, and, placing it on the bowl, began to smoke, glancing the while, with an amused expression on his grave face, at the trappers, who, while filling their pipes, kept gazing round the walls and up at the ceiling.

“Ha!” said he, “you are struck with our hall (puff, puff). It’s rather (puff) an effective one (puff). Have a light?”

Bounce, to whom the light was offered, accepted the same, applied it to his pipe, and said—

“Well, yes (puff), it is (puff) raither wot ye may call (puff) pecooliar.”

“Most visitors to this place think so,” said McLeod. “The Indians highly approve of it, and deem me quite a marvel of artistic power.”

“Wot! did you paint it?” inquired Waller.

“I did,” answered McLeod, with a nod.

“Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you,” cried Gibault, relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had allowed to go out.

McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, gravely, in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“Ha!” cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, “Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders. Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade—him be von painteur.”

“Indeed!” said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he had yet shown towards the strangers.

“I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting,” said Bertram, “but I cannot boast of having soared so high as—as—”

“As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the backwoods,” interrupted McLeod, laughing. “No, I believe you, sir; but, although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I trust that I may do so as an amateur. I am delighted to see you here. It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a civilised man in these wild regions.”

“Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken,” said March Marston with a look of affected indignation; “what do you call us?”

“Pardon me, young sir,” replied McLeod, “I call you trappers, which means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl—”

“That’s a foul calumny,” cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling it from the canister; “it’s wot may be called a—a—”

“Lie,” suggested Waller.

“No,” said Bounce, “it ain’t that. I don’t like that word. It’s a ugly word, an’ you shouldn’t ought to use it, Waller. It’s a error; that’s wot it is, in a feelosophical pint o’ view. Jest as much of a error, now, as it was in you, Mister McLeod, putting so little baccy in this here thing that there ain’t none left.”

“What! is it all done?” cried McLeod, rising, and seizing the canister; “so it is. I declare you smoke almost as fast as the Wild Man himself; for whom I mistook you, Mr Waller, when I saw you first, at some distance off.”

Saying this, he left the room to fetch a further supply of the soothing weed, and at the same moment two squaws appeared, bearing smoking dishes of whitefish and venison.

“That fellow knows something about the Wild Man o’ the West,” said March Marston in a low, eager tone, to his comrades. “Twice has he mentioned his name since we arrived.”

“So he has,” observed Redhand, “but there may be other wild men besides our one.”

“Unpossible,” said Bounce emphatically.

“Ditto,” cried Waller still more emphatically; “what say you, Hawkswing?”

“There is but one Wild Man of the West,” replied the Indian.

“By the way, Hawkswing, what was the name o’ the rascally trader you said was in charge o’ this fort when you lived here?” asked Redhand.

“Mokgroggir,” replied the Indian.

“Ha, Macgregor, ye mean, no doubt.”

Hawkswing nodded.

“Here you are, friends,” said McLeod, re-entering the room with a large roll of tobacco. “Help yourselves and don’t spare it. There’s plenty more where that came from. But I see the steaks are ready, so let us fall to; we can smoke afterwards.”

During the repast, to which the trappers applied themselves with the gusto of hungry men, March Marston questioned McLeod about the Wild Man.

“The Wild Man o’ the West,” said he in some surprise; “is it possible there are trappers in the Rocky Mountains who have not heard of him?”

“Oh yes,” said March hastily, “we’ve heard of him, but we want to hear more particularly about him, for the accounts don’t all agree.”

“Ha! that’s it,” said Bounce, speaking with difficulty through a large mouthful of fish, “that’s it. They don’t agree. One says his rifle is thirty feet long, another forty feet, an’ so on. There’s no gittin’ at truth in this here—”

A bone having stuck in Bounce’s throat at that moment he was unable to conclude the sentence.

“As to the length of his rifle,” said McLeod, when the noise made by Bounce in partially choking had subsided, “you seem to have got rather wild notions about that, and about the Wild Man too, I see.”

“But he is a giant, isn’t he?” inquired March anxiously.

“N–not exactly. Certainly he is a big fellow, about the biggest man I ever saw—but he’s not forty feet high!”

March Marston’s romantic hopes began to sink. “Then he’s an ordinary man just like one o’ us,” he said almost gloomily.

“Nay, that he is not,” returned McLeod, laughing. “Your comrade Waller does indeed approach to him somewhat in height, but he’s nothing to him in breadth; and as for ferocity, strength, and activity, I never saw anything like him in my life. He comes sometimes here to exchange his furs for powder and lead, but he’ll speak to no one, except in the sharpest, gruffest way. I think he’s mad myself. But he seems to lead a charmed life here; for although he has had fights with many of the tribes in these parts, he always puts them to flight, although he fights single-handed.”

“Single-handed!” exclaimed Bounce in surprise.

“Ay. I’ve seen him at it myself, and can vouch for it, that if ever there was a born fiend let loose on this earth it’s the Wild Man of the West when he sets-to to thrash a dozen Indians. But I must do him the justice to say that I never heard of him making an unprovoked attack on anybody. When he first came to these mountains, many years ago—before I came here—the Indians used to wonder who he was and what he meant to do. Then after a while, seeing he had a good horse, a good rifle, and plenty of ammunition, they tried to kill him; but the first fellow that tried that only tried it once. He lay in a close thicket nigh to where the Wild Man used to pass from his home in the mountains to places where he used to hunt the elk and the buffalo, so, when he came up, the Indian laid an arrow on his bow. But the Wild Man’s eye was sharp as a needle. He stopped his horse, took aim like a flash of lightning, and shot him through the head. I heard this from another Indian that was with the murderin’ fellow that was shot. The Wild Man did nothing to the other. He let him escape.

“Of course the relations of the man who was killed were up immediately, and twenty of them set out to murder the Wild Man. They took their horses, spears, and bows, with them, and lay in wait at a place where he was often seen passing. Sure enough up he came, on horseback, at a slow walk, looking as careless and easy as if no blood of a redskin rested on his hand.

“It chanced the day before that day that we had run out of fresh meat, so Mr Macgregor, our commandant here, ordered me to take three of the men, and go out after the buffaloes. Away we went, looking sharp out, however, for some of the Indians had been treated by Macgregor so brutally, I am sorry to say, that we knew our scalps were not safe. Next morning I happened to pass close by the place where the Indians lay in ambush, and we came to the top of a precipice that overlooked the spot. We saw them before they saw us, so we went quietly back into the bush, tied our horses to trees, and lay on the edge of the cliff to watch them.

“In about ten minutes after, we saw the Wild Man riding slowly forward. He was a strange sight. It was the first time I had seen him, although I had often heard of him before.

“Well, on he came, with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. A dense thicket hid his enemies from him, though not from us, we being so high above them. The Wild Man was armed with his long rifle slung at his back, a hunting-knife, and a small shield, such as the Blackfoot Indians use to protect themselves from arrows. The only unusual sort of weapon he carried was a long sword.

“Not knowing at the time that the Indians were waiting for him, of course I gave no alarm to warn him of his danger. When he came within a hundred yards of the thicket, I saw him push his arm a little further into the handle of the shield. It was but a slight action such as one might perform to ease the arm by change of position; but the redskins are quick-witted. They knew that he suspected they were there, so, giving one tremendous yell, they sent a cloud of arrows at him, and sprang out upon the plain at full gallop with their spears lowered.

“Instead of turning to fly from such an unequal combat, the Wild Man drew his sword and rushed at them like a thunderbolt. His onset was the most awful thing I ever saw in my life. The plain seemed to shake under the tread of his gigantic horse. His hair streamed wildly out behind him, and as he was coming towards me I could see that his teeth were set and his eyes flashed like those of a tiger. The Indians were appalled by the sight. The idea of one man attacking twenty had never occurred to them. They drew up; but it was too late to prevent a shock. There was a yell from the savages, a shout like the roar of a lion from the Wild Man, and two horses and their riders lay on the plain. I saw the long sword gleam for one moment, just as the shock took place, and the head of a savage rolled immediately after along the ground.

“The Indians, though overawed, were brave men. They turned to pursue the flying horseman, but they needed not. The Wild Man was not flying, he was only unable at first to check the headlong pace of his charger. In a few seconds he wheeled about and charged again. The Indians, however, did not await the issue; they turned and fled, and they have ever since remained in the firm belief that the Wild Man is a ‘great medicine’ man, and that no one can kill him. They say that neither arrows nor bullets can pierce his skin, which is an inch thick; that fire and smoke come out of his mouth and eyes, and that his horse is, like himself, invulnerable. I must confess, however, that with the exception of his enormous size and his ferocity, he is, from what I saw of him, much the same as other men.”

McLeod concluded his description of this singular being, to which his guests listened open-eyed and mouthed, and helped himself to a buffalo-steak.

“An’ what did he when the Indians ran away!” inquired March Marston.

“Oh! he quietly pulled up his horse and let them run. After they were gone, he continued his journey, as slow and cool as if nothing had happened. Few Indians attack him now, except new bands from distant parts of the country, who don’t know him; but all who meddle with him find, to their cost, that it would have been better had they let him alone.”

“Is he cruel? Does he eat men and childers?” inquired Bounce, commencing a fourth steak with a degree of violent energy that suggested the possibility of his being himself able to do some execution in the cannibal line if necessary.

McLeod laughed. “Oh dear, no; he’s not cruel. Neither does he eat human flesh. In fact, he has been known to do some kind acts to poor starving Indians when they least expected it. The real truth is, that he is only fierce when he’s meddled with. He never takes revenge, and he has never been known to lift a scalp.”

“But what like is he when he comes to trade his furs at the fort here? how does he speak, and in what language?” inquired Marston, who, although delighted with the account given of the strength and valour of the Wild Man of the West, was by no means pleased to learn that he was not an absolute giant, something like the Giant Despair of whom he had read in the “Pilgrim’s Progress.”

“He’s just like a trapper—only he’s a tremendous big one—six feet six, if he’s an inch, and would make two of the biggest of the present company round the shoulders. But he’s very silent, and won’t let any one question him. The long and the short of it is, that I believe he is a madman—luckily he’s a well-disposed madman, and I can vouch for it he is a crack hunter, though he don’t bring many furs to trade. I think he spends most of his idle time in moping among the caves of the mountains.”

“Does any one know where he lives?” asked Bertram, who was gradually becoming interested in this strange being.

“No. We have sometimes tried to track him, but at a certain place we have invariably lost all traces of him.”

“But what is his face like, and how does he dress?” inquired March eagerly; “you have not yet said anything about that.”

McLeod was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a loud shouting in the yard of the fort. Leaping from their seats, the whole party ran to the windows.

“I thought so,” cried McLeod, seizing his cap and hurrying out. “These are six of my men who have been out after the buffalo, and I see they have been successful.”

The fort gate had been swung open, and, just as the guests issued from the reception hall, six hunters galloped into the square with all the reckless noise and dash peculiar to that class of men. Leaping from their foaming steeds, they were quickly surrounded by their comrades, and by the women and children of the place, who congratulated them on their success in the chase, and plied them with eager questions.

That they had indeed been successful was evident from the masses of fresh meat with which the horses were laden.

“Well done, Davis,” said McLeod, stepping up to one of the men, who, from his age and intelligence, had been put in command of the hunting party. “You are back sooner than I anticipated. Surely, your good genius sent the buffalo across your path.”

“We have bin in luck, sir,” replied the hunter, touching his cap. “We’ve killed more than we could carry, an’, what’s worse, we’ve killed more than we wanted.”

“How so?”

“We’ve had a brush wi’ the redskins, sir, an’ we had to kill one or two in self-defence.”

McLeod’s brow darkened. He clenched his teeth, and the large veins swelled in his neck and forehead. With a powerful effort he repressed his anger, and said—

“Did I not warn you to avoid that if you could?”

“True, sir,” replied Davis humbly; “but we could not help it, for, in the first heat of passion, one o’ them was shot, an’ after that, of course, we had to fight to save our own scalps.”

“Who fired that first shot?” inquired McLeod sternly.

Davis made no reply, but all eyes were at once turned upon a tall slouching man, with a forbidding cast of countenance, who had hitherto kept in the background.

“So, so, Larocque,” said McLeod, stepping up to the man, “you’ve been at your bloody work again, you scoundrel. Hah! you not only bring the enmity of the whole Indian race down on your own worthless head, and on the heads of your innocent companions, but you have the effrontery to bring the evidence of your guilt into this fort along with you.”

As McLeod spoke, he laid hold of a scalp which still dropped fresh blood as it hung at the hunter’s saddle-bow.

“If I’m to answer to you for every scalp I choose to lift in self-defence, the sooner I quit you the better,” answered Larocque sulkily.

“Was there any occasion to lift this scalp at all?” demanded McLeod, as he seized the man by the collar.

“Who talks of lifting scalps?” growled a loud, deep-toned voice.

All eyes were instantly turned on the speaker, and the crowd fell back to permit Mr Macgregor, the person in command of the Mountain Fort, to approach the scene of action.

The man who now appeared on the scene was a sad and a terrible sight to behold. He was one of that wretched class of human beings who, having run a long course of unbridled wickedness, become total wrecks in body and mind long before the prime of manhood has been passed. Macgregor had been a confirmed drunkard for many years. He had long lost all power of self-control, and had now reached that last fearful stage when occasional fits of delirium tremens rendered him more like a wild beast than a man. Being a large and powerful man, and naturally passionate, he was at these times a terror to all who came near him. He had been many years in charge of the fur-trading establishment, and having on many occasions maltreated the Indians, he was hated by them most cordially.

One of his mad fits had been on him for some days before the arrival of March Marston and his friends. He had recovered sufficiently to be able to stagger out of his room just at the time the buffalo hunters, as above described, entered the square of the fort. As he strode forward, with nothing on but his shirt and trousers, his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted and dishevelled, and his countenance haggard in the extreme, he was the most pitiable, and, at the same time, most terrible specimen of human degradation that the mind of man could conceive of.

“What now! who has been lifting scalps?” he growled between his set teeth, striding up to Larocque, and glaring in his face, with his bloodshot eyes, like a tiger.

McLeod held up the bloody scalp.

“Who did it?” roared Macgregor.

“I did,” said Larocque with an attempt at a defiant air.

The words had barely passed his lips when he received a blow between the eyes that felled him to the earth. He attempted to rise, but, with a yell that sounded more like the war-cry of a savage than the wrathful shout of a civilised man, Macgregor knocked him down again, and, springing at his throat, began to strangle him.

Up to this point, McLeod refrained from interfering, for he was not sorry to see the murderer receive such severe punishment; but, having no desire to witness a second murder, he now seized his master, and, with the assistance of two of the men, succeeded in tearing him off from Larocque, and in conveying him, as respectfully as possible in the circumstances, to his private chamber.

Chapter Twelve.

An Argument on Argumentation—Also on Religion—Bounce “feelosophical” again—A Race cut short by a Bullet—Flight and Pursuit of the Redskins.

When McLeod returned to the square, he found that the trappers had adjourned with the men of the establishment to enjoy a social pipe together, and that Theodore Bertram was taking a solitary, meditative promenade in front of the gate of the fort.

“You seem in a pensive mood, Mr Bertram,” said the fur trader on coming up, “will you not try the soothing effects of a pipe? Our tobacco is good; I can recommend it.”

He offered a plug of tobacco to the artist as he spoke.

“Thank you, I do not smoke,” said Bertram, declining the proffered luxury. “Tobacco may be good—though I know it not from experience. Yet, methinks, the man is wiser who does not create an unnatural taste, than he who does so for the purpose of gratifying it.”

“Ah! you are a philosopher.”

“If judging of things and questions simply on their own merit, and with the single object of ascertaining what is truth in regard to them, constitutes a philosopher, I am.”

“Don’t you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?” inquired the trader, smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.

“I do,” replied Bertram.

“And don’t you think the charge is just?” continued the other in a jocular tone.

“I do not,” replied the artist. “I think those who call them obstinate are often much more truly deserving of the epithet. Philosophers, in the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and frequently arrive at new conclusions. They thus often come to differ from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of their incorrectness, if that can be given—hence they are called argumentative. Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not easily overturned—hence they are called obstinate. Thinking out a subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all. A very large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of investigation—hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental exercises, is deemed a nuisance. Certainly argumentation with unphilosophical persons is a nuisance; but I know of few earthly enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher.”

“That’s wot I says, so I do, out-an’-out,” observed Bounce, who had come up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks. “Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn’t ’xactly put it in the same way, d’ye see? That’s wot I calls out-an’-out feelosophy.”

“Glad to hear you’re such a wise fellow,” said McLeod patronisingly. “So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the pipe.”

“Condemn the pipe?” said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite and beginning to fill it—“wot, condemn smokin’? No, by no means wotsomdiver. That’s quite another kee-westion, wot we hain’t bin a disputin’ about. I only heer’d Mr Bertram a-talkin’ about obst’nitness an’ argementation.”

“Well, in regard to that,” said Bertram, “I firmly believe that men and women are all alike equally obstinate.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.

“On what grounds do you think so?” asked McLeod.

“Why on the simple ground that a man cannot change any opinion until he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution of his mind. Some men’s minds are of such a nature—they take such a limited and weak grasp of things—that they cannot be easily convinced. Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of conviction is reached the mind is changed. Pride may indeed prevent the admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said, inevitably.”

At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said solemnly, “Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain’t no sich thing as obstinacy?” He accompanied this question with a shake of the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he would never convince him (Bounce) of that.

“By no means,” returned the artist, smiling; “there is plenty of it, but obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one’s opinion firmly.”

“Wot does it consist of, then?”

“In this—in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up, without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed; and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome. The man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much resembles that ‘fool’ of whom it is written that he ‘is wiser in his own conceit than seven men who can render a reason.’”

“Well, but, to come back to the starting-point,” said McLeod, “many wise men smoke.”

“If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter proposition that many wise men don’t smoke.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce’s ejaculation was one of approval or disapproval we cannot tell. Neither can we tell what conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because, just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.

Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent surprise. He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until the savages were within a few yards of him. It seemed as if they purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming steeds on their haunches.

Leaping to the ground, the Indians—who were a couple of strong, fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks—came forward and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the establishment, accompanied him to the store.

In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace—full gallop—were soon out of sight.

“Them fellows seem to be in a hurry,” remarked Bounce as they disappeared.

“Ay, they’re after mischief too,” replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice. “They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians being in this part of the country. Depend upon it scalps will be taken ere long. ’Tis a sad, sad state of things. Blood, blood, blood seems to be the universal cry here; and, now that we’ve had so many quarrels with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood will flow even in the Mountain Fort. I see no prospect of a better state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed. It seems a hopeless case.”

There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was very different from McLeod’s usual bold and reckless manner. It was evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable; but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh desperate.

“You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless,” said Bertram earnestly. “There is a remedy.”

“I wish you could show it me,” replied the trader.

“Here it is,” returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. “The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation.”

McLeod shook his head, and said, “It won’t do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don’t believe the gospel’s of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food.”

“But, sir,” rejoined Bertram, “you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask.”

“It may be so,” returned McLeod; “I have not studied these things much. I don’t profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do much here!”

“Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this ‘gospel is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.’”

“Ay, but these wretched Indians won’t believe,” objected the trader.

“True,” answered Bertram; “they have not faith by nature, and they won’t because they can’t believe; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking.”

“To that I answer that they’ll never ask.”

“How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?”

“No, I never did that.”

“Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion—not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point.”

McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during the mêlée that strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said—

“Good-day, friends; I’m glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He’s been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?”

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied—

“We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han’t yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you’ll give us the benefit of your advice.”

While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.

“Advice,” he replied; “you’re welcome to all the advice I’ve got to give ye; and it’s this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—” Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, “This wretched Indian country.”

“I guess, then, that we won’t take yer advice, old man,” said Big Waller with a laugh.

“‘Old man?’” echoed Macgregor with a start.

“Wall, if ye bean’t old, ye ain’t exactly a chicken.”

“You’re a plain-spoken man,” replied the trader, biting his lips.

“I always wos,” retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—

“Well, friends, you’ll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There’s plenty of fun and fighting, if you’re fond of that. What say you now, lad,” turning to March, “to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I’ve ta’en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I’ll give you a good wage and plenty to do.”

“Thanks; you are kind,” replied March, smiling, “but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile.”

“Mais, monsieur,” cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; “if you vants yonger blod, an’ also ver’ goot blod, here am von!”

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. “A race! a race!” shouted the foremost.

“Hallo! Dupont, what’s to do?” inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.

“Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try.”

“Yes, so we shall, I guess,” added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.

“Go it, stranger; I calc’late you’ll do him slick,” cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

“Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed,” cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee’s steed in contempt. “Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far.”

“Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see,” cried McLeod. “Now then—here’s the word—one, two—away!”

At the last word the riders’ whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.

The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.

Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite. On gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people near the fort gate.

At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes. Dupont tossed his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the ground. At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood with an exulting yell. Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.

The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife into his heart. Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.

All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade. But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head, Redhand’s rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian fell to the earth beside his victim. Seeing this, the other Indians darted into the forest.

Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: “To horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of powder and ball!”

The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description. The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont’s widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the terrified children.

“Half a dozen of you must keep the fort,” said McLeod, when they were all assembled; “the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends. You’ll help us, I suppose?”

This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades, stood armed, and ready to mount.

“Ready, sir,” answered the trapper promptly.

McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms of his guests, as they stood each at his horse’s head examining the state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his costume.

“Mount! mount!” shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.

“Stay!—my sketch-book!” cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the fort.

“Git on, lads; I’ll look arter him,” said Bounce with a grin, catching up the bridle of the artist’s horse.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.

In a few seconds Bertram rushed wildly out of the fort, with the sketch-book in one hand and the two blunderbuss-pistols in the other. In leaping on his horse, he dropped the latter; but Bounce picked them up, and stuck them hastily into his own belt.

“Now put that book into its own pouch, or ye’ll be fit for nothin’,” said Bounce almost sternly.

Bertram obeyed, and grasped the rifle which his friend placed in his hand. Then Bounce vaulted into his saddle, and, ere those who were left behind had drawn the bolts and let down the ponderous bars of the gate of the Mountain Fort, the two horsemen were flying at full speed over the plain in the track of the avengers of blood who had gone before them.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Pursuit—Conscientious Scruples of the Artist—Strategic Movements—Surprised in the Wild-Cat Pass—March shows Coolness and Pluck in the Hour of Danger—A Terrific Onslaught by a wonderful Warrior—The Battle—Hard Knocks and Mysterious Differences of Opinion.

Crossing the open ground in front of the Mountain Fort, Bounce and Bertram entered the wood beyond, and traversed it with comparative ease, by means of a bridle-path which had been cut there by the fur-traders. A few minutes’ gallop brought them to the other side of the wood, which was one of those narrow strips or clumps of forest which grow, more or less thickly, on the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, forming that fine picturesque region where the prairie and the forest meet and seem to contend for the mastery.

The plain beyond this belt of wood was open and level—at least, sufficiently so to enable the two horsemen to see for a considerable distance around them. Here, in the far distance, they descried their companions, sweeping over the turf at their utmost speed, and making towards a low hill or ridge that intercepted the view of the more distant country.

“They’ll have to draw in a bit,” said Bounce, turning to his comrade. “Horses no more nor men can’t go helter-skelter up a hill without takin’ breath; so rouse up your beast, Mr Bertram, an’ we’ll overtake ’em afore they gits to the t’other side.”

Bertram obeyed his friend’s command, but made no rejoinder, his thoughts being too deeply engaged at that moment in a controversy with his conscience as to the propriety of the business he had then in hand.

The young artist had a deep veneration for abstract truth—truth pure and simple, not only in reference to morals, but to all things terrestrial and celestial; and he was deeply impressed with the belief that what was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong, and could not, by any possibility, be otherwise. He felt, also, that the man who recognised truth and acted upon it must go right, and he who saw and did otherwise must go wrong!

Holding this simple creed very tenaciously, and, as we think, very properly, Bertram nevertheless found that his attempts to act up to it frequently involved him in a maze of perplexities.

On the present occasion, as he and Bounce thundered over the green turf of the flowering plains, scattering the terrified grasshoppers right and left, and causing the beautifully striped ground-squirrels to plunge with astonishing precipitancy into their holes, he argued with himself, that the mere fact of a murderous deed having been done was not a sufficient reason, perhaps, to justify his sallying forth with a reckless band of desperate fur-traders, bent on indiscriminate revenge. It was quite true, in his opinion, that a murderer should be punished with death, and that the pursuit and capture of a murderer was not only a legitimate act in itself but, in the circumstances, a bounden duty on his part. Yet it was equally true that most of the men with whom he was associated were thirsting for vengeance, and from past experience he knew full well that there would be no attempt to find out the murderer, but a simple and general massacre of all the Indians whom they could overtake.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that the murderer had already been shot by Redhand, so that his mission was one of simple revenge; but, a moment after, it flashed across his troubled mind that Lincoln had been left in the fort wounded—might possibly be dead by that time; so that there were probably among the flying savages other murderers to be dealt with. This idea was strengthened by another thought, namely, that the savage who stabbed and scalped Dupont might not have been the savage who shot him. The complication and aggregate of improbability amounted, in Bertram’s mind, so nearly to a certainty, that he dismissed the digressive question as to whether there might or might not be a murderer among the Indians, and returned to the original proposition, as to whether it was right in him to take part in a pursuit of vengeance that would very likely terminate murderously. But before he could come to any satisfactory conclusion on that point he and Bounce found themselves suddenly in the midst of the cavalcade, which had halted on the summit of the ridge, in order to allow them to come up.

“Here we are, lads,” cried Macgregor, his flushed face still blazing with wrath, which he made no effort to subdue, and his eyes red with prolonged debauchery, flashing like the eyes of a tiger—“here we are, too late to cut off the retreat o’ these detestable reptiles from the woods, but not too late to circumvent them.”

The fur trader spoke rapidly, almost breathlessly, and pointed to the band of Indians they were in pursuit of, who, observing that their pursuers had halted, also drew rein on the edge of a belt of thick forest that extended for miles into the mountains. They appeared to wait, in order to ascertain what their enemies meant to do.

“The villains,” continued Macgregor, “think we’ve given up pursuit as hopeless, but they’re mistaken—they’re mistaken, as they’ll find to their cost. Now, mark me, men; we shall turn back as if we had really given in; but the moment we get down into the hollow, out of sight, we’ll go as hard as we can bolt up that valley there, and round by the place we call the Wild-Cat Pass. It’s a difficult pass, but who cares for that? Once through it we can get by a short cut to the other side of that wood, and meet the redskins right in the teeth. They’re Blackfoot Indians, I know by their dress; and, as they don’t belong to this part o’ the country, they can’t be aware of the pass. But some of us must go back a good way towards the fort, so as to deceive the blackguards, who’ll be sure to get on the first hill they can to see where we’ve gone to. Now—away! Stay,” he added in a less commanding tone, “I don’t know that my guests are willing to go with us through thick an’ thin in this fashion. I’ve no desire to have unwilling warriors.”

“Had we not been willing” replied Redhand dryly, “we wouldn’t have come even thus far.”

“Very good,” rejoined Macgregor with a grim smile; “then, perhaps, since you are so good as to go along with us, you’ll make for the head of that valley, and when you come to the Wild-Cat Pass I’ve spoken of, you’ll wait there till the rest of us, who are to sham going back to the fort, come up with ye; then we’ll go through the pass together, and polish off the redskins.”

To this plan Redhand assented; so he and his comrades prepared to take the way to the pass, while the men of the fort turned homewards. A triumphant shout from the Indians showed that they imagined the pursuit was given up; but Macgregor knew their cunning too well to fall into the mistake of at once concluding that they were thoroughly deceived. He knew that they would send out scouts to dog them, and felt, that if his plan was to succeed, he must put it into execution promptly.

“I’ve scarce had time to ask your names or where you’ve come from,” he said on parting from the trappers; “but there’ll be plenty of time for that when we meet again. Keep close in the bottom, and ride fast, till the shadow of yonder crag conceals you from view. If the Indians get sight of you, they’ll smell the dodge at once and escape us. Perhaps, young man, you’d like to come with my party?”

The latter part of this speech was made rather abruptly to March Marston, who received it with some surprise, and with a distinct refusal.

“I’ll stick by my comrades,” said he, “till I see good reason—”

“Well, well, boy—please yourself!” muttered the trader angrily, as he broke away at full speed, followed by his men.

Our trappers instantly turned their horses’ heads towards the mountains, and made for the Wild-Cat Pass.

Macgregor’s estimate of the cunning of the Indians was but too correct. The instant the fur-traders disappeared behind the ridge, as if on their return homewards, several of their fastest riders were dispatched to the nearest hill, to watch the movements of the enemy. They ascended one which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, and thence beheld the fur-traders proceeding swiftly back in the direction of the fort. Unfortunately, they also perceived the bottle-brush of Bertram’s steed, as it disappeared behind the crag which already concealed the rest of his comrades from view. One instant later, and the Indians would have failed to make this discovery, for a deep impassable gorge lay between them and the ravine which conducted to the pass. It was but the barest possible glimpse they got of that shabby tail; but it told a tale which they perfectly understood, for they flew back in the utmost haste to warn their comrades, who, knowing the smallness of the party thus sent against them, from the largeness of the party that had shammed returning to the fort, resolved upon executing a counter movement.

They had a shrewd suspicion, from the nature of the country, that the intention of the whites was to get through a pass of some sort and intercept them, and, concluding that this pass must lie at the head of the valley up which the bottle-brush had vanished, they resolved to proceed to the same spot through the gorge that separated the hill from the crag or rocky ridge before referred to.

Promptitude they knew to be everything, so they swept up the gorge like a whirlwind. Thus both parties drew nearer to the chaotic opening styled the Wild-Cat Pass—the trappers, all ignorant of what awaited them there; the savages bent on giving their enemies an unpleasant surprise.

But, unknown to either, there was a pair of eyes high on a rock above the Wild-Cat Pass, that overlooked the two valleys or ravines, and gazed with considerable interest and curiosity on the two advancing parties. Those eyes belonged to a solitary horseman, who stood on the edge of the wild precipice that overhung the pass. The hunter, for such his leathern dress bespoke him, stood beside his horse, his right arm over its arched neck, and his right hand patting its sleek shoulder. From the position which he occupied he could see without being seen. His magnificent steed seemed to be aware that danger was at hand, for it stood like a statue, absolutely motionless, with the exception of its fine fiery eyes. Whatever this solitary hunter’s thoughts regarding the two approaching parties might be, it was evident that he meant to remain an invisible spectator of their doings; for he stood in the same attitude of statue-like attention until they reached the heads of the two ravines, where they were separated from each other only by the pass. Here, on the one side, the Indians, about forty in number, lay in ambush among the rocks, prepared to surprise and attack the trappers when they should pass. On the other side the trappers halted, and dismounting, allowed their horses to graze while they awaited the arrival of Macgregor and his party.

“They won’t be long o’ comin’,” remarked Redhand, seating himself on a stone and proceeding to strike a light. “That fellow Macgregor an’t the man to waste time when he’s out after the redskins. I only hope he won’t waste life when he gets up to them.”

“So do I,” said Bounce, seating himself beside Redhand and carefully cutting a small piece of tobacco into shreds by means of a scalping-knife. “A sartin amount o’ punishment is needful, d’ye see, to keep ’em down; but I don’t like slaughtering human bein’s onnecessary like.”

“I’d skiver ’em all, I guess—every one,” observed Big Waller angrily. “They’re a murderin’, thievin’ set o’ varmints, as don’t desarve to live nohow!”

“Bah!” exclaimed Gibault in disgust; “you is most awferfully onfeelosophicule, as Bounce do say. If dey not fit for live, for fat vas dey made? You vicked man!”

Big Waller deigned no reply.

“I’m off to look at the pass,” cried March Marston, vaulting suddenly into the saddle. “Come, Bertram; you’ll go with me, won’t you, and see if we can find some wild-cats in it?”

The artist, who had not dismounted, merely replied by a nod and a smile, and the two reckless youths galloped away, heedless of Bounce’s warning not to go too far, for fear they should find something worse than wild-cats there.

The Wild-Cat Pass, through which they were speedily picking their steps, in order to get a view of the country beyond, was not inappropriately named; for it seemed, at the first glance of those who entered it, as if no creature less savagely reckless than a cat could, by any possibility, scramble through it without the aid of wings.

The greater part of it was the ancient bed of a mountain torrent, whose gushing waters had, owing to some antediluvian convulsion of nature, been diverted into another channel. The whole scene was an absolute chaos of rocks which had fallen into the torrent’s bed from the precipice that hemmed it in on the west, and these rocky masses lay heaped about in such a confused way that it was extremely difficult to select a pathway along which the horses could proceed without running great risk of breaking their limbs. The entire length of the pass could not have been much more than a quarter of a mile, yet it took March Marston and his companion full half an hour to traverse it.

When about half through the pass March, who led the way, drew up on a small rocky elevation, from which he could survey the amphitheatre of rugged and naked rocks in the midst of which he stood.

“Upon my word, Bertram,” he said gazing round, “if Bunyan had ever been in the Rocky Mountains, I think he would have chosen such a spot as this for the castle o’ Giant Despair.”

“I know not,” replied Bertram with a deep sigh, as he drew rein, “what Bunyan would have done, but I know that Giant Despair has already located himself here, for he has been trying to take, possession of my bosom for at least twenty minutes. I never rode over such ground in my life. However, it ill becomes pioneers to be overcome by such a giant, so pray push on; I feel quite eager to see what sort of region lies beyond this gloomy portal.”

March laughed and turned to continue the scramble; Bertram removed his brigandish hat, wiped his heated brows, replaced the hat firmly thereon, and drove his heels violently against the ribs of his horse, an act which induced that patient quadruped to toss its head and shake its bottle-brush ere it condescended to move on. It was quite evident that, although Bertram spoke in a half-jesting tone of Giant Despair, he was in reality much delighted with the singularity of this extemporised and interesting ramble.

“I say, Bertram, don’t you like this sort of thing?” inquired March, looking back at his companion, on reaching a somewhat level part of the pass.

“Like it? Ay, that do I. I love it, March. There is a freedom, a species of wild romance about it, that is more captivating than I can describe.”

“You don’t need to describe it,” returned March. “I have it all described splendidly within me. One don’t want words when one’s got feelins. But I’ve often thought what a pity it is that we can’t describe things or places at all with words. At least, I can’t,” he added modestly. “When I try to tell a fellow what I’ve seen, it ain’t o’ no manner of use to try, for I don’t get hold of the right words at the right time, and so don’t give out the right meanin’, and so the fellow I’m speakin’ to don’t take up the right notion, d’ye see? It’s a great pity that words are such useless things.”

“Why, that was spoken like Bounce himself,” said Bertram, smiling.

“Look out, or you’ll go bounce into that hole, if you don’t have a care,” cried March, turning aside to avoid the danger referred to. They proceeded through the remainder of the pass in silence, as the rugged nature of the ground required their undivided attention.

Had there been a sprite in that place, who could have hopped invisibly to some elevated pinnacle, or have soared on gossamer wings into the air, so as to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole scene, he would have noted that while March Marston and the artist were toiling slowly through the Wild-Cat Pass, the solitary hunter before referred to regarded their proceedings with some surprise, and that when he saw they were bent on going quite through the pass, his expression changed to a look of deep concern.

With slow and gentle hand this man backed his quiet and docile horse deeper into the bush; and when he had got so deep into the shade of the forest as to be perfectly safe from observation, he leaped on its back with a single bound, and galloped swiftly away.

A few minutes after the occurrence of this incident, March and his friend emerged from the pass and trotted out upon a level plain whence they obtained a fine view of the magnificent country beyond. The pass from which they had just issued seemed to be the entrance to the heart of the Rocky Mountains. The plain, or rather the plateau, on which they stood was a level spot covered with soft grass, free from bushes, and not more than a hundred yards in extent. On three sides it was encompassed by inaccessible precipices and rocky ground, in the midst of which the opening out of the pass was situated. On the fourth side it was skirted by a dense thicket of bushes that formed the entrance to a magnificent forest which extended for several miles in front of the spot. Beyond this forest the scene was broken by hills and valleys, and little plains, richly diversified with wood and water—the former in dense masses, scattered groups, and isolated clusters; the latter shining in the forms of lakelet and stream, or glancing snow-white in numberless cascades. Beyond all, the dark-blue giant masses of the Rocky Mountains towered up and up, hill upon hill, pile upon pile, mass on mass, till they terminated in distant peaks, so little darker than the sky that they seemed scarcely more solid than the clouds with which they mingled and blended their everlasting snows.

“An’t it beautiful?” cried March, riding forward with a bounding sensation of inexpressible delight.

Bertram followed him, but did not answer. He was too deeply absorbed in the simple act of intently gazing and drinking in the scene to listen or to reply.

At the precise moment in which March made the above remark, his quick eye observed a spear head which one of the savages, hid among the bushes there, had not taken sufficient pains to conceal.

March Marston was a young hunter, and, as yet an inexperienced warrior; but from childhood he had been trained, as if it were in spirit, by the anecdotes and tales of the many hunters who had visited Pine Point settlement. His natural powers of self-control were very great, but he had to tax all these powers to the uttermost to maintain his look of animated delight in the scenery unchanged, after making the above startling discovery. But March did it! His first severe trial in the perils of backwoods life had come—without warning or time for preparation; and he passed through it like a true hero.

That a spear handle must necessarily support a spear head; that an Indian probably grasped the former; that, in the present position of affairs, there were certainly more Indians than one in ambush; and that, in all probability, there were at that moment two or three dozen arrows resting on their respective bows, and pointed towards his and his comrade’s hearts, ready to take flight the instant they should come within sure and deadly range, were ideas which did not follow each other in rapid succession through his brain, but darted upon the young hunter’s quick perceptions instantaneously, and caused his heart to beat on his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and the blood to fly violently to his face.

Luckily March’s face was deeply browned, and did not show the crimson tide. With a sudden, mighty effort he checked the natural look and exclamation of surprise. That was the moment of danger past. To continue his praise of the lovely scene in gay delighted tones was comparatively easy.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, turning his face full towards the ambushed savages, gazing over their place of concealment with an unconscious joyous air, and sweeping his hand towards the mountains, as if to draw the attention of his companion to them. March’s only weapon at that moment was the small hatchet he was wont to carry in his girdle. This implement chanced to be in his hand. Placing it carelessly in his belt, as though nothing was further from his mind than the idea of requiring to use it at that time, he cried—

“See, yonder is a mound from which we may get a better view,” and trotted to the summit of the spot alluded to. In doing so, he placed himself still nearer to the Indians. This was a bold stroke, though a dangerous one, meant to deceive the enemy. After gazing a few seconds from this spot, he wheeled round and walked his horse quietly towards the entrance to the pass. Arrived there, he turned, and pretending that he saw something in the far distance, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed for a short time intently, then calling to Bertram, who still remained in his original position all unconscious of his danger, said—

“I say, come here; look at yonder splendid lake, it’s worth seeing—well worth seeing; and if you don’t see it with that curious light on it, you’ll not care to see it at all.”

March did not dare, by energy of voice, to force his friend’s attention, therefore the first part of this speech was unheeded; but the reference to a “curious light” had the desired effect. Bertram turned, and rode to join his companion. Getting Bertram into such a position that his own person partially screened him from the Indians, he made the following remarkable speech, from beginning to end, in the gay tones of one who discourses eloquently on the beauties of nature; pointing here and there as he rattled on.

“An’t it beautiful? eh? I say, just look at it now!—listen to me, Bertram—attentively, but gaze admiringly at the scene—at the scene—oh! man, do what I bid ye—your life hangs on it. Pretend to admire it—we’re in great danger—but—”

“Eh? what? where?” exclaimed the artist in a tone of intense excitement, at the same time laying his hand on one of his pistols and gazing anxiously all round him.

Alas! poor Bertram. It needed not the acute apprehension of a redskin to understand that you had been told of present danger. Neither did it require much acuteness on the part of March to divine what was to follow.

Scarcely had the symptoms of alarm been exhibited, when four arrows whizzed through the air and passed close to the persons of the two friends, who instantly turned and made a dash for the entrance of the pass. At the same time the savages uttered a yell and darted after them.

“We’ll never be able to escape by the pass,” exclaimed March, looking behind him hurriedly, as they approached the rocky gorge, “and, I declare, there’s only four o’ them on foot. Come, Bertram, let’s make a bold stroke for it. We’ll easy break through ’em.”

He reined up so suddenly as almost to throw the horse on its haunches, and, wheeling round, darted towards the savages. Bertram followed almost mechanically.

The Indians offered no opposition, but at that moment another yell rose from the hushes, and about thirty mounted Indians, who had been concealed behind a projecting cliff, sprang forward and closed up the only place of escape with a formidable array of spears. From their not using their arrows it was evident that they wished to capture the white men alive, for the purpose, no doubt, of taking them home to their wigwams, there to put them to death by slow torture with the assistance of their squaws.

March Marston’s spirit rose with the occasion. He uttered a furious cry, flourished his hatchet above his head, and dashed at full gallop towards the line. Seeing this, one of the Indians levelled his spear and rode out to meet him. Bertram’s nerves recovered at that moment. He fired both pistols at the advancing savage, but without effect. In despair he hurled one of them violently at the head of the Indian. The missile went true to the mark and felled him. On beholding this the whole body of savages rushed upon the two white men.

One powerful Indian seized March by the throat. Before either could use his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground. Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement. At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow was heard above the din of the fight. All eyes were turned towards the pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.

The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold. Both he and his horse were gigantic in size. The man was dressed in the costume of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man. The mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread, the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous creature.

The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated. In another moment the wild horseman was upon them. He carried a round shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand. Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him. The point of one he turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled horse and man upon the plain. The other he cut the iron head off with a sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft his opponent to the chin. Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of indignation. The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from using their bows and arrows effectively. Before they could fit an arrow to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on the ground. Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark, caused them to shoot wide. Most of the shafts missed him. Two quivered in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat. Turning again to renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians—probably a chief—leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm deliberation to his bow. The furious horseman, although delivering his sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed during the mêlée to have an intuitive perception of where the greatest danger lay. The savages at that moment were whirling round him and darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt. The chief was a brave man. He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other approached, let it fly full at his breast. The white man dropped on the neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through the body.

The Indians were scattered now. The rapid dash of that tumultuous fight, although of but a few seconds’ duration, had swept the combatants to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the terrible scene. March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead, in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.

Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about twenty of the bravest stood their ground. At that moment a loud shout and a fierce “hurrah!” rang out and echoed hither and thither among the rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already turned and fled towards the wood for shelter. The whole band crossed the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the bushes, and were gone—the crashing tread of their footsteps and an occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was not a dream.

But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field. On the first sound of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman—who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might—pulled up his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.

Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this remarkable hunter. After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it. Not a trace of his late ferocity was visible. His mind seemed to be filled with sadness, for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow, as his eyes rested on the dead men. There was a mild gravity in his countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.

A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild, but eminently masculine, in expression.

Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet from the pass. On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist. A quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed upon him a cheerful nod of farewell. Then, urging his steed forward, he entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.

The heavy tramp of his horse’s hoofs among the broken stones of the rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the returning fur-traders broke on Bertram’s ear. This aroused him from the state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood and death in the midst of which he stood. Presently his eye fell, for the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston. The sight effectually restored him. With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his friend’s side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe. The horror of the poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade’s face was bespattered with blood and brains.

Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the scene of the late skirmish.

“Hallo! Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we’ve polished ’em off this time a few. Hey! wot’s this?” cried Big Waller, as he and some of the others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram. “Not dead, is he?”

The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as regret. The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.

“Out o’ the way, lads; let me see him,” cried Bounce, who galloped up at that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston’s heart.

“All right,” he said, raising the youth’s head, “he’s only stunned. Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o’ water. The horse that brained this here redskin, by good luck, only stunned March.”

“Ah! mon pauvre enfant!” cried Gibault as he ran to obey.

The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and call to remembrance what had passed. Ere his scattered faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor at their head.

“Well done, the Wild Man of the West!” cried McLeod, as he dismounted. “Not badly hurt, young man, I trust.”

“Oh! nothing to speak of. Only a thump on the head from a horse’s hoof,” said March; “I’ll be all right in a little time. Did you say anything about the Wild Man of the West?” he added earnestly.

“To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead men, I fear. Did you not see him?”

“See him? no,” replied March, much excited. “I heard a tremendous roar, but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that happened.”

“Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?” inquired Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.

This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who heard it.

“Well, I’ve never seed the Wild Man till to-day,” said one, “though I’ve often heer’d of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn’t show much that was mild or grave.”

“I guess your head’s bin in a swum, stranger,” said another. “I’ve only seed him this once, but I don’t hope to see him agin. He ain’t to be trusted, he ain’t, that feller.”

“And I’ve seen him five or six times,” added McLeod, “and all I can say is, that twice out o’ the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the other three times—when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition—he was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he was wont to employ, “I have seen this man only once, but I’ve seen him under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was really the Wild Man of the West, he’s not quite so wild as he gets credit for.”

On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself. He felt ill at ease in body and mind. The idea of the Wild Man of the West having actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on the subject whatever; so he said abruptly—

“It’s of no use talking here all night, friends. My head’s splittin’, so I think we’d better encamp.”

March’s suggestion was adopted at once. Provisions had been carried with them from the fort. The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen. The fires were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of the West!

Chapter Fourteen.

The Hunting Ground—How they spent the Sabbath Day among the Mountains—Threatening Clouds on the Horizon.

Next day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.

At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time to the capture of that sagacious animal. From McLeod, Redhand learned that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for that hunting ground as quickly as possible.

“I suppose you don’t want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?” said old Redhand as they were about to start.

“By no means,” replied the artist quickly; “I have no intention of quitting you—that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands,” he added with a sad smile.

“A burden!” cried Bounce in surprise; “I tell ye wot, sir, I consider yer company a honour.”

“So you won’t return with us, young man?” said Macgregor to March Marston as he mounted his horse. “I’m in want of a stout young fellow, and you’ll like the life.”

“I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion,” returned March; “but my mind’s made up: I’ll stick by my comrades; I like trappin’, but I don’t like tradin’—though I’m obliged to you for bein’ so pressin’ all the same.”

The two parties bade each other adieu and separated—the one retracing its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly described in the last chapter.

Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had just passed. During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell in. They reached this country after several days’ travel. After arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.

The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed—from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks, geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the forest.

It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine, which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.

It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the tree above referred to. They had encamped the previous night on a swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push forward at the peep of day on Sabbath. But when, in the course of a couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to encamp.

During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from all labour on the Sabbath day. Some of them did so from no higher motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour. Although not absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that kind and gracious Father, who has told us that “the Sabbath was made for man.” Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul, but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.

Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the faithful keeping of the Lord’s day. Independently altogether of the delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God in the wilderness—especially of that beautiful portion of the wilderness—the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and somewhat exciting journey. They wandered about from spot to spot, from hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds. Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups, sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly. March Marston and the artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and wandering volubility—as young minds are wont to do—on things past, present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial. In short, there was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or stood upon the mountain side. They tried “everything by turns, and nothing long,” and, among other mental occupations, they read portions of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother’s Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible—also a mother’s gift—which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the well-known sketch-book. They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical, common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians. Certainly, any one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively that “March Marston was mad!”

Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce’s capacities embraced a pretty wide range, the “feelosophical” views he set forth upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic, and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault’s inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper admiration than ever.

As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower. It has been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand. What truth there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth. He would sit down on a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a quarter of an inch broad.

The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his old friend. Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it difficult to answer. There was little interchange of thought between those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.

So passed the Sabbath day. Early on the following morning the trappers were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures, including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.

When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting time in cooking the viands. “It was of no manner of use cooking,” Big Waller said, “when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own shoulders!” As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw. The others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday morning, was decidedly underdone—to use a mild expression!

But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of that morning. As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell. March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding, as the drumstick he had just picked would testify. Bounce told of having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would certainly have shot, had it not run away from him. Whereupon Gibault, wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise, that he would never have believed it—no, never—had anybody else told him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear! He couldn’t bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said it. As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to revel in his loved art.

Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our trappers had it all to themselves. They caught and killed numbers of animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs; ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge volume. In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan’s land of Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.

But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity. An event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.

Chapter Fifteen.

Business unpleasantly interrupted—The Mountain Fort in Danger—Trappers to the Rescue—A Rude Meeting with Foes in the Dark—A wild Race—March meets with a severe Misfortune.

One morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase, they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.

To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a moment. It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort. On the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to some natural stronghold. Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which they were encamped. Here all their valuables had been placed, and round the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork without exposing themselves to view.

To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their appearance. Fortunately all the members of the little party had come in.

“They’re holdin’ a council o’ war,” said Bounce, carefully examining the priming of his piece. “It’s as like as not they’ll attack us, but they’ll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome.”

“They’ll not attack us,” said Redhand. “They know that white men never travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don’t like taking a place by storm.”

“Ay,” remarked Waller sarcastically, “’cause they knows that the first man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an’ they knows that they can’t come on without somebody comin’ first.”

“But there’s brave fellers among the redskins,” rejoined Bounce. “I knowed a set o’ young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore they’d go through fire an’ water, thick an’ thin, but they’d niver turn back from the face o’ danger wherever they met it. So, one day they wos crossin’ a river on the ice, an’ the first on ’em fell in, an’ wos carried away by the current; an’ what does the second do, but he walks straight into the hole, an’ wos drowned too; an’ the nixt wos goin’ to foller, when the old warriors ran at him an’ forced him back. If they hadn’t stopped him, I do b’lieve—”

“They’re makin’ up their minds to do somethin’ or other,” interrupted March.

“I sincerely hope they won’t fight,” murmured Bertram earnestly. “It is fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly.”

From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers, made signs of friendship.

“It’s as well to be bold an’ appear to trust ’em,” said Redhand, laying down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; “keep your guns ready, lads, an’ if ye see treachery, let drive at once. Don’t be afraid o’ hittin’ me. I’ll take my chance.”

After a few minutes’ conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to his party.

“That redskin,” said he, “tells me they’re on an expedition to hunt the buffalo on the prairie, and that they’re good friends of the white men, and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don’t believe ’em. From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the whites. The very fact of their wishin’ to keep friends with us instead of tryin’ to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me they’ve some more pressin’ business on hand. Mr McLeod described to me the appearance of one or two o’ the Injuns that hates the fur-traders most, so that I might be on my guard, an’ I’m quite sure that some of them are with that band. Now, what say ye? Shall I tell ’em we don’t want their acquaintance?”

“Tell ’em they’re a set o’ lyin’ thieves,” said Big Waller. “I guess we’ll have nothin’ to say to ’em wotiver.”

“Oui, et give to dem mine complements,” added Gibault, “an’ say we ver’ moch ’blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go away queek.”

Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the prairie.

Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say. They seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon after rode off at full speed, in a direction that led away from the Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in his suspicions.

After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.

In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were galloping after them in hot haste. During the course of the day they found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a wide détour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.

But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with. Just as the Indians were about to encamp that night for a few hours’ rest, they chanced to diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so, crossed the tracks of the trappers. A halt was called, and a minute inspection of the tracks made. One of the savages galloped back on them a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that they led towards the camp of the pale-faces. From the appearance of the hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be frustrated by the trappers. Instead of encamping, therefore, they pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men. It was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile, almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both sides.

As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting each make the best of his way to the fort singly.

“Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!”

This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or explanation. Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.

“Foller me,” shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of arrows whistled past their ears. The artist obeyed mechanically, and in another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed, and actually was, reckless under the circumstances. But the Indians did not attempt to pursue. They knew that their intention had been discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding the pale-faces. The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.

The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.

McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came dashing over the plain. He hastily summoned his men and closed the gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate was thrown open, and they galloped into the square. In a few hasty words their errand was explained. Arms and ammunition were served out, and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.

But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three. The Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where the first rencontre had taken place.

When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at random, entered the shoulder of March Marston’s horse and wounded it mortally. At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of. Before he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing March over its head. In his flight the youth’s forehead came into violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.

His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight. Thus, our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.

Chapter Sixteen.

March gets a Surprise; more than that, he gets a Variety of Surprises—Meets with a strange Hunter—Goes in a strange Fashion to a strange Cavern and beholds strange Sights—Besides other Matters of Interest.

On recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad daylight—from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must have lain there all night. He also discovered that his head, which ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who bathed his temples with cold water. Looking up he encountered the gaze of a pair of soft blue eyes.

Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue eyes—not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair of brown or black or grey eyes—but there is something singularly captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is captivated by a pair of blue—distinctly blue—eyes. Perhaps it is that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic of purity. We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of unimpassioned philosophers. Those whose hearts are already under the pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an opinion on the abstract question.

Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a thick short beard of curly light-brown hair. A slight, very slight, feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard. He also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.

“Ye’re better, lad,” said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.

“Thankee, yes, I’m—”

“There, don’t move yet awhile. You’re badly bruised, lad. I’ll go fetch ye another drop o’ water.”

The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March’s head softly on the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook. In doing so he displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly splendid-looking man. He was considerably above six feet in height, but it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and shoulders that struck March with surprise. His costume was the ordinary leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair told that he was not an Indian.

As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat. He also noted more clearly now the man’s towering height, and the enormous breadth of his chest. As he lay there on his back with his head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, “I never saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!”

And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself stood before him!

But he did not know him. On the only occasion on which he had had an opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus opportunely to his aid. For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to March that this was the Wild Man. It was natural that, having had his thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious man he met must be he. But he dismissed the notion as untenable and absurd on second thoughts. That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides ugly, was out of the question. And when March shut his eyes in the full enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.

March Marston had much to learn—we mean in the way of reading human character and in judging from appearances. He had not yet observed, in the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating tiger-like ferocity. He did not consider that the gentlest natures are, when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect. He did not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse, armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be invented.

The prominent ideas in March’s mind at that time were, a pair of blue eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the Wild Man from his thoughts.

Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner. After allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said—

“Now, lad, I think ye’re improvin’. Ye’re badly battered about the head and shoulders, so I’ll take ye home with me.”

“Home with you?” repeated March.

“Ay, put your arms round my neck,” returned the Wild Man in a tone which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.

March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise, whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth’s back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him from the ground and carried him away.

March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a powerful effort. Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round, March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.

“Hold on, lad, till I mount.”

“You’d better let me down till you get up,” suggested March.

“No,” replied the singularly laconic individual.

Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.

Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever. But March did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by the motion of the horse.

In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky Mountains. Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.

“Art sore i’ the bones, lad?” inquired the stout horseman, looking down at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.

“Rather,” replied March. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to ride behind you? I think I could manage to hold on.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion,” urged March.

“Weight!” echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression as he thought fit.

“I hope no bones are broken,” inquired March in a tone of anxiety.

“Hope not,” replied his captor.

We use the word “captor” advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.

“I fear there are,” said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him excruciating agony.

“Very likely,” replied the other—not by any means in a careless, indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact. “But,” he added in a consolatory tone, “I’ll see when we get home.”

“Home!” repeated March. “Why, where is your home?”

“In the mountains here. We’re about there now.” As he spoke, the hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending. So narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide. At night it was dark as Erebus. The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing. Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the confused masses of rock and débris that formed the bottom of that ravine or chasm, could have ascended it at all. But the fine animal which bore March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.

At length they reached the upper end of the gorge. Here the cliffs, which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet, drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than three yards asunder. Just beyond this point they receded again and terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky sent down a few scanty rays of light.

In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place. Then, glancing at the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had actually fallen into the hands of one. But the grave quiet face, and above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried so suddenly into such a mysterious place.

But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice, which was as perpendicular as a wall. It did not indeed ascend after the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a narrow, spiral pathway. In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to his position in the rider’s left arm, felt a horrible sensation of giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.

“Don’t be afear’d, lad,” said his companion, “I’ve got ye tight, an’ the horse is used to it. The track’s broader than ye think, only ye can’t see it as ye lie now.”

March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held his breath.

Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern. In another moment they were under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand. From the hasty glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried in profound darkness.

Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted. In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to an ordinary man.

“Here we are—at home,” he said. “Come, old horse, get away in.”

The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

“Now, lad, don’t be afear’d, I know every fut o’ the way. Ye can shut yer eyes an ye like—but there’s no occasion.”

Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse’s hoofs as it passed over the stone floor. It could not have been more than a quarter of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner of horrible doubts and fears assailed him. He felt deeply his helpless condition, poor fellow. Had he been sound in wind and limb he would have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances. But part of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent accident, he felt like a miserable child.

Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes, just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe, that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world, are dependent at all times on their fellows.

On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left, stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.

There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to illuminate the surrounding objects. March perceived on looking up that it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor. There were several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few sparks of fire still lingered.

Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy blaze that did one’s heart good to look upon.

By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a couch of pine-branches. He was about to make other observations, when his captor turned to him and said—

“I’ll go an’ see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind easy.”

“And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?” said March, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.

A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man’s face, as he said angrily, “Boy, curiosity is a bad thing—anywise, it’s bad here. I’ve brought you to this cave ’cause you’d ha’ died i’ the woods if I hadn’t. Don’t ask questions about what don’t consarn ye.”

“Nay, friend, I meant no offence,” replied March. “I’ve no desire to pry into any man’s secrets. Nevertheless, it’s but natural to want to know how to address a man when ye converse with him.”

“True, true,” replied the other, somewhat mollified. “Call me Dick; it’s as good a name as any, and better than my own.”

There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.

“Stay,” cried March, “you only give me one name, friend, so I’ll do the same by you. My name’s March—there, now you may march about your business.”

Dick smiled and said, “Well, March, I’ll be with ye again, and have a look at your sore bones, in two minutes.”

When he was gone March, for the first time since his accident, bethought him of his comrades. Since recovering from the state of insensibility into which his fall had thrown him, his mind had been so absorbed by the strange events that had been presented to him in such rapid succession, as well as with the pain that racked his head and limbs, that he had had no time to think about them. But, now that he was left in that quiet place alone, the whole circumstances of the recent pursuit and flight rushed suddenly upon him, and his mind was filled with anxious forebodings as to the fate of his comrades.

“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he cried, as Dick re-entered the cave; “I quite forgot my comrades—shame on me! but my miserable head has got such a smash, that a’most everything’s bin drove out of it.”

“Time enough to speak o’ them after we’ve seen to your bones,” said Dick.

“Nay, but—”

“After,” said Dick in a tone that was not to be gainsaid.

March submitted with a sigh, and his eccentric host proceeded to manipulate and punch him in a way that might perhaps have been highly necessary, but was by no means agreeable. After a few minutes he pronounced his patient all right, only a little bruised! Having said which, he proceeded to prepare some food, and said to March that he might now speak about his comrades.

At first he seemed to pay little attention to the youth’s hasty narrative; but on hearing that the Indians were hastening to attack the Mountain Fort, he sprang up, and asked a few questions eagerly. It was evident that the news troubled him deeply.

Taking one or two hasty strides up and down the cavern, and paying no attention to the roasting meat, which he seemed to have utterly forgotten, the Wild Man of the West muttered angrily to himself, and a slight dash of that tiger-like flash, which had gone so far to earn him his title, lighted up his blue eyes, insomuch that March Marston looked at him in amazement not unmingled with awe. Thoughts of the Wild Man of the West once more occurred to him; but in his former cogitations on that subject he had so thoroughly discarded the idea of this kind, blue-eyed hunter being that far-famed and ferocious individual, that his thoughts only took the form of the mental question, “I wonder if the Wild Man o’ the West could beat such a fellow as that at a fair stand-up fight?” So powerfully did this thought affect him, that he could not refrain from exclaiming—

“I say, Dick, did you ever hear of the Wild Man of the West?”

Dick was so much tickled by the question that his angry mood vanished, and, turning towards his guest with a smile, while his blue eyes seemed milder than they ever had appeared before, he said—

“Yes, lad, I’ve heard of him.”

“Have you seen him?” continued March eagerly.

“I have, many a time.”

“What is he like?”

“He’s like me,” replied Dick with another smile, the softness of which would have driven March to an immeasurable distance from the truth, had he ever been near it.

“Like you! Oh, I suppose you mean he’s something about your size. Well, I don’t wonder at that, for you’re an uncommonly big fellow, Dick; but I fancy his appearance is very different.”

“Well, no. He’s got light hair and blue eyes, like me.”

This was a poser to March. It was so totally subversive of all his preconceived ideas, that it reduced him for some moments to silence.

“Isn’t he hairy all over, like a fox, and very ugly?” inquired March, recovering from his surprise.

This was a poser, in turn, to the Wild Man. To be called upon suddenly to pronounce an opinion on his own looks was embarrassing, to say the least of it.

“He’s not exactly hairy all over,” said Dick after a moment’s thought, “though it can’t be denied he’s got plenty of hair on his head and chin—like me. As for his looks, lad, it ain’t easy to say whether he’s ugly or pritty, for men don’t agree on sich pints, d’ye see?”

“Do sit down beside me, Dick, and tell me about this Wild Man,” said March earnestly. “You can’t fancy how anxious I am to see him. I’ve come here for that very purpose. No doubt I’ve come to shoot and trap, too, but chiefly to see the Wild Man o’ the West. An’ isn’t it provokin’? I might have seen him some weeks agone, if I hadn’t bin stunned with a fall jist as he came jumpin’ into the middle o’ us like a clap o’ thunder—”

“What, lad,” interrupted Dick, “was it you that I—”

Just at this moment Dick was seized with a very violent fit of coughing, which, coming as it did from such a capacious chest and so powerful a pair of lungs, caused the roof of the cavern to reverberate with what might have been mistaken, outside, for a species of miniature artillery.

“You’ve caught cold,” suggested March, who gazed in unspeakable admiration at the magnificent locks and beard of this remarkable man, as they shook with the violence of his exertion.

“I never had a cold,” replied Dick, becoming quiet again; “there’s other things as cause a man for to cough, now and agin’, besides colds.”

“True,” rejoined March; “but you were sayin’ somethin’—do you know of the fight I was speakin’ of?”

“Know of it—ay, that do I.”

“Why, how did you happen to hear of it?”

“It’s wonderful, lad, how I comes to know about things in this part o’ the country. I know everything the Wild Man does. He can’t move without my bein’ on his track d’rectly. In fact, I follers him like his shadow—leastwise, his shadow follers me.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed March, whose interest in Dick became suddenly tenfold more deep on learning this. “But why do you follow him about in this fashion? Does he like your company, or do you only follow him on the sly, and keep out of sight? Explain yourself, Dick—you puzzle me.”

“I can’t explain just now, lad,” said Dick, rising abruptly. “You forget that your comrades may be in a fix before now wi’ them blackguard redskins. I must go an’ help them. It’s but right that white men should lend one another a helpin’ hand in these regions, where the Injuns have it almost all their own way.”

“But the Mountain Fort is far away from this, an’ I’m afraid you’ll never be able to get there in time,” said March with an anxious expression of countenance.

“I’ll try,” returned Dick. “Anyhow, I’ll send the Wild Man o’ the West to help them,” he added with a peculiar smile. “Now, boy, listen, I must not waste more time in idle talk. I shall leave you here under the charge of my little girl—”

“Your little girl!” echoed March in surprise.

“Ay, she ought to have been in before now,” continued Dick, without noticing the interruption, “an’ I would like to ha’ told her who ye are, and how I come by ye, an’ what to do till I come back. But I can’t wait; time’s precious as gold just now; so I’ll tell ye what to say to her when she—”

At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern. The Wild Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment, to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange host.

Presently Dick returned, followed by a—vision in leather! the sight of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been bewitched—which, in a sense, he was.

“This is the little girl I spoke of t’ye,” said Dick looking at March, and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have passed for a small shoulder of mutton. “She’ll take good care of ye, March. I’ve told her what to do; but she don’t need to be told. Now, see ye don’t do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back. It won’t be long—a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye’ll take that time to mend; you’re worse battered than ye think of—so, good-day.”

While the Wild Man was ejaculating these sentences abruptly, he was striding about the cave with what may be styled enormous vigour, picking up and buckling on his weapons of war. He seized a double-edged sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March saw it not. He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief, with leggings to match; but March knew it not. He slung a powder-horn and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he was not in that happy condition. March knew nothing about it whatever!

Before going, Dick stooped and kissed the “vision” on the cheek. March saw that! It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his charger’s hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave. March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other circumstances to shudder. But he did not shudder. He was but faintly aware of these things. His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions—all his faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that wonderful vision in leather!

Chapter Seventeen.

The Vision in Leather.

It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy that there are no other visions in this world than “visions in silk,” “visions in white,” and the like. Those who think thus labour under an egregious, though a civilised, mistake.

Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin—faces that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the first time, that they have beheld a vision!

The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needful to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it should have in it that peculiar something which everybody wants, but which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!

It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the vision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time, dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston’s vision appeared, as we have said in leather.

After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being able to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also without speaking or taking any further notice of him.

She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was of Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clear soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown eye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term a half-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment; but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older than she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort, guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteen summers.

Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill work. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of the same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet, which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed. Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic vision.

Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to look at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much surprised.

In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye that that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as the other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in the shadow of his own nose—which was not a small one by nature, and was a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances—the vision very naturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazing wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite creature.

Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest. The action took her out of “the direct line of fire” of March’s sound eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise, rose hastily, and went to his side.

“You is woke,” she said. “Me tink you was be sleep.”

“Asleep!” cried March with enthusiasm, “no, I wasn’t asleep. More than that, I’ll never go to sleep any more.”

This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.

“Why for not?” she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a position that she could see him easily.

“For thinkin’ o’ you!” replied the bold youth firmly.

The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all, and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at March again. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold intercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changed his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account for, said rather bluntly—

“What’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Ay! did your father give you that name?”

“My father?” echoed the girl, looking hastily up.

“Ay, did Dick give it you?”

“Did him tell you him’s name be Dick?” asked Mary.

“Oh! he’s known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary, what is his name?”

The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a little sad smile, said—

“Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. My father dead.”

The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He hastened to change the subject by saying—

“Is Dick kind to you, Mary?”

“Kind,” she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face, while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant tresses. “Kind! Him be my father now. No have got nobody to love me now but him.”

“Yes, you have, Mary,” said March stoutly.

Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, “Who?”

“Me!” replied March.

Mary said nothing to this. It was quite clear that the Wild Man must have neglected her education sadly. She did not even smile; she merely shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.

“Dick is not your father, Mary,” continued March energetically, “but he has become your father. I am not your brother, but I’ll become your brother—if you’ll let me.”

March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell back and drowned Mary’s answer in a groan of anguish. But he was not to be baulked.

“What said you?” he inquired after a moment’s pause.

“Me say you be very good.”

She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed. In the height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out towards her. She had seen no “vision,” except, indeed, the vision of a wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributed over its yellow surface.

March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillow seemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care. Then she said: “Now me bring blankit. You go sleep. Me sit here till you sleep, after that me go away. If ye wants me, holler out. Me sleep in next room.”

So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern and vanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a third cavern in that place. Presently she returned with a green blanket, and spread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemed absorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.

But what a night March had of it! Whichever way he turned, that vision was ever before his eyes. When he awoke with a start, there she was, bending over the fire. When he dreamed, there she was, floating in an atmosphere of blue stars. Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimes gazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly. Presently he saw her sitting on Dick’s knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicate hand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back so soon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March’s own mother, who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her own darling son! There was no end to it. She never left him. Sometimes she appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects—though always pleasant and sweet to look upon. Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like an embodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air; occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave. She often changed her place, but she never went away. There was no escape. And March was glad of it. He didn’t want to escape. He was only too happy to court the phantom. But it did not require courting. It hovered over him, walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him. Never,—no, never since the world began was any scratched and battered youth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston on that memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!

Chapter Eighteen.

The Cave of the Wild Man of the West—March and Mary hold pleasant Intercourse—Dick’s good Qualities enlarged on—The Wild Man gives a Redskin a strange Lesson—A startling Interruption to pleasant Converse.

When March Marston awoke the following morning, and found himself lying on a low couch in the mysterious cavern of the Wild Man of the West, he experienced the curious sensation, with which every one is more or less familiar, of not knowing where he was.

The vision in leather, which had worried him to such an extent during the night, had left him in peace—as most visions usually do—an hour or so before daybreak, and as the real vision had not yet issued from the inner chamber of the cave, there was nothing familiar near him when he awoke to recall his scattered senses. His first effort to rise, however, quickened his memory amazingly. Pains shot through all his limbs: the chase, the fall, Dick, the cavern, recurred to him; and last—but not least, for it obliterated and swallowed up all the rest—the vision broke upon his beclouded brain and cleared his faculties.

Looking curiously round the cavern, he observed for the first time—what he might have observed the night before had he not been preoccupied with sudden, numerous, and powerful surprises—that the walls were hung with arms and trophies of the chase. Just opposite to him hung the skin of an enormous grisly bear, with the head and skull entire, and the mouth and teeth grinning at him in an awful manner. Near to this were the skin and horns of several buffaloes. In other places there were more horns, and heads, and hides of bears of various kinds, as well as of deer, and, conspicuous above the entrance, hung the ungainly skull and ponderous horns of an elk.

Mingled with these, and arranged in such a manner as to prove that Dick, or the vision—one or other, or both—were by no means destitute of taste, hung various spears, and bows, and quivers, and shields of Indian manufacture, with spears and bows whose form seemed to indicate that Dick himself was their fabricator. There was much of tasteful ornament on the sheaths and handles of many of these weapons.

The floor of the apartment in which he lay was of solid rock, cleanly washed and swept, but there was no furniture of any kind—only a pile of fresh-cut pine-branches, with which the place was perfumed, and two or three rough logs which had been used as seats the night before by the host and hostess of this—to March—enchanted castle.

March was staring earnestly at one of these logs which lay close to the ashes of the fire, trying to recall the form that had last occupied it, when a rustle at the inner passage attracted his attention, and next moment the vision again stood before him. It was, if possible, more innocent and young and sweet than on the previous night.

“Good mornin’. You very good sleep, me hope?”

“Ay, that had I, a capital sleep,” cried March heartily, holding out his hand, which the vision grasped unhesitatingly, and shook with manly vigour.

“Bees you hongray?”

“No, not a bit,” said March.

The girl looked sad at this. “You muss heat,” she said quickly, at the same time raking together the embers of the fire, and blowing them up into a flame, over which she placed a large iron pot. “Dick hims always heat well an’ keep well. Once me was be sick. Dick him say to me, ‘Heat.’ Me say, ‘No want heat.’ Hims say, ‘You muss heat.’ So me try; an’ sure ’nuff, get well to-morrow.”

March laughed at this prompt and effectual remedy for disease, and said, “Well, I’ll try. Perhaps it will cure me, especially if you feed me.”

Poor March saw, by the simplicity of his companion’s looks, that gallantry and compliments were alike thrown away on her; so he resolved to try them no more. Having come to this conclusion, he said—

“I say, Mary, come and sit by me while I talk with you. I want to know how you came to be in this wild, out-o’-the-way place, and who Dick is, and what brought him here, an’ in short, all about it.”

The girl drew her log near as he desired, but said, “What Dick no tell, me no tell.”

“But, surely,” urged March in a somewhat testy tone, “you may tell me something about ye.”

Mary shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Dick say, ‘No tell.’”

“Oh! Dick’s an ass!”

Had Mary known the meaning of her companion’s rude speech, she might possibly have surprised him with a decided opinion in regard to himself. But, never having heard of nor seen such a creature in all her life, she only looked up with a quiet expression of curiosity, and said—

“What bees an ass?”

“Ha! ha!—ho! he! a—” roared our hero, with a mingled feeling of exasperation and savage glee—“an ass? Why, it’s a lovely slender creature, with short pretty ears and taper limbs, and a sleek, glossy coat, like—like me, Mary, dear; why, I’m an ass myself. Pray, do get me somethin’ to eat. I really believe my appetite’s comin’ back agin.”

Mary looked at March in much concern. She had once nursed the Wild Man through a severe illness, and knew what delirium was, and she began to suspect that her guest was beginning to give way.

“Now, lie down,” she said with an air of decision that was almost ludicrous in one so youthful. Yet March felt that he must obey. “Me will git meat ready. You sleep littil bit.”

March shut his eyes at once; but, the instant that Mary turned to attend to the iron kettle, he opened them, and continued to gaze at the busy little housewife, until she chanced to look in his direction, when he shut them again quickly, and very tight. This was done twice; but the third time Mary caught him in the act, and broke into a merry laugh. It was the first time she had laughed aloud since March met her; so he laughed too, out of sheer delight and sympathy.

When March had finished breakfast, he tried to get up, and found, to his great relief and satisfaction, that no bones were broken—a fact of which he had stood in considerable doubt—and that his muscles were less acutely pained than they had been. Still, he was very stiff, and quite unable, with any degree of comfort, to walk across the cave; so he made up his mind to lie there till he got well—a resolution which, in the pride of his heart, he deemed exceedingly virtuous and praiseworthy, forgetting, either deliberately or stupidly, that the presence of Mary rendered that otherwise dull cavern the most delightful of sick chambers, and that her attendance was ample compensation and reward for any amount of pain or self-denial.

“Mary,” he said, when she had cleared away the débris of the morning meal, “sit down here, and tell me a few things. You’re so terribly close that one doesn’t know what he may ask an’ what he mayn’t. But if you don’t like to speak, you can hold your tongue, you know. Now, tell me, how old are you?”

“Fifteen,” replied Mary.

“Ay! I thought ye’d been older. How long have ye bin with Dick?”

“In cave here—ten year. Before that, me live in my father’s wigwam.”

“Was yer father a trapper?” inquired March tenderly.

Mary’s face at once assumed an expression of earnest gravity, and she answered, “Yes,” in a low, sad tone.

March was going to have inquired further on this point, but fear lest he should hurt the feelings of the poor child induced him to change the subject.

“And how came ye,” said he, “first to meet with Dick?”

Mary pressed her lips.

“Oh! very well; don’t tell if it ain’t right, by no manner o’ means. Do ye think that Dick intends to keep ye here always?”

“Me not know.”

“Humph! An’ you say he’s good to ye?”

“Oh yes,” cried Mary with a sudden blaze of animation on her usually placid countenance, “him’s good, very good—gooder to me than nobody else.”

“Well, I could have guessed that, seein’ that nobody else has had anything to do with ye but him for ten years past.”

“But him’s not only good to me—good to everybody,” continued the girl with increasing animation. “You not know how good—can’t know.”

“Certainly not,” assented March; “it ain’t possible to know, not havin’ bin told; but if you’ll tell me I’ll listen.”

March Marston had at last struck a chord that vibrated intensely in the bosom of the warm-hearted child. She drew her log closer to him in her eagerness to dilate on the goodness of her adopted father, and began to pour into his willing ears such revelations of the kind and noble deeds that he had done, that March was fired with enthusiasm, and began to regard his friend Dick in the light of a demigod. Greatheart, in the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” seemed most like to him, he thought, only Dick seemed grander, which was a natural feeling; for Bunyan drew his Greatheart true to nature, while Mary and March had invested Dick with a robe of romance, which glittered so much that he looked preternaturally huge.

March listened with rapt attention; but as the reader is not March, we will not give the narrative in Mary’s bad English. Suffice it to say, that she told how, on one occasion, Dick happened to be out hunting near to a river, into which he saw a little Indian child fall. It was carried swiftly by the current to a cataract fifty feet high, and in a few minutes would have been over and dashed to pieces, when Dick happily saw it, and plunging in brought it safe to shore, yet with such difficulty that he barely gained the bank, and grasped the branch of an overhanging willow, when his legs were drawn over the edge of the fall. He had to hold on for ten minutes, till men came from the other side of the stream to his assistance.

Mary also told him (and it was evening ere she finished all she had to tell him) how that, on another occasion, Dick was out after grislies with a hunter, who had somehow allowed himself to be caught by a bear, and would have been torn in pieces had not Dick come up with his great two-edged sword—having fired off his rifle without effect—and, with one mighty sweep at the monster’s neck, cut right through its jugular vein, and all its other veins, down to the very marrow of its backbone; in fact, killed it at one blow—a feat which no one had ever done, or had ever heard of as being done, from the days of the first Indian to that hour.

Many such stories did Mary relate to the poor invalid, who bore his sufferings with exemplary patience and fortitude, and listened with unflagging interest; but of all the stories she told, none seemed to afford her so much pleasure in the telling as the following:—

One day Dick went out to hunt buffaloes, on his big horse, for he had several steeds, one or other of which he rode according to fancy; but he always mounted the big black one when he went after the buffalo or to war. Mary here explained, very carefully, that Dick never went to war on his own account—that he was really a man of peace, but that, when he saw oppression and cruelty, his blood boiled within him at such a rate that he almost went mad, and often, under the excitement of hot indignation, would he dash into the midst of a band of savages and scatter them right and left like autumn leaves.

Well, as he was riding along among the mountains, near the banks of a broad stream, and not far from the edge of the great prairie, he came suddenly on an object that caused his eyes to glare and his teeth to grind; for there, under the shade of a few branches, with a pot of water by her side, sat an old Indian woman. Dick did not need to ask what she was doing there. He knew the ways of the redskins too well to remain a moment in doubt. She had grown so old and feeble that her relations had found her burdensome; so, according to custom, they left her there to die. The poor old creature knew that she was a burden to them. She knew also the customs of her tribe—it was at her own request she had been left there, a willing victim to an inevitable fate, because she felt that her beloved children would get on better without her. They made no objection. Food, to last for a few days, was put within reach of her trembling hand; a fire was kindled, and a little pile of wood placed beside it, also within reach. Then they left her. They knew that when that food was consumed, and the last stick placed upon the fire, the shrunken limbs would stand in no need of warmth—the old heart would be still. Yet that heart had once beat joyfully at the sound of those pattering feet that now retired with heavy ruthless tread for ever. What a commentary on savage life! What a contrast between the promptings of the unregenerate heart of man and the precepts of that blessed—thrice blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ, where love, unalterable, inextinguishable, glows in every lesson and sweetens every command.

When Dick came upon her suddenly, as we have said, he was not ten paces distant from the spot where she sat; but she was apparently deaf and blind, for she evinced no knowledge of his presence. She was reaching out her skinny arm to place another stick upon the sinking fire at the time, for it was a sharp and cold, though a bright and sunny autumn day. Dick stopped his horse, crushed his teeth together, and sat for a few moments regarding her intently.

Either the firewood had originally been placed too far away from the old woman’s hand, or she had shifted her position, for she could not reach it. Once and again she made the effort—she stretched out her withered arm and succeeded in just touching the end of one of the pieces of wood, but could not grasp it. She pawed it once or twice, and then gave up the attempt with a little sigh. Drawing herself slowly together, she gathered up the rabbit-skin blanket which rested on her shoulders and attempted feebly to fold it across her chest. Then she slowly drooped her white head, with an expression of calm resignation on her old wrinkled visage.

Dick’s great heart almost burst with conflicting emotions. The wrath that welled up as he thought of the deserters was met by a gush of tender pity as he gazed through blinding tears on the deserted. With a fling that caused his stout warhorse to stagger, he leaped to the ground, tore open the breast of his hunting-shirt, and, sitting down beside the old woman, placed her cold hand in his bosom.

She uttered a feeble cry and made a slight momentary effort to resist; but Dick’s act, though promptly, was, nevertheless, tenderly done, and the big hand that stroked her white head was so evidently that of a friend, that the poor creature resigned herself to the enjoyment of that warmth of which she stood so much in need. Meanwhile Dick, without shifting his position, stretched forth his long arm, collected all the wood within reach, and placed it on the fire.

After a few minutes the old woman raised her head, and looking earnestly in Dick’s face with her bleared and almost sightless eyes, said in the Indian language, with which her companion was well acquainted—

“My son, have you come back to me?”

A gush of indignant feeling had again to be violently stifled ere Dick could answer in moderate tones—

“No, mother, he’s not come back; but I’ll be a son to ye. See, sit up an’ warm yerself at the blaze. I’ll get ye some meat and sticks.”

In hot haste, and with desperate activity, for he had no other way of relieving his feelings, Dick cut down a quantity of firewood and placed it close to the hand of the old woman. Then he untied the tin kettle which he always carried at his saddle-bow, and, with a piece of dried venison, concocted a quantity of hot soup in a marvellously short space of time. This done, he sat down beside the old woman and made her partake of it.

“Is it long since they left ye, mother?” he said, after she had swallowed a little.

The old woman pondered for a few seconds. “No,” she said, “not long. Only one sun has gone down since my son left me.” Then she added in a sad tone, “I loved him. He is a great warrior—a brave chief—and he loved me, too. But he had to leave me; I am old and useless. It is my fate.”

“Describe your son to me,” said Dick abruptly. “He is tall and straight as the poplar,” began the old creature, while a look of pride played for a moment on her withered countenance. “His shoulders are broad and his limbs are supple. He can run and leap like the deer, but not so well as he once could. Grey hairs are now mingling with the black—”

“Has he any mark by which I could find him out?” interrupted Dick impatiently.

“He has a deep cut over the right eye,” returned the woman; “but stay,” she added in some alarm, “you would not harm my son; you are not an enemy?”

“No, I would not; I would do him good. Which way did they go?”

“To the prairie—to the rising sun.”

Dick at once arose, placed the kettle of soup close to the old woman’s side, and unbuckling his saddle-girth, removed the blanket that covered his saddle, and transferred it to her shoulders.

This done, without uttering another word, he vaulted into his saddle, and dashed away as if he were flying for his life. The old woman listened until the clatter of his horse’s hoofs ceased to beat upon her deadened ear, and then bent her head, as at the first, in calm resignation. Doubtless she fancied that another fellow-creature had forsaken her, and that the end would soon come.

But Dick had not forsaken her. He bounded along over the rugged ground on the mettlesome steed, striking fire from the flinty rocks, leaping creeks and rivulets, bursting through bush and brake, mile after mile, until he gained the open prairie, while the black coat of his charger was speckled with foam. Here he drew rein, and trotted hither and thither in search of the tracks of the Indians. He found them at last, and dismounted to examine them, for, save to the eye of a trapper or a redman, there were no visible tracks on that hard turf.

Remounting, he resumed his headlong course—sweeping over the springy turf of the plains as if his horse were a winged Pegasus, whose energies could not know exhaustion. All day he rode, and as evening drew on he came in sight of the tribe of Indians.

They had encamped for the night, and were preparing their evening meal; but when they saw the solitary horseman on the far-off horizon, the braves and old men went to the verge of the camp to watch him. On he came, bounding over the turf like the prong-horned antelope, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, but taking everything that intercepted him in a flying leap, and bearing down on the camp as an arrow flies from the bow.

Although a single horseman is not usually an object of terror to a band of Indians, these braves soon began to evince by their looks that they did not feel easy in regard to this one. As he drew near they recognised him; for Dick had on a former occasion given this particular tribe a taste of his prowess. Each man instantly rushed to his weapons and horse; but the horses had been turned out to graze, and could not be easily caught. Before they secured their weapons Dick was in the midst of them. With an eagle glance he singled out the chief with the cut over his right eye, and rode between him and his tent. The Indian, seeing that he was cut off from his weapons, darted swiftly out upon the plain, and made for a clump of stunted trees, hoping to find shelter until his comrades could come to his rescue. But Dick was there before him, and rode down upon him in such a way that he was compelled to take to the open plain and run for his life.

His pursuer allowed him to run, keeping just close enough to him to force him into the particular course he desired him to take. But the savage proved, indeed, to be what his mother had styled him—a brave chief. Apparently resolving rather to die than to be hunted thus like a wolf, he halted suddenly, turned sharp round, and, crossing his arms on his bare chest, looked Dick full in the face as he came up. Just as he was within ten yards of him, the Indian drew his knife, and hurled it at the breast of his enemy with such violence that it hissed in its passage through the air. Dick received it on his shield, where it stood quivering. Plucking it therefrom with a grim smile, he placed it in his own girdle, and riding up to the Indian, sternly bade him mount in front of him.

There was no refusing to obey that voice. The Indian cast one uneasy glance towards his camp, which was now far away on the plain, but there was no sign of any one coming to the rescue. His captor had got the credit of being an evil spirit, and he felt that he was left to his fate. A hasty repetition of the order compelled him to turn and seize the mane of the horse. Dick held out his toe for him to step on; the next moment he was seated in front of the pale-face, galloping towards the mountains.

Whatever astonishment the Indian felt at this singular treatment, or whatever his curiosity as to the result of it all, his countenance expressed nothing but calm scorn and defiance. He was evidently working himself into that state of mind which these redskin warriors endeavour to assume when they are captured and taken to the stake and the torture, there to prove their title to the name of brave by enduring the most inconceivable agonies with stoical indifference, or there to bring discredit on their tribe, infamy on their name, and joy to their enemies, by breaking down under the infliction of tortures at the bare mention of which humanity shudders.

For some time they maintained the same headlong speed. When, however, all danger of pursuit was over, Dick drew rein, and proceeded more leisurely, in order to relieve his now jaded steed. But that was a steed of the true metal. It possessed that generous spirit which would have induced it willingly to exert itself even to the death. Its owner might have ridden it till it fell prostrate and dying on the plain, but he could not have ridden it to the point of refusing to advance because of exhaustion. He was merciful to it, and went slowly during the night; but he did not come to a final halt until the rising sun found him close to the camp of the dying woman.

The Indian now for the first time began partly to guess the object of his having been brought there, and steeled his heart to bear whatever might await him.

Dick dismounted, and grasping the Indian with a force that showed him how helpless he would be in a personal struggle should he venture to attempt it, led him forward, and placed him a few paces in front of his dying mother.

She was sitting just as she had been left, but the fire had gone out, and she trembled violently beneath the blanket which she had sought to pull closer around her wasted form. Dick blamed himself mentally for having put so little wood on the fire, and proceeded to rekindle it; but, before doing so, he took a chain from his saddle-bow, with which he fastened the Indian to a tree that stood exactly opposite the spot on which the old woman sat, and not ten paces distant. He bound him in such a way that he could sit on the ground and lean his back against the tree, but he could neither stand up nor lie down.

For the first time the countenance of the savage betrayed uneasiness. He believed, no doubt, that he was to be left to witness the dying agonies of his mother, and the thought filled him with horror. To leave her, as he did, to perish, had not been difficult, because he knew that he should not see the act of perishing; but to be brought there and compelled to witness this terrible doom acted out in all its minute and horrible details on the mother whom he had once loved so tenderly, was maddening to think of. All the dread tortures that had yet been invented and practised on warriors must have seemed to him as nothing compared with this awful device of the pale-face, on whom he now glared with the eyes of implacable hate and ferocity.

“Will the pale-face,” he said fiercely, “cast me loose, and meet me hand to hand in a fair fight? Surely,” he added, changing his tone to one of ineffable scorn, “the pale-face is not weak, he is not a small man, that he should fear a chief like Bighorn.”

“Hark’ee! Bighorn,” said Dick, striding up to him, and laying the cold edge of his hatchet on the Indian’s forehead; “if you speak another word above yer breath, the pale-face will cleave ye to the chin.”

There was something so thoroughly resolute in Dick’s voice that the Indian was cowed effectually.

The fire was soon lighted, and Dick chafed and warmed the limbs of the old woman until he brought back the vital spark. Then he set on the kettle to boil. While a new mess was preparing, he went into the wood, and, with lusty blows, brought down the trees and cut them into huge billets, which he piled upon the fire until it roared again, and the heart of the feeble creature began to beat once more with somewhat of its wonted vigour. This done, he arranged a couch in such a way that she might get the full benefit of the heat without being scorched; after which he rubbed down his good steed and cast it loose to feed. Then he cooked and ate some food, but offered never a bit to the Indian, who gazed at him as he performed these various actions with ever-increasing amazement and anxiety.

Then Dick sat down beside the old woman, to feed and tend her till she should die; and he knew the signs of death too well to suppose that his care would long be required. All that day, and all that night, and all the next day, did the trapper, the old woman, and the Indian, remain in much the same position. Dick moved about a little, to give the old woman food and drink as she required it, and to wrap the blanket more comfortably round her, for which kind deeds the poor creature often tried to gaze fondly in his face with her sightless eyes.

During all this time her son sat opposite, observing every look and motion, yet unable himself to move. The pangs of hunger now began to gnaw within him, and from his cramped position, he became so cold that he trembled violently in every limb, despite his efforts to command himself. But Dick paid no attention whatever to him; he knew that he was strong, and could stand it. Once the Indian implored his jailer to give him some food, but Dick said sternly, “I’ll give ye food before ye die, if ye keep quiet.”

At last, about nightfall of the second day, the sands of life began to run slowly. Dick saw that the old woman’s end was approaching, so he rose, and, going towards her son, he placed food before him. He devoured it ravenously. Then he gave him drink, and, loosing him, led him to the fire, where he speedily recovered his wonted heat and energy. After that, Dick led him to his mother’s side and made him kneel.

“Mother,” said Dick, “can you see and hear me?”

“Ay; but you are not my son,” said the dying woman faintly. “You are a pale-face—you are very good—but you are not my son.”

“True, mother; but see, I have brought your son back to you!—Lay your hand on her forehead,” he added in that low, stern undertone which he had used throughout to Bighorn, who could not but obey. “Stroke her head, look in her eyes, and speak to her.”

The redman did not require to be told now. A natural impulse led him to do as he was bid. The instant the tones of his voice struck her ear, the old woman seemed to awaken with a start; she looked up eagerly, caught the hand that touched her forehead, and, passing her own thin hand up to the Indian’s face, felt the scar over his eye, as if to render herself doubly sure. Then she grasped the hand again in both of hers, and, taking it under the blanket, pressed it to her withered breast and held it tightly there.

But that burst of unexpected joy hastened the falling of the last few grains of sand. For ten minutes longer they watched her as the breath went and came more and more feebly. Then it ceased altogether, and death sealed her eyes. But she did not release the hand of her son. He had some difficulty in loosening that clasp of maternal love which was stronger even than death.

After all was over, Dick seized the Indian and led him to the tree, to which he chained him again. Then he dug a grave in the soft soil, in which he placed the body of the old woman with gentle care. Having covered it over he went into the woods, caught and saddled his horse, and led him towards the wondering savage, whom he once more unbound and set free.

“Bighorn,” said Dick impressively, “you’ve been made to comfort and gladden the heart o’ yer old mother in her last moments. If ye was a pale-face, ye’d thank the Great Spirit for that to the last day o’ yer life. If ye ever do come to think like the pale-faces, you’ll remember that you’ve to thank me for bringing ye here. Go, tell the redskins who it is that caught ye, and what he did and said to ye.”

Saying this, Dick mounted his horse and rode very slowly into the forest, leaving the redman standing by the side of his mother’s grave.

After Mary had concluded this story, which, we may remark, she related with much fewer comments than we have seen fit to pass upon it, she and March looked at each other for a long time in silence. Then March suddenly exclaimed—

“He’s a splendid fellow—Dick!”

Mary, both by looks and words, highly approved of this opinion. “And yet,” said she somewhat abstractedly, “this bees the man who peepils call—”

Mary pursed her lips suddenly.

“Call what?” inquired March quickly.

“Wicked, wild, bad man,” replied Mary, who, fortunately, could say all this with perfect truth without betraying her secret. In fact, poor Mary had never had a secret confided to her before, and having been told by the Wild Man of the West that she was on no account to reveal his real title to their guest, she was in the utmost perplexity lest it should slip out unawares.

“Mary,” said March, who was always stumbling upon the verge of the truth in a most unaccountable way, without actually getting hold of it, “have you ever seen the Wild Man of the West?”

“Yes,” replied the girl with a gay smile.

“Have you? Well now, that’s odd! How much I should like to see him. To tell you the truth, one of my chief reasons for coming here was to see him. What like is he?”

“Like Dick,” replied the girl quietly.

“Like Dick!” echoed March in surprise; “why, that’s what Dick said himself, and yet, by all accounts, his character must be very different from that of Dick, who seems to be the kindest, tenderest-hearted man that ever came to trap in the Rocky Mountains.”

“What does peepil say ’bout this Wild Mans of the West?” inquired Mary.

“That he’s awful fierce an’ terrible cruel, an’ ten or fifteen feet high, I forget which, for everybody gives him a different height.”

Mary laughed. “Bees that all?”

“Oh no! They say he eats men.”

Mary laughed again.

“An’ women and bars—raw.”

Mary laughed louder and longer than ever, and when she laughed she looked so ineffably sweet that March resolved to go on with the catalogue of the Wild Man’s virtues piecemeal, waiting for the laugh between each statement, until there was not another idea left in his brain for his tongue to utter. But this amiable intention was frustrated by the report of a gun outside, which echoed and re-echoed among these savage cliffs like muttering thunder. It was followed by a yell that caused Mary to start up with a look of horror and rush out of the cave, leaving the invalid in a most distressing state of uncertainty as to what he should do, and in no little anxiety as to what would happen next.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Mysteries of the Cave explained—Ingenious Devices of the Wild Man—March and Mary besieged—The Redskins proceed to make themselves at Home in the Cavern.

There are few things in this world which are not somewhat mysterious, or that cannot be, by a peculiar combination of circumstances, more or less invested with mystery; and we hold it to be an unfair and a very paltry device on the part of an author to seek to mystify his readers by keeping them in unnecessary ignorance of that which is in itself simple and commonplace.

Therefore, we beg leave to state that the apparent mystery with which we concluded the last chapter was not a mystery at all! The loud report there referred to was caused by a savage discharging his gun, and the cry that followed was the result of that same savage opening his ugly mouth and giving vent to a tremendous howl.

That this was a howl of triumph was evident to ears accustomed to the war-whoop of the redman. That it was destined to be succeeded by an exclamation of mingled disappointment and surprise was evident, at least to Mary, who knew the mysteries of the place.

In order to make this plain without further circumlocution, we may as well inform the reader at once that the Wild Man of the West (perhaps we should call him Dick, in deference to March Marston’s ignorance of his real character at this time) was not only a subject of terror to the Indians inhabiting this region of the earth at that particular era in the world’s history, but also a subject of intense curiosity. Hence, for many years past, it had been an object of ambition, on the part of the more courageous of the Indian warriors, to trace this terrible creature to his familiar haunts, and “beard the lion in his den.”

Dick soon became fully aware of this, and, not being a mysterious monster or demon, but a mere mortal (although, doubtless, a singularly huge and eccentric one), it behoved him to frustrate the amiable intentions of his savage tormentors. In order to effect this, he first of all selected, as we have seen, a gloomy, secluded, and almost inaccessible spot among the Rocky Mountains as his residence, which he made a point of quitting and returning to only in the dark hours of night or early morning, as far as was practicable.

Still further to bewilder the savages—against whom he bore no grudge, and to avoid encountering whom was his chief desire—Dick varied his costume, appearing sometimes in the dress of a Blackfoot chief, or a Cree warrior; at other times in the hunting-shirt and cap of a trapper. But, despite his utmost efforts, he occasionally had to face and fight the redskins—a necessity which so exasperated his naturally fiery temper that, on such occasions, he became utterly regardless of his life, and rushing upon any odds with a terrific roar of his deep bass voice, so different from the shrill yell of the Indians—would cleave his way right through their ranks with his long double-edged sword; then, returning to the charge with increased fury, would so appal and horrify them that the usual result was a general and precipitate flight.

Perhaps some readers may wonder how it was possible that he could escape being killed in these encounters; but it must be remembered that in those days guns were by no means so plentiful among the Indians as they now are, and arrows are comparatively harmless missiles. Dick always wore under his leather coat, a vest of thick buffalo leather, which rendered him arrow-proof in the vital regions of his body, unless shot at with a strong bow by a powerful arm from a short distance.

This undercoat or piece of armour added a little to his naturally gigantic proportions, which were still further enhanced by the flying tags and scalp-locks and fringes of his dress, and the wild masses of his long hair. He rode, as we have elsewhere mentioned, a magnificent charger, which he had purchased in Mexico, and whose sire, no doubt, had been one of those noble barbs which bore the cavaliers of Spain to the conquest of the New World. The mane and tail of this animal, having never been cut, were of immense length, and, when violently agitated, seemed to envelop horse and man. Altogether, the tout ensemble of Dick and his charger on any of the rencontres above referred to, was sufficiently awful, and as he was seldom seen near at hand, except in a condition of blazing fury, there is little wonder that, in the process of time, he became celebrated throughout the country as the Wild Man of the West. The white trappers, too, were somewhat curious to know something about this mysterious brother; but he shunned them even more determinedly than he did the Indians, though, of course, he never fought with them, seeing that they did not attempt to murder him or interfere with his movements as the savages did. But there were one or two bolder or more inquisitive than their comrades, who dogged the Wild Man, and tried to force themselves upon him. These he caught and thrashed soundly, after the fashion of a schoolmaster with a refractory boy, and turned them adrift with a warning thenceforth to mind their own business. At last the Indians set him down as a “great medicine-man,” or a demon, whom it was impossible to slay; and the trappers shook their heads and touched their foreheads significantly, as if to indicate that they thought him mad.

Thus Dick, in course of years, freed himself in a great measure from annoyance, and many good and kind actions which he did both to Indians and trappers began to be circulated and exaggerated, so that he became a greater mystery than ever, especially to the savages, who naturally misconstrued the spirit in which he made his furious attacks, in self-defence, just as much as they misunderstood his motives in performing deeds of kindness. He was a monstrous mystery! the greatest mystery that had ever been seen or heard of in the Rocky Mountains since the beginning of time, and no doubt a greater mystery than will ever be heard of there again.

Having traversed this roundabout pathway, we now come to the explanation which we intended to have given much earlier in this chapter. But it is really wonderful how natural it is for the human mind to prose and to diverge, and how very difficult it is, at any time, to come to the point! Public speakers know this well. Perhaps their hearers know it better!

Well, although Dick was thus feared, yet he was not entirely unmolested. Wandering tribes from distant hunting grounds used to go there, and, not knowing much about the Wild Man of the West, did not believe in him; even ventured to go in search of him, and on more than one occasion almost caught him asleep in his cave. Having an ingenious turn of mind, and being somewhat fanciful, he devised a curious plan to deceive the savages and warn him of their approach.

By means of an axe and a knife, he carved a representation of his own head, and covered it with hair by means of the tail of one of his light-coloured horses, which he docked for the purpose. (His steeds, by the way, occupied another chamber of the cavern in which he dwelt.) The head thus formed, he planted behind a bush that grew on a ledge of rock about two yards from the bottom of the cliff of the amphitheatre outside, and directly opposite to the entrance to it. The cave, it will be remembered, was on the right of that entrance. Thus, the first thing the savage beheld, on prowling up to the opening of the amphitheatre, was Dick’s image peeping at him over the bush opposite. Of course the instantaneous result was the firing of a shot or the discharge of an arrow, which, the Indians being excellent marksmen, invariably alighted on the bridge of Dick’s nose, or in the centre of his forehead, or in one or other of his eyes. As the head was balanced on the front edge of a deep narrow hole which happened to be there, it was invariably knocked into that hole by the blow, and disappeared.

This was the supposed fall of the famous Wild Man that caused the yell which has taken so long to account for, and the discovery of nothing behind that bush except a small deep hole, much too small to secrete even a little man’s body in, was the cause of the explanation of surprise which we asserted would certainly follow.

When an event of this kind happened, Dick had a large blunderbuss in readiness. It was loaded with a tremendous charge of small shot, and a small charge of powder, for he did not want to kill. His object was simply to punish and to terrify. He also had in readiness a curious machine which we find it rather difficult to describe. Every one has heard, no doubt, of the wooden wheels, with wooden axles, attached to the carts in some eastern countries, which groan, and creak, and yell, and shriek for want of grease, in a manner that is almost maddening to all but native ears. Dick’s invention was founded partly on the principle of these eastern carts, only it was worked by turning a handle, and its sounds were much more excruciatingly intense.

On being startled, then, Dick was wont to seize his blunderbuss, rush into the outer cave where the shrieking-machine was, give the handle half a dozen turns, and thus awaken, as it were, all the demons of the Rocky Mountains. Dick came at last to know exactly what state of things he would find outside. At the first burst of discord the savages, however numerous, took to their heels, and when Dick emerged from his cave, they were always within a yard or two of the entrance to the amphitheatre, every man with outstretched arms, sloped forward at the acutest possible angle with the ground, rushing on the wings of terror in a flight of unparalleled precipitancy.

To pour the charge of small shot down into the centre of the flying mass was the work of a moment; to mount his unsaddled charger, and dash down the steep rugged path with a clatter equal to that of half a squadron of dragoons, was the work of two minutes more. To pull up suddenly, when he had terrified the spirits of the intruders wellnigh out of their bodies, return slowly to his rude domicile, reload his blunderbuss, and retire to rest with a grim smile on his bearded mouth, and a lurking expression of fun in his big blue eyes, as he drew his blanket over him, was the usual termination of such scenes.

But this was not all. Dick, like a wise man, had prepared for the worst. In the event of the Indians ever getting the length of the interior of his den, there were other contrivances ready for them; chief among which was a large cistern or tank of water, directly over the fireplace, the front of which was movable, and could be pulled down by means of a cord passing into the innermost cave of all—namely, the third cavern which we have alluded to as being Mary’s dormitory. By pulling this cord, the result—instantaneous and hideous—would be, that a deluge of water would drown the fire black out, fill the cavern with hot suffocating steam and ashes, and flood the floor.

How the cavern was to be defended when he himself was not there was a problem which Dick, being a mere man and not a demon, had utterly failed to solve. Of course, he could easily have set all manner of man-traps and spring-guns, but as these might have taken effect upon some poor wretch who had no design upon his life, he could not venture to run the risk.

On the present occasion—Dick being absent, March being prostrated and all but helpless, and Mary being unable to turn the handle of the shrieking-machine or to fire the blunderbuss, which kicked like a small cannon—the case of the romantic pair was desperate, and their only hope seemed to be that the savages would go away without examining the cavern. Vain hope!

But Dick had not left them to take their chance in that way. He had warned Mary long ago how to act in such circumstances, and she soon returned to March with the news that there were four Indian warriors outside, examining the bush behind which the head had disappeared, and that they would very soon find out the cave.

“That’s not pleasant news, Mary,” said March, starting up in spite of pain and giddiness; “you seem to take it very easy!”

“Com, quick,” said she, seizing March by the hand; “com with me.”

March said, mentally, that he would go with her into the jaws of death, if need be; but he followed up the mental speech with the audible remark that he had better take some weapon with him.

“No, no; com! Me git you spear, hatchet very quick; but com.”

So saying, she dragged rather than conducted March to the little opening which led into her dormitory. He had to stoop on entering; and great was his amazement on finding himself on the brink of a black yawning gulf, that seemed to descend into the bowels of the earth. The end of a narrow plank rested on the edge of this gulf, and appeared to bridge it over, but the other end of the plank, and all beyond, were lost in impenetrable darkness.

“Com after me,” said Mary, passing rapidly across the gulf, and disappearing—absolutely like a vision.

March hesitated. He tried to steady his somewhat giddy head, but the single word “Com” issuing from darkness in a very commanding tone settled the point. He staggered across, held out his hands, and almost tumbled over his fair guide, on reaching the other end of the plank much sooner than he had expected.

“Now, wait. I will com agin,” said Mary, recrossing.

The view back was a very different thing from the view forward. As he stood there, on the brink of the yawning gulf, March could see right through into the cavern he had just left, and could observe everything that took place there. Mary hastily loaded herself with a rifle and the blunderbuss, also with powder-horn, bullet-pouch, and a bag containing buffalo tongues. With these she returned quickly, and, brushing past her companion, carried them farther into the cave.

“Now, help me pull,” she said, laying hold of the end of the plank.

March obeyed; and obedience cost him much, poor fellow, for it seemed as if, in the act, he had rent asunder every muscle in his right shoulder. The plank being thus drawn away, an impassable gulf was left between the inner and middle cavern, which, even in the event of its being discovered, presented no particular temptation to induce any one to explore farther. Mary drew the plank into the long natural passage which led to her private apartment; and as this passage turned abruptly to the right, there was no possibility of any one on the other side of the gulf being able to see into it. Indeed, a light in it was not visible from that point of view, and their voices could not be heard unless they spoke loudly.

Just as the plank was withdrawn, the Indians discovered the mouth of the cavern, and in a few minutes the two watchers beheld a painted savage peep in at the opening of the centre cave. Seeing that it was empty, and observing at a glance the opening into the inner cave, he drew back quickly. A minute after, the four Indians darted across, and got out of range of that opening—evidently fearing that some one was there. They flitted past so quickly, yet noiselessly, that they appeared more like shadows than real men.

Presently one of them stepped full in front of the opening with a bow and arrow in his hand. The light of the fire was strong. March saw him raise the bow, and had just time to draw back when an arrow whizzed past him, and was broken to pieces on the rock behind his back. Instantly after the echoes of the place burst forth as a shot was fired in the same direction. Having thus made sure that the way was clear, the boldest of the savages entered with a blazing pine-knot held high above his head—the others following with bows ready, and arrows fitted to the string.

On reaching the edge of the yawning chasm, the foremost savage held the torch over it, and they all gazed in silence into its unfathomable depths. Satisfied that it was impassable, they consulted for a few minutes, and then, apparently coming to the conclusion that the place was untenanted, they returned to the middle cave, and began to rummage and toss about the things they found there.

“Bring the rifle,” whispered March. “I can floor two at a shot as they now sit.”

“No,” Mary replied firmly. “Why make blood? They will go ’way soon.”

Mary was right; but a circumstance occurred which caused them to go away sooner than either she or they had anticipated.

Chapter Twenty.

A Gallop to the Rescue—A Discovery—Right-about Face—A disagreeable Surprise and a sudden Ejection—A Calm after the Storm—Mary a Huntress—Dick’s Story of the murdered Trapper.

When Dick, alias the Wild Man of the West, left his cave, as narrated in a previous chapter, and galloped away with reckless speed to afford the aid of his stout right arm to his friends in the Mountain Fort—for he counted them friends, although they little knew it—he felt that if he was to be of any use he must travel over the country as he had never travelled before, except once, when he had to fly for his life before five hundred Pawnee warriors.

It was a grand sight to behold that herculean backwoodsman on his noble steed, which seemed so well proportioned to its rider that it carried him as if he were but a boy, flying over the country on this brotherly errand. Mile after mile was passed, not indeed at full speed, for that would have broken the good horse down long before the goal was reached, but at a bowling gallop, taking bogs, and rocks, and fallen trees, and watercourses, with an elastic bound that told of bone and muscle overflowing with surplus energy.

Dick patted the horse’s arching neck with a look of pride and affection, and the animal tossed its head with a slight neigh of pleasure and a playful snap towards its rider’s right foot; for it loved its master, as the lower animals do always love those who treat them well, and it loved a wild, long, careering gallop, for that was the only means by which it could relieve its feelings.

There was something unusually wild-like about this horse, besides its great size and extraordinarily long mane and tail. It carried its head high and its ears pointed forward, and it looked boldly from side to side, as it went springingly along, more like a human being than a horse. It actually appeared to be taking intelligent notice of things around it. So much so, that Dick had got into a habit of saying a word or two now and then to it in a grave tone, as if he were conversing with a friend.

“Ay, it’s a fine country, isn’t it?” he said, patting the neck again.

The ears were pointed backwards at once, and a little neigh or squeak, with a toss of the head, was the reply.

“Pity ye can’t speak, an’t it?” continued Dick in a low, quiet tone.

The horse appeared to know that this was merely a meditative remark, not pointedly addressed to itself for it only put back one ear and kept the other forward.

“Now, lass,” said Dick firmly (both ears went full back at that sound and remained there), “take it easy; don’t exert yerself over much. It an’t o’ no use—a short pace or two, and—so.”

The horse went full swing over a roaring watercourse as he spoke, and alighted safe on the opposite bank, but the gravelly soil was treacherous; it gave way, and the animal’s hind legs slipped back. With a bound Dick sprang to the ground.

“Hyp, good horse,” he cried, raising the rein.

A powerful effort, and footing was regained. Dick vaulted into the saddle (he seldom used the stirrup), and away they went again, blithe as ever. Then a long strip of tangled forest appeared. Dick diverged here. It was easier to skirt it than to crash through it. Presently a broad deep river came in view. There was no looking for a ford, no checking the pace. In they went with sounding plunge, as if water were their native element, breasted the foaming tide, and gaining the opposite bank, went steadily forward.

Thus on they sped, over hill and dale, all that night, for the moon was bright in a cloudless sky, and part of next day. Then Dick made a sudden halt and dismounted, to examine something on the ground. Footprints of Indian horses—four of them—going in the direction of his dwelling!

Dick rose, and his strong brows were knitted, and his lips firmly pressed together. For a moment or two he pondered, then he told his horse to follow him, and, dropping the bridle, set off at a rapid walk, keeping steadily on the tracks, and stooping now and then to examine them when the nature of the ground rendered them less discernible. Thus he retraced his course for about a mile, when he stopped and muttered, “No doubt o’t. Them reptiles niver come to these diggins but when they want to pay me a visit.”

As he said this he remounted his horse and sat for a minute or two undecided. It was hard to give up his purpose; but it was impossible to leave his cavern defenceless with Mary in it, and the certainty that savages were hunting it out. That thought settled the matter. He shook the reins, and back they flew again towards the cave, at a much quicker pace than they had hitherto maintained.

The result was that Dick gained the entrance of his ravine just two hours later than the savages, and in time to superintend personally the hospitalities of his own dwelling. Riding quickly up to the head of the gorge, he dismounted and ascended the pathway to his cave with giant strides and a beating heart, for Dick thought of Mary, and the words “too late” would whizz about in his brain.

The Indians were still sitting round the fire enjoying themselves when March and Mary, to their unutterable surprise, beheld Dick stride through the low doorway of the cave, raise himself to his full height, and stand before the stricken invaders, absolutely blazing with wrath. His eyes, his hair, his beard, his glistening teeth, seemed each individually imbued with indignation.

The Indians did not move—they could not move—they simply sat and stared; and thus both parties continued for a quarter of a minute.

Mary used that short time well. She knew exactly what to do. Darting into her chamber, she seized the end of the rope connected with the tank and pulled it violently. March saw the rock above the fireplace drop! A clear, sparkling cataract sprang as if by magic from the wall! Next instant there was black darkness and yells, steam, shrieks, and howls—a hissing, hurling hubbub, such as no man can possibly conceive of unless he has seen and heard it! We will not, therefore, even attempt a description.

The Indians rushed en masse to the doorway. Death in the jaws of the Wild Man of the West was infinitely preferable to being parboiled and suffocated; but the Wild Man had judiciously made way for them. They gained the outer cave, and sprang down the pathway. Dick plied the handle of the shrieking-machine with the secondary object in view of relieving his own feelings! The din was indescribable! If those Indians are not lunatics at this moment they must be dead, for there could be no alternative in the circumstances. Certain it is they vanished like smoke, and they have never been heard of since—from that day to this!

Really, dear reader, if it were not that we are recounting the doings of a Wild Man—a notoriously eccentric creature—we would feel it necessary to impress upon you that such scenes as we have been describing are not characteristic of life in the Rocky Mountains; nay, more, we question whether such scenes as these have ever been witnessed or enacted in those regions at any time, with the exception, of course, of the present occasion. But it must be carefully borne in mind that we are recounting the deeds of a “Wild Man,” and, although the aspect of outward things—the general tone and current of manners and customs and natural phenomena—may remain exactly the same as heretofore, and be faithfully described without exaggeration (as we maintain they are), yet the acts, devices, and vagaries of such a creature as a Wild Man may, indeed must necessarily, be altogether eccentric and unparalleled. We therefore pause here to express a hope that, whatever credit you may be able to give to the reported deeds of this hero, you will not withhold your belief in the fidelity of the other portions of this narrative.

No sooner, then, were those unwelcome visitors ejected than Dick returned to the scene of devastation and shouted, “Hullo! Mary!”

“Safe, all safe,” she replied, as, with the assistance of March Marston, she pushed the plank across the chasm, and returned to the centre cave.

“Is the lad March safe too?” inquired Dick as he busied himself in striking a light with flint and steel.

“All right,” answered the youth for himself, “but horribly battered, an’ fit to yell with pain, not to mention surprise. Do look sharp and get the fire up. Sich doins’ as this I never did see nor hear of since I left the frontier. I do declare it’s worthy o’ the Wild Man o’ the West himself. What d’ye find to laugh at, Dick? I’m sure if ye had my miserable bones in yer body at this moment, ye’d laugh wi’ your mouth screwed the wrong way. Look alive, man!”

“Patience, lad, patience. That’s one o’ the vartues, I believe; leastwise, so I’m told. Ah, it’s caught at last. (Hand me that dry stuff on the south shelf, Mary; ye can find it i’ the dark, I doubt not.) Yes, it’s a vartue, but I can’t boast o’ having much o’t myself. I dun know much about it from ’xperience, d’ye see? There, now, we’ll git things put to rights,” he added, applying the kindled spark to some dry chips and producing a flame, with which he ignited a pine-knot, and stuck it blazing in a cleft in the rock. “Just see what them reptiles ha’ done to me. If it wasn’t that I’m a good-tempered feller, I b’lieve I’d git angry. See, March, boy, there’s a shelf in the corner that’s escaped the flood. Lie ye down there, while Mary and me puts the place in order.”

“I’d rather help you,” said March dismally. “I don’t b’lieve it can make me worse, an’ perhaps it’ll make me better. I wonder what in the world pain was made for.”

“Ye’ll only be in our way, lad. Lie down,” said Dick, seizing a large broom and beginning to sweep away the water and ashes and pieces of charcoal with which the floor was plentifully covered, while Mary picked up the scattered skins and furniture of the cave, and placed them on the ledge of rock, about four feet from the ground, which Dick termed a shelf.

This ledge ran all round the apartment, so March selected a corner, and, throwing a dry skin upon it, stretched himself thereon, and soon found his sufferings relieved to such an extent that he began to question his host as to his sudden and unlooked-for return.

“How came ye to drop in upon us in the very nick o’ time like that?” he said, gazing languidly at Mary, who bustled about with the activity of a kitten—or, to use an expression more in keeping with the surrounding circumstances, a wild kitten.

Dick, without checking his broom, told how he had discovered the tracks of the Indians, and returned at once, as has been related.

“Then,” said March, looking anxiously at his host, “you’ll not be able to help my poor comrades and the people at the Mountain Fort.”

“It an’t poss’ble to be in two places at once nohow ye can fix it,” returned Dick, “else I’d ha’ been there as well as here in the course of a few hours more.”

“But should we not start off at once—now?” cried March eagerly, throwing his legs off the ledge and coming to a sitting position.

“You an’t able,” replied Dick quietly, “and I won’t move till I have put things to rights here, an’ had a feed an’ a night’s rest. If it would do any good, I’d start this minute. But the fight’s over by this time—leastwise, it’ll be over long afore we could git there! and if it’s not to be a fight at all, why nobody’s none the worse, d’ye see?”

“But maybe they may hold the place for a long time,” argued March, “an’ the sudden appearance of you and me might turn the scale in their favour.”

“So it might—so it might. I’ve thought o’ that, and we’ll start to-morrow if yer able. But it would be o’ no use to-night. My good horse can’t run for ever right on end without meat and rest.”

“Then we’ll start to-morrow,” cried March eagerly.

“Ay, if ye can mount and ride.”

“That I have no fear of; but—but—” at that moment March’s eye encountered Mary’s—“but what about Mary?”

“Oh, she’ll stop here till we come back. No fear o’ redskins troublin’ her agin for some time,” replied Dick, throwing down the broom and patting the girl’s head. “Come, lass, let’s have some supper. Show March what a capital cook ye are. I’ll kindle a rousin’ fire an’ spread some pine-branches round it to sit on, for the floor won’t be quite dry for some time. What red reptiles, to be sure! and they was actually devourin’ my poor old bay horse. What cannibals!”

In the course of an hour the cavern had resumed its former appearance of comfort. The ruddy glare of the fire fell warmly on the rocky walls and on the curling smoke, which found egress through the hole near the roof that let in light during the day. Branches were spread on the floor, so as to form a thick pile near the fire, and on the top of this sat the Wild Man of the West with the most amiable of smiles on his large, handsome countenance, and most benignant of expressions beaming in his clear blue eyes, as he gazed first at Mary, who sat on his right hand, then at March, who sat on his left, and then at the iron pot which sat or stood between his knees, and into which he was about to plunge a large wooden ladle.

“There’s worse things than buffalo-beef-bergoo, March, an’t there? Ha, ha! my lad, tuck that under yer belt; it’ll put the sore bones right faster than physic. Mary, my little pet lamb, here’s a marrow-bone; come, yer growin’, an’ ye can’t grow right if ye don’t eat plenty o’ meat and marrow-bones; there,” he said, placing the bone in question on her pewter plate. “Ah! Mary, lass, ye’ve been mixin’ the victuals. Why, what have we here?”

“Moose nose,” replied the girl with a look of pleasure.

“I do b’lieve—so it is! Why, where got ye it? I han’t killed a moose for three weeks an’ more.”

“Me kill him meself,” said Mary.

“You!”

“Ay, me! with me own gun, too!”

“Capital!” cried Dick, tossing back his heavy locks, and gazing at the child with proud delight. “Yer a most fit an’ proper darter for the Wild—a—ho!” sneezed Dick, with sudden violence, while Mary glanced quickly up and opened her eyes very wide. “Whisst—to—a—hah! whew! wot a tickler! I raally think the mountain air’s a-goin’ to make me subjick to catchin’ colds.”

March took no notice of the remark. His attention was at that moment divided between Mary’s eyes and a marrow-bone.

There is no accounting for the besotted stupidity at this time of March Marston, who was naturally quick-witted, unless upon the principle that prejudice renders a man utterly blind. A hundred glaring and obvious facts, incidents, words, and looks, ought to have enlightened him as to who his new friend Dick really was. But his mind was so thoroughly imbued, so saturated, with the preconceived notion of the Wild Man of the West being a huge, ferocious, ugly monster, all over red, or perhaps blue, hair, from the eyes to the toes, with canine teeth, and, very probably, a tail, that unintentional hints and suggestive facts were totally thrown away upon him. The fact is, that if Dick had at that moment looked him full in the face and said, “I’m the Wild Man of the West,” March would have said he didn’t believe it!

“How came ye by the iron pot?” inquired March suddenly, as the sight of that vessel changed the current of his thoughts.

Dick’s countenance became grave, and Mary’s eyes dropped.

“I’ll tell ye some other time,” said the former quietly; “not now—not now. Come, lad, if ye mean to mount and ride wi’ me to-morrow, you’ll ha’ to eat heartier than that.”

“I’m doing my best. Did you say it was you that shot the moose deer, Mary?”

“Yes, it was me. Me go out to kill bird for make dinner, two days back, an’ see the moose in one place where hims no can escape but by one way—narrow way, tree feets, not more, wide. Hims look to me—me’s look to him. Then me climb up side of rocks so hims no touch me, but must pass below me quite near. Then me yell—horbuble yell!” (“Ha!” thought March, “music, sweetest music, that yell!”) “an’ hims run round in great fright!” (“Oh, the blockhead,” thought March)—“but see hims no can git away, so hims rush past me! Me shoot in back of hims head, an’ him drop.”

“Huzza!” shouted Dick, in such a bass roar that March involuntarily started. “Well done, lass; ye’ll make a splendid wife to a bold mountaineer.”

March could not believe his eyes, while he looked at the modest little creature who thus coolly related the way in which she slaughtered the moose; but he was bound to believe his ears, for Mary said she did the deed, and to suppose it possible that Mary could tell a falsehood was, in March’s opinion, more absurd than to suppose that the bright sun could change itself into melted butter! But Dick’s enthusiastic reference to Mary one day becoming the wife of a mountaineer startled him. He felt that, in the event of such a calamitous circumstance happening, she could no longer be his sister, and the thought made him first fierce, and then sulky.

“D’ye kill many mountain sheep here, Dick?” inquired March, when his ruffled temper had been smoothed down with another marrow-bone.

“Ay, lots of ’em.”

“What like are they close? I’ve never been nearer to ’em yet than a thousand yards or so—never within range.”

“They’re ’bout the size of a settlement sheep, an’ skin somethin’ like the red deer; ye’ve seen the red deer, of coorse, March?”

“Yes, often; shot ’em too.”

“Well, like them; but they’ve got most treemendous horns. I shot one last week with horns three fut six inches long; there they lie now in that corner. Are ye a good shot, March?”

“Middlin’.”

“D’ye smoke?”

“Yes, a little; but I an’t a slave to it like some.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Dick sarcastically. “If ye smoke ‘a little,’ how d’ye know but ye may come to smoke much, an’ be a slave to it like other men? Ye may run down a steep hill, an’ say, when yer near the top, ‘I can stop when I like’; but ye’ll come to a pint, lad, when ye’ll try to stop an’ find ye can’t—when ye’d give all ye own to leave off runnin’; but ye’ll have to go on faster an’ faster, till yer carried off yer legs, and, mayhap, dashed to bits at the bottom. Smokin’ and drinkin’ are both alike. Ye can begin when you please, an’, up to a certain pint, ye can stop when ye please; but after that pint, ye can’t stop o’ yer own free will—ye’d die first. Many an’ many a poor fellow has died first, as I know.”

“An’ pray, Mister Solomon, do you smoke?” inquired March testily, thinking that this question would reduce his companion to silence.

“No, never.”

“Not smoke?” cried March in amazement. The idea of a trapper not smoking was to him a thorough and novel incomprehensibility.

“No; nor drink neither,” said Dick. “I once did both, before I came to this part o’ the country, and I thank the Almighty for bringing me to a place where it warn’t easy to get either drink or baccy—specially drink, which I believe would have laid me under the sod long ago, if I had bin left in a place where I could ha’ got it. An’ now, as Mary has just left us, poor thing, I’ll tell ye how I came by the big iron pot. There’s no mystery about it; but as it b’longed to the poor child’s father, I didn’t want to speak about it before her.”

Dick placed an elbow on each knee, and, resting his forehead upon his hands, stared for some moments into the fire ere he again spoke.

“It’s many years now,” said he in a low, sad tone, “since I left home, and—but that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the pint,” he added quickly. “You see, March, when I first came to this part o’ the world I fell in with a comrade—a trapper—much to my likin’. This trapper had been jilted by some girl, and came away in a passion, detarminin’ never more to return to his native place. I never know’d where he come from, nor the partic’lars of his story, for that was a pint he’d never speak on. I don’t believe I ever know’d his right name. He called himself Adam; that was the only name I ever know’d him by.

“Well, him an’ me became great friends. He lived wi’ a band of Pawnee Injuns, and had married a wife among them; not that she was a pure Injun neither, she was a half-breed. My Mary was their only child; she was a suckin’ babe at that time. Adam had gin her no name when we first met, an’ I remember him askin’ me one day what he should call her; so I advised Mary—an’ that’s how she come to git the name.

“Adam an’ me was always together. We suited each other. For myself, I had ta’en a skunner at mankind, an’ womankind, too; so we lived wi’ the Pawnees, and hunted together, an’ slep’ together when out on the tramp. But one o’ them reptiles took a spite at him, an’ tried by every way he could to raise the Injuns agin’ him, but couldn’t; so he detarmined to murder him.

“One day we was out huntin’ together, an’, being too far from the Pawnee lodges to return that night, we encamped in the wood, an’ biled our kettle—this iron one ye see here. Adam had a kind o’ likin’ for’t, and always carried it at his saddle-bow when he went out o’ horseback. We’d just begun supper, when up comes the Wild-Cat, as he was called—Adam’s enemy—an’ sits down beside us.

“Of course, we could not say we thought he was up to mischief, though we suspected it, so we gave him his supper, an’ he spent the night with us. Nixt mornin’ he bade us good-day, an’ went off. Then Adam said he would go an’ set beaver traps in a creek about a mile off. Bein’ lazy that day, I said I’d lie a bit in the camp. So away he went. The camp was on a hill. I could see him all the way, and soon saw him in the water settin’ his traps.

“Suddenly I seed the Wild-Cat step out o’ the bushes with a bow an’ arrow. I knew what was up. I gave a roar that he might have heard ten miles off, an’ ran towards them. But an arrow was in Adam’s back before he could git to the shore. In a moment more he had the Injun by the throat, an’ the two struggled for life. Adam could ha’ choked him easy, but the arrow in his back let out the blood fast, an’ he could barely hold his own. Yet he strove like a true man. I was soon there, for I nearly burst my heart in that race. They were on the edge of the water. The Wild-Cat had him down, and was tryin’ to force him over the bank.

“I had my big sword wi’ me, an’ hewed the reptile’s head off with it at one blow, sendin’ it into the river, an’ tossin’ the body in after it.

“‘It’s too late,’ says Adam, as I laid him softly on the bank.

“I could see that. The head of the shaft was nearly in his heart. He tried to speak, but could only say, ‘Take care o’ my wife an’ Mary’—then he died, and I buried him there.”

Dick paused, and clenched both hands convulsively as the thought of that black day came back upon him. But the glare in his eye soon melted into a look of sadness.

“Well, well,” he continued, “it’s long past now. Why should I be angry with the dead? Adam’s wife never got the better o’ that. She dropped her head like a prairie flower in the first blast of winter, an’ was soon beside her husband.

“I waited till the little child could stump about on its own legs, an’ then I mounted my horse an’ rode away with it in my arms. The only things belongin’ to poor Adam I brought with me was the iron pot an’ his long rifle. There the rifle stands in the corner. I’ve used it ever since.”

“And have you and Mary lived here all alone since that day?”

“Ay. I came straight here—not carin’ where I went, only anxious to get out o’ the sight o’ men, an’ live alone wi’ the child. I sought out a dwellin’ in the wildest part o’ these mountains, an’ fell upon this cave, where we’ve lived happy enough together.”

“Do you mean to say the child has never played with other children?” inquired March, amazed at this discovery.

“Not much. I give her a run for a month or two at a time, now an’ agin, when I fall on a friendly set o’ well-disposed redskins—just to keep the right sort o’ spirit in her, and comfort her a bit. But she’s always willin’ to live alone wi’ me.”

“Then she’s never learned to read?” said March sadly.

“That has she. She’s got one book. It’s a story about a giant an’ a fairy, an’ a prince an’ princess. Most ’xtraornar’ stuff. I got it from a Blood Injun, who said he picked it up in a frontier settlement where the people had all been murdered. When we had nothin’ better to do, I used to teach her her letters out o’ that book, an’ the moment she got ’em off she seemed to pick up the words, I dun’ know how. She’s awful quick. She knows every word o’ that story by heart. An’ she’s invented heaps o’ others o’ the most amazin’ kind. I’ve often thought o’ goin’ to the settlements to git her some books, but—”

Dick paused abruptly, and a dark frown settled on his features, as if the thoughts of civilised men and things revived unpleasant memories.

“The fact is,” he continued somewhat bitterly, “I’ve been a hater of my race. You’d scarcely believe it, lad, but you are the first man I’ve ever told all this to. I can’t tell why it is that I feel a likin’ for ye, boy, an’ a desire to have ye stop with me. But that must not be. I had but one friend. I must not make another to have him murdered, mayhap, before my eyes. Yet,” he added in a gentle tone, taking March’s hand in his and stroking it, “I feel a likin’ for ye, boy, that makes me sad to think o’ partin’.”

“But we don’t need to part, Dick,” said March eagerly. “I like you too, and I like your style of life, an’—” He was going to have added that he liked Mary, and that he would live with them both all his days, when the little cottage at Pine Point settlement and his loving mother rose before him, and caused him to drop his head and terminate his speech abruptly.

Just then Mary re-entered the cavern, and put an end to the conversation.

Chapter Twenty One.

March, though willing in Spirit, finds his Body weak—He makes Mary a Present—The Trappers set out to search for their lost Comrade—An unexpected Meeting—Big Waller waxes Pugnacious—News of March—Dick becomes more mysterious than ever—A reckless Proposal and a happy Meeting.

Next morning, before daybreak, March Marston attempted to set out for the Mountain Fort with Dick; but he was so thoroughly knocked up before the end of the first mile that he had to call a halt, and admit that he could not think of going further. This was just what Dick wanted; so he laughed, told him to go back and take care of Mary, and he would advance alone.

March returned, very much humbled, excessively pained in all his joints, and feeling as if he had reason to be ashamed of himself.

“Oh! you com back?” cried Mary as he entered the cavern with a crestfallen air. “Me so glad! Me know very well you no was poss’ble for travel.”

Mary was perfectly artless. She made no attempt whatever to conceal her satisfaction at the youth’s return, so he felt amazingly comforted, and even began to recover his self-esteem.

“Yes, Mary, I’ve come back, ’cause I can’t go forward. It’s o’ no use tryin’; I’d just have knocked up on the way, which would have been awkward for Dick, you know, as well as for me. Besides, I couldn’t fight just now to save my life.”

“Well, you is right. You stop here an’ git strong an’ well. Me tell you stories ’bout Dick, or other mans if you likes. We’ll have no fightin’ to do. If there is, me take care of you. Me can doos a littil in that way.”

March opened his eyes very wide at this, and stared at the pretty little vision in leather, but there was no smile or sly wrinkle on her countenance. She was looking quite gravely and sedately into the iron pot, which she happened to be stirring at that moment.

“Mary,” he said, sitting down beside her, “Dick tells me you can read.”

“Yis, me can read littil. But me only got one book.” She sighed slightly as she said this.

“Would you like to have another book?”

“Oh yis, very very much. Have you got one?”

“Ay, one; the only one I have in the world, Mary; an’ you’re the only person in the world I’d give it to. But I’ll give it to you, ’cause you’ve no chance of gettin’ one like it here. It’s a Bible—the one my mother gave me when I left home.”

March pulled the little volume out of the breast of his coat as he spoke, and handed it to the girl, who received it eagerly, and looked at it with mingled feelings of awe and curiosity for some time before she ventured to open it.

“The Bibil. Dick have oftin speak to me ’bout it, an’ try to ’member some of it. But he no can ’member much. He tell me it speak about the great good Spirit. Injins call him Manitow.”

“So it does, Mary. I’ll leave it with you when I go away. You say Dick couldn’t remember much of it; neither can I, Mary. More shame to me, for many an’ many a time has my poor mother tried to make me learn it off by heart.”

“You mother?” repeated Mary earnestly. “Is you mother livin’?”

“That is she. At least, I left her well an’ hearty in Pine Point settlement not many weeks agone.”

“Me wish me had mother,” said Mary with a sigh.

March gazed at the sad face of his fair companion with a perplexed yet sympathetic look. This was a new idea to him. Never having been without a mother, it had never entered into his head to think of such a thing as wishing for one.

“What you mother called?” said the girl, looking up quickly.

“Her name is Mary.”

“Yis! that very strange. Call same as me.”

“Not very strange, after all. There are a good number of Marys in the world,” replied March with a laugh. “See, here is her name on the flyleaf of the Bible, written with her own hand, too: ‘To my dear March, from his loving mother, Mary Marston, Pine Point settlement.’ Isn’t it a good round hand o’ write?”

“Very pritty,” replied Mary. But she had now begun to spell out the words of the book which had at last fallen into her hands, and March could not again draw her into general talk; so he was fain to sit down and help her to read the Bible.

Leaving them thus occupied, we will now return to the trappers, three of whom, it will be remembered—Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault—had reached the Mountain Fort and given the alarm. Soon afterwards the Indians arrived there; but finding everything in readiness to give them a warm reception, they retired at once, preferring to wait their opportunity rather than have a fair stand-up fight with the white men. About an hour after they had retired, Big Waller, Hawkswing, and the artist, came tearing towards the fort, and were at once admitted.

They had nothing new to tell. They had met together by accident, as the others had done, on nearing the fort, and would have been in sooner, had not Big Waller been obliged to take charge of poor Bertram, who, owing to the suddenness and violence of all these recent events in savage life, had got into a muddled condition of mind that rendered him peculiarly helpless. But they knew nothing of March Marston—they had expected to find him there before them.

As March was well mounted, and known to be well qualified to take care of himself, his non-arrival threw his friends into a state of the utmost anxiety and suspense. They waited a couple of hours, in order to give him a chance of coming in, hoping that he might have merely been detained by some trifling accident, such as having lost his way for a time. But when, at the end of that period, there was still no sign of him, they gave up all hope of his arriving, and at once set out to sweep the whole country round in search of him, vowing in their hearts that they would never return to Pine Point settlement without him if he were alive.

McLeod tried to persuade them to remain at the fort for a few days, but, feeling sympathy with them, he soon ceased to press the matter. As for the wretched chief of the fort, Macgregor—the excitement of the recent transactions being over—he had returned to his bosom friend, and bitterest enemy, the bottle, and was at that time lying in a state of drivelling idiocy in his private chamber.

A few days after quitting the fort, Bounce and Gibault, who chanced to be riding considerably in advance of their companions, halted on the top of a ridge and began to scan the country before them. In the midst of their observations, Bounce broke the silence with a grunt.

“Fat now?” inquired his companion.

“What now?” replied Bounce contemptuously. “Use yer eyes now; d’ye see nothin’?”

“Non, no ting.”

“That comes o’ the want of obsarvation, now,” said Bounce in a grave, reproachful tone. “Ye shouldn’t ought to be so light-headed, lad. If ye wos left to yer lone in them sort o’ places, ye’d soon lose yer scalp. It’s obsarvation as does it all, an’ in yer partikler case it’s the want o’ that same as doesn’t do it, d’ye see?”

“Non, vraiment, me shockable blind dis day; mais, p’r’aps, git more cliver de morrow,” replied the good-humoured Canadian with a grin. “Fat you see?”

“I see fut-prints,” replied Bounce, dismounting; “an’ as fut-prints implies feet, an’ feet indicates critters, human or otherwise, it becomes men wot be lookin’ for a lost comrade to examine ’em with more nor or’nary care.”

“Hah!” shouted Gibault with unwonted energy. “Look! voilà! behold! Bounce, you hab great want of ‘obsarvation.’ See!”

Now it chanced that, while Bounce was on his knees, carefully turning over every leaf and blade of grass, his comrade, who remained on horseback, and kept gazing at the horizon, without any particular object in view, did suddenly behold an object coming towards them at full gallop. Hence the sudden outburst, and the succeeding exclamation from Bounce—“It’s a hoss!”

“A hoss!” repeated Gibault. “Him be one buffalo I see hims bump.”

“The bumps that ye see is neither more nor less than a man leanin’ forard—it is.”

At this moment the rest of the party rode up, and Redhand confirmed Bounce’s opinion.

“There’s only one, I guess, an’ he’s in a powerful hurry,” observed Big Waller. “But we may as well be ready to fix his flint if he means to cut up rough.”

He brought forward his gun as he spoke, and examined the priming.

“I b’lieve he’s an evil spirit, I do,” said Bounce; “wot a pace!”

“More like to de Wild Man of de Vest,” observed Gibault.

“Think you so?” whispered Bertram in an anxious tone, with an involuntary motion of his hand to the pouch in which lay that marvellous sketch-book of his.

“Think it’s him?” said Redhand to Hawkswing.

The Indian gave a slight grunt of assent.

But the strange horseman soon put all doubt on the point at rest by bearing down upon them like a whirlwind, his long hair and tags and scalp-locks streaming in the wind as usual. Dick had a distinct purpose in thus acting. He wished to terrify men, or, at least, to impress them with a wholesome dread of him, in order that he might simply be let alone!

He did not check his slashing pace until within four or five bounds of the party. Reining up so violently that he tore up the turf for a couple of yards under his horse’s heels, he looked at the trappers with a grave, almost fierce expression, for a second or two.

“You come from the Mountain Fort?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Redhand.

“All right there?”

“All right. The redskins threatened an attack, but we were too quick for ’em.”

A gleam of satisfaction passed across Dick’s face as he added, “You’ve lost a comrade, han’t ye?”

“We jist have,” cried Big Waller in surprise. “If you’ve seed him, I guess ye’d as well take us to his whereabouts.”

“See you yonder pine?” said Dick, pointing back in the direction whence he had come. “One day’s journey beyond that, as the crow flies, will bring you to a valley, level and well watered, with plenty o’ beaver in it. You’ll find him there.”

Without waiting a reply Dick turned to ride away.

“I say, stranger,” cried Waller (Dick paused), “air you, or air you not, the Wild Man o’ the West?”

“Wild fools of the West call me so,” replied Dick with a ferocious frown, that went far to corroborate the propriety of the cognomen in the opinion of the trappers.

“Wall, I tell ’ee wot it is, stranger, Wild Man or not, I guess you’ll ha’ to take us to our comrade yourself, for I’m inclined to opine that you know more about him than’s good for ye; so if ye try to ride off, I’ll see whether a ball—sixteen to the pound—’ll not stop ye, for all yer bigness.”

A grim smile curled Dick’s moustache as he replied, “If ye think that a trapper’s word ain’t to be trusted, or that committin’ murder ’ll do yer comrade a service, here’s your chance—fire away!”

Dick wheeled about and cantered coolly away into the thickest part of the forest, leaving the trappers gazing at each other in amazement. Bertram was the first to speak.

“Oh, why did you not delay him a few seconds longer? See, I have him here—all but the legs of his splendid charger.”

The others burst into a laugh.

“If ye’ve got the body all c’rect, it’s easy to calculate the legs by the rules o’ proportion, d’ye see?” observed Bounce.

“Come, lads, that’s good news about March, anyhow,” cried Redhand; “an’ I’m of opinion that the Wild Man o’ the West an’t just so wild as people think. I, for one, will trust him. There’s somethin’ about the corner of a man’s eye that tells pretty plain whether he’s false or true. Depend on’t we shall find March where he told us, so the sooner we set off the better.”

Without waiting for a reply, Redhand urged his horse into a gallop, and, followed by his comrades, made for the valley indicated by the Wild Man.

Meanwhile, the Wild Man himself was already far ahead of them, keeping out of sight among the woods, and galloping nearly in the same direction—for his cave lay not more than four miles from the valley in question. Being much better mounted than they, he soon left the trappers far behind him, and when night closed in he continued his journey, instead of halting to eat and take a few hours’ rest as they did. The consequence was that he reached his cave several hours before the trappers arrived at the valley, where they expected to find their missing comrade.

Of course March was filled with surprise at this second unexpected return of Dick; but the latter relieved his mind by explaining, in an offhand way, that he had met a man who had told him the Mountain Fort was all safe, and that his comrades also were safe, and wandering about in that part of the country in search of him. After a good deal of desultory conversation, Dick turned to his guest with a sad, serious air, and, fixing his large blue eyes on him, said—

“March, lad, you an’ me must part soon.”

“Part!” exclaimed the youth in surprise, glancing at Mary, who sat opposite to him, embroidering a pair of moccasins.

“Ay, we must part. You’ll be well enough in a day or two to travel about with yer comrades. Now, lad, I want ye to understand me. I’ve lived here, off and on, for the last fourteen or fifteen years—it may be more, it may be less; I don’t well remember—an’ I’ve niver suffered men to interfere wi’ me. I don’t want them, an’ they don’t want me.”

He paused. There was a slight dash of bitterness in the tone in which the last words were uttered; but it was gone when he resumed, in his usual low and musical voice—

“Now, although I chose to bring you to my cave, because I found ye a’most in a dyin’ state, an’ have let ye into one or two o’ my secrets—because I couldn’t help it, seein’ that I couldn’t stop up yer eyes—an’ yer ears—yet I don’t choose to let yer comrades know anything about me. They’ve no right to, an’ you have no right to tell ’em; so, when ye meet ’em again ye mustn’t talk about me or my cave, d’ye see?”

“Certainly,” said March, who was both surprised and annoyed by his speech, “certainly you have a perfect right to command me to hold my tongue; and, seein’ that you’ve bin so kind to me, Dick, I’m in duty bound to obey; but how can you ask me to put myself in such an awkward fix? You don’t suppose I can make my comrades believe I’ve bin livin’ on air or grass for some days past, an’ they’ll see, easy enough, that I’ve not bin in a condition to help myself. Besides, whatever your notions may be about truth, mine are of such a sort that they won’t let me tell a parcel o’ lies to please anybody.”

“Far be it from me, boy, to ask ye to tell lies. You can tell yer comrades that you’ve bin took care of by a trapper as lives in a cave among the mountains; but you don’t need to tell ’em where the cave is; an’ if they worry ye to guide ’em to it, ye can refuse. Moreover, jist speak o’ me in an offhand, careless sort o’ way, d’ye see? an’ be particular not to tell what I’m like, ’cause it might make ’em take a fancy to hunt me up.”

There appeared to be a dash of vanity in the latter part of this remark, which surprised March not a little; for it seemed to him quite inconsistent with the stout hunter’s wonted modesty of demeanour and speech.

“Well, I’m bound to think only o’ your wishes in this matter,” replied March in a disappointed tone, “an’ I’ll do my best to prevent my comrades interfering with ye, tho’, to say truth, I don’t think you need be so cautious, for they ain’t over-curious—none of ’em. But—” here March paused and glanced at Mary, who, he observed, had dropped her head very much during the conversation, and from whose eye at that moment a bright tear fell, like a diamond, on the work with which she was engaged.

“But—am I—the fact is, Dick, I feel a little sore that you should say ye had a likin’ for me, an’ then tell me I must be off, an’ never look near ye again.”

“That’s wot I never did say, boy,” returned Dick, smiling. “Ye may come alone to see me as often as ye like while ye remain in these parts. An’ if it please ye, yer at liberty to come an’ live wi’ me. There’s room in the mountains for both of us. The cave can hold three if need be.”

March Marston’s heart beat quick. He was on the eve of forming a great resolve! His bosom heaved, and his eye sparkled, as he was about to close hastily with this proposal, when, again, the memory of his mother crossed him, and a deep sigh burst from his lips as he shook his head, and said sorrowfully, “It can’t be done, Dick. I can’t forsake my mother.”

“No more ye should, lad, no more ye should,” said Dick, nodding approvingly; “but there’s nothin’ to prevent your spendin’ the winter and spring here, an’ returnin’ to yer mother next summer.”

“Done!” cried March, springing up as well as his bruised muscles would permit him, and seizing his friend enthusiastically by the hand. “I’ll stop with you and send home word by my comrades that I’ll be back in summer. That’s capital!”

Mary seemed to be quite of the same opinion, for she looked quickly up with a beaming smile.

“Well, so it is a good plan,” said Dick somewhat gravely; “but don’t act in haste, else ye may ha’ to repent at leisure. Go an’ speak to yer comrades; see what they advise ye to do, an’ come again an’ let me know. And, now we’re on that pint, I may tell ye that yer friends will be at the head of a valley not four miles from here this very night, an’ they expect ye there.”

“How d’ye know that?” cried March, breathless with amazement.

“Well, ye see, the Wild Man o’ the West knows that you’re in them parts; he has seed you, an’ knows where ye are, an’ he met yer comrades, the trappers, no later than yesterday, an’ told ’em they’d find ye in the valley I spoke of just now; so we must be up an’ away to meet ’em.”

Dick rose as he spoke and began to make preparation to depart.

“But how came you to know this?” inquired the astonished youth.

“Why, the Wild Man an’ me’s oncommon intimate, d’ye see? In fact, I may say we’re jist inseparable companions, an’ so I come to know it that way. But make haste. We’ve no time to lose.”

“Good-bye, Mary,” cried March with a cheerful smile, as he hurried out of the cave after his eccentric companion. “I’ll be back before long, depend on’t.”

Mary nodded, and the two men were soon mounted and out of sight.

“I say, Dick,” observed March as they rode along, “you must get me to see the Wild Man of the West; if you’re so intimate with him, you can easily bring him into the cave; now won’t you, Dick?”

“Well, as I can’t help doin’ it, I s’pose I may say yes at once.”

“Can’t help it, Dick! What mean you? I wish ye’d talk sense.”

“Hist!” exclaimed the hunter, pulling up suddenly under the shelter of a cliff. “Yonder come yer friends, sooner than I expected. I’ll leave ye here. They’ve not seed us yit, an’ that wood ’ll hide me till I git away. Now, March,” he added solemnly, “remember yer promise.”

In another moment the wild hunter was gone, and March rode forward to meet his comrades, who, having now caught sight of him, came up the valley at full speed, shouting and waving their caps joyfully as they approached. In a shorter space of time than it takes to tell, March was surrounded, dragged off his horse, passed from one to another, to be handled roughly, in order to make sure that it was really himself, and, finally, was swallowed up by Bounce in a masculine embrace that might almost have passed for the hug of a grisly bear.

Chapter Twenty Two.

March Marston is perplexed, so are his Friends—An unlooked-for Meeting—Terrible News—the Attack—The Wild Man of the West once again renders signal Service to the Trappers—Wild Doings in general, and March Marston’s Chagrin in particular.

“March Marston,” said Bounce—and Bounce was sitting beside the camp fire, smoking his pipe after supper when he said it—“you may think ye’re a ’cute feller, you may, oncommon ’cute; but if you’ll listen to wot an oldish hunter says, an’ take his advice, you’ll come to think, in a feelosophical way, d’ye see? that ye’re not quite so ’cute as ye suppose.”

Bounce delivered this oracularly, and followed it up with a succession of puffs, each of which was so solidly yellow as to suggest to the mind of Bertram, who chanced to be taking his portrait at that moment, that the next puff would burst out in pure flame. Gibault and Big Waller nodded their heads in testimony of their approval of the general scope of the remark; the latter even went the length of “guessing that it was a fact,” and Redhand smiled. Hawkswing looked, if possible, graver than usual.

“As,” resumed Bounce after a considerable pause, during which March looked and felt very uncomfortable, “the nat’ral eyes of the old men becomes more dimmer, d’ye see? their mental eyes, so to speak, becomes sharper, so as that they can see through no end o’ figurative millstones. That bein’ the case when there’s no millstone to be seen through at all, but only a oncommon thin trans—trans—”

“Ollification,” suggested Waller modestly.

“Not at all,” retorted Bounce with much severity in his tone. “I wos goin’ to have said—transparientsy; but I’ll not say that now, seein’ it’s too feelosophical for the likes o’ you; but, as I wos sayin’, that bein’ the case, d’ye see? it’s quite plain that—”

Here Bounce, having got into depths unusually profound even for his speculative and philosophical turn of mind, sought refuge in a series of voluminous puffs, and wound up, finally, with an emphatic assertion that “there wos somethin’ wrong, an’ it wos o’ no manner o’ use to try to throw dust in his eyes, seein’ that his winkin’ powers wos sich as to enable him to keep it out, no matter how thick or fast it should come.”

“Ah, that’s yer sort! I calc’late you’re floored there, March,” said Waller gravely. “The fact is, boy, that it won’t do; you’ve got somethin’ in the background, that Mr Bertram talks sich a heap about. You ought to be fair an’ above-board with comrades, ye ought.”

“Oui,” added Gibault. “Of course, you have lived somewhere, an’ somehow, all dis time. It am not posseeble for live nowhere on noting.”

“Well, I tell you I have lived with a hunter, who treated me very well, and told me I’d find you here; having learned that, as I understand, from the Wild Man o’ the West himself.”

“Very true,” said Bounce; “but where does the hunter live?”

“In the mountains,” replied March.

“So does the Blackfeet, an’ the Peigans, an’ the Crows, an’ the foxes, an’ wolves, an’ grisly bars,” retorted Bounce dryly.

“I’ll tell ye what it is,” cried the exasperated March, “the curiosity of you fellers beats the squaws out an’ out. Now, I’ll be open with ye, an’ then ye must hold your tongues. This man that I’ve been stayin’ with is a very fine fellow, an’ a very wonderful fellow, an’ his name’s Dick—”

“Dick what?” inquired Bounce.

“Dick nothing,” said March.

“Ay! that’s a odd name.”

“No, I mean he’s only called Dick, an’ he wouldn’t tell me his other name, if he has one. Well, he said to me I was not to tell where he lived, as he don’t like company, an’ so he made me promise, an’ I did promise, d’ye see? so I mean to stick to my promise, and that’s all about it. I would like to tell ye about him, comrades, but you wouldn’t have me break my word, would you?”

“Cer’nly not, by no means,” said Bounce. “Does he live all by his lone?”

“No—eh—ah! Well, I fancy it’s not breakin’ my word to tell ye that—no, he’s got a little gal, an adopted daughter, livin’ with him.”

“Is she good-lookin’?” inquired Bounce quickly, with a sharp glance at the youth.

March looked a little confused, and, in a hesitating manner, admitted that she was.

“Ah! I thought so,” observed Bounce gravely, shaking his head and looking unutterably profound, while Gibault gave a low whistle and winked to Big Waller, who returned the mystic signal with the addition of a knowing nod, all of which movements were observed by poor March, who became very red in the face and felt very angry and remarkably uncomfortable, and quite unable to decide whether it were better to laugh or storm. He was saved from all further perplexity on this point, however, by the sudden appearance of a horseman on the distant plain, who seemed to be approaching the valley in which they were encamped. At first he looked like a black speck or a crow on the horizon, and, in the uncertain light of the rapidly closing day, it would have been difficult for any unaccustomed eye to make out what the object was.

In a short time he drew near enough to be distinguished clearly, and the rapid patter of the horse’s hoofs on the turf told that the rider was flying over the ground at an unusual speed. Passing round a clump of low trees that stretched out from the mouth of the valley into the plain, he came dashing towards the camp—a wild-looking, dishevelled creature, seemingly in a state of reckless insanity.

“The Wild Man again, surely,” said Bounce, who, with his companions, had risen to await the coming up of the stranger.

“D’you think so?” cried March Marston eagerly.

“Ye—eh? why, I do b’lieve it’s Mr Macgregor,” cried the astonished Bounce as the reckless rider dashed up to the camp fire, and, springing from his horse with a yell that savoured more of a savage than a civilised spirit, cried—

“Look out, lads; up with a pile o’ rocks an’ trees! They’ll be on us in a jiffy! There’s five hundred o’ the red reptiles if there’s one. The Mountain Fort’s burned to cinders—every man and woman dead and scalped—look alive!”

These words were uttered hastily in broken exclamations, as Macgregor seized the logs that had been cut for firewood, and began violently to toss them together in a pile; while the trappers, although much amazed and horrified at the news, seized their hatchets and began to make instant preparation to resist an attack, without wasting time in useless questions. They observed that the commander of the Mountain Fort was pale as death, that his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and face begrimed with powder and stained with blood.

March Marston worked like a hero at the rude breastwork for some time, although the effort caused him so much pain that he could not help showing it on his countenance.

“March,” said Bounce, seizing him suddenly by the shoulder, “you’re not fit to work, an’ much less fit to fight. I’ll tell ye wot to do, lad. Jump on my horse, an’ away to yer friend the trapper, an’ bring him here to help us. One stout arm ’ll do us more good this night than ten battered bodies sich as yours, poor feller.”

March felt the truth of this, so without delay turned to obey. Just as he was about to leave he heard a deep groan, and turning round, saw Macgregor fall to the ground.

“You’re ill,” he cried, running to him and kneeling down.

“No—not ill, just a scratch from an arrow,” gasped the trader with an oath. “I believe the head’s stickin’ in my back.”

“Away, March,” cried Redhand, “we’ll look to this. Waller, out wi’ the fire, man; ye used to be more spry when—ah! too late, there they are, they’ve seen us.”

“Into the fort, boys!” cried Bounce, alluding to the breastwork, “we don’t need to care; with plenty o’ powder and lead, we can keep five thousand redskins off.”

March heard no more. Dashing up the glen at full speed, he disappeared from the spot, just as the distant yell of the savage host came floating upon the wings of the night air, apprising the trappers that their fire had been observed, and that they would have to fight manfully if they hoped to carry their scalps home with them.

In a few minutes the Indians drew near, and scattering themselves round the little entrenchment, began to discharge clouds of arrows at it, but, fortunately, without doing any damage. An inaccessible cliff protected their rear, and behind a projection of this the trappers’ horses were secured. The breastwork lay immediately in front.

Again and again the savages let fly their shafts, but without drawing any reply from the trappers, who kept close under cover and reserved their fire. This tempted their enemies to approach, and, when within short range, they seemed about to make a rush, supposing, no doubt, that the party concealed behind the breastwork must be Indians, since they did not use firearms. Just then Redhand gave a preconcerted signal; three sheets of flame spouted from their guns, and three of the foremost Indians fell dead from their horses.

With a terrible yell the others turned to fly, but before they had retreated a yard three more shots were fired with deadly effect. They now took shelter behind trees and rocks, and attempted to dislodge the trappers by discharging arrows into the air at such an angle that they should drop into their fortress. One or two endeavoured to ascend the steep cliff, but the instant an arm or a shoulder appeared, a ball from Redhand’s deadly rifle struck it, so the attempt was abandoned.

While this was going on, March Marston galloped to Dick’s cave, and startled poor Mary not a little by the abruptness of his entrance. But, to his mortification, Dick was not at home. It so chanced that that wild individual had taken it into his head to remain concealed in the woods near the spot where he had parted from his late guest, and had not only witnessed the meeting of March with his friends, but had seen the arrival of Macgregor, the subsequent departure of March in the direction of the cave, and the attack made by the Indians. When, therefore, the youth was speeding towards his cavern, the Wild Man (who was not sorry to see him go off on such an errand), was busily planning the best mode of attacking the enemy so as to render effectual aid to the trappers.

Observing that the Indians had clustered together at the foot of a rugged cliff, apparently for the purpose of holding a council of war, Dick made his way quickly to the summit of the cliff, and, leaving his charger on an eminence that sloped down towards the entrance of the valley, quickly and noiselessly carried several huge stones to the edge of the precipice, intending to throw them down on the heads of his foes. Just as he was about to do so, he observed an overhanging mass of rock, many tons in weight, which the frosts of winter had detached from the precipice. Placing his feet against this, and leaning his back against the solid rock, he exerted himself with all his might, like a second Samson. No human power could have moved such a rock, had it not been almost overbalanced; but, being so, Dick’s effort moved it. Again he strained, until the great veins seemed about to burst through the skin of his neck and forehead. Gradually the rock toppled and fell, and the Wild Man fell along with it.

In the agony of that moment he uttered a cry so terrible that it might well have been supposed to have come from the throat of a supernatural being. The Indians had not time to evade the danger. The ponderous mass in its descent hit a projecting crag, and burst into smaller fragments, which fell in a rattling shower, killing two men, and wounding others. Those of the group who escaped, as well as those who chanced to be beyond the danger, saw, by the dim moonlight, the Wild Man of the West descending, as it were, like a furious demon in the midst of the dire confusion of dust and rocks. They knew him well. It wanted but this to fill them to overflow with superstitious dread. They turned and fled. The trappers, although amazed beyond measure, and half suspecting who it was that had thus suddenly come to their aid, mounted their horses, and, leaping over their barricade, rushed down the valley in pursuit, firing a volley at starting, and loading as they rode at full speed. In his descent Dick made what might well be termed a miraculous escape. Near the foot of the cliff he went crashing through a thick bush, which broke his fall. Still he retained impetus sufficient to have seriously injured if not killed him, had he not alighted in the midst of another bush, which saved him so completely that he was not even hurt.

Dick could scarcely believe his own senses; but he was not a man given to indulge much wandering thought in times of action. Giving himself one shake, to make sure of his being actually sound in wind and limb, he bounded away up the precipice by a path with which he was well acquainted, reached his horse, flew by a short cut to the mouth of the valley, and, wheeling suddenly round, met the horrified Indians in the very teeth!

The roar with which he met them was compound in its nature, and altogether hideous! His mind was in a mingled condition of amazement and satisfaction at his escape, triumph at the success of his plan, and indignation at the cowardly wickedness of the savages. A rollicking species of mad pugnacity took possession of him, and the consequence was, that the sounds which issued from his leathern throat were positively inhuman.

The rushing mass of terror-stricken men, thus caught, as it were, between two fires, divided, in order to escape him. Dick was not sorry to observe this. He felt that the day was gained without further bloodshed. He knew that the superstitious dread in which he was held was a guarantee that the savages would not return; so, instead of turning with the trappers to join in the pursuit, he favoured them with a concluding and a peculiarly monstrous howl, and then rode quietly away by a circuitous route to his own cavern.

Thus he avoided March Marston, who, on finding that his friend Dick was out, had returned at full speed to aid his comrades, and arrived just in time to meet them returning, triumphant and panting, from their pursuit of the foe!

“Are they gone?” cried March in amazement.

“Ay, right slick away into the middle o’ nowhar,” replied Big Waller, laughing heartily. “Did ye iver hear such a roarer, comrades?”

“Have you licked ’em out an’ out?” continued the incredulous March, “Ay, out an’ out, an’ no mistake,” replied Bounce, dismounting.

“Well, that is lucky,” said March; “for my friend Dick I found was not—”

“Ah! we not have need him,” interrupted Gibault, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “de Wild Man of de West hims come, an’—oh! you should see what hims have bin do!”

“The Wild Man again!” exclaimed March in dismay—“an’ me absent!”

Gibault nodded and laughed.

At that moment an exclamation from Redhand attracted the attention of the whole party. He was kneeling beside Macgregor, who had dismounted and lain down.

“I believe they’ve done for me,” said the fur trader faintly. “That arrow must have gone deeper than I thought.”

“You’d better let me see the wound, sir,” said Redhand; “your shirt is covered with blood.”

“No, no,” said the wounded man savagely; “let me rest—see, I’m better now. You will find a flask in the bag at my saddle-bow. Bring it here.”

“I know that Dick—the hunter—is a good hand at doctoring,” said March. “What a pity he is not here! We might carry you there, sir.”

“Carry me,” laughed the fur trader fiercely; “no, I’ll never be carried till I’m carried to my grave. How far off is his place? Where stays he?”

“Four miles from this. I’ll take you if you can ride,” said March.

“Ay, that I can, bravely,” cried the trader, who, having taken a deep draught of spirits, seemed to be imbued with new life. “Come, young sir, mount.”

The trappers endeavoured to dissuade the violent man from the attempt, but he could not be controlled; so March, hastily observing that he would see him safe to the hunter’s abode and return without delay, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the wounded man.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Wounded Fur Trader.

When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.

March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance—a very singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.

“Ho! Dick!” cried the youth.

“What, March—March Marston!” exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up, seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.

“Ay, no doubt I’m March Marston; though how you came to find out my name I don’t know—”

“Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother’s Bible behind ye,” cried Dick with a wild laugh. “She must be a good mother that o’ yours. Is she alive yet, boy?”

“That is she, an’ well, I trust—”

“An’ your father,” interrupted Dick; “how’s he, lad, eh?”

“I don’t know,” said March, frowning; “he forsook us fourteen years agone; but it’s little good talking o’ such matters now, when there’s a poor fellow dyin’ outside.”

“Dyin’?”

“Ay, so it seems to me. I’ve brought him to see if ye can stop the bleedin’, but he’s fainted, and I can’t lift—”

Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound asleep on her lowly couch.

“Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller.”

The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in surprise.

“What’s de matter, March?”

“Hush, Mary,” said Dick in a low voice; “we’ll have to speak soft. Poor Macgregor won’t be long for this world, I’m afear’d. Fetch me the box o’ things.”

“You know him, then?” whispered March, in surprise.

“Ay, I’ve often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there. See, he’s comin’ to. Put that torch more behind me, lad. It’ll be better for him not to see me.”

As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly. Opening his eyes, he said, “Where am I?”

“Speak to him,” whispered Dick, looking over his shoulder at March, who advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said—

“You’re all right, Mr Macgregor. I’ve brought you to the hunter’s home. He’ll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind easy. But you’ll have to keep quiet. You’ve lost much blood.”

The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while Dick bound his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the other cave.

During that night Dick seemed in an unaccountably excited state. Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent manner on all kinds of subjects—his adventures, his intentions, his home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though he were struggling with some powerful feeling or passion.

“Could it be,” thought March, “that there was some mysterious connection between Dick and the wounded fur trader?” Not being able to find a satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted father.

During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.

Dick went out during the day in the same excited state, and did not return till late in the evening. During his absence, the dying man’s mind wandered frequently, and, in order to check this as well as to comfort him, March read to him from his mother’s Bible. At times he seemed to listen intently to the words that fell from March’s lips, but more frequently he lay in a state apparently of stupor.

“Boy,” said he, starting suddenly out of one of those heavy slumbers, “what’s the use of reading the Bible to me? I’m not a Christian, an’ it’s too late now—too late!”

“The Bible tells me that ‘now’ is God’s time. I forget where the words are, an’ I can’t find ’em,” said March earnestly; “but I know they’re in this book. Besides, don’t you remember the thief who was saved when he hung on the cross in a dyin’ state?”

The fur trader shook his head slowly, and still muttered, “Too late, too late.”

March now became deeply anxious about the dying man, who seemed to him like one sinking in the sea, yet refusing to grasp the rope that was flung to him. He turned over the sacred pages hurriedly to find appropriate texts, and blamed himself again and again for not having made himself better acquainted with the Word of God. He also repeated all he could think of from memory; but still the dying man shook his head and muttered, “Too late!” Suddenly March bent over him and said—

“Christ is able to save to the uttermost all who come unto God through Him.”

The fur trader looked up in silence for a few seconds. “Ay,” said he, “many a time have I heard the old minister at Pine Point say that.”

“Pine Point!” exclaimed March in surprise.

“Perhaps they’re true, after all,” continued Macgregor, not noticing the interruption. “Oh! Mary, Mary, surely I did the uttermost when I forsook ye. Let me see the words, boy; are they there?”

A strange suspicion flashed suddenly on the mind of March as he listened to these words, and he trembled violently as he handed him the book.

“What—what’s this? Where got ye my wife’s Bible? You must,” (he added between his teeth, in a sudden burst of anger) “have murdered my boy.”

“Father!” exclaimed March, seizing Macgregor’s hand.

The dying man started up with a countenance of ashy paleness, and, leaning on one elbow, gazed earnestly into the youth’s face—“March! can it be my boy?” and fell back with a heavy groan. The bandages had been loosened by the exertion, and blood was pouring freely from his wound. The case admitted of no delay. March hurriedly attempted to stop the flow of the vital stream, assisted by Mary, who had been sitting at the foot of the couch bathed in tears during the foregoing scene.

Just then Dick returned, and, seeing how matters stood, quickly staunched the wound; but his aid came too late. Macgregor, or rather Obadiah Marston, opened his eyes but once after that, and seemed as if he wished to speak. March bent down quickly and put his ear close to his mouth; there was a faint whisper, “God bless you, March, my son,” and then all was still!

March gazed long and breathlessly at the dead countenance; then, looking slowly up in Dick’s face, he said, pointing to the dead man, “My father!” and fell insensible on the couch beside him.

We will pass over the first few days that succeeded the event just narrated, during which poor March Marston went about the wild region in the vicinity of the cave like one in a dream. It may be imagined with what surprise the trappers learned from him the near relationship that existed between himself and the fur trader. They felt and expressed the deepest sympathy with their young comrade, and offered to accompany him when he laid his father in the grave. But Dick had firmly refused to allow the youth to bring the trappers near his abode, so they forbore to press him, and the last sad rites were performed by himself and Dick alone. The grave was made in the centre of a little green vale which lay like an emerald in the heart of that rocky wilderness; and a little wooden cross, with the name and date cut thereon by March, was erected at the head of the low mound to mark the fur trader’s last lonely resting-place. March Marston had never known his father in early life, having been an infant when he deserted his family; and the little that he had seen of him at the Mountain Fort, and amid the wild scenes of the Rocky Mountains, had not made a favourable impression on him. But, now that he was gone, the natural instinct of affection arose within his breast. He called to remembrance the last few and sad hours which he had spent by his parent’s dying bed. He thought of their last few words on the momentous concerns of the soul, and of the eagerness with which, at times, the dying man listened to the life-giving Word of God; and the tear of sorrow that fell upon the grave, as he turned to quit that solitary spot, was mingled with a tear of joy and thankfulness that God had brought him there to pour words of comfort and hope into his dying father’s ear.

That night he spent in the cave with Dick; he felt indisposed to join his old comrades just then. The grave tenderness of his eccentric friend, and the sympathy of little Mary, were more congenial to him.

“March,” said Dick in a low, sad tone, as they sat beside the fire, “that funeral reminds me o’ my friend I told ye of once. It’s a lonesome grave his, with nought but a wooden cross to mark it.”

“Had you known him long, Dick?”

“No, not long. He left the settlement in a huff—bein’, I b’lieve, crossed in love, as I told ye.”

Dick paused, and clasping both hands over his knee, gazed with a look of mingled sternness and sorrow at the glowing fire.

“Did ye ever,” he resumed abruptly, “hear o’ a feller called Louis, who once lived at Pine Point—before ye was born, lad; did ye ever hear yer mother speak of him?”

“Louis? Yes—well, I believe I do think I’ve heard the name before. Oh yes! People used to say he was fond o’ my mother when she was a girl; but I never heard her speak of him. Now ye mention it, I remember the only time I ever asked her about it, she burst into tears, and told me never to speak of him again. Thadwick was his name—Louis Thadwick; but he was better known as Louis the Trapper. But he’s almost forgotten at the settlement now; it’s so long ago. Every one thinks him dead. Why d’ye ask?”

“Think he’s dead?” repeated Dick slowly. “An’ why not? My poor friend that was killed when he left his native place swore he’d never go back, an’ no more he did—no more he did; though he little thought that death would step in so soon to make him keep his word.”

“Was Louis your friend who died?” inquired March with much interest and not a little pity, for he observed that his companion was deeply affected.

Dick did not reply. His thoughts seemed to be wandering again, so March forbore to interrupt him, and, turning to Mary, said in a more cheerful tone—

“Whether would ye like to go to Pine Point settlement and stay with my mother, or that I should come here and spend the winter with you and Dick?”

Mary looked puzzled, and after some moments’ consideration replied, “Me don’t know.” Then, looking up quickly, she added, “Which you like?”

“Indeed, I must make the same reply, Mary—‘I don’t know.’ But, as I can’t expect my friend Dick to give up his wild life, I suppose I must make up my mind to come here.”

“March,” said Dick quickly, “I’ve changed my mind, lad. It won’t do. You’ll have to spend next winter at home—anyhow ye can’t spend it with me.”

Had a thunderbolt struck the earth between March and Mary, they would not have been filled with half so much consternation as they were on hearing these words. It was plain that both had thoroughly made up their minds that they were to be together for many months to come. Dick noted the effect of his remark, and a peculiar frown crossed his countenance for a moment, but it gave place to a smile, as he said—

“I’m sorry to disappoint ye, lad, but the thing cannot be.”

“Cannot be!” repeated March in a tone of exasperation, for he felt that this was an unwarrantable piece of caprice on the part of his friend; “surely you don’t claim to be chief of the Rocky Mountains! If I choose to come an’ spend the winter in this region, you have no right to prevent me. And if I offer to bring you furs and venison, besides pretty good company, will ye be such a surly knave as to refuse me a corner of your cave?”

“Nay, lad. Right welcome would ye be, with or without furs or venison; but I mean to leave the cave—to quit this part of the country altogether. The fact is, I’m tired of it, an’ want a change.”

“Very good, all right, an’ what’s to hinder my going with you? I’m fond o’ change myself. I’d as soon go one way as another.”

Dick shook his head. “It’s o’ no use, March, I’ve my own reasons for desirin’ to travel alone. The thing cannot be.”

This was said in such a decided tone that March looked at Mary in dismay. He gathered no consolation from her countenance, however.

“March,” said Dick firmly, “I’m sorry to grieve ye, lad, but it can’t be helped. All I can say is, that if ye choose to come back here next summer you’ll be heartily welcome, and I’ll engage that ye’ll find me here; but I’m quite sartin’ ye won’t want to come.”

“Won’t want to come! I’ll bet ye a hundred thousand million dollars I’ll want to come, ay, and will come,” cried March.

“Done!” said Dick, seizing the youth’s hand, “an’ Mary’s a witness to the wager.”

It is needless to say that the conversation did not rest here. The greater part of that night, and during great part of the week that March remained there, he continued to press the Wild Man of the West to alter his purpose, but without avail. Each day he passed with his comrades, hunting and trapping, and each night he bade them adieu and returned to sup and sleep in the cave, and, of course, persecuted Dick all that time; but Dick was immovable.

Of course, the trappers renewed their attempts to get March to show them Dick’s abode, but he persistently refused, and they were too good-natured to annoy him, and too honest to follow his trail, which they might easily have done, had they been so disposed.

At last the time arrived when it became necessary that the trappers should return to Pine Point settlement. In the midst of all their alarms and fights they had found time to do, what Big Waller termed, a “pretty considerable stroke o’ business.” That is to say, they had killed a large number of fur-bearing animals by means of trap, snare, and gun, so that they were in a position to return home with a heavy load of valuable skins. The day of their departure was therefore arranged, and March, mounting his steed, galloped, for the last time, and with a heavy heart, towards the cave of his friend Dick.

As he passed rapidly over the wild country, and entered the gloomy recesses that surrounded the Wild Man’s home, he thought over the arguments and persuasive speeches with which he meant to make a last and, he still hoped, successful appeal. But March might have spared himself the trouble of all this thought, for when he reached the cave Dick was absent. This grieved, him deeply, because every preparation had been made by his companions for starting on their homeward journey that evening, so that he had no time to spare.

Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and, seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said—

“When will Dick be home, Mary?”

“Me no can know ’xactly. To-morray hims say, perhaps.”

“Then it’s all up,” sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the wall; “all up! I’m off to-night, so I’ll not be able to spend the winter with you after all.”

Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt satisfied. Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, “What a pity!” he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.

During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a pleasant tone of voice, but without success. At last he rose to go.

“Must you go ’way dis night?” said Mary with a look of concern.

“Ay, Mary, an’ it’s not much matter, for ye don’t seem to care.”

The girl looked at him reproachfully, “You is not please’ with me, March—why?”

The question puzzled the youth. He certainly was displeased, but he could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation. But the anxious gaze of Mary’s truthful blue eyes was too much for him—he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said—

“Mary dear, I’m not displeased. I’m only sorry, and sad, and annoyed, and miserable—very miserable—I can scarcely tell why. I suppose I’m not well, or I’m cross, or something or other. But this I know, Mary, Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly shall come if life and limb hold out till then.”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March, being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.

“Perhaps!” faltered Mary, “you no want for come when it be nixt year.”

Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that she could entertain a doubt upon that point!

“We shall see,” he cried with a sudden impulse, pressing his lips again to her forehead. “May the Great Spirit bless and keep you! Good-bye, Mary—till next spring.”

March burst away from her, rushed out of the cave in a tumult of conflicting feelings and great resolves, and despite a little stiffness that still remained to remind him of his late accident, flung himself into the saddle with a bound that would have done credit to the Wild Man himself, and galloped down the rocky gorge at a pace that threatened a sudden and total smash to horse and man. Had any of his old comrades or friends witnessed that burst, they would certainly have said that March Marston was mad—madder, perhaps, than the most obstreperous March hare that ever marched madly through the wild regions of insanity.

Chapter Twenty Four.

March Marston at Home—His astonishing Behaviour—Narration of his extraordinary Adventures—Widow Marston’s Bower—The Rendezvous of the Trappers—A strange Interruption to March’s Narrative—A wild Surprise and Recovery of a lost Lover—Great Destruction of household Goods—A double Wedding and tremendous Excitement—The Wild Man of the West the Wisest Man in Pine Point Settlement.

Three months passed away, and at the end of that period March Marston found himself back again in Pine Point settlement, sitting on a low stool at that fireside where the yelling and kicking days of his infancy had been spent, and looking up in the face of that buxom, blue-eyed mother, with whom he had been wont to hold philosophical converse in regard to fighting and other knotty—not to say naughty—questions, in those bright but stormy days of childhood when he stood exactly “two-foot-ten,” and when he looked and felt as if he stood upwards of ten feet two!

Three months passed away, and during the passage of that period March Marston’s bosom became a theatre in which, unseen by the naked eye, were a legion of spirits, good, middling, and bad, among whom were hope, fear, despair, joy, fun, delight, interest, surprise, mischief, exasperation, and a military demon named General Jollity, who overbore and browbeat all the rest by turns. These scampered through his brain and tore up his heart and tumbled about in his throat and lungs, and maintained a furious harlequinade, and in short behaved in a way that was quite disgraceful, and that caused the poor young man alternately to amuse, annoy, astonish, and stun his comrades, who beheld the exterior results of those private theatricals, but had no conception of the terrific combats that took place so frequently on the stage within.

During those three months, March saw many things. He saw his old friends the prairie dogs, and the prong-horned antelopes, and the grisly bears, and the wolves; more than that, he chased, and shot, and ate many of them. He also saw clouds of locusts flying high in the air, so thick that they sometimes darkened the very sky, and herds of buffaloes so large that they often darkened the whole plain.

During those three months March learned a good deal. He learned that there was much more of every sort of thing in this world than he had had any idea of—that there was much, very much, to be thankful for—that there were many, very many, things to be grieved for, and many also to be glad about—that the fields of knowledge were inimitably large, and that his own individual acquirements were preposterously, humblingly small!

He thought much, too. He thought of the past, present, and future in quite a surprising way. He thought of his mother and her loneliness, of Dick and his obstinacy, of Mary and her sweetness, of the Wild Man of the West and his invisibility. When this latter thought arose, it had the effect invariably of rousing within him demon Despair; also General Jollity, for the general had a particular spite against that demon, and, whenever he showed symptoms of vitality, attacked him with a species of frenzy that was quite dreadful to feel, and the outward manifestations of which were such as to cause the trappers to fear seriously that the poor youth had “gone out of his mind,” as they expressed it. But they were wrong—quite wrong—it was only the natural consequence of those demons and sprites having gone into his mind, where they were behaving themselves—as Bounce, when March made him his confidant, said—with “horrible obstropolosity.”

Well, as we have said, March was seated on a low stool, looking up in his mother’s face. He had already been three days at home, and, during every spare minute he had he sat himself down on the same stool, and went on with his interminable narrations of the extraordinary adventures through which he had passed while among the Rocky Mountains and out upon the great prairies.

Widow Marston—for she knew that she was a widow now, though the knowledge added but little to the feeling of widowhood to which she had been doomed for so many years—widow Marston, we say, listened to this interminable narration with untiring patience and unmitigated pleasure. There was as yet no symptom of the narrative drawing to a close, neither was there the slightest evidence of the widow Marston becoming wearied. We have seen a cat worried and pulled and poked by its kitten almost beyond endurance, and we have observed that the cat endured it meekly—nay, evidently rejoiced in the annoyance: it was pleasurable pain. As it is with feline, so is it with human mothers. Their love overbears and outweighs everything. Ah! good cause have the rugged males of this world to rejoice that such is the fact; and although they know it well, we hold that it is calculated to improve the health and refresh the spirit of men to have that fact brought prominently and pointedly to their remembrance!

Had March Marston talked the most unutterable balderdash, widow Marston would have listened with unwearied delight as long, we believe, as her eyes and ears could do their duty. But March did not talk balderdash. For a madman, he spoke a great deal of common, besides a considerable amount of uncommon sense, and his mother listened with intelligent interest: commenting on what he said in her quiet way, as she found opportunity—we say this advisedly, for opportunities were not so frequent as one might suppose. March had always been possessed of a glib tongue, and he seemed, as Bounce remarked, to have oiled the hinges since his return to Pine Point settlement.

“Mother,” said March, after a short pause that had succeeded an unusually long burst, “do you know it’s only a few months since I left you to go to this trip to the mountains?”

“I know it well, my son,” replied the widow, smiling at the question.

“And do you know,” he continued, “that it seems to me more like five years? When I think of all that I’ve heard and all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve seen, it seems to me as if it had took—as if it must have took—five years to have heard and done and seen it all in?”

“And yet,” said the widow musingly, “you failed to see the Wild Man o’ the West after all.”

“Mother, I’ll be angry with you if you say that again.”

“Well, I won’t,” she replied, taking his hand in hers and stroking it. “Tell me again, March, about Dick of the Cave and his little girl. I like to hear about them; they were so kind to you, and that Dick, from your account, seems to be such a fine fellow: tell me all about them over again.”

“I will, mother,” said March, clearing his throat, and commencing in a tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston’s cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden behind it. In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was cleared. In the back garden there was a bower which the widow’s brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been planted by the widow’s own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the settlement. In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked, and one of whom sketched. They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both. On reaching Pine Point the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together again as if by a species of electrical attraction. In whatever manner they chanced to spend their days, they—for the first week at least—found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home. March Marston was always with his mother—deep in his long-winded yarns. The bower was always invitingly open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of the trappers. It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them assembled there. The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden clouds. Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

“D’ye know,” said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling to ascend and dissipate themselves—“d’ye know, now that this trip’s over, I’m inclined to think it’s about the roughest one I’ve had for many a year? An’ it’s a cur’ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the more I like it.”

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few leaves and made a note of the observation.

“I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin’ jolly one,” said Big Waller, smoking enthusiastically, and with an expression of intense satisfaction on his weather-beaten countenance.

“An’ profitable,” observed Bounce gravely.

“Ah! oui, ver’ prof’table,” echoed Gibault. “Dat is de main ting. We have git plenty skins, an’ have bring hom’ our own skins, w’ich I was not moche sure of one or two times.”

“True,” said Bounce; “that’s wot we’ve got for to be thankful for. Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain’t to be put in the balance wi’ the skin o’ a beaver, d’ye see?”

Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked stolid and smoked solemnly.

“Yes,” he continued, “a whole skin’s better nor a broken one, an’ it’s well to bring back a whole one, though I’m not a-goin’ for to deny that there’s some advantage in bringing back other sorts o’ skins too, d’ye see? w’ich goes for to prove the true feelosophy of the fact, d’ye see?—”

Bounce paused, in the midst of his mental energy, to take a parenthetic whiff. His thoughts, however, seemed too deep for utterance, for he subsided quietly into a state of silent fumigation.

“What a splendidly picturesque scene!” exclaimed Bertram, pushing back his brigandish hat in order the better to get a view, at arm’s length, of his sketch and compare it with the original.

“Wot’s the meanin’ o’ pikter-esk?” inquired Bounce. Theodore Bertram looked and felt puzzled. He was not the first man who thought that he knew the signification of terms well, and found himself much perplexed on being suddenly called upon to give a correct definition of a well-known word. While he is labouring to enlighten his friend, we shall leave the bower and return to the hall, or kitchen, or reception room—for it might be appropriately designated by any of these terms—where March is, as usual, engaged in expounding backwoods life to his mother. We have only to pass through the open door and are with them at once. Cottages in Pine Point settlement were of simple construction; the front door opened out of one side of the hall, the back door out of the other. As the weather was mild, both were wide open.

March had just reached an intensely interesting point in his narrative, and was describing, with flashing eyes and heightened colour, his first interview with the “Vision in Leather,” when his attention was attracted by the sound of horses’ hoofs coming at a rapid pace along the road that led to the cottage. The wood above referred to hid any object approaching by the road until within fifty yards or so of the front door.

“They seem in a hurry, whoever they be,” said March, as he and his mother rose and hastened to the door, “an’ there’s more than one rider, if I’ve not forgot how to judge by sounds. I should say that there’s—Hallo!”

The exclamation was not unnatural by any means, for at that moment a very remarkable horseman dashed round the point of the wood and galloped towards the cottage. Both man and horse were gigantic. The former wore no cap, and his voluminous brown locks floated wildly behind him. On they came with a heavy, thunderous tread, stones, sticks, and dust flying from the charger’s heels. There was a rude paling in front of the cottage. The noble horse put its ears forward as it came up, took two or three short strides, and went over with the light bound of a deer, showing that the strength of bone, muscle, and sinew was in proportion to the colossal size of the animal. The gravel inside the paling flew like splashing water as they alighted with a crash, and widow Marston, uttering a faint cry, shrank within the doorway as the wild horseman seemed about to launch himself, with Quixotic recklessness, against the cottage.

“Dick!” shouted March, who stared like one thunderstruck as the rider leaped from the saddle to the ground, sprang with a single bound to the widow’s side, seized her right hand in both of his, and, stooping down, gazed intently into her alarmed countenance. Suddenly the blood rushed violently to her temples, as the man pronounced her name in a low, deep tone, and with a look of wild surprise mingled with terror, she exclaimed,—“Louis!”

The colour fled from her cheeks, and uttering a piercing cry, she fell forward on the breast of her long-lost lover.

March Marston stood for some time helpless; but he found his voice just as Redhand and the other trappers, rushing through the house, burst upon the scene—“Dick!” shouted March again, in the highest pitch of amazement.

“The Wild Man o’ the West!” roared Bounce, with the expression of one who believes he gazes on a ghost.

“Fetch a drop o’ water, one o’ you fellers,” said the Wild Man, looking anxiously at the pale-face that rested on his arm.

Every one darted off to obey, excepting Bertram, who, with eyes almost starting out of their sockets, was already seated on the paling, sketching the scene; for he entertained an irresistible belief that the Wild Man of the West would, as he had already done more than once, vanish from the spot before he could get him transferred to the pages of his immortal book.

Trappers are undoubtedly men who can act with vigorous promptitude in their own peculiar sphere; but when out of that sphere, they are rather clumsy and awkward. Had they been in the forest, each man would have fetched a draught of clear water from the nearest spring with the utmost celerity; but, being in a settlement, they knew not where to turn. Big Waller dashed towards a very small pond which lay near the cottage, and dipping his cap into it, brought up a compound of diluted mud and chickweed. Gibault made an attempt on a tiny rivulet with the like success, which was not surprising, seeing that its fountain-head lay at the bottom of the said pond. Bounce and Hawkswing bolted into the cottage in search of the needful fluid; but, being unused to furniture, they upset three chairs and a small table in their haste, and scattered on the floor a mass of crockery, with a crash that made them feel as if they had been the means of causing some dire domestic calamity, and which almost terrified the household kitten into fits.

Then Bounce made a hopeful grasp at a teapot, which, having happily been placed on a side table, had survived the wreck of its contemporary cups and saucers, and the Indian made an insane effort to wrench the top off a butter-churn, in the belief that it contained a well-spring of water.

Of all the party old Redhand alone stood still, with his bald head glistening in the last rays of the sinking sun, and his kindly face wrinkled all over with a sympathetic smile. He knew well that the young widow would soon recover, with or without the aid of water; so he smoked his pipe complacently, leaned against the doorpost, and looked on.

He was right. In a few minutes Mrs Marston recovered, and was tenderly led into the cottage by her old lover, Louis Thadwick, or, as we still prefer to call him, the Wild Man of the West. There, seated by her side, in the midst of the wreck and débris of her household goods, the Wild Man, quite regardless of appearances, began boldly to tell the same old tale, and commit the same offence, that he told and committed upwards of sixteen years before, when he was Louis the Trapper and she was Mary West.

Seeing what was going forward, the judicious trappers and the enthusiastic artist considerately retired to the bower behind the house. What transpired at that strange interview no one can tell, for no one was present except the kitten. That creature, having recovered from its consternation, discovered, to its inexpressible joy, that, an enormous jug having been smashed by Bounce along with the other things, the floor was covered in part with a lakelet of rich cream. With almost closed eyes, intermittent purring, quick-lapping tongue, and occasional indications of a tendency to choke, that fortunate animal revelled in this unexpected flood of delectation, and listened to the conversation; but, not being gifted with the power of speech, it never divulged what was said—at least, to human ears, though we are by no means sure that it did not create a considerable amount of talk among the cat population of the settlement.

Be this as it may, when the Wild Man at length opened the door, and cried, “Come in, lads; it’s all right!” they found the widow Marston with confusion and happiness beaming on her countenance, and the Wild Man himself in a condition that fully justified Bounce’s suggestion that they had better send for a strait-waistcoat or a pair of handcuffs. As for March, he had all along been, and still was, speechless. That the Wild Man of the West was Dick, and Dick the Wild Man of the West, and that both should come home at the same time in one body, and propose to marry his mother, was past belief—so of course he didn’t believe it.

“Hallo! wait a bit; I do b’lieve I was forgettin’,” cried the Wild Man, springing up in his own violent, impulsive way, upsetting his chair (as a matter of course, being unused to such delicacies), dashing through the lake of cream to the all but annihilation of the kitten, opening the door, and giving vent to a shrill whistle.

All rushed out to witness the result. They were prepared for anything now—from a mad bison to a red warrior’s ghost, and would have been rather disappointed had anything feebler appeared.

Immediately there was a clatter of hoofs; a beautiful white pony galloped round the corner of the wood, and made straight for the cottage. Seated thereon was the vision in leather—not seated as a woman sits, but after the fashion of her own adopted father, and having on her leathern dress with a pair of long leggings highly ornamented with porcupine quills and bead work. The vision leaped the fence like her father, bounded from her pony as he had done, and rushed into the Wild Man’s arms, exclaiming, “Be she here, an’ well, dear fader?”

“Ay, all right,” he replied; but he had no time to say more, for at that moment March Marston darted at the vision, seized one of her hands, put his arm round her waist, and swung her, rather than led her, into his mother’s presence.

“Here’s Mary, mother!” cried March with a very howl of delight.

The widow had already guessed it. She rose and extended her arms. Mary gazed for one moment eagerly at her and then rushed into them. Turning sharp round, March threw his arms round Bounce’s neck and embraced him for want of a better subject; then hurling him aside he gave another shout, and began to dance a violent hornpipe on the floor, to the still further horrification of the kitten (which was now a feline maniac), and the general scatteration of the mingled mass of crockery and cream. Seeing this, Bounce uttered a hysterical cheer. Hawkswing, being excited beyond even savage endurance, drew his scalping-knife, yelled the war-cry and burst into the war-dance of the Seneca Indians. In short, the widow’s cottage became the theatre of a scene that would have done credit to the violent wards of a lunatic asylum—a scene, which is utterly beyond the delineative powers of pen or pencil—a scene which defies description, repudiates adequate conception, and will dwell for ever on the memories of those who took part in it like the wild phantasmagoria of a tremendous dream!

Of course, a wild man could not be induced, like an ordinary mortal, to wait a reasonable time in order to give his bride an opportunity of preparing her trousseau. He was a self-willed man, and a man of a strong mind. He insisted upon being married “out of hand, and have done with it.” So he was married—whether “out of hand” or not we cannot tell—by the excellent clergyman of Pine Point settlement. On the same day, and the same hour, March Marston was married—“out of hand,” also, no doubt—to the vision in leather!

There was something rather precipitate in these proceedings, unquestionably; but those who feel disposed to object to them must bear in mind, first, that backwoodsmen are addicted to precipitancy at times; and, secondly, that facts cannot be altered in order to please the fastidious taste of the so-called civilised world.

Public opinion in the settlement was strongly in favour of the doings of the Wild Man of the West. Delay was deemed by all to be unnecessary, and all the more so that the double wedding-day was to be celebrated as a species of public event.

The romance connected with the previous life of Dick, and especially his singular and unexpected return to his first love, created quite a sensation, even in a region in which wild deeds and wonderful events were so common that it required a man to be a real hero to enable him to rise conspicuous above his fellows. Many trappers came in from a considerable distance to take part in the rejoicings of that day, and from the dance which followed the ceremony there was not absent a living creature belonging to the settlement.

Every dog was there, of course, adding its vocal melody to the dulcet tones of the blacksmith’s violin. Even the cats of the settlement were present, including that celebrated kitten which had been reduced to a state of drivelling imbecility by the furious advent of the Wild Man. Owls and other sagacious birds also came from afar to see the fun, attracted by the light of the fire; for the ballroom was the green sward of the forest, which was illuminated for the occasion by a bonfire that would have roasted a megatherium whole, and also would have furnished accommodation for a pot large enough to boil an elephant. Don’t think, reader, in the vanity of your heart, that you have conceived that fire! You have not, as a Yankee would say, the most distant conception of the small end of a notion of what it was! A hundred brawny arms, accustomed to wield the broad axe, had lent their aid to rear the mighty pile and feed the ravening flame.

It was kindled on a wide level plot in the outskirts of the settlement, around which the trees spread their sheltering arms. On a plank raised on two casks sat the blacksmith with his fiddle. The carpenter sat beside him with a kettledrum, more literally a kettledrum even than the real thing, for that drum was a kettle! On a little mound that rose in the centre of the plot sat, in state, Dick and Mary, March and the vision in leather, their respective thrones being empty flour-casks. Around them danced the youth and beauty of the settlement. These were enclosed by a dense circle, composed of patriarchal, middle-aged, and extremely juvenile admirers. The background of the picture was filled up with the monstrous fire which saturated that spot in the forest with light—bright as the broadest day. The extreme foreground was composed of the trunk of a fallen tree, on which sat our friend the artist, delineating the whole with the eagerness of an enthusiast who had at last fallen upon a scene truly worthy of his genius.

How Bounce did dance, to be sure! How the young trappers and the blooming backwoods maidens did whirl and bound, on heel and toe, and, to a large extent, on the whole sole of the foot! Yes, their souls were in the work, and their spirits too; and that although there was not a drop of spirits in the settlement. Happily, owing to the unaccountable delay of a provision boat, there was not a glass of “fire-water” in the place at that time. The whole affair was got up, carried on, and concluded on tea. It was a great teetotal gathering, which would have drawn tears of joy from the heart of Father Mathew and all his successors, whether Romanist or Protestant, had they witnessed it.

Yet the excitement was tremendous. The Wild Man of the West, strange to say, and, owing to some peculiar contradictoriness of character which was unaccountable, was almost the only sane man of the whole party. He flung himself on the ground beside his wife, and locking his arm round the tough root of a pine tree refused to budge from the spot. As the united efforts of all the men who could lay hold of him at one time failed to root him up, he was suffered to lie there and amuse himself by watching the dancers, looking up occasionally at Mary’s blue eyes, and playing with such of the juveniles as he could attract within the reach of his long arm.

As for March Marston, he was mad now if ever he had been so in his life! He danced with all the girls, and wrestled with all the men, and played hide-and-seek with all the boys, and fraternised with all the old people, and chased all the dogs, and astonished, not to say horrified, all the cats. Yet, although he did all this, he did not neglect the vision in leather, by no manner of means.

Long before the dawn of early morning that jovial party drank a parting cup of cold tea, and, dispersing to their several homes, left the field in possession of the village curs.

Now, dear reader—with a feeling of sadness we write it—all things must have an end! We make this unquestionable assertion in order to break to you, as gently as may be, the news that our tale has reached its close. Had we taken in hand to write the life and adventures of our hero and his friends from first to last, we should have had to prepare pens, ink, and paper, for a work equal in size to the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” We have only detailed one or two episodes in their wild career. What they did and said and saw in after years must be left to future historians, or to the imagination of romantic readers. This only will we say in conclusion, that of all the men who dwelt in Pine Point settlement, for many years after the events narrated in these pages, the kindest, the wisest, the gentlest, the heartiest, the wildest, and the most courageous was—the Wild Man of the West.

The End.

Table of Contents

Charlie to the Rescue by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One. Introduces the Hero.

Chapter Two. The Shipwreck.

Chapter Three. Its an Ill Wind that Blaws Naebody Guid.

Chapter Four. Drifting on the Rocks.

Chapter Five. All Things to All Men.

Chapter Six. Disaster, Starvation, and Death.

Chapter Seven. Adrift on the Sea.

Chapter Eight. Ingratitude.

Chapter Nine. Shank Reveals Something More of his Character.

Chapter Ten. Home-coming and Unexpected Surprises.

Chapter Eleven. Tells of Happy Meetings and Serious Consultations.

Chapter Twelve. Changes the Scene Considerably!

Chapter Thirteen. Hunky Ben is Sorely Perplexed.

Chapter Fourteen. The Haunt of the Outlaws.

Chapter Fifteen. Lost and Found.

Chapter Sixteen. Friends and FoesPlots and CounterplotsThe Ranch in Danger.

Chapter Seventeen. The Alarm and Preparations for Defence.

Chapter Eighteen. Defence of the Ranch of Roaring Bull.

Chapter Nineteen. The Rescue and its Consequences.

Chapter Twenty. Jake The Flint In Difficulties.

Chapter Twenty One. Tells of a Cruel Deed, and Shows How Mysteriously Hunky Ben Behaved.

Chapter Twenty Two. The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.

Chapter Twenty Three. The Troops Outwitted by the Scout and his Friends.

Chapter Twenty Four. The Meeting of Old Friends in Curious Circumstances.

Chapter Twenty Five. Shows how the Seaman was sent on a Delicate Mission and how he Fared.

Chapter Twenty Six. Treats of Various Interesting Matters, and Tells of News from Home.

Chapter Twenty Seven. Hunky Ben and Charlie get Beyond their Depth, and Buck Tom gets Beyond Recall.

Chapter Twenty Eight. Chase, Capture, and End of Jake the Flint.

Chapter Twenty Nine. They Return to the Ranch of Roaring Bull, where Something Serious Happens to Dick Darvall.

Chapter Thirty. Changes the Scene Somewhat Violently, and Shows our Hero in a New Light.

Chapter Thirty One. Failure and a New Scent.

Chapter Thirty Two. Success and Future Plans.

Chapter Thirty Three. Sweetwater Bluff.

Chapter Thirty Four. The Last.

Digging for Gold by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

The Dog Crusoe by Robert Michael Ballantyne

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Golden Dream by R.M. Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

ENDNOTES

Philosopher Jack by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

The Wild Man of the West by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

List of Illustrations

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Illus: The two went over together

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Illus: Immediately a shower of arrows fell around him

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Illus: The savages at the moment were whirling around him

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Illus: The ruddy glare of the fire fell warmly on the rocky walls

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.